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zarameraki · 9 months

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♡₊˚☀️・₊✧ 𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗶'𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 & 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 ♡₊˚☀️・₊✧

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 he's obsessed to the max 𖥔 ceo x baker 𖥔 grumpy x sunshine 𖥔 she talks a lot x he listens a lot 𖥔 spoils the literal shit out of you 𖥔 mention of parental death 𖥔 major fluff 𖥔 sexual content in vague details 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 super soft nanami 𖥔 close proximity 𖥔 he loves kissing the fuck out of you

: ̗̀➛ words: 7.7k

: ̗̀➛ notes: you guys are so sweet for supporting my toji fanfic which is why i wanted to write another and this time its about my husband, the father of our children, the man who deserves every beautiful thing in this world. if you enjoy my work, please leave a comment, like, and reblog! thank you & ily. enjoy!

Nanami Kento entered your bakery at exactly six o' clock.

You carefully observed the moments he dedicated to perusing the array of pastries, the vibrant mountain of macaroons, and the freshly baked, warm casse-croûte that you unfailingly prepared for him when he clocked out. There was a tender quality to his countenance, noticeable in the slight release of tension between his brows as the soft, buttery flakes dissolved on his tongue in your presence. Without fail, he consistently left a generous tip in your travel jar, dedicated to a solo trip to Malaysia.

"Did you know they've got this thing about not wearing yellow in Malaysia?" you mentioned during your initial meeting, eyeing the distinctive black-dotted tie worn by the stoic salaryman. "Well, not that your tie would get you in trouble; it's not entirely yellow. In fact, I think it's perfect as it is, just like your hair, which also has a touch of yellow.”

Please cut your tongue off.

Anticipating a polite nod and perhaps a slightly regretful five-dollar tip left in the jar, you were taken aback when he queried, “Why is that?”

“Oh, uh . . . a bunch of protesters wore the color during a demand for their prime minister to step down," you stumbled, feeling a twinge of embarrassment for veering off into an unintentional crash course. Dropping trivia about Malaysia wasn't exactly the same as flirting. "So, it's kind of become a symbolism for protest and, well, threat. I read it in a book once. I don't know if it's a legitimate law, though."

“Do you like reading?” he asked, still interested in conversing with you. “Most people would Google information.”

“I like reading. It’s easier to retain information that way.”

Nanami acknowledged your gesture with a nod of gratitude as he accepted the casse-croûte and exited your bakery. Anticipating that he might not return due to his reserved nature and your awkward attempts at compliment-flirting, you were surprised to find that he was, in fact, full of surprises.

Nanami became a regular visitor. Day after day, for the past year, he arrived at precisely six o' clock. He continued his routine, whether he purchased a box of pastries, a pair of bagged bread loaves, or simply a casse-croûte and a small cup of milk coffee. You always prepared his order five minutes ahead of time, just in case you were occupied with other customers.

"Enjoy!" you chirped, casting a warm smile at the customer you just served as the bakery slowly emptied, leaving only Nanami browsing the delightful array of small cakes. "Good evening, Mr. Nanami!"

Nanami raised his head in your direction. "Good evening." He finally settled on the black forest cake from the open freezer and brought it to the counter.

"Special occasion?" you inquired as you rang him out, sneakily not charging him for the casse-croûte and coffee. There was a special occasion of your own that you were eager to share, hanging from the tip of your tongue.

"An intern's birthday."

"Sounds fun!" You had been saving up for your birthday present since summer, and Nanami had played a significant role. "When's your birthday?"

"July third."

Your eyes widened with surprise. "No way! Mine is July sixth. We’re summer babies."

“Happy belated birthday,” he said, fishing for his wallet, gaze barely meeting yours.

"Same to you." Offering the sandwich and coffee, you extended them towards him. "Consider it a belated birthday treat."

Nanami’s brows crinkled. “I cannot accept.”

"Why not? It's a gift." You slid the items closer with a subtle nudge, leaving him little room to refuse. "And you've given me a priceless gift, Mr. Nanami." Your eyes hinted at the tip jar's location, which now lay empty.

“Were you robbed?” he asked, concern evident in his voice.

“What—? No! Oh my god. You’re so funny.” A chuckle escaped behind your fist, and he observed you momentarily before glancing away. "I'm heading to Malaysia next week!"

Nanami gave a subtle nod. Although his lack of a more animated response disappointed you, you understood that shortness was his nature. "Congratulations.”

"Thank you, Mr. Nanami. Your generous tips really made a difference. They covered half of our trip.”

“Our? It’s not a solo trip?”

You let out a little nervous laugh. Should you really be telling Nanami about your crippling love life? Would he even be interested? Well, he seemed to listen carefully when you talk. Maybe he wouldn’t care, but you really needed someone to talk to about this. Unfortunately, all your friends were too busy with their marriages to care.

“Well?” Nanami prompted.

"Right, sorry. It's just—I've actually been seeing someone. Funny enough, we met in a Facebook group for solo travelers. He lives in a nearby town.”

Unexpectedly, Nanami's first question caught you off guard. "Can you trust him?" His concern surfaced, causing you to pause. "I'm only asking because you met this man online. You can't trust strangers on the internet."

"Thank you, Mr. Nanami, but I’m capable enough to know about stranger danger," you said with a funny smile, dismissing his parental concern. "Besides, we’ve gone on a few dates over the past month."

Nanami's frown remained intact. "Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you paying for him, too?"

"Yes."

“Why?” Nanami asked, firmly placing his palms on the counter, making it clear he wasn't leaving until he was convinced you wouldn't get in trouble during your Malaysian adventure.

"What do you mean 'why'?"

His mouth opened but then closed into a thin line, his forehead lines deepening. "It’s not my place to tell you what’s right and what isn’t—"

"Yes, you’re right about that," you interrupted.

"—but this is bordering on recklessness. You cannot use your trip’s money to pay for a man you’ve known for a mere month. Why is he even in the traveler’s group if he cannot afford to pay for himself?"

"Mr. Nan—"

"You are being scammed."

Your teeth clenched together. You rarely got impatient. Years in the hospitality industry and dealing with misogynistic tenants didn't break you. Even setting up your bakery and almost draining your savings didn't dim your optimism.

But getting scolded by someone who barely spoke more than five sentences to you in a whole year of being a regular? That's pushing it.

He didn't know you or Toji, the guy you're seeing. He didn’t understand how much you appreciated him accompanying you. So what if you covered his share of the trip expenses? Toji promised to pay you back, and he's been paying the bills for your dates. They might not be fancy, but it's the gesture that matters.

Sure, Nanami chipped in some money, and you're thankful for that. But he has no right to question you. Other people also contributed to your travel fund; it's not like he single-handedly financed the whole trip. You appreciated his support, but he was not in a position to lecture you.

With a sigh, you managed to contain your frustration and said, "Have a great rest of your night, Mr. Nanami.”

Nanami's frustration was palpable as he stood firm, his gaze piercing through the windows of your soul. “I suggest you take my advice into serious consideration. It would greatly upset me if you had the chance to visit one of your favorite countries taken from you.”

You didn't bother watching him go. Instead, your discovery awaited you at the counter—the money for the coffee and casse-croûte lay there, accompanied by a crumpled yellow note that had slipped to the floor. Moving around the counter, you picked it up and smoothed out its wrinkles.

What greeted you was your own name scrawled across the sticky note, repeated around fifty times, the letters overlapping in a chaotic dance. Some were hastily scratched out, while others were executed with perfect cursive precision. You didn’t know what to make of it.

During your confusion, a new customer walked in. Quickly, you pocketed the note, focused on carrying on with your day despite the lingering frustration that Nanami's cryptic message had left in its wake.

Toji never showed up.

You waited for him for two agonizing hours, extending the torture even more after your flight had taken off. It dawned on you that he likely didn't bother getting a ticket. He probably pocketed the money you sent him and vanished into thin air. Every attempt to reach him failed miserably—your calls were forwarded, and the fifth one hammered the heartbreaking truth that he had blocked your number. To compound your misery, you sent him a string of text messages that refused to deliver your pain. You didn't even know where he lived, as your encounters were always in the obscure locations of your budgeted dates.

The thought of reporting him to the police crossed your mind, accusing him of theft, but the lack of photographic evidence left you helpless. To make matters worse, he hated taking pictures, and you were uncertain if the name he provided was even real. All that remained was a flicker of hope that you might cross paths with the bastard and unleash your pent-up rage with a hard kick to his dick.

With a heavy heart, you gathered your strength, brushed away the tears until not a single trace remained on your lashes, and lugged your suitcase and carry-on outside the airport, hoping to hail a cab.

The idea of facing the upcoming days at work felt agonizing, goading you to spend them in the isolation of your shabby apartment. You were engrossed in a depressing routine—microwaved dinners, aimless hours on the couch, and a marathon of old cable TV shows.

As hunger struck again, you contemplated your options. Baking seemed like a possibility, but motivation had abandoned you. Pasta could be an option, but the lack of noodles and tomato sauce made it impractical. So, you settled for the one thing that required no ingredients: crying.

At least that was free.

Despite the inner turmoil, you mustered the strength to shoulder your overcoat, sporting your fleece pajamas printed with candy canes and well-worn second-hand boots.

The short walk to the corner store felt longer than usual, the biting cold making you clutch your threadbare coat tighter. Your teeth chattered in protest as you entered, and the rush of warm air was a momentary relief against the chill. Fingers numb, you mindlessly reached for familiar comfort snacks—chips, chocolate milk, anything to dull the ache.

A hand much larger than yours beat you to the last packet of croissants.

“Ah, sorry.” You let it go. “All yours—” You choked as you looked up, and up, at Nanami staring at you wide-eyed, his hazel eyes flickering at a rapid speed as if he were hallucinating your presence. Your face flushed with embarrassment, and the weight of the past five days crammed upon you—his uncanny prediction, your own naivety, and the sting of being swindled. “Mr. Nanami . . . ”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in—”

“Good night.”

With a dismissive shake of your head, you left the basket on the counter, mumbled a quick apology, and retreated back into the biting cold.

You’ve faced tons of humiliating moments—slipping in front of customers, your purse strap getting snagged in a door and dragging you back, and that one unforgettable instance when a little boy labeled your eyebrows as caterpillars in front of a line of onlookers. Yet, none of those incidents could hold a candle to the awkwardness of bumping into the very man who had warned you about the ill-fated choice of paying for a stranger's trip—stranger now—when it was supposed to be your trip.

You felt a firm grip on your wrist, making your restless pacing suddenly stop.

Startled, you turned around to find a pair of expressionless hazel eyes and a slightly out-of-breath figure. Now is not the time to ogle Mr. Nanami’s broad shoulders, you idiot!

Releasing your wrist, he handed over a white, plastic bag. With a raised eyebrow, you peered inside to inspect its contents. It held everything from your shopping basket, including the last packet of croissants. Even more unexpected, he had paid for it all.

“I’ll pay you back tomorrow,” you assured, your eyes already scanning for the nearest ATM, just in case you forgot. "But for now." You pulled out the packaged croissants and extended them toward him. Your body was shaking, not because of November but because of how you were scammed after being forewarned by Nanami. “Please. Take it.”

He took your small hand in both of his, the warmth immediately melting the tension in your body. “So cold.”

A soft giggle escaped you at the obvious observation, and you placed your free hand on top of his. "So warm." Sniffling, tears welled up in your eyes. "You know what else is warm? The sun. And it's yellow. It's so yellow."

“Factually speaking, it is white.”

You wiped an arm across your nose. “What?”

“The sun. It’s white. It’s only yellow in children's books.”

You weren't about to argue with the guy who vindicated your slip-ups. Still, given the circumstances, you wished he'd soften the bluntness and let you bask in the illusion that the sun was a simple shade of yellow.

"I've always loved the color yellow," you mumbled. "Maybe getting scammed was a blessing. I'd probably get fined for wearing yellow otherwise. I couldn't afford to mess up on my trip. Besides, it all depends on the shade, right? Imagine how many fines I'd rack up just testing which shade of yellow suits me—"

Nanami tugged you close, capturing your lips with his.

A sharp intake of breath filled your lungs, eyes widening in surprise. Instinctively, your hands pushed him away, fingers grazing your tingling lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. Don’t—Don’t worry. About it.” You tucked your lips in and tasted chocolate and mint—two of your favorite combinations. Nanami always seemed like the kind of man who would hate both flavors independently and dependently. “You’re okay. I mean—You’re okay in general. You’re not okay with kissing. You’re probably great, I’m sure.” Your tongue traced the curve of your lower lip, and Nanami’s eyes followed the motion. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

You walked up to him, grabbed the lapels of his coat, and tugged him down a notch, your lips colliding with his.

Nanami's touch was calculated, his hand sailing onto your cheek, feeding warmth to your cold ear before vanishing into the labyrinth of your hair. Simultaneously, the other serpentined to the small of your back, his magnetic energy drawing you snugly against his chest. His warm tongue delicately swept across your lower lip, an unspoken cue that encouraged you to part your lips in response.

Nanami deepened the kiss, your tongues stroking against one another feverishly as if it were your last kiss. Who knows? Maybe it could’ve been. But the way he kissed with such desperation, releasing soft moans, not allowing you a moment to catch your breath, made you think that maybe this was just the start.

And you kissed him back just as needy.

If your hands slightly released their hold on his lapels, you'd gently cup the sides of his neck, rising on your tiptoes. And if your calves protested, you'd draw him down, wrapping your arms around his neck, your fingers entwining in his pale, golden locks. The taste of mint chocolate lingered on your lips, and a smile curved on your mouth as he stole a quick peck, pulling back just to gaze into your eyes for a moment before kissing you again.

You’re not sure how long you two stood and kissed there. Nanami was the one who always took the lead, savoring the taste of your pink, tender tongue, kissing your chilly cheeks and dewy eyes. The desire for each other made it hard to break away, yet the need for a breath of air was undeniable.

Finally, you decided to be the one to step back, signalling the end of your first kiss with him.

Your bottom lip tingled as you pulled it in, jaw aching from the infectious smile that had taken over your face. You couldn't help stealing glances at the tall man before you, who returned your gaze with a soft, almost imperceptible grin. Yet, in his eyes, under the gentle glow of the streetlight, you could see the excitement and joy of kissing you, twinkling brightly.

“I'm gonna—”

“I should—”

Both of you sighed; you with a soft chuckle, and him with a discreet throat-clearing.

“I've already missed quite a few workdays,” you said. “Gotta earn that dough if I want to make next month’s rent.” Nanami didn’t quite catch your bakery pun, but he nodded in agreement.

“Right,” you murmured, subtly veering to the side, putting on a little show as you started to walk away. You admitted it—you were a hopeless romantic. You secretly hoped for him to steal a kiss on your cheek and watch until you safely disappeared around the corner. “I’m off now.”

“Goodnight,” Nanami replied, subtly licking his lips for the sixteenth time. Yes, you were keeping count.

“Night-night.”

Nanami strolled down his end of the sidewalk. You followed suit, turning down your street.

Luck had only sometimes been on your side when it came to men and their romantic gestures. Oh well. At least you experienced a passionate kiss from one of your favorite customers. Asking for more seemed a bit too much—

A hand gently pressed against your back, and as you turned, it gracefully curved around your waist, drawing you in. Nanami caught your gasp and kissed you with an urgency that doubled, holding onto you as if his life depended on it, lifting you off your toes. Three sweet pecks later, he released you, both of your faces flushed.

"Get home safely," he whispered, walking away without a second glance.

That night, you couldn't help but giggle into your mascara-stained pillow.

The morning after, you were a whirlwind of joy and light, twirling through the bakery with trays of freshly baked pastries, replenishing boxes and take-out essentials. You greeted customers with an extra dose of sweetness, and to top it off, you even handed out a tray of delectable chocolate jam cookies. And you wore a yellow bow in your hair.

The oven beeped as the casse-croûtes finished baking, signaling their readiness for Nanami's arrival in just five minutes. You took special care in preparing his milk coffee, indulging in a quiet chuckle at your undeniable favoritism. Though the neighborhood bakery wasn't bustling with a large customer base, your attention was solely dedicated to him—your only regular as everyone else buzzed in the distant city an hour away.

With his coffee prepared and two casse-croûtes packed, you added a chocolate-mint cookie to the bag. Then, you decided to rearrange the shelves of gift baskets to pass the time.

Setting up the ladder, you ascended the shaky steps until you were eye to eye with the fifth shelf. Heights were never your forte, which, in hindsight, was another reason why flying to Malaysia was out of the question. The more you thought about being scammed, the more your heart wrenched from your lost trip. You’d again brought out your tip jar and prayed the odds were in your favor. Hell, maybe you’d ask Nanami to join you if you decided to take your relationship to the next level.

As you secured the bow on the basket, your gaze landed on the clock—6:30 p.m., and Nanami was a no-show.

Anxiety surged through you in an instant.

Did he leave you hanging? Maybe that kiss was a turnoff, and he chose to disappear rather than be upfront about finding you too overwhelming. Did your breath smell bad? Were you a terrible kisser? Or, worse, did something happen to him?

A torrent of worries flooded your mind, breaking through like a burst dam. Each imagined scenario seemed more nightmarish than the last, causing your head to spin. Recent events, like Toji's betrayal, fueled this self-doubt, made you question your intuition. While Nanami was clearly wealthy, consistently tipping a twenty each day, you found yourself questioning whether he had plans to use you for something else. As if that weren't enough, doubts crept in about your appearance and your optimistic, extroverted personality.

It started to make sense, didn't it? Nanami led a tranquil life, sticking to a routine of work and home, while you were a whirlwind of spontaneity—constantly buzzing with new ideas and discussions, unable to sit still or resist laughter at the silliest jokes. Everything seemed to fascinate you, yet nothing appeared to faze him. How could you have been so naive to entertain the thought—

“Good evening.”

“Ah!” you yelped at the sudden baritone intruding into your thoughts. Your foot, betrayed by the unexpected intrusion, lost its balance on the step. Your arms flailed in a desperate attempt to find stability as you teetered backward, the impending hazard of a severe concussion and potential spinal cord injury looming.

But just as you were prepared to shake hands with God, Nanami's powerful arms swooped in at the last possible moment. With a secure hold, he cradled you in a bridal style, and you clung to him like a shaking puppy, arms looped around his neck.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his breath slightly labored.

You gingerly peeled one eye open to peek at him. His expression was one of calm disorientation; eyebrows knit together while his lips maintained a straight, tight line.

"Yes," you whispered, soothed by his timely intervention.

Nanami steadied you back onto your feet but maintained a firm grip on your elbows. “Look at me.” As you did, he inspected each eye closely while keeping his hand steady on your left cheek. He checked below your jaw, down to your dusty palms, which he cleaned with his silk handkerchief. He also patted down your tousled hair. "Are you sure you're okay?"

“Mm-hmm.” You could cry from how gentle he was with you. “A-Are you okay?”

“I am now.” He took a composed breath and effortlessly retrieved his suitcase from the floor, brushing off invisible dust. “I apologize for being late. My . . . car broke down.”

"What? Oh my god! Do you need me to give you my mechanic's number? I promise he's not as bad as the Google reviews say. He's actually quite a sweet man. And he gives me a friends and family discount because my father was close with him." You beamed, and Nanami squinted his eyes as if the brightness of your smile momentarily blinded him, but he tried his best to reciprocate.

“Do your parents live here?”

You shook your head. “They passed away a while ago.”

“I apologize.”

"Don't be." You quickly switched subjects by fluttering towards the counter to pick up his items. “Tell me how your coffee tastes.” You turned around, adding, “I switched to a new brand of milk—”

Nanami pressed his lips against yours, momentarily freezing you. His seamless transition afterward could have fooled an onlooker into thinking you'd been married for years. "Thank you.” He took a sip and nodded thoughtfully. “It’s great. Everything you make is great.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled, sudden shyness enveloping you. From the kiss? The compliment? Him? You didn’t know at all. “Do you still need me to give you the mechanic’s number?”

“It’s all right. I had it fixed. Minor battery issue, that’s all.”

“Ah, okay. See, that’s why I prefer to walk.”

Nanami glanced elsewhere, nodding. “Then, would you like to walk with me after you’ve closed?”

“Oh.” A subtle flicker of surprise crossed your features. Nonchalantly, you brushed a strand of hair behind your ear before smiling warmly. “Of course, yes. I’d love to go on a walk with you. Where are we going? There are lots of cafés in a nearby shopping district. I know all the best places to take you to.” A grave thought struck you just then. “Oh, actually. Hmm.”

Curious, he tilted his head down, meeting your worried gaze. "What is it?"

"Well," you began, your thoughts taking a cautious turn, "you probably have a set time to be home unless you live nearby. In that case, we could spend the entire evening strolling around. Only if you're interested, of course."

Nanami’s lips twitched. “I live nearby.”

“Where?” You weren’t ashamed to have been so upfront. It was more of a precautionary measure.

And he didn't seem bothered, quickly revealing the familiar neighborhood you instantly recognized. It was a fifteen-minute walk from your own place.

"May I step out momentarily to make a call?" Nanami asked, pulling out his phone. It was the latest model you noticed—one that came out last week and mocked your own that was five versions older. “It will be quick.”

“By all means.” You had to fix your hair and make-up anyway.

Nanami nodded and exited the shop, leaving you to flee behind the counter. As you crouched down to check yourself in the small mirror tucked away in the lower drawer, you couldn't help but feel a warmth on your face from the unexpected collapse, the sweet, brief kiss, and his impeccable navy blue suit decorated with yellow cufflinks. Maybe a café was too casual for him; a restaurant might have been a more suitable choice. An expensive choice. However, you were adamant about not letting Nanami cover the entire cost.

Upon his return, five minutes later, you both settled at one of the three round tables in your bakery (he even pulled out your chair for you). Sipping on your coffees and enjoying the casse-croûtes and chocolate pastries, the conversation seemed somewhat one-sided. Yet, Nanami's aloof demeanor never made you feel inferior for dominating the dialogue. He listened to every word and vowel with his undivided attention, nodding alongside and adding in short sentences when he could relate to your childhood shenanigans.

"Wait," he interrupted, causing you to halt in your tracks. The sun cast a warm glow on his face, making his eyes narrow into slits, but God did he look handsome. He extended his hand and brushed a thumb near your lips, discovering a small chocolate smudge. Swiftly, he licked it clean and tidied up the area around your lips with a napkin. "Beautiful."

“What?”

Nanami was a deer in headlights. He sunk his head, beating himself up from murmuring his thoughts aloud—at least, that’s what you concluded. "You look beautiful," he declared with more assurance, his gaze on your face. "You are beautiful, Y/N."

Oh, my.

Your heart was going to claw itself out of your chest. You could cook an egg on your face from how heated it had gotten. In fact, you were burning hotter than the sun, which continuously made him squint and blink. “Thank you.”

He nodded twice, finishing the remnants of his coffee. Rising, he disposed of the cups and wrappers in the garbage bin, then extended a hand to help you stand. "I'll wait outside while you close up."

At a lightning pace, you ensured that everything in the bakery was safely unplugged and shut off. Grabbing your purse, you gave yourself a quick once-over in the mirror, adjusting your face and hair. Stepping outside, you meticulously locked the door and gates.

Without a word, Nanami entwined his fingers with yours, causing you to smile like an idiot at him. He maintained a straight, vigilant gaze, seemingly unresponsive as you wrapped yourself around his arm. A subtle smirk tugged at your lips when you felt his muscles flex.

You walked for hours, café-hopping and trying pastries, baked goods, and sweet drinks. Every time Nanami attempted to cover the expenses with his cash, you scolded him, insisting that since you had suggested the place, you should be the one to pay. It was a rule you had read about online, and all your friends stuck to it religiously. The thought of Nanami spending his hard-earned money on your interests made you feel incredibly guilty.

As a matter of fact, you were feeling guilty about tons of things. He told you he worked at an investment firm, which meant it was a nine-to-five, likely sporting a migraine he kept hidden, and now he was being dragged around the shopping district by you, forced to listen to you because he was a man who didn’t complain, wouldn’t complain, and long, story short, you wanted to die.

“Kento,” you muttered, removing your hand from his, goosebumps rippling on your skin.

“Yes, darling?”

Your chest felt like it was being clenched in a fist. “I'm . . . I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For making you do all this. For making you pay for everything. For dragging you around when you're probably on the verge of exhaustion." Avoiding his gaze, you fixed your eyes on the concrete beneath you. “I know I can be too much sometimes—well, all the time.” A self-deprecating chuckle escaped your lips. "Exes in my past relationships have made it clear. I get overly excited easily, crave attention like one needs oxygen, trust people too easily to the point of getting scammed, and, well, I don't bring anything particularly special to the table. I'm sorry, Kento. Maybe it's best if we just stay friends?”

Nanami’s soft fingers lifted your chin up. Your words absolutely shattered his face, leaving you to feel worse than before. His lips were parted into a frown, his brows were scrunched up, brown irises flickering like he couldn’t believe you said that. This was the most reaction he had given you in the year that you’ve known him.

“No,” he said.

You blinked the tears gathered at your waterline. “No?”

“No.” Nanami took a calming breath, closing his eyes. His forehead gently pressed against yours. “Please, let me be selfish for this once. For you. I can’t let you go—I won’t let you go."

"Kento—"

"I want to do this, Y/N. I want to pay for everything. I want you to drag me around because I’ll never be too tired for you.” Nanami drew back and cradled your sobbing face in his large hands. “I know I fail to show it, darling, but I love your excitement. I love paying attention to every detail of you because you’ve become my oxygen source. You’re a good, kindhearted woman, and anyone would be lucky to be seen by you. And you don’t have to bring anything to the table because there isn’t one dividing us, keeping us lengths apart.” His lips brushed your forehead, imprinting his words into your mind. "I want us to be more than just friends. I want us to be best friends. Lovers. In this life and the ones that follow."

You could explode.

Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, seeking support as if the ground beneath you was about to crumble. Yet, you knew he would catch you, just as before. He was so real, embracing you wholly, both of you breathing in each other's scents to confirm a human like this could exist. How grateful you were he stumbled into your bakery that one rainy night, and how grateful he was that you offered him free coffee and a casse-croûte while he was freezing and trembling. His presence brought life to your bakery, gave you something to look forward to when you were at your lowest, and you gave him . . . everything. You were his everything since the first day.

As the shared silence lingered, Nanami's phone shattered the moment, its noisy ring cutting through the haze. You instinctively stepped back, but he clung to your hand as if afraid you might slip away.

Never, Nanami Kento. You’re stuck with me.

When he took out his phone, you caught a glimpse of the contact name: Satoru (assistant).

Before you could process the fact Nanami had an assistant, he swiped right. “Yeah?”

The voice on the other end resonated with loud cheerfulness in the quiet alleyway. Nanami half-rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Very well. Leave it there. I’ll be there when I want to.”

The assistant chuckled and sang his goodbye, the cheerful tone abruptly cutting off as Nanami ended the call and slid his phone back into his pocket.

“Do all stockbrokers have assistants?”

He tilted his head. “I’m not a stockbroker.”

“Oh? I’m sorry. I assumed because you worked at an investment firm.”

“Yes, I was a stockbroker.” He nodded, warming your hand in his, then casually added, “But I own a firm now.”

Your brows hit your hairline. “That’s amazing!”

“Thank you. We have several locations around the country. Kento Investments. Have you heard of it?”

Heard of it? You were a client some time ago when you were starting your bakery. All you encountered were glowing reviews about their ethical practices, a refreshing leave from the scheming ways of most investment firms that had previously taken advantage of you. It stood out as the industry leader in your research, and the team was lovely in guiding you through the process, so much so that you even invited them to your grand opening.

"Ah, you have." Nanami grinned, gently tilting your chin upward and closing your gaping mouth. "Therefore, my darling, don't feel guilty about me covering the expenses. I'm quite secure in my position to support both of us for centuries."

All you could manage was a disbelieving chuckle as you rested your forehead against his chest. Taking it as an invitation, he embraced you, crowning you with kisses.

Lifting your head, you said, "There's something I want to get for you."

"What is it?"

Hand-in-hand, you pulled him back toward the bustling district, the sound of his deep laughter echoing in the air. Your own laughter naturally joined in.

As you strolled past a vendor selling accessories, your attention was drawn to an item you had briefly noticed earlier in your walk. Although you planned to purchase it the following day and surprise him in the afternoon, tonight felt like the perfect moment.

Politely approaching the elderly vendor, you asked, "Could I please try those on?" He handed you a pair of round sunglasses with a green tint to the lenses. Standing on your toes, you carefully placed the glasses on Nanami's nose, adjusting them to sit perfectly on the bridge. The sides of the spectacles featured a stylish steampunk design that complemented his narrow, sharp features. "Handsome.”

"I'll take it.” Nanami reached for his wallet. However, you were one step ahead, swiftly bringing out the spare change you had set aside in your coat pocket. You had already calculated the price, ready to outsmart him in this little game of charity.

“Y/N.”

“Thank you,” you said to the shop vendor, ignoring Nanami’s stare.

“Y/N.”

“Yes, darling?" You looped around his arm and began your stroll down the sidewalk. “Oh, come on. Let me be selfish and treat you once in a while.” You cut off his protests with a kiss.

He surrendered instantly.

Over the next four weeks, you didn’t realize how quickly you’d become comfortable with Nanami. Like clockwork, he would arrive at your bakery, patiently occupying a table until your duties with customers or decorating displays finished. Now resembling a vibrant florist shop, the bakery owed its transformation to Nanami's thoughtful gestures—bouquets of flowers in every shade of yellow, orange, and white became an amusing routine. As you arranged them in vases, you would burst into fits of giggles like a maniac.

You and him were like a Venn diagram, overlapping in unexpected places. He enjoyed non-fiction, classics, and history books; you immersed yourself in the world of romance and mystery novels. TV nights were a compromise between his love for documentaries and your penchant for anything sappy on Netflix, occasionally spicing things up with a true-crime documentary. His fascination with astronomy met your fixation with astrology, and surprisingly, he didn't scoff when you read the lines on his palms. Instead, he appreciated it just as much as you cherished his nightly photos of the moon and his ability to name the stars above.

At least, you were both Team Cats.

Nanami introduced you to his friends, including his quirky assistant Gojo, who had a habit of shamelessly flirting with you, seemingly just to get under Nanami's skin. However, your boyfriend was secure enough not to let it bother him. Yet, a trace of possessiveness would emerge during sex—when the two of you were entwined in bed, bodies bared and bathed in the aftermath of shared sweat.

Exiting the restaurant after a delightful dinner date, Nanami turned to you and suggested, "I'd like to invite you to my home tonight."

Finally, you thought, resisting the urge to dip your toes into the topic of visiting his home, especially considering he had been a frequent guest at yours.

The fact that he lived nearby had always puzzled you; he mentioned it casually yet never extended an invitation for a simple coffee or a chat on his welcome mat. Weekends saw him working from your living room, staying overnight, but on weekdays, he'd only spend a brief hour or two with you before heading home, a practice that seemed counterintuitive given his closeness. Despite the confusion, you hesitated to jeopardize your relationship by fishing too deeply.

So far, Nanami hadn't given you any reason to doubt him.

"Are you sure?" you asked cautiously.

"Absolutely, darling.” Nanami took your hand and planted a small kiss on the back of it. "I apologize for the delay. I've been having it . . ." He casually flicked up his sunglasses that had slipped. ". . . renovated."

“Oh, I see. Well, in that case, I’d love to!”

Nanami nodded and leaned down to kiss your cheek. “Thank you for being so patient. I know it was eating you alive. You're not exactly the master of hiding your emotions.” He gave you a small smile and kissed your cheek again.

You responded with a smile that crinkled your nose. "Just a bit anxious, that's all."

"Understandable.” He guided you toward his neighbourhood, exchanging a warm smile as you nestled against his arm. Observing the goosebumps on your skin and the faint shivers, he realized you had forgotten your cardigan. Without hesitation, he removed his blazer and draped it around your shoulders, helping you slip your arms through the sleeves and buttoning it up.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the pleasant scent from the collars. "You always smell so good."

Nanami bent down, kissing the side of your neck right above your racing pulse. "As do you," he murmured against your skin. "Always."

“Gosh, you're so flirty,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around his midsection and burying your face in his chest.

“Come on now.”

You walked for another ten minutes, taking a five-minute pit stop to pet a stray cat before stopping in front of a towering residence building. It was one of those extravagant ones boasting a fountain in the lobby and a vigilant security guard who greeted Nanami with a two-finger salute.

Hand on your back, Nanami guided you toward the elevator with mirrors on all sides.

He exuded an air of sophistication in his neatly rolled-up black dress shirt, complemented by beige pants. His pale, blond hair was slicked back, a Rolex clasped his wrist, and veins corded his well-defined forearms. The sunglasses you had given him rested atop his head.

As Nanami caught your eyes on the reflective surfaces, a sudden blush warmed your cheeks. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” you whispered, fingers idly playing with the golden butterfly bracelet he had given you on the night he asked you to be his girlfriend. “I was just . . . God, you’re so beautiful. Sometimes, I think I’m dreaming of you. And I don’t want to wake up from it.”

Nanami released his grip on your hand, wrapping his arm around your waist. He tilted your chin upward and planted a lecherous kiss on your lips. As you stumbled backward, your back met the cool surface of a mirror, and you clung to his biceps. He continued kissing your jaw and nibbling at your neck.

“Ken—Wait, there’s a camera!”

“I own the building.”

Without allowing you to react, he kissed you fervently, his hands framing your face and his knee pressing between your legs. Your hips ground against the muscled surface, creating a heated friction that drew a moan from him.

The elevator dinged, signaling its arrival, but Nanami was undeterred. He refused to break the kiss. Lifting you effortlessly, he cradled you with a single forearm beneath your backside and your arms encircling his neck. Laughter echoed as you entered directly into the main corridor of his penthouse.

“Your front door is an elevator?” You marveled with an open jaw.

“Yes, it seems so.”

Oh, how you loved his monotonous replies.

Nanami gently placed you onto the expansive white surface of his couch, smoothly moving over your body to continue.

“I knew you were a clean freak,” you said between his kisses, “but your penthouse looks like it was bought this morning.”

“Two weeks ago.” He kisses down your neck, sideways toward your left shoulder. “That’s why I waited to invite you. Gojo was having the place decorated. I've installed a library for you, too. We can go book-shopping this weekend.”

"Wait, what?" You pushed him back by his chest, incredulous. "Hold on, hold on, hold on. You mean to tell me you moved in just two weeks ago?"

"Yes," he answered, tilting his head slightly perplexedly. "When you asked about my residence, I panicked and couldn't come up with a proper answer, fearing you might decline my invitation for a walk. So, I bought this building from the previous owner on the spot. There are also commercial benefits. Quite a strategic move, if you ask me." With that, Nanami resumed his attention, focusing on kissing your collarbones and skillfully lowering your dress, exposing your chest to him.

But you were still stuck on the subject like a pesky fruit fly. “But you don’t live here?”

“I don’t.” His mouth brushed over the mound of your left breast. “I live in Shibuya.”

“Shibuya? Kento, that’s an hour and a half away!"

"Hmm." He glanced up, mouth sucking at your nipple.

"You've been faithfully coming to my city every single day, all the way from Shibuya, for a whole year? You've been burning all that gas just to be with me?"

He broke away to say, "Gojo drives me occasionally," and switched to your right breast.

"Nanami Kento, are you out of your mind?"

Finally, he released you and sighed. "I fail to see the issue here." He appeared so innocent, with his moist lips, tousled hair, and a crumpled dress shirt.

You hurriedly sat up, readjusting your dress, which seemed to displease him. "I'm at a loss for words." Your gaze caught the weariness etched on his face, the bags under his eyes, the slow, heavy blinks signaling his desperate need for sleep. "You haven't actually been living here, have you?"

Upon hearing that, Nanami let out a weary sigh. "I do it when I'm too drained to make the drive back on weekdays."

As the details of his schedule fell into place, you flinched inwardly. He would rise at the crack of dawn, dedicate endless hours to handling clients at the office, and then endure a lengthy drive to your city, only to spend his evenings with you before leaving around midnight to return to Shibuya. The only time he would stay overnight at your place was on Saturdays, and he would depart early on Sundays for work. And all this time, you had believed he had an office in your city.

Oh, God.

You loved him.

You loved him so much.

Tears welled up in your eyes at the realization of just how much he loved you. The man had gone so far as to purchase an entire building in your city just to be closer to you. He showered you with affection at every opportunity, devoted his alone time to you with undivided attention and mind-blowing orgasms, and his bank transactions were probably dedicated to you.

“I don’t deserve your kindness,” you whispered.

“Neither did I the night when we met.” Nanami’s words always had a comforting effect on you. He gently pulled you onto his lap, and you curled up like a fetus, planting a kiss on his cheekbone. “I’ve loved you for a very long time, Y/N. I love . . . God, I love you so much. I didn't realize I was capable of feeling this much love for another human until I met you. It was all locked up inside me, and you held the key all along, darling." Leaning forward, he smoothly swept his blazer and delved into the pocket, revealing a small yellow box. With trembling hands, you accepted it and opened it to find a petite, golden key inside. “Our front door is an elevator.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“Move in with me.”

“Kento—”

“I know. I know it's quite early to discuss this, and I want to give you the space and time to consider it. As you mentioned, your lease ends next month, and I'll officially be transitioning to remote work with a few business trips every other week. It would mean a lot to me if you decided to join me on those trips." He gently placed the key in your hand, kissing your fist. "I'm scheduled to travel to Malaysia next month."

Overpowered with emotion, you choked out a sob and immediately lunged at him with a hug, causing both of you to stumble backward as he wrapped his arms around your waist. He loved you. He wanted you to move in with him. He wanted to travel with you, starting with Malaysia. Suddenly, the tips he left in your jar took on a deeper significance, backing the idea that you weren't meant to journey alone, why you weren’t meant to go with that swindling bastard. As Nanami's gestures of kindness and service became increasingly evident, your tears welled up, choking him in a tight embrace that eventually had him laughing.

Last November, Nanami Kento had stepped into your small bakery, raindrops clinging to him, unknowingly marking his permanent presence in your life.

7K notes · View notes

pin-k-ink · 5 months

Text

possessory // kuroo tetsurou

tw ⇢ rivals to lovers, sexual tension, possessive kuroo, fingering, begging, finger-fucking, locker room sex, dirty talk, unprotected sex, getting caught, marking, some yaku x reader if you squint

wc ⇢ 9.3k

a/n: my love for yaku shining through this fic. i’d to bite my knuckles trying to not write a threesome. luckily i’ve already planned something for my baby

The whistle pierced the heavy air like a gunshot, signaling the end of the heated practice match. You barely registered the shrill sound over the thrumming of blood in your ears as you panted harshly, chest heaving from exertion.

Your narrowed gaze remained locked onto the tall, rangy figure across the net - those sharp, watchful eyes that always seemed to glitter with something more feral than simple competition whenever you squared off. Kuroo's lips curved in that all-too-familiar razor's edge of a smirk as he raked his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead in one long pull.

The casual arrogance of the gesture made you grit your teeth against a low snarl. As if he didn't already know full well how obscenely distracting the subtle ripple of his arm and shoulder muscles could be when--

You viciously derailed that wandering train of thought before it could lead somewhere utterly unacceptable. There'd been enough heated incidents between you already without indulging a treacherous fixation on the physical. Even if Kuroo seemed hellbent on upending your restraint at every turn.

"Nice effort out there," he drawled loudly as the teams began separating to their respective benches. "I can definitely see some improvement from the last time we played."

The words were seemingly innocuous enough. But the low, gravelly delivery dripped with Kuroo's typical infuriating condescension. You felt your hackles rising instinctively at the spark of challenge banked in his goading stare.

"You're really working those compliments for all they're worth today, aren't you Kuroo?" you shot back acidly, pointedly raking your gaze over his sweat-soaked jersey with obvious disdain. "Need me to send you a thesaurus so you can freshen up that material a bit?"

Kuroo's eyes flashed briefly at the barbed retort, but the edges of that smirk only deepened further in a way that made your jaw tighten.

"If it ain't broke..." he trailed off with a one-shouldered shrug that you refused to let your eyes linger on.

Just like that, the thick undercurrent of animosity and unresolved tension reasserted itself between you. The energy sizzling in the air took on a distinctly more charged quality, like the first building pressure of an oncoming storm about to break. You could practically taste the torrid stirrings of heat and restless aggression prickling along your limbs.

This was nothing new in the undeniably volatile dynamic you and Kuroo had cultivated over innumerable practice matches and heated encounters. That endless cycle of provocation and denial destined to build towards...what end, neither of you ever seemed to acknowledge. But the friction generated by your clashing wills could be damn near scorching at times.

On the sidelines, you were vaguely aware of teammates shooting knowing looks back and forth, clearly no strangers to the blazing intensity you brought out in each other. Every subtle interaction between you and Kuroo seemed to bleed with unspoken tension and unsettled cravings that simmered just beneath the surface.

It had long been an open secret that your rivalry extended far beyond just the court itself. Though openly admitting as much remained strictly taboo.

Kuroo suddenly moved as if to step closer, an unreadable glint flickering briefly through those penetrating eyes. For a dizzying heartbeat, you thought he might continue provoking this simmering confrontation between you in a different, more incendiary direction.

Instead, Kuroo simply hooked his thumb at you in a deliberately casual gesture dripping with unearned arrogance, as per usual. "Keep telling yourself those little lies, kitten. I've still got plenty of ways to shut that smart mouth of yours that we haven't explored yet."

The heated innuendo landed like a physical blow, stealing your breath as your pulse kicked up a staggering notch. You refused to let your imagination indulge even a second's consideration of what depraved "methods" Kuroo could possibly have in mind. Some lines could never be uncrossed between your rivalry without irrevocably shattering everything.

So you settled for a derisive snort, turning on your heel and stalking away from that dark, all-too-appealing promise burning in his gaze. You refused to be the one to cave first and give Kuroo the satisfaction.

Just like always, the explosive friction between you would remain unresolved. No matter how urgently it simmered and begged for combustion, you would hold the line of restraint...

For now.

The charged encounter hung thick in the air as you tried and failed to shake off the lingering effects of Kuroo's taunts during the cool-down stretches. No matter how you willed your focus elsewhere, you were persistently, maddeningly aware of his presence across the gym floor.

Of the way he moved with that deliberately careless, arrogant swagger - all long, powerful limbs and sinuous grace as he bent and extended through the stretching forms. Every motion seemed calculated to snag your wandering attention, to goad your eyes into tracing the sculpted contours of muscle shifting fluidly beneath sun-kissed skin that glistened with a fine sheen of exertion.

You grit your teeth and averted your gaze stubbornly each time you caught it straying. But the phantom echoes of Kuroo's sinful murmurs about "shutting that smart mouth of yours" reverberated through your heated thoughts in an endless torrid loop.

Unbidden, your mind provided tantalizingly vivid flashes of just what form that insolent threat might take if he ever dared carry it out. You imagined the hot brand of Kuroo's mouth crashing against yours in a searing, breath-stealing kiss born of too much aggression and too little restraint. His calloused palms mapping out every whisper-soft inch of feverish skin as you both finally surrendered to the smoldering madness of your rivalry entirely.

The mental images proved so viscerally potent that you nearly missed the loud clatter of a water bottle being knocked to the floor a few feet away. You startled, cheeks flushing guiltily as you realized Yaku was eyeing you from the next mat over with clear amusement wrinkling the corners of his eyes.

"You're sure looking pretty spaced out over there," he commented far too innocently. "Everything...okay?"

Willing your features back to a carefully neutral mask, you shot your teammate a pointed look. "I’m fine, Yaku. Just still feeling it from the second set. Not sure where my head's wandering."

The lie felt hollow even to your own ears. But Yaku seemed wise enough not to press any further, simply nodding before continuing his regimen.

On the far side of the gym, you caught the briefest glimpse of Kuroo straightening up from his own stretches, running one long-fingered hand through his disheveled hair in a way that really shouldn't have been so distracting. His eyes found yours unerringly through the gaps and bodies between you. You tensed despite yourself, awaiting Kuroo's next inevitable flare of provocation.

For a long, heated moment he simply held your stare in silence, making an exaggerated show of slowly dragging his appreciative gaze over your flushed features and down the lines of your sweat-sheened torso. When next he met your gaze, his expression glittered with an utterly indecent gleam that made your pulse skyrocket unwillingly.

It was like he'd seen straight through your feeble attempts at restraint and composure. Like he knew with piercing clarity exactly where your wandering thoughts had gotten derailed just now, and was silently goading you to surrender that illicit trail entirely. The challenge issued in his heated stare was clear – keep denying this combustible charge smoldering between us and find out just how far I'm willing to push those boundaries.

You refused to be the one to break eye contact first, even as the air between you grew thick and heady. Even as desire bloomed like wild embers in the pit of your stomach in a way it absolutely should never have. Not for Kuroo, not your sworn rival and human catalyst for antagonism on and off the court.

And yet it burned there nonetheless, unconcerned with the rigid compartmentalization your common sense kept insisting upon. That insidious heat threatened to scorch you from the inside if you persisted in denying it outlet through even the most inconsequential of actions.

Another minute ticked by punctuated only by the harsh rasp of your breathing and Kuroo's cat-like observance. His eyes narrowed infinitesimally as if gauging the level of unraveling restraint behind your impassive front. Waiting to see if you would finally be the one to blink first.

You lifted your chin subtly in silent defiance. Daring Kuroo to escalate this latest confrontation between you to more scorching heights if he dared. You'd weathered far worse maelstroms of his undisguised provocation than this before, no matter how potent.

The hard line of his jaw flexed in mild approval at your steadfastness before at last Kuroo's lips curved in a sharply amused smirk. The one that never failed to slice through your serenity like the sharpest of blades.

"Don't hurt yourself, kitten," he drawled suddenly in that graveled rumble of a whisper that carried easily across the gym's stillness. "I know all about holding my breath for the things I really want."

The barely veiled innuendo in Kuroo's rasped words hit you like a physical gut punch, forcing you to strangle down the instinctive flare of molten heat that twisted low in your abdomen. He knew, that insufferable bastard knew exactly what effect his grating taunts had on you despite your best attempts at impassive defiance.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper, refusing to grant Kuroo the satisfaction of watching you react overtly. But the way his hooded gaze slowly raked over you made it clear he didn't need histrionics to read your body's traitorous responses loud and clear.

Kuroo's tongue swept out to drag deliberately along his bottom lip as you glared daggers back at him. The unhurried, vaguely obscene motion drew your eyes helplessly for a scorching second before you wrenched them away. You could have sworn you heard the low rumble of an amused chuckle from across the gym at your faltering composure.

The sudden jarring impact of a balled-up towel hitting your shoulder made you jolt violently. You whirled with a snarl already curling your lips, half-expecting Kuroo to have somehow slithered closer undetected just to continue provoking you.

Instead, it was simply Kenma eyeing you with that familiar half-lidded look of sardonic indifference - one earbud already dangling loose as he'd clearly sought to disengage from whatever this latest maelstrom of tension was between you and your so-called rival.

"You two need a cold shower or something?" he remarked flatly, seemingly oblivious or uncaring of the molten quality his observation took on. "Cut the foreplay and just fuck already. Could smell the unresolved sexual tension from across the gym."

You choked on a shocked inhalation at Kenma's blunt assessment, heat flooding your cheeks in a dizzying rush. The dull roar of abruptly resumed activity within the gym filled your ringing ears as others seemed to freeze mid-motion at his crass outburst. A quick glance towards the other side of the court revealed Kuroo staring back with eyes comically wide, lips parted around what was probably intended as a reflexive denial.

The awkward tension expanded with each passing second it went unacknowledged until finally Kenma rolled his eyes tremendously and simply stuffed his earbud back in, unmoved. The courts slowly came alive again bit by bit, the disjointed sounds of squeaking sneakers and voices just on the edge of too-loud once more filling the air.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Kuroo straightening his shoulders beneath the weight of your heated stare, almost like steeling himself for your answering volley. But rather than issue another round of barbed taunts, you simply clenched your jaw, grabbed your jersey and spun sharply on your heel to stalk from the gym before anything else could further test your tenuous grip on restraint.

Once in the empty locker room, you leaned against the blissfully solid surface of your locker and allowed yourself a shaky exhale. Your heartbeat felt like it was rabbiting out of control as you ruthlessly quashed the wanton direction your thoughts insisted on straying.

Kenma's crass remark shouldn't have landed with such searing effect, you told yourself sternly. Shouldn't have made your imagination conjure up such deliriously vivid fantasies about Kuroo pressing you up against the cool steel at your back right now as you finally surrendered to--

"Fuck," you growled harshly, pressing the heels of your palms against your traitorous eyes until spots of color burst across your vision.

You couldn't keep allowing your bitter rivalry with Kuroo to careen so perilously close to the edge of oblivion repeatedly. To let your cataclysmic friction continue escalating to such a razor-sharp precipice every time he proved insufferable enough to provoke every simmering frustration and desire boiling over inside you.

No matter how infuriatingly, inexplicably attractive you found the insufferable prick, you simply couldn't keep indulging these...what? Wild, indecent fantasies about him pressing you up against rough tile as you finally --

You took a deep steadying breath to abort that train of thought before it could derail completely off the rails into utterly forbidden territory. Again. Some lines could never be uncrossed between you and Kuroo without shattering the foundations of whatever this frenzied push-and-pull dynamic existed upon.

No matter how tempting the prospect sometimes felt.

The scalding shower spray did little to rinse away the lingering haze of heated frustration still clouding your thoughts. If anything, the punishing jets of water needling over your taut muscles seemed only to amplify the electric tension still humming beneath your skin in the wake of your latest encounter with Kuroo.

You grit your teeth against a low growl bubbling up your chest as your mind unhelpfully replayed the smug curl of his lips around those parting taunts - challenging you, practically demanding you admit some undeniable undercurrent still burned white-hot between you despite your constant denials.

Beneath the thundering spray, your hands clenched and unclenched in a vain attempt to rein in the roiling mixture of bitter antagonism and darker, more primal cravings that invariably got stirred up whenever Kuroo slipped beneath your defenses. You couldn't seem to prevent flashes of slick skin and molten friction from battering against the shattered remnants of your restraint.

The memories felt so viscerally potent in the aftermath of his provocation that you swore a strange staticky charge was building along your limbs. Like thunderheads rapidly converging toward their inevitable lightning strike. Wild, pent-up energy begging for release in an unbridled eruption you knew better than to give voice or form to.

With a sharp exhale, you braced your forearms against the shower tile and allowed the scalding spray to rinse over your neck and shoulders as you hung your head, trying in vain to steady your ragged breathing and derailed composure. Try as you might, you couldn't seem to shake the persistent imagining of Kuroo's larger, rougher hands replacing yours in mapping the slick trails of water over your overheated skin.

You swallowed hard against the vivid fantasy, against the wanton direction it kept trying to careen down despite your best efforts at restraint. Kuroo's shadowed silhouette would be so infuriatingly at home behind you like this - a predatory prowl straight from your most fevered subconscious yearnings as he pressed himself flush against your back with a low rumbling exhale that resonated to your very core.

The intrusive daydream flickered with dizzying lucidity behind your tightly screwed eyelids. Every slick inch of heated muscle rippling beneath your hands as you pivoted to seal your lips against his in a searing collision of unleashed desire. Kuroo's rough palms branding blazing paths down slippery expanses of soft skin as you arched into his maddening caresses in silent, desperate plea to finally explore those molten hungers to their conclusion...

With a choked groan, you whirled and pressed your forehead against the cool tile in an attempt to forcibly evict your tormentor from weaving his provocation into such a deliriously vivid fantasy. But the afterimage of his taunting silhouette remained burned onto the backs of your eyelids alongside the whispered promise of indecent transgressions, should you ever finally yield to that unchecked inertia carrying you straight towards them.

A dizzying shudder lashed through your overwrought frame as an anxious noise close to a whine escaped your trembling lips. You couldn't do this, couldn't keep allowing Kuroo to effortlessly provoke you to such maddening heights of frustrated longing and combustible lust with only a few heated looks and expertly wielded taunts.

It was like battling the inescapable allure of a riptide, the seductive siren call of its irresistible pull growing stronger and more irresistible every time you slipped beneath its churning rip currents before somehow wrenching yourself back to the surface at the last gasping moment. How long until even the most monumental force of will proved too feeble to keep dragging you back from the brink?

Kenma's crass words about cutting the "sexual tension" echoed unwanted through your whirling thoughts. You tried to swallow back the imagery his crude accusation summoned up, but some details still crept in past your battered restraints.

You. And Kuroo. Tangled up in a fevered, inevitable conflagration of slick heat and molten friction, napalm-bright desires burning until you were utterly consumed in a blast of searing rapture…

With a snarled curse, you reluctantly killed the shower spray - unable to escape your own torturous libido in the steamy confines any longer. Perhaps some fresh air might finally clear your head enough to dull these relentless indecent urges before Kuroo inadvertently provoked you into fulfilling Kenma's crass prediction at last.

The locker room feels oppressively warm and stifling as you emerge from the showers, skin still tinged pink from the scalding spray's futile attempt to rinse away your lingering frustrations. A thin sheen of perspiration almost immediately rekindles across your flushed chest and brow.

You swipe your forearm roughly across your hairline, trying and failing miserably to ignore the way rivulets of water trace tantalizing paths over your collarbones and breasts, down the taut planes of your abdomen. Each shimmering droplet's wake seems to leave pinprick trails of heightened sensitivity in its wake, maddeningly conspicuous against your overheated awareness.

With an annoyed grunt, you pull open your locker and reach for the thin cotton undershirt draped over the top shelf...only to freeze as an unmistakable, heady musk suddenly wafts up to assault your senses.

That rich, earthy, and utterly masculine fragrance feels like a physical blow lancing straight through your already compromised restraint. Instantly, you're assaulted with a barrage of unshakably vivid imagery unlike anything that has plagued you previously beneath the showers.

Kuroo looming over you, eyes hooded and lips parted around harsh exhales of barely leashed hunger. The heat of his solid frame pressing you back against unforgiving chill steel as electric shockwaves of friction build to maddening crescendos between you. His body branded like a searing brand against the sweat-slicked expanses of your bared skin as you arch and writhe beneath the exquisitely rough mapping of his hands, thighs parting reflexively in a wanton entreaty for deeper indulgence—

"Fuck," you snarl, hurling the offending garment across the small space like it has bitten you. Your breath saws harsh and shallow as you recoil from the vivid flashes still bombarding you from all sides.

That obscenely provoking scent...it hadn't been your shirt you'd started to pick up at all, you realize with a delayed sort of horror rapidly turning your belly to soured granite. The realization brings with it a whole separate series of incendiary imagery you are utterly powerless to prevent from sparking behind your tightly screwed eyelids like the world's most sadistic filmreel.

You, burying your face against that thick knit of soft fabric and breathing deeply of the headily masculine notes lingering there. Of salt and skin and vaguely woodsy musk as you try in vain to chase memories of their original source, to resurface those haunting fantasies like some lecherous addict chasing their next molten hit.

Perhaps even allowing one hand to trail slowly down your slick torso, fingertips blazing scorching paths southward as lurid shadow-flashes of Kuroo's sharply angled features fill your mind's eye. Of his heated gaze darkening to feral approval as you unapologetically surrender propriety to slake those smoldering cravings he's systematically and expertly stoked within you past all possible willpower to deny.

With a violence that belies you, you wrench your eyes back open to inspect the contents of your locker more closely. Sure enough, hanging carelessly amongst your own neatly folded pile at the very bottom is one of Kuroo's unmistakable crimson team jerseys. Your fingers spasm against the urge to reach down and tunnel into the temptingly soft knit, to willingly soak in that unholy musk until you're dizzy and molten with the imprint of him in your most forbidden fantasies.

Instead, you squeeze your eyes tightly shut again as a broken gasp rattles from between your clenched teeth. This just keeps getting worse, that tantalizing scent rapidly proving itself your own personal brand of siren's call towards crashing into the deepest pits of sin and self-indulgence—

The sound of an opening door freezes you like a stunned animal in your tracks. Your entire body snaps rigid with tension as your pulse kicks up several panicked notches, utterly dreading whoever might now bear witness to your clear unraveling.

Heart thundering in your ears, you slowly crack one eye back open with trepidation...only to feel the weight lift somewhat as Shizuku, one of your teammates came cautiously around the corner, cheeks slightly flushed in embarrassment.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," she stammers, clearly flustered at having stumbled upon you in this state. "I didn't realize anyone was still in here. I can come back later!"

You wave a dismissive hand before she can retreat, not quite trusting your voice not to come out incriminatingly wrecked just yet. Trying to regain your composure, you attempt to slow your ragged breathing as subtly as possible.

Shizuku nods hesitantly, not seeming entirely convinced as her sharp gaze continues raking over you with growing concern. "Are...are you feeling okay? You look really flushed."

The obvious worry in her tone makes guilt churn unpleasantly in your gut. You can only imagine what sort of indecent, overwrought state she's finding you in right now. A vivid flash of her somehow catching you red-handed while giving in to your wanton urges ricochets through your mind, making you swallow thickly against a rising blaze of heat.

Desperately, you shake your head in an attempt to physically dislodge the utterly unacceptable fantasy before it can take seed. Pushing a tight smile onto your lips, you wave Shizuku forward reassuringly.

"I'm fine, really!" you insist in a voice that thankfully doesn't waver as much as you'd feared. "Just...stepped out of a really hot shower is all. Probably going to head out soon anyway."

Shizuku visibly relaxes at your answer, offering a relieved smile. "Oh good, I'm glad it's nothing serious then!" She steps over to her own locker and begins digging through her gym bag without a second thought.

You let out a shaky breath, using her presence as a convenient excuse to turn your back and refocus on getting dressed and out of here before another intrusive fantasy tries to take root.

You stare at the rumpled crimson jersey with a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Of course his scent had to linger cloyingly around the fabric in a way your senses couldn't seem to ignore, even after that shockingly scalding shower.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, you reluctantly snatch up the borrowed top and give it another inspecting look. There's a faint smear of deodorant along the collar line and a few scattered strands of short black hair stubbornly clinging to the soft cotton weave. Unmistakable signs of repeated wear and the masculine essence now permanently embedded into every delicate thread.

Your pulse immediately kicks up as new waves of heated compulsion crest over you at being surrounded by Kuroo's intimate essence like this. But grinding your teeth hard, you resolutely refuse to feed the treacherous undercurrents of want that seem insistent on cresting to the surface at every provocation from him.

No, you're determined to get yourself under control here. To put some distance between the unwelcome distraction he's become and regain a clear head once more. If putting on Kuroo's clothes helps provide any sense of closure regarding these increasingly indecent preoccupations...well, you're desperate enough to try just about anything at this point.

Before your resolve can waver any further, you slide the jersey up and over your head - the soft knit sliding easily over your still-damp skin and clinging to every curve of your torso like a second skin. Almost immediately you're enveloped in the smoky, vaguely citrus-tinged aroma of Kuroo's body wash and deeper musk. The disconcertingly familiar scents seem to drape you in a suffocating veil of molten heat that licks dangerously at the edges of your restraint.

You stagger back a few steps, chest heaving as fresh waves of phantasmic imagery come swarming like sharks to chum. Reveries of Kuroo's heated stare boring into you as he takes in the sight of you in his clothes with dark, burning approval. Images of him advancing with leonine grace, callused hands slipping beneath the loose hem to sear scorching trails over the naked, sweat-slick expanses of your--

With a frustrated growl, you grasp fistfuls of the offending fabric and yank it vigorously away from your sticky skin in a desperate attempt to gain some reprieve. But the damage is already done - the mere suggestion of being swathed in anything bearing Kuroo's personal essence is enough to trigger the instantaneous mental avalanche of indecent cravings and salacious fantasies you struggle so mightily against.

You pant harshly, feeling uncentered and perilously close to coming utterly unraveled like never before. How are you supposed to withstand this constant barrage of molten provocations from your sworn rival? How much longer can you even remain within your own right mind before surrendering to the siren's call towards combustible freefall?

Riding on the crest of that maddening spiral of thought, you make a desperate decision. With horribly shaky fingers, you grab at the button seam of your soaked gym shorts and frantically tear them open. You don't dare look down, don't want to see what sins your hands might inadvertently commit beneath the allure of Kuroo's infused jersey.

Instead, you squeeze your eyes shut tight and exhale a steadying breath as you shimmy out of the last of your clothes. You have to get a grip, have to focus your spiraling thoughts on literally anything else in this instant before you find yourself sleepwalking towards the edge of a point of no return.

It's only once your traitorous, damp gym wear lays discarded on the tile floor that you finally find the courage to crack one lid open hesitantly. When no fresh barrage of illicit visions immediately assault you this time, you gradually allow your death-grip on the jersey's hem to loosen.

There's still no question that wearing this small piece of Kuroo's essence so intimately against your naked skin feels nothing short of debauched. Like you've willingly attired yourself in sin made fabric in an act of lurid indulgence. But whether it's the cortisol dump from your panic, or simply that you've now grown painfully accustomed to the potency of his scent and provocation, you're no longer drowning in the tsunami of wanton cravings from only moments ago.

In fact, the steady drape of the already sweat-dampened jersey now feels refreshingly cool and grounding against your heated flesh. Like the familiar, lived-in scents enveloping you no longer hold the power to summon such incendiary visions - at least not in the sheer vast torrents they previously wrought.

You take a deep, cleansing breath and instantly feel some small fraction of clarity beginning to return. With it comes the growing certainty that letting Kuroo and your relentless rivalry send you careening down such lascivious mental spirals is both self-destructive and foolish.

The hard choice crystallizes with that clear-eyed realization - by putting your own scent and essence directly over his, you can gain back the upper hand in this personal battle toward retaining your restraint. By making Kuroo's jersey unequivocally yours through sheer force of intimate proximity, you neuter its power to continually push you towards mental unravelings of indecency.

You nod decisively at that plan of attack, already feeling some grounded sense of self-possession return.

Your first order of business after dealing with this inappropriately tempting distraction is returning Kuroo's clothes, of course. But damned if you won't savor a small sense of petty victory over regaining sovereignty over your turbulent thoughts and want first.

Then you can return to plotting ways to get deliciously even with your callous tormentor for all the maddening provocations and heat he's incited within you lately...

With your fragile sense of restraint regained for now, you quickly gather up your discarded gym clothes and shove them into your duffel bag, not wanting any more lingering reminders of Kuroo's scent messing with your hard-won clarity.

You move with renewed determination, trying not to dwell too long on the deliciously deviant thrill of simply existing in nothing but your rival's loose jersey while you prepare to leave the locker room. There's no point denying how utterly and deliciously illicit the sensation feels against your bare skin. But rather than unraveling you towards indecency once more, the mere fact that you've asserted control over the intimate situation helps keep those more prurient impulses at bay.

Still...that doesn't prevent the faintest tendril of heated want from curling low in your belly at the unmistakable mental flash of Kuroo's expression should he happen to stumble upon you like this. Of the blazing trail his gaze would no doubt scorch across every inch of visible skin as his eyes hooded with smoldering surprise and primal, undisguised hunger.

You bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to taste copper at that vivid imagining, feeling fresh pinpricks of arousal lancing through you. As always, the merest consideration of Kuroo's intense, provocative presence proves to be like singeing tinder to your subconscious libido - threatening to spark into a conflagration of wanton thoughts and indecent urges if left unchecked.

Shoving down that dangerous trail before it can consume you utterly once more, you quickly shoulder your bag and stride for the exit with as much purpose as you can muster. You're so focused on wrestling back control of your derailed restraint that you nearly crash headlong into Yaku as he rounds the corner, clearly on his way in after practice.

You both freeze mid-stride, eyes going wide as you take in each other's equally stunned expressions. For a longmoment the awkward silence stretches out between you, punctuated only by the sounds of your harsh breathing loud in the tiled stillness.

Then finally, seeming to find his voice first, Yaku lets out a low whistle as his sharp gaze rakes over you in one long, assessing sweep. "Well well...don't you look pretty cozy there, babydoll," he remarks, pitching his tone somewhere between casual observation and wry insinuation.

You feel heat flood your cheeks despite your best efforts, suddenly hyperaware of just how utterly compromising this whole situation must appear to any outside observer. Kuroo's jersey barely grazes the tops of your thighs, leaving the long toned lengths of your legs completely exposed and tantalizingly on display when paired with nothing else.

"Yaku, I - it's not what it looks like, I can explain--" you begin hastily, shame and embarrassment vying for control in your rasping tone.

But he simply shakes his head with a knowing grin, cutting off your flustered protests before they can truly take root. "Don't worry 'bout it, babydoll. Not my business to judge, and it sure ain't my place to cockblock either. Just tell that smug bastard Kuroo I want my fucking jersey back sometime this year if he's gonna be loaning it out like this."

With a wink and a shit-eating grin, Yaku saunters around your frozen form and continues on into the locker room, whistling cheerfully beneath his breath all the while. You can only gape after him, dizzy with equal parts embarrassment, annoyance, and grudging amusement at just how casually he apparently accepts stumbling across what he assumes to be the aftermath of some secret tryst between you and your hated rival.

Yet despite the overall awkwardness of the situation, some profoundly petty part of you also feels an innate thrill at the idea of Kuroo finding out you've been traipsing around in his clothes like some deliciously insolent afterglow.

The thought of watching those sharp features of his cloud over with displeasure and jealous possession lights an undeniable flare of wicked satisfaction in the depths of your psyche. You can't quite smother the devilish smirk that quirks your lips at the mere idea of provoking such spikes of dark territoriality from your arrogant rival over you flagrantly disregarding the "boundaries" between you in such a salacious manner--

Your molten chain of thought is brought up short, however, as another familiar figure comes prowling around the corner with the sort of leonine confidence that immediately sends a frisson of electric awareness zinging down your spine. For a dizzying instant, it's like every scintillating erotic daydream you've been battling lately roars to vivid, lurid life right before your very eyes.

There's Kuroo, strutting in with that same loose-limbed cockiness you've come to expect, likely fresh from pushing his own training regimen to its limits as usual. His practiced ease falters perceptibly as he clocks the fact that you're not only still here, but...well.

You watch with thirsty relish as those piercing amber eyes blow wide in a potent combination of shock and molten male-appreciation - the unmistakable signs of desire and possessive outrage already warring behind them as they blaze over every exposed inch of skin you've left available to his perusal.

"The fuck, kitten?" he finally manages in a slightly strained growl. "You just couldn't resist helping yourself to what's mine, could you?"

You shrug one shoulder lazily, not even trying to feign innocence as you let your gaze blatantly roam over his frame in return. "Don't act so scandalized, Kuroo. It's not like you've never wanted to see me in this state before."

His nostrils flare at your brazen words. You can see the way his throat works as he swallows thickly. "That's a dangerous assumption to be making there, sweetheart," he bites out, clearly trying to regain some veneer of control.

Chuckling lowly, you hook a finger into the jersey's neckline and tug it aside just enough to expose a teasing glimpse of your collarbone and the swell of your breasts. "Is it though? Or are you just getting flustered by how easy it'd be to peel this off me and see what other bad decisions I've made?"

A muscle ticks in Kuroo's clenched jaw at that. He takes a single predatory step closer, movements tight like a compressed spring as his eyes darken perceptibly. "You never did know when to quit provoking things you can't handle, kitten."

You hold his smoldering stare boldly. "Maybe I'm just finally acknowledging things I've wanted to provoke all along."

The loaded suggestion seems to snap the final threads of Kuroo's restraint. A low rumbling growl reverberates from deep in his chest as he surges forward in one sinuous, barely leashed movement. You only have a split-second to react before his broad frame is looming over you, caging you back against the lockers as he braces an arm above your head.

"Careful what you wish for, babydoll," Kuroo breathes in a horribly tempting rasp right against the pulse point of your throat. His free hand skates up beneath the hem of the jersey to sear over the bare skin of your inner thigh. "I'm not feeling too generous with things that belong to me right now."

Any provocation or pithy response dies on your lips as those calloused fingertips drag a scorching trail higher. Instead, all that escapes is a shaky exhalation that Kuroo seems to drink in like a fine vintage as his lips curve in a predatory smirk.

"That's what I thought," he rumbles in that gruff, smoky tone that vibrates through you in delicious waves. "Now why don't you be a good little thief and show me exactly what sins you've been coveting, kitten?"

The low, carnal rumble of Kuroo's challenge hangs thickly between you as that large, calloused hand continues blazing a scorching path up the sensitive inner expanse of your thigh. You can't quite muffle the trembling whimper that stutters up from your chest as those questing fingertips dare to drift ever higher beneath the loose hem of the jersey.

"That's it, kitten..." he purrs in a voice made viscous and ragged by naked want. "No more pretenses now that we've reached the inevitable conclusion of those teasing little games of yours."

Kuroo's free hand suddenly winds into your hair, not quite gentle yet not overtly harsh either as he guides your head back with a subtle tug. The new angle leaves the long vulnerable expanse of your throat deliciously exposed and straining against the first delicate blossoms of bruising kisses he presses there like sin-soaked brands.

"This is what you were begging for all along, isn't it?" he rasps against your feverish skin between each indecent new imprint of his lips and tongue. "All those brazen little taunts and glimpses of temptation you couldn't resist flaunting right in front of me. Like some shameless siren calling out for her reckoning."

His wicked mouth has found that one spot just below your jaw that never fails to rob the strength from your limbs. You tremble violently as Kuroo laves his scorching tongue over that sensitive point in clear exploitation, surrendering a stuttering keen of pure rapture that seems to spur him on like a drug.

"Fuck, kitten...do you have any idea what it took not to lose control and take what's mine with my bare hands whenever you bared your slutty little neck for me?" he growls with heartfelt vehemence even as his free hand continues its molten trek higher and higher beneath the jersey's hem. "How many times I've had to wrestle down the urge to mark every single inch of you in ways you'd never forget just who those sweet little sounds belong to?"

That large, rough palm finally, blissfully finds its inevitable destination between your parted thighs. You shatter utterly at the first undeniable caress of deft fingers slicking through your embarrassingly wet folds. Kuroo growls deep approval at the state of utter ruin you've been reduced to by his carnal words and touches alone.

"Look at you...so fucking needy and desperate for me already," he rumbles with that unholy confidence only a man utterly assured in his dominance can possess. "And to think you tried to lecture me about teasing...you've spent who knows how long just aching to be taken apart like this."

You whine shamelessly, head thrashing against the unyielding steel of the lockers at your back as two thick fingers find your entrance and begin circling in maddeningly light, teasing strokes that scatter every coherent thought to the winds.

"P-Please..." you hear yourself whimper in a broken, debauched rasp that only seems to make Kuroo's eyes blaze darker with fresh coals of sin-steeped possession igniting behind them.

"Please what, kitten?" he demands in that low, ritualistic timbre that somehow reaches straight down into your very core and seizes every hidden erogenous zone in its grip. "Use that messy little mouth and beg properly for what a desperate little slut like you so clearly needs from me."

"Kuroo, fuck- I need you to...I need you inside me, please!" The words tumble from your lips in a heedless slurry of desperation that would have shocked your more restrained self into mortified silence. But here, now, with those large fingers still lazily circling your molten entrance as he raptly drinks in every debased plea, nothing else seems to matter.

In one smooth motion, Kuroo's hand leaves your sweat-dampened hair as he hitches the jersey's hem higher in a wordless command you swiftly obey - until the garment is rucked up to allow his searing gaze full view of the sinful ministrations he's reduced you to. Of just how wrecked and shattered you've become beneath his skilled touches and unrepentant provocations at last.

"That's it, open those gorgeous fucking legs for me and watch just how thoroughly I'm going to relieve you of these indecent little cravings once and for all," he vows in a growl dripping with decadent sin and virile promise.

A single broad fingertip finally, blissfully delves into your soaked folds - breaching the snug walls of your entrance with the sort of languorous, deliberate pace that speaks volumes of the unhurried plans Kuroo has for your ruin. A second blunt digit follows not long after, slowly and carefully working its way deeper into the tight sheath of your pussy, stretching the untouched muscles in the most toe-curling, obscenely exquisite agony imaginable.

"God, kitten, you're so fucking tight..." Kuroo growls, a raw note of lust and male-appreciation bleeding into his voice as he takes in the sight of his fingers buried deep in your fluttering, dripping core. "Just look at how eagerly your slutty little cunt is trying to suck me in even deeper...tell me, are you this starved for my cock, or just that desperate for a good hard fucking?"

"Fuck, Tetsurou, don’t talk like that-!"

You break off in a keening gasp as Kuroo's thumb finds your clit and begins working the engorged bundle of nerves with slow, precise movements. His other hand still holds the jersey's hem up and out of the way, giving him a perfect view of his fingers pistoning slowly in and out of your soaked depths.

"What's wrong, kitten?" he purrs with an evil chuckle, leaning in until his breath scalds hotly against your ear. "You don't like the truth being laid out before you like this? Admit it, you're soaking wet just thinking about me filling you up until I'm the only thing you can think about anymore."

"I-It's not like that, please, you're driving me crazy--!"

"That's exactly the fucking point, sweetheart." Kuroo punctuates his assertion with a particularly vicious thrust that makes you mewl and arch into him. "Now stop holding back and tell me exactly what I want to hear, or I'll keep making a mess of your pretty little cunt until you can't remember how to speak anymore."

Your eyes fly wide open at that threat. "Kuroo, I swear to god, if you don't finish what you've started, I'm going to--"

"What, kitten?" Kuroo growls, teeth finding the tender juncture of your throat and jaw in a savage nip that sends a shockwave of electric sensation straight through you. "Gonna try and fuck yourself on my fingers until you come? Is that what you want, to ride my hand and fuck yourself silly while I watch?"

"Kuroo-!"

"Then go ahead," he commands with a feral, carnal sort of relish. "Ride my fingers and prove how much you need this, kitten. Let me see just how depraved a slut you really are, and I'll give you everything you've been begging for."

"Y-you bastard, I swear, I'm going to kill you!" you choke out as your hips begin bucking up against his hand of their own volition.

But rather than taking offense at your weak insult, Kuroo simply flashes that wolfish smirk that's haunted so many of your lurid fantasies. His amber eyes bore into you with a burning intensity that makes something primal and instinctual twist and writhe within you.

"Oh, don't worry, kitten. I fully intend to fuck you into submission, right here and now, just the way you've always wanted. That is, unless you'd rather beg me on your knees like a good little girl to fill your pretty, empty cunt with my cock and fuck you like the greedy little slut you are."

At his filthy promise, an electric charge zings down your spine and pools like liquid fire low in your belly. You feel yourself tightening around his fingers like a vise, hips bucking wildly in search of that final, elusive threshold of release as Kuroo continues working your clit mercilessly.

"Come for me, kitten," he breathes in a guttural rasp that resonates with something far more fundamental and bestial. "Come for me now."

Like a puppet cut from its strings, your entire body seizes up. Your back arches almost painfully as a scream rips itself from the back of your throat - a sound so wild and animalistic, you scarcely recognize the wanton creature it's torn from.

The force of your climax rips through you with the same white-hot intensity of a lightning strike, making you buck and thrash wildly against the unforgiving steel behind you. The pleasure is so acute, so agonizingly blissful, it's as if every nerve ending has been stripped raw and exposed to the elements.

It feels as if your release goes on forever, wave after wave of unadulterated pleasure crashing through your trembling limbs and wringing a steady, high-pitched keen from the very core of your being. It's only Kuroo's free hand coming up to cover your mouth that smothers the wanton sounds of ecstasy tumbling from you without restraint.

The world narrows to the sensation of his strong, calloused hand pinning you down with easy dominance. To the feeling of his fingers pumping slow and steady within the spasming clench of your oversensitive walls, as if wringing every possible drop of pleasure from your spent body.

It's a full minute or so before the world begins to gradually filter back in through the haze of blissful release. As it does, you become gradually aware of the way your entire body is still trembling with small aftershocks. Of the way Kuroo's dark head is pressed into the hollow of your shoulder, his lips moving as if in prayer as he breathes you in like some rare perfume.

When he finally pulls away to meet your gaze, his expression is almost reverent. "There she is," he murmurs with a soft chuckle, eyes warm and fond as they roam across the slack lines of your face. "I've been waiting a long time to see you looking that undone, kitten."

You swallow past a suddenly dry throat, the last vestiges of euphoria still buzzing through your veins as you try to process the magnitude of what's just happened. Of the way the heat and tension between you has reached its inevitable, combustible conclusion at last.

But rather than being sated or even satisfied by the act, a fresh wave of molten want immediately re-ignites like a furnace in the pit of your belly. Suddenly the memory of his calloused fingers buried inside you feels like an itch beneath your skin that can't be satisfied with anything less than the fullness of his cock.

"Tetsurou, please..." you hear yourself rasp, the need thick and urgent in your tone as your gaze drifts meaningfully down his still-clothed form.

Kuroo follows the path of your gaze with a low chuckle. He slowly withdraws his fingers from your sopping entrance, drawing a soft whimper from your throat at the loss. You're too far gone to be embarrassed by the lewd, wet sound the motion creates, however, too consumed by the sudden, aching emptiness now gnawing at you.

"Easy, kitten, we're getting there," Kuroo soothes, reaching down to deftly unfasten the fly of his shorts. You feel a sharp thrill shoot through you as his large, capable hands free the swollen length of his cock at last, leaving it standing flushed and proud before your rapt gaze.

"Look at that, so greedy you can't even wait for me to take these off properly first," Kuroo chuckles, giving his stiff length a slow, leisurely stroke that makes something dark and possessive ignite in the depths of his gaze. "Tell me, are you going to be a good girl and take all of this for me, hm? Or am I going to have to remind you exactly who's in control here?"

"T-tetsurou..." you manage, already feeling that dark, viscous hunger unfurl within you.

The sight of Kuroo's cock, swollen and rigid with lust, is enough to drive any further attempts at coherency from your mind. All that matters is having the thick, pulsing heat of his cock filling the empty, aching void between your thighs at last.

Kuroo's gaze rakes over you ravenously. He looks like a man ready to devour every last inch of you without restraint. And right now, you'd willingly submit to anything and everything he demanded if it meant feeling the full weight of his cock plunging deep into the molten sheath of your pussy.

"Turn around, kitten. Face the lockers and hold yourself open for me," he commands, already guiding you with firm hands until you're braced against the cold steel. "I'm going to fuck you like this. Gonna make you take all of me at once, and leave you a mess of cum and debauchery. Then maybe I'll drag you home and show you exactly what it means to be mine."

The mere thought makes you dizzy. You quickly move to obey, spreading your legs wide and bracing yourself against the unyielding lockers as you bend over and expose the glistening pink folds of your cunt.

"Please, Tetsurou, I need your cock so bad, please," you hear yourself babbling without a care, so consumed by the maddeningly empty ache inside you, nothing else seems to matter. "Please, just fill me up and fuck me already, I'll be a good girl and do whatever you want, just please!"

Kuroo's responding growl of approval is nearly subhuman in its depth. In the next instant, the heavy, searing heat of his cock is finally pressing into the entrance of your drenched pussy. You choke back a sob as his length plunges mercilessly in to the hilt with one fluid thrust.

For a long moment, Kuroo remains perfectly still. It feels as if every muscle in his powerful body has turned to stone as he struggles to maintain some modicum of restraint. But when you begin clenching around him with short, desperate jerks of your hips, it's like a switch is flipped.

His hands find your hips in a bruising grip, fingers digging into your soft flesh hard enough to leave marks as he pins you in place and begins thrusting into you with ruthless intent. With the first powerful surge of his cock, all higher functions of thought seem to cease. The only thing you can focus on is the way his length fills you with such delicious friction, splitting you open and leaving you breathless and utterly wrecked.

"Fucking hell, kitten, look at the way your slutty cunt is trying to suck me in," Kuroo groans, sounding dangerously close to his own peak. "Feels so fucking good...can't believe I've been waiting this long to make a mess of you, fuck-!"

His movements are becoming more and more frantic, losing the careful rhythm of his previous thrusts as his hips buck into yours with the frenetic intensity of a wild animal. Every harsh, jarring slap of his pelvis against your ass, every inch of his cock stretching you to the limits, is like a drug straight to your system.

The pressure builds and builds until your body is practically singing with the sheer anticipation of release. Your vision is beginning to go blurry around the edges, the air thick and syrupy as it leaves your lungs in a series of helpless, mewling cries.

Kuroo's large, rough palm suddenly snakes its way around your waist, his thumb finding your clit and pinching it hard as he pounds relentlessly into your tight sheath. You scream as the sudden stimulation sends you plummeting off the edge, your entire body seized by a second orgasm that hits you like a tidal wave.

In the next instant, Kuroo's hips jerk violently against yours, his entire body going rigid as a drawn bow as his release finds him. The sound that tears itself from his chest is guttural, bestial, the kind of noise a man can only make when reduced to his basest, most primal instincts.

You can feel his cock pulsing as he shoots load after load of cum deep inside you, filling your womb and flooding your inner walls with the evidence of his pleasure. You're so far gone, your head spinning and your limbs quaking, it's like floating outside yourself, watching the scene play out from afar.

You don't know how much time passes like that. How long the two of you remain tangled together, sweat-damp and sated and panting as if you've both run a marathon. It feels like ages before you begin to surface once more, awareness gradually returning with each measured breath and the slow, deliberate way Kuroo's hand begins smoothing over your trembling flesh in lazy circles.

When he finally slips free, you can't quite stifle the faint sound of loss that escapes you. But before you can mourn the loss too deeply, Kuroo's already spinning you around to face him, capturing your mouth in a hungry kiss as his arms come up to band around your waist.

"Mmm, I could get used to that," he murmurs as he breaks away, resting his forehead against yours. His voice is still ragged and slightly breathless, but there's no mistaking the languid, decadent satisfaction dripping from his tone.

You chuckle weakly, unable to suppress a shiver as his hand begins idly stroking the curve of your ass. "You really are a bastard, Kuroo. What happened to showing a little self-control, hm?"

"I could say the same to you, kitten," he returns, not the least bit remorseful as his mouth twists into a wolfish grin. "But if you'd really rather be calling me a bastard than moaning my name, well. We can go right back to square one and I'll fuck you stupid again until you're screaming the right name."

"Oh god, shut up," you groan, burying your face in his chest.

Kuroo laughs, a dark, sinful sound that makes your pulse flutter even in the midst of your mortification.

"What the fuck?!"

A new voice rings out from the locker room entrance, making both you and Kuroo freeze mid-embrace. Turning slowly, you see Yaku standing stock-still with a stricken expression on his face. He takes in the two of you, the state of undress, and the obvious aftermath of a tryst with a look that can only be described as a mix of shock, disgust, and mild arousal.

"Seriously, Kuroo, in the locker room? You couldn't find a better place to fuck this shameless hussy?" he complains, making no move to hide the fact that he's blatantly checking you out despite the indignant tone.

Kuroo simply shrugs one shoulder, completely unrepentant. "What, jealous, Yakkun? You can always join us, I'm sure she wouldn't mind a second cock."

"Kuroo, for fuck's sake!" Yaku snaps, throwing his hands up. "This isn't a fucking gangbang! Go get a room somewhere, I'm trying to get dressed here!"

"I don't mind a little audience," you remark casually, reveling in the way Yaku's eyes go comically wide as he processes the implications of your words. "But if you don't hurry up and make a decision, I'll be riding Tetsurou's cock again."

"I can't fucking believe you," Kuroo breathes with a dark chuckle. "First the jersey and now this...you're really not going to give me a break, are you?"

"Nope."

#haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x reader smut #kuroo smut #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo x reader #kuroo testuro #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo tetsurō #kuroo tetsuro smut #haikyuu kuroo #kuroo x reader smut #yaku morisuke

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sixosix · 11 months

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can i go where you go? | kaedehara kazuha

warnings 2.2k words, lots of kissing… like srsly, pure fluff, kazuha is a cutie, not a slick cutie though, friends to lovers!!

or, three times Kazuha keeps kissing you on ‘accident’.

The first time Kazuha kissed you, it was on Beidou’s ship.

You're only partially awake, your eyelids heavy, and you move with a slow, languid pace as Kazuha escorts you towards The Alcor. The wind hums as it caresses the sails, accompanied by the lively shouts and cheers of the crew on board.

“So early,” you mutter, sighing. “Too early. Sun isn’t even out yet.”

“It will be, soon,” Kazuha says, smiling at you in the same way that he always does. Tender, as comforting as the ocean pooling on your feet as you walk by the shore. “You mentioned you wanted to meet the Captain, didn’t you? Tilt your head a little.” Although he says it, his finger comes to your chin and gently directs your gaze himself.

He’s gesturing to the woman standing at the quarterdeck, her hands resting on her hips and her shoulders remarkably broad. She turns as if hearing Kazuha’s soft voice amidst the boisterous chatter. Your jaw goes slack in awe, excitement washing away the last traces of fatigue tugging your bones as everything you’ve heard about Captain Beidou from Kazuha comes rushing back.

Kazuha steadies you with a hand on the small of your back as your knees falter when climbing the ship.

“Captain Beidou!” You bow deeply, lowering your head to your waist, arms outstretched to offer her the sake and the sakura mochi you made the night before—which cost you sleep, but it is worth more than anything when you get to gift the woman who took care of your best friend when you couldn’t. “Thank you so much for letting me tag along. Please take this.”

Kazuha and Beidou glance at each other in surprise.

Kazuha starts, “You didn’t have—”

“No,” you say, firm. “This is the least I can do. Don’t try, Kazuha.”

Kazuha’s expression eases to a smile. “Alright.”

“I like this one, Kazuha,” Beidou says, ruffling your hair, and leaving stray strands on your head. She grins at you, all wide and wild. “Where’s he been hiding ya, huh, kid?”

“Somewhere in Inazuma.”

She laughs; it sounds like the roaring waves of the ocean. “Thank you. I’ll share it with my crew.” She turns, looking at you over her shoulder. You feel the hair on your arms rise to attention. “Let me know if you need anything, but Kazuha probably will see to it faster than any of us could.”

You’re not exactly sure what she means, though you can pick up on the knowing smirk she throws at your best friend.

“Men, to your posts!” she orders. Kazuha takes it as a cue to take your hand and lead you somewhere far more secluded.

No one’s watching; at least, not to your knowledge. The crew knows well enough they have their own business to attend to, and that no one should be interrupting Kaedehara Kazuha when catching up with his best friend since childhood, you.

Kazuha is a wanderer first and foremost. He does not like to be tied down to one place—he’d itch and wander off if you try to keep him at bay. However, there is one exception; one that has him visiting his homeland whenever he can, even when he is dangerously most sought after. When the wind subsides to a gentle whisper in his ears, the waves are gentle when splashing against the ship, and the crew is fast asleep, Kazuha finds himself stealing glances in the general direction of Inazuma. He knows you’re likely sleeping soundly there, expecting him.

This is what gets him to bring home whatever he may find along the way just to give them to you. If anyone asks, Kazuha would reply with a vague: “For someone special to me, in my land of birth.” Anyone would have guessed that, though, given the assortment of flowers Kazuha never fails to bring home.

You find yourself swaying back and forth along with the ship, your mouth running miles per minute as you talk to him on and on about how you’ve never been to Liyue before and your hands are shaking from excitement—or perhaps nerves, and how is Kazuha looking so calm and why is he smiling at you weirdly?

Kazuha has that fond look in the crinkle of his eyes. “Are you certain you’re not feeling sick? Lightheaded?”

Although the heavy rocking of the ship is unlike anything you’ve experienced before, you only feel the anticipation. Thrill. You’ve seen glimpses of Liyue from the letters Kazuha sends; you’re positive nothing can compare to the real deal, and that is what has you giddy, kicking your legs against the wood.

The early morning air crept beneath your clothes and left a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You shudder; Kazuha leans against you, the warmth of his body relaxing you immediately.

The world falls completely silent as you gaze at him.

“Kazuha,” you breathe out, eyes round with wonder, “thank you for taking me with you.” Kazuha goes still as you brush a stray of hair away from your face a little shyly. “It probably doesn’t mean much because you’re always traveling, and it’s probably such a hassle to be my tour guide, but I’m—mmph.”

The rest of your words are swallowed by Kazuha’s lips, and you, undoubtedly silenced by the press of his soft lips against yours. You have your eyes wide open, frozen as you watch the sunrise from the horizon over Kazuha’s shoulder, casting him an unreal golden glow.

Kazuha quickly pulls back and looks as startled as you feel. The kiss was about half a second, and it took nearly a minute for the both of you to process what had just happened.

He frowns, though it doesn’t feel directed at you. “Sorry,” he says slowly, as though he’s just been brought back up from underwater. “That was—”

“It’s fine,” you blurt, hoping the sunrise would disguise your stunned expression. “The ship—uh, it’s swaying pretty hard. You probably lost balance or something.” However, speaking it aloud sounds wrong. Kazuha just doesn’t lose balance: he’s the most seasoned samurai you’ve met in your life.

Then again, that would leave an empty room of explanation, one of which you’d rather not set foot in.

“Yes.” The sunrise has Kazuha looking a little pink. Or should it be orange? “Allow me to fetch us a bottle of water. You might get seasick.”

“Sure,” you murmur, though it’s lost to the howl of the wind as Kazuha swiftly jumps down, his Vision glowing on his back. The sensation in your stomach doesn’t seem like seasickness.

He doesn’t talk about it, so you don’t bring it up.

The second time happens in public.

The moment you set foot in Liyue Harbor, Kazuha realizes he must reach for your wrist to prevent you from straying and getting lost. You dart from one corner to the next, exploring every stall, even stray dogs and running children.

“Liyue feels so…warm.”

It could be the orange glow of their lights, painting over the region with an unbeatable shade and atmosphere, perfectly replicating what it would be like sitting across a fireplace. Or it could be Kazuha’s hand intertwined with yours.

“Hearing that relieves me,” Kazuha admits, pulling you to the side as two men pushing crates on wheels rush past. “You are often unpredictable in what you like and dislike.”

You laugh, “Were you worried that you overhyped it? You tend to be descriptive with what you write back to me—what was it? The flavorful aroma coming from street vendors, the squeals of youth whistling past, the seagulls, and the waves of the ocean audible even amidst the bustling crowds… I can see it.”

“You remember all of that?” Kazuha looks adorable when bashful.

The sun is already at its highest peak. Sweat has started to form around your hairline; Kazuha had to buy you popsicles, which you got from the Wanmin Restaurant. The popsicle is entirely blue, nearly translucent, and tastes like eating just ice, but it effectively cools you down. Kazuha doesn’t appear bothered by the heat in the slightest, going as far as to insist on carrying all the souvenirs you’ve been purchasing.

He has only one arm full, though. The other is free and linked with yours.

“You didn’t tell me one important thing, though,” you say.

Kazuha blinks once, then furrows his brows. “What is it?” He looks sincerely worried.

“You didn’t tell me you’re famous,” you tease, nudging a red-faced Kazuha with your elbow. “Oh, it’s Kaedehara, you’re back! And here I thought you were like a celebrity in Inazuma. You might just be well-loved everywhere.” Well, who could blame them? You’re no better than the people of Teyvat.

He shakes his head. “Far from it,” he insists, ever the modest guy. “I just happen to be caught up with The Crux.”

“Those ladies seem to disagree. They were trying to impress you, you know.”

Kazuha shifts uncomfortably, his face a funny shade of pink. “I did not pay close enough attention. I apologize.”

A laugh escapes you, in disbelief. “Why are you apologizing to me?”

“I did not realize you were the jealous type.”

You gawk at his words, spinning around to see that a hint of something smug playing on his lips. “That’s not—You… shut up. I’m not.”

Kazuha opens his mouth to say something stupid to fluster you probably, but you’re quicker. You retrieve a container wrapped in plastic, its surface moist from the steam within. Kazuha falls silent, his watchful gaze fixed on you as you unwrap it, his nose undoubtedly detecting a familiar and enticing aroma.

“This is…” Kazuha picks one stick up and observes it. “Mondstadt Grilled Fish.”

“Yes,” you say, grinning proudly. “One of your favorites. You sent me the recipe last year, remember? Kept practicing it for this moment.”

But Kazuha’s heavy gaze is not on the food, but on you, an unreadable emotion clouding his eyes. The tension disappears when he smiles and takes a bite. You watch him enjoy his food in peace, belatedly deciding to do the same. You know you did good but Kazuha didn’t have to look like he’s in bliss, eyes closed and everything.

“Thank you,” he says. “You keep surprising me. This was meant to be a day for you.”

“You here with me is enough to make all my days,” you say, mouth full of fish grilled to perfection. Embarrassingly enough, there are crumbs that spew out. You take another big bite, crumbs of it sticking to the sides of your mouth.

You must look a little stupid, tucked in some corner of Liyue, standing next to Kazuha and eating grilled fish silently.

Your field of vision is abruptly engulfed by Kazuha's face. You have barely time to react, your body falling still as your attention is swallowed by the red of his eyes, which are focused on your mouth. You feel warmth press against the side of your mouth, your heart leaping to your throat at the sensation.

“Sorry,” he says, not looking at all sorry. “You had crumbs on your face.” Which does not explain why he has to kiss it off, but it was at this moment that you understand. Kazuha doesn’t lose balance and doesn’t do anything by mistake.

The dam crumbles.

The third happens when the night is creeping in on your first day, in some inn you didn’t bother looking at, too caught up in the way Kazuha is grinning at you in his own Kazuha-way: all soft and sweet.

“I can’t… believe—how long?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” he murmurs, closing the door behind you. “It wasn’t a grand revelation that happened one night. It just felt as if it was the only explanation.” His eyes flicker to you, keeping your faces close enough to where your noses are touching. He’s waiting for an answer.

“I had a crush on you the moment we met,” you confess, face hot. “And then it never went away, even when you had to leave. Distance makes the heart grow fonder or whatever.”

Kazuha’s smile tips on something a little more sly. “I apologize for keeping you waiting, then.”

Years and years of longing for Kazuha, rereading each and every one of his letters, and cherishing every second of when he comes to visit—all of it’s more than worth it if it led you here, in a secluded room, sharing hushed whispers with the boy you’ve wanted all your life.

“So… what are we—”

You’re rudely interrupted by Kazuha pecking your lips.

You frown. “Hey, wait, I’m—mmph—trying to—Kazuha!”

“I’m sorry,” he says, but he tugs you to his chest as you wrap your arms around his neck. “Sorry,” he murmurs again, but he’s leaving a trail of kisses along your jaw, smiling against your skin as you shiver.

“It’s okay,” you whisper in the quiet of the night, in the steady silence occasionally broken by the beating of your hearts. “It was an accident.”

“Mm,” he hums, nodding. “An accident.”

You stare at each other for a pregnant pause.

“This one isn’t, though,” Kazuha says and dives in for a kiss that leaves you breathless, years and years of buried feelings pouring over.

this was supposed to be for kazuha’s bday but i couldn't finish it in time :(!!! belated happy birthday to the greenest flag ever <3

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #kazuha x reader #kazuha x you #kazuha x y/n #kaedehara kazuha x reader #kaedehara kazuha x you #kaedehara kazuha fluff #kazuha fluff #genshin fluff

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yandere-daydreams · 11 months

Text

Title: Gorefest.

Pairing: Yandere!Gojo x Reader (Jujutsu Kaisen).

Word Count: 1.3k.

TW: Gore, Blood, Major Character Death (Reader Is Fine), Implied Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Touching, Prolonged Stalking, and Delusional Behavior.

You found his latest gift on your doorstep.

It was a heart, this time – deflated but otherwise fully intact, blue viens still visible against pink flesh. A small puddle of blood and other gelatinous viscera surrounded it, but you ignored that in favor of wrapping the disembodied organ in your cardigan and unlocking the door to your apartment, too exhausted to fumble with your keys and too worn down to pretend you still thought you could get away from him on your own. His present was dropped into the ever-bubbling vat of crimson slurry you used to boil down his gifts until they’d been reduced to a less incriminating state, your shoes kicked off and left by the door. You didn’t bother turning on any lights. You were home, but you didn’t want to let yourself acknowledge that until he was gone.

You found Gojo in his usual spot; on the floor of your bedroom, his hands still stained red and one of your threadbare sleepshirts crumpled at his side, the dark material stained with something white and awful. That made two articles of clothing ruined, tonight. A few months ago, when the most he ever brought you was a half-beaten bouquet of roses and a list of questions for the strange man whose favorite place in the world seemed to be your living room, you would’ve been tempted to demand that he pay for the damages. You’d learned better than to imply you wanted anything from him, since then.

He was lying on his side, toying with something large and vaguely circular, his grin that of a cat dropping a slaughtered mouse at its owner’s feet. He was surrounded by more of his ‘presents’ – the disembodied organs of whatever poor criminal or curse user he’d taken it upon himself to dissect. You were glad you’d kept the lights off. You could see the outline of small intestine strung along the walls, assorted gore left in carefully considered piles wherever Gojo deemed it necessary. It’d take hours to clean up, after he left. Demanding that he help would only give him the impression that you wanted to spend time with him, and you weren’t going to make that mistake twice.

You moved to speak, but as always, he just had to be the center of attention. It was like he couldn’t imagine a world where you might’ve done anything but focus on him. “Welcome home,” he half-sung, pushing himself up and pulling his oblong, mishappen keepsake into his lap. “Do you want to start with dinner, or should I run you a hot bath? Or, if you want, you could always have a little of me—”

“Shut the fuck up.” And then, pointing in the general direction of your front door, “Get out.”

“So cold, babe. And after I went through all that trouble to set this up.” The coppery stench was starting to get to you. You could only pray the neighbors wouldn’t notice, or that you’d be able to think of a feasible enough excuse by the time they did. “I got hurt for you, too.” He held up a hand, gesturing towards the faintest, shallowest cut on his cheek. “Aren’t you going to dote on me? You know, like you used to – after you found me in that alley and bandaged my wounds. What was the first thing you said to me? That I was too pretty to bleed to death alone?”

You didn’t encourage him with a response, only crossing your arms over your chest and deepening your scowl. “Get out,” you repeated. “I don’t want you here.”

His grin only broadened. “If you keep saying things like that, I might start to think you’re trying to get me to leave.” Exasperation bled into your agitated expression, and Gojo let out a bark of a laugh. “Look, I know you like to play shy, but I’d really like it if we could use tonight for us. We could watch a movie, or—”

You let out a frustrated groan, dragging your hands over your face. “You know what? Fine. If you want to be here so badly, then stay.” You shut your eyes, standing a little taller. “I’m getting out of here.”

“Running off to spend the night with another man? Ah, what a cold-hearted temptress I’ve fallen for.”

“Oh, I’m going to do more than just spend the night with him.” You really should’ve shut your mouth. You should’ve bitten your tongue, swallowed your pride, refused to tell him anything save for the fact that you weren’t going to stay here any longer. But, the blood in the air was getting to you and you could still feel the cold flesh of the heart against your palm and you needed to get away, and you needed Gojo to know you were never coming back. “I met someone – a sorcerer. He knows you’ve been stalking me, and he offered to help.” You flashed him a grin, almost as awful as his own. “His name is Nanami, and he’s strong enough to keep me safe from people like you.”

You waited for him to laugh, to say he didn’t believe you, or better yet, to get angry, to feel a fraction of the dread and the rage he’d forced onto you. When he didn’t say anything, didn’t scream or yell or gloat, you opened your eyes. He was still staring, but his smile was softer, his eyes half-lidded in a way that could only mean something bad. “Oh, baby,” he started, his voice dripping with faux sympathy. “Whose heart do you think I went through so much trouble to bring you?”

A pebble threatening to slip off of its cliffside; two ends of a torn wire, a hair’s width away from connecting. Whatever he was trying to tell you, you just couldn’t seem to process it. “What?”

“Right. I’m sorry, sweetheart – that’s on me,” Gojo chuckled. “You were always more of a visual learner.”

The object in his lap was taken up and rolled towards you, coming to a teetering stop at your feet, where the residual light from the hall could illuminate it properly. In a daze, you dropped your gaze to it, allowed yourself to recognize blonde hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, and glassy brown eyes staring lifelessly back at you. There was a dark bruise on his jawline, paled by blood loss, and the mangled stump that used to be his neck was encircled by ragged flesh, as if it’d been torn from his shoulders. Despite everything, his mouth was closed, lips still pressed into a thin frown. As if he didn’t have time to so much as scream before Gojo got to him.

You must’ve passed out. One second, you were staring down at the disembodied head of your savior, and the next, you were on the floor, lying limp and breathless as Nanami’s blood formed a puddle underneath you. Gojo was already at your side, hauling you up and against his chest. You felt his arms around you, then plush of your mattress against your back. You were aware, distantly, that he was straddling you, that his mouth was pressing into the dip of your shoulder, then the curve of your throat. “It’s alright,” he muttered, his voice partially muttered by his closeness. “Why don’t you come stay with me for a while, after this? I’ve got a room ready for you back at my place and everything.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Straightening his back, he let his lips crash into yours – his kiss lingering and deep and filthy. By the time he pulled away, he’d drunk the air from your lungs and frozen the blood in your veins, leaving you as empty and as lifeless as one of his gifts.

You thought, idly, of the heart being reduced to viscera in your kitchen, and wondered if you should’ve held onto it for just a few minutes longer.

“I’ll be able to spoil you properly, once I’ve got you where you’re supposed to be.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #jujutsu kaisen #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen imagines #gojo x reader #yandere gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #yandere gojo x reader #yanderecore #yancore

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 3 months

Text

Yandere Coworker (Part 16)

Thank you @i---believe---in---pink for commissioning this chapter.

(3443 words)

tw: afab reader, infantilization, nonconsensual touches from Cyprus, butchered Spanish, slight injury, violence, cyprus got pretty mad

Masterlists (+commission info), part 1, part 17

You twisted the knob and let the door creak open, the foreign noise made all parties quiet. From the gap, you peek out and see Cyprus, his mother, and another person standing by the doorframe, it seems like the stranger has tried to push their way in but couldn't succeed, thanks to Cyprus's hulking figure serving as an immovable gate.

Cyprus shot you a glare as he gestured for you to go back into the bathroom and close the door, he did so by jerking his head in the general direction of your original hiding place.

"Who's there?" The third voice was deceptively soft and kind, it couldn't be one of the voices shouting so fervently. It is feminine, and you immediately assume the worst; one of his insane exes is here. You made the smart move to retreat back and shut the door behind you, but you still pressed your ear against the barrier. It allowed you to listen to their muffled voices.

"Get the fuck out of my sight or we're calling the cops." Cyprus sounded aggressive with his guttural growl, which made you appreciate the way he speaks to you these days with the sweetest coos and murmurs.

"Who was that, Cyprus!?" You winced when the stranger let out a shrill shout. It is followed by the sound of struggling and yelling from Cyprus and his mother. It sounded violent, there was clattering of furniture and vague thudding, to which you can only deduce that the stranger is destroying the place and Cyprus is trying to stop it from happening.

There were panicked exclamations from Cyprus's mother amongst the chaos. In the end, you heard a slam so loud that it echoed throughout the apartment and caused the bathroom walls to reverberate. There was muffled screaming, but it was much softer than before; you assumed that Cyprus successfully shut the door on her. Aside from her deranged shouting, the living room was mostly quiet, and you deemed it safe enough to leave your safe refuge.

You cautiously opened the door and slipped out of the bathroom once more. The front door is locked, latched, and barricaded by a sofa. Cyprus is staying clear of the door, you could hear manic banging on it.

His mother is nowhere to be seen, but you hear her voice talking on the phone from her room. It sounds like she's talking to an emergency line operator.

Ignoring the frightening sounds of insanity outside, Cyprus calmly walked to you and firmly wrapped his arm around your waist. He pressed an assuring kiss on your head as he led you into his mother's bedroom. You asked him what was going on, and to that, he merely flashed you a smile. "Don't worry about it," Cyprus said as he shared a look with his mother before shutting the door behind him.

You saw his mother hastily walk to the door, blocking it with her body as if guarding it. All this while, she was still on the phone with the operator. You think that she's trying to stop you from getting out.

You took a few steps and decided to sit on a chair, it's probably not very safe to be outside anyway. You nervously wring your hands as your ears continued to pick up on the shouting and hitting. All you could do was pray that the police would be here soon, even if Cyprus is a professional boxer, his fists are no match with a bullet if she happens to be armed and dangerous.

You waited and waited. Somewhat grateful for the older woman's presence in the room. Even if she doesn't look like she could physically do much to protect you, the idea that she's willing to be a barrier between danger and yourself is heartwarming. Yet pitiful, she is only doing this because she perceived you to be the best option yet; she is paying for her son's atrocious taste in women.

The two of you waited, the operator stayed on the phone with her. You were sure that the stranger's havoc was audible enough for the microphone in her device to pick up.

It felt like eons before it slowly became softer and softer, you deduced the deranged woman somewhat lost interest and walked away. You sighed in relief but tensed up when you noticed Cyprus's mother was still not as calm as you like. She widened her eyes when she realized where you were sitting.

You let out a surprised exclamation when she suddenly grabbed you by the arm and pulled you away from your resting place.

Your questions are shortly answered with a deafening crash and tiny stings as shards of glass give you small, but painful cuts on your skin. His mother rushed to open the door, dragging you out of the room and pushing you into Cyprus's protective arms. He was eerily silent, staring at the cause of his mother's glass window shattering. You adjusted your head, so you could see past his muscular structure.

A rock. Not particularly large, it's smaller than the size of your palm, resting on the floor with glistening specks of broken glass illuminated by the lights above. Other than that, nothing seems to be amiss, except unintelligible, distressed yelling coming from outside.

The implications sent shivers down your spine, the three of you aren't on the ground floor. That means whoever Cyprus invoked the wrath of, was powerful enough to hurl a rock to break a window at this height. The fear subconsciously made you sink deeper into Cyprus for comfort, so he wrapped his arms around you tighter. He pressed numerous kisses on the crown of your head as he whispered words of assurance, but you were too occupied to register what he said.

After that, you heard a car alarm go off along with disordered metallic whacking and banging. You think she's in the process of destroying Cyprus's car; he, his mother, and you were hoping that the police would be here sooner. He sighed softly, you knew that he was angry and despondent, who wouldn't be, knowing that the vehicle that you bought with your hard-earned money was being eviscerated? However, Cyprus is clearly trying to control his temper around you, so as to not make any brash decisions to put you in harm's way. As shown by his enraged shaking. The idea of compromising your safety was the only thing stopping him from rushing down the fire stairs and beating her half to death.

His mother rubbed his arm to calm him further. She shared a sympathetic look with you.

The woman was long gone when the police arrived. It took almost all evening for them to gather evidence and everyone's statements. Dinner was long forgotten, the beer was at room temperature and his car was totaled; the offender managed to mar it so badly, it couldn't even start anymore. There were fluids of different colors and viscosity leaking out of his once functional vehicle, and Cyprus had to arrange for a flatbed tow truck.

You were treated for the minor cuts you sustained by the paramedics, Cyprus refused to leave you alone with them. Almost raising hell when one of them politely asked him to give you a bit of privacy, luckily you were there to tell them that you're fine with him being around to supervise.

His mother drove the two of you back to his apartment, Cyprus held the sourest look on his handsome face as he was in the foulest mood. It was so bad, that he didn't even care to touch you in any way nor did a sound leave his lips. His eyes are perpetually trained forward on the windshield, you don't think he blinked once; even if the headlights of another car were shining directly into his eyes.

You couldn't help but feel somewhat guilty, feeling like you caused all of this just because you're nosy. Maybe if you stayed still in the bathroom, his Ex wouldn't have done this much damage.

Luckily the drive wasn't that long. Before you felt too compelled to say something, his mother announced that she had reached your destination.

Cyprus gave her a curt goodbye before storming out of the car. But he didn't ascend the stairs yet, he merely loitered nearby to wait for you. His fingers are twitching, itching for a cigarette or ten. To quell his urges, he leaned against a wall and crossed his arms, letting himself steam in his fury. His steely eyes never left you, though.

You excused yourself and got out of the car too, in a much calmer way.

"Mija." She had her window rolled down. She gestured for you to come closer.

You did, and you received a maternal kiss on the cheek, a solemn goodbye for now.

You were about to pull away and return to Cyprus, but she held you by the wrist. You turned your head back to her, it appears that she has something more to say.

"He is not angry at you." She gave you a kind smile. "Please don't worry, my son loves you very much."

Was it obvious on your face? Either that, or she's a mind reader.

You dismissed yourself and walked up to him. His mother drove away and you hope that she gets home safely. No doubt, she's still shaken by that.

He uncrossed his arms and approached you too in large strides, spooking you. But he didn't do anything other than to tuck his arm under your knees, to carry your bridal style. This, of course, embarrassed you. So you protested, but it was quickly shut down when he shot you a threatening glare and barred his teeth, like a dog. You shrunk back and let him carry you up the stairs like this; perhaps this is his way of cooling off now, seeing that he doesn't want to break his smoke-free streak.

He unlocked the door, opened it, and immediately locked it behind him. Cyprus, despite all his anger, sets you down on the couch extremely gently. He marched off into the bathroom but he didn't close the door behind him as he merely washed his hands with soap. It didn't take long before he returned with clean, dry hands, You didn't even notice that he had set your medicated drops on your lap.

"Look up." You didn't dare to make a fuss, his tone was already strongly suggesting that he was not playing with you. He swiftly applied your eye drops before recapping them and putting them away.

You were rewarded a kiss on the forehead and a praise, "Good girl." He whispered softly as you squeezed your eyes shut. You wonder if he's just going to do this each time he administers your drug until you're cured.

Cyprus shot up and spent no time going to the kitchenette. You watched him prepare the utensils and ingredients he needed for tonight's dinner. You were curious why he would rather go through the trouble of doing so instead of ordering food delivery. But you weren't comfortable asking him that, so silence hung heavy in the air.

He looked exhausted, and you knew that there were an impossible number of thoughts behind those grey eyes that were concealed by the glare of his glasses. You felt some sympathy for him, after knowing a bit more about his history earlier.

As it turns out, the offender was indeed, an Ex of his. Cyprus has moved many times due to constant harassment from his previous lovers and the police's incompetence. She is one of them, but not the sole terror. She had found his mother first, and she was stalking her for months; around the time you and Cyprus became an item.

The woman tried to gain his mother's favor, leaving gifts, running errands for her, and trying to talk to her every chance she got, all to his mother's approval for their relationship and to know where his son was. It was completely inappropriate, that she would pretend to be incredibly close to his mother, following her to church gatherings and introducing everyone around as Cyprus's mother's daughter-in-law. This terrified his mother, but she was sadly used to it, as this wasn't the first or even the fifth Ex to do this.

She tried alerting Cyprus through texts or by calling him, but he has the bad habit of brushing her concerns off. His exes would usually lose interest in her over time and leave her alone without Cyprus's intervention. After you started "dating" him, she couldn't get a hold of him, as he was constantly too busy enjoying the healthiest love life he ever had. Cyprus knew if he had told her about you too soon, they would get into a fight; his mother would always assume the worst in his girlfriends no matter what he says now. That's why, he decided to surprise her with your existence earlier today.

As it turns out, the conversation that he had with her all afternoon was about you, gushing about how amazing of a person you are, telling her how happy you made him; and as his mother, she could see it. She could see that you are actually a positive force for her son. Someone entirely different from the types of monsters he would always attract. You're so lovely, so kind, so docile. She only wished that Cyprus would shut up for a while so she could tell him about the looming threat of one of his stalkers. But every time she tried to change the subject, Cyprus would cut her off and talk about you instead, too blinded by his infatuation with you to realize that he was foolish.

Alas, she could also see that her son loves you much, much more than you love him. Maybe that was the missing piece after all, that Cyprus is a giver, not a receiver. There is always a downside to everything, and in this case, it was the fact that you don't seem to want this relationship. But she thinks that can be worked around, she just needs to convince you to stay and she will try her damned hardest to do so. A mother wants nothing but to see her son happy and thriving.

In a sense, this was his fault. This is entirely his fault, you should be absolved of all blame. He should feel like crap, not you. Cyprus deserved this, if only he listened to his mother, if only he picked up his mother's phone call from time to time if only he hadn't stopped by at her apartment... if only he hadn't met you--

Your train of thought was broken by Cyprus nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, greedily inhaling your scent as he trapped you in his arms. You made no move to stop him, to stop his fondling or kisses.

"Stop blaming yourself." He mumbled against your skin as he rubbed his hands over your thighs. You didn't deny it, because you knew that you did, no matter how much you tried to squash the guilt.

"It wasn't your fault." He continued, pulling you into his lap and resting his chin on your head. "And I'm not mad at you, so stop the pouting... even though you look so fucking cute doing that, I don't want my baby feeling bad about something she didn't do, or caused." His fingers were stroking your bandages covering the cuts from the glass shards, it was feathery and uncharacteristically gentle.

Just with that, you broke down into tears. Sobbing and gasping for air, it felt like your mind was acting separate from your body; as you told yourself to stop whatever it was you were doing, but your mouth kept spewing quivery apologies to Cyprus. You gripped hard onto his shirt and cried, wetting the fabric and making it cling to his chiseled chest.

You felt vibrations as he chuckled at your involuntary reaction. "Aw, come on, doll. I already said I wasn't mad at you." You felt his lips curl up into a smile.

You hid your face and whimpered, embarrassed and still guilty over what had happened. Cyprus coaxed your arm away from your face, and you saw him smirking down at you with such amusement.

"Is my baby still guilty?" He cooed, "Oh, you're such a sweet, selfless, kind girl. You're paying a price that wasn't meant for you... what can I do to take your pretty little mind off what happened, mi cielo?" He teasingly pinched your cheek. You wanted to slap his hand away, but you're still quite upset.

"¿Quieres un beso, hm?" His Spanish rolled effortlessly from his tongue, perhaps it was too fast for you to catch, so you were momentarily distracted from your despair. "No, ¿quieres muchos besos, mi corazón?"

He grinned widely when he saw that you were slowly coming off that loop of self-pity.

You stared at him dumbfoundedly. "Say 'Sí'."

You entertained his request, only to be attacked by a flurry of kisses on your face. You kicked your legs in the air, but it was futile. It's not slowing him down.

Cyprus ended it with a long, passionate press on your lips. He has his eyes closed and you close yours too, as you allow the bliss of the moment to wash the unease away. He slipped his hand under your shirt, caressing your bare flesh as he enjoyed the warmth you shared with him.

However, he pulled away. Earlier than usual, but he cupped your cheeks and pressed his forehead against yours. "Don't you ever feel bad for that bitch. I don't want you to feel any of this was your fault. I don't want you to feel pity for her and I don't want you to feel pity for me." He murmured.

"I can take care of myself, and I sure as hell can take care of you." He paused momentarily to give you a quick and playful peck on the lips. "I love you, baby. I'm never letting you go, no matter what. I don't fucking care what I have to do, I'm never leaving you and I'll go through hell to keep you if I have to." Cyprus gave the shell of your ear a sensual nibble, sending jolts down your spine.

You stayed still as he showered you in love for a minute, slowly recovering from earlier events and absorbing his words.

"Te amo." He whispered before mischievously blowing hot air into your ear, making you jerk away and whine. This merely made him laugh at your flustered face. "There's my girl, my whiny, weepy, baby doll."

You complained, telling him not to do that. He ignored it and smiled wider.

"Te amo." Said Cyprus.

You asked what that meant.

"Hm? You have to be specific, Cariño." He brought your hand to his lips, grazing them against your knuckles. "I said many things in Spanish, I won't know which one you're referring to unless you specify."

Te amo, you wanted to know what that meant. So you repeated it in front of him. And at that moment, you felt a sense of deja vu, but you pushed it away.

He chuckled and ruffled your hair. "Ya sé que sí." Cyprus suddenly tickled you on your sides, making you involuntarily show him a smile and letting him hear the peal of laughter he had been craving all day.

Suddenly, he firmly but lovingly pushed you off his lap, onto the couch and got up, because the pot containing tonight's dinner was bubbling over. Cyprus left the stove on for too long, too busy consoling you in his own bastard way to realize that it's making a mess.

"Shit!" He cussed, the dish was ruined. Unsalvageable from its mangled corpse, there is no way he's going to eat it, let alone feed you.

Usually, something like this would stress him out to the point he would have a whole pack of cigarettes for dinner instead. But ever since he had you, Cyprus has learned to laugh it off. Because you just had that effect on him, that calming effect that no nicotine or drug could give. It's quite literally, addicting.

He dumps the pot into the sink with a face that's visibly uplifted, a major improvement from before. Cyprus turned around and opened a cabinet, he stared at the contents for a while before looking back at you.

"Shrimp, chicken, or beef?" He asked while presenting three packages of instant noodles with three different flavors.

#yandere male #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere #male yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x reader #tw yandere #yandere x you #yandere concept #oc cyprus #male yandere x reader #yandere x female reader #yandere x y/n #yandere x darling #tw afab reader #tw fem reader #tw yandere content #tw infantilization

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featherquillpen · 2 years

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Gained in Translation

I speak four languages (at varying degrees of fluency) and do translation both for smooth and peaceable family reunions and for fun, with works of literature I enjoy. It's practically a truism at this point that meaning gets lost in translation; in fact, I'm currently reading an excellent book, Babel by R.F. Kuang, in which there is magic powered by the meaning lost in translation. But a topic I hardly ever hear anyone discuss is how meaning can be gained in translation.

Example 1: References

A type of meaning that can be gained in translation is that when you translate from language A to B, you can make references to other texts in language B that the person who wrote the original in language A wouldn't have been aware of. Here is an example from a translation I did of a Pablo Neruda poem:

Yo te recordaba con el alma apretada

de esa tristeza que tú me conoces.

I remembered you with my soul gripped

by the tragic ordeal of being known by you.

These lines in Spanish reminded me a lot of the meme based on the viral New York Times article about how you need to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known in order to reap the rewards of being loved. So I decided to make a subtle reference to that quote in the way I phrased the English translation. This meaning, of course, doesn't exist in the original Spanish; I added it in.

Example 2: Meaningful Distinctions

Meaning is often gained in translation because the target language makes a distinction that the source language does not. The translator has to choose one side of that distinction, and so meaning is gained.

Here is an example from the Spanish localization of the Japanese RPG Fire Emblem: Three Houses. There are two unlockable scenes in which the character Hubert is given a gift as a romantic gesture. Now, I don't speak Japanese, but through reading the analyses and translations done by Japanese speakers, and by checking for consistency in the kanji, I can see that the same word for "gift" seems to be used throughout these scenes. However, in Spanish, there are multiple words for "gift" with rather different connotations, which becomes relevant in the localization.

In Spanish, there is no generic word for "gift" that applies in every situation. There is a distinction made between gifts that are personal, between people who care about each other, and gifts between people who are not close, such as charitable gifts and formal gifts given to a diplomat. The translators of the game had to choose which of these words to use in the Spanish, and they used the distinction to add some very interesting meaning to these romantic scenes.

In each scene, what happens is that Hubert notices the person has a gift and comments on it, thinking it's for somebody else. In these lines, in Spanish, Hubert uses the personal intimate word for gift. Then, when he finds out the gift is for him, and reacts very awkwardly, he switches to a formal word for gift, creating an emotional distance between himself and the romantic token. This is excellent characterization and adds a layer of meaning in translation.

Example 3: Meaningful Ambiguity

Sometimes, the opposite phenomenon occurs, where the target language does not make a distinction that the source language does, and that ambiguity or vagueness adds something to the translation.

I have a Finnish friend who has told me that fiction that plays with gender is often more meaningful for him in Finnish translation than in the source language, because Finnish does not have gendered third person pronouns. Where books like The Left Hand of Darkness or Ancillary Justice have to make a conscious decision about which gendered pronoun to use for characters that fall outside the Western gender binary (The Left Hand of Darkness uses "he" and Ancillary Justice uses "she"), the Finnish translations can just use the default neutral pronoun they use for everyone, and never have to resolve that ambiguity in any direction. My friend has told me that there are some books about non-gender-normative characters that he wishes he'd read in Finnish instead of English because the experience would have felt more authentic in some ways.

What It Means

The reason why I bring all of this up is that the concept of meaning lost in translation is tied to the idea of translation as an act of violence. Indeed, there is a saying in Italian, "Traduttore, traditore," which means "Translator, traitor." I agree that translation can definitely be an act of violence that destroys the intended meaning of a text and warps it to suit the needs of the speakers of the target language. But when we focus only on what is lost in translation, at the expense of what is gained in translation, then we deny that translation can be an act of liberation and power.

I was raised in a bicultural household speaking both English and Spanish, and when I translate between these languages, it makes me feel empowered and proud of my heritage. It feels insulting to me to claim that when I translate, I can only ever deplete the meaning. That is not true. Every translation requires a translator, and we are more than thieves and traitors. We are more, even, than archivists, trying to minimize loss and decay as much as possible. We are creatives and inventors who can add something beautiful and meaningful to the text via our translations.

#translation #on writing

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autisticlancemcclain · 1 year

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“No.”

Lance groans loudly, forgoing smacking his face in his hands and going straight for banging his head repeatedly against the elevator doors, which Keith thinks is a touch dramatic. But regardless he crosses his arms over his chest and stubbornly refuses to budge from his position.

“Keith. For the love of God.”

“God is dead and I’m not climbing out of a goddamn ten thousand foot elevator hatch with you.”

Keith admittedly puts a tad too much emphasis on the ‘with you’ part of the sentence. It’s obvious in the way Lance stops and lifts his head up and glares at Keith so icily he doesn’t need to squint to make out Lance’s expression in the low emergency lights; his eyes practically burn a hole through Keith’s forehead. Keith winces but doesn’t say anything.

“You have gone toe to toe with a goddamn zombie dictator,” Lance grinds out, “but you’re too much of a pussy to climb an elevator shaft?”

Keith stiffens. “I’m not — shut up!”

Smirking, now, visibly delighted that he’s managed to press Keith’s buttons (God Keith wants to punch him), Lance leans against the elevator wall, hip cocked, feigning nonchalance.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he says, inspecting his nails like it doesn’t matter. “I just never would have thought that the best pilot out of the Garrison and literal pilot of the Red Lion is, you know, a chicken.”

Keith clenches his fists. Lance is frustrated and bored and pushing Keith’s buttons because there’s fuck else to do. He is. Keith knows this.

But he is so goddamn good at it.

“I’m not a fucking chicken, Cargo Pilot.”

‘Cargo Pilot’ is usually a hole-in-one insult that’s guaranteed to make Lance bristle, sure to make him bare his teeth and go bright red and generally lose his absolute shit. Keith is even sparing in his use of the term, careful not to let it lose its potency.

But because the universe hates him and also Lance is the most annoying motherfucker alive, his smirk only widens, and he flexes his fingers, still fucking casual, still not even bothering to look up in Keith’s direction.

I hate you, Keith thinks, with feeling.

“Sure,” Lance says, without. He shrugs. “Prove it.”

For a second Keith thinks he’s so mad that he might. But then he imagines it fully, pictures his bare back pressed against Lance’s, feet planted on the slippery castle walls, lights probably still out, struggling to put one foot in front of the other and drag each other upright. He thinks of how much effort that would take and how easily he would start to sweat, how easily every shift of their muscles would loosen the friction-borne grip between them, how easily his foot could slip. He thinks of how long a ten thousand foot drop would take, how long he would have to accept that he’s going to die before he splats on the pristine floor.

His stomach turns. His face goes green.

Lance’s jaw drops.

“Oh my God, you’re afraid of heights!”

“I am not!” Keith snaps, because he isn’t, he just has a fucking brain. “It’s just — it’s ten thousand fucking feet, Lance!”

“A pilot!” Lance screeches. “A pilot afraid of heights!”

“You are so goddamn extra!” Keith cries.

Lance makes more vague screeching noises. He gestures furiously at Keith, then pauses, then makes a sound in the back of his throat akin to a loudly dying whale, then gestures back at Keith, then at the ceiling, then at the elevator as a whole. Then he lets out one loud, long, final yell, completely wordless and directed at what Keith can only assume is the heavens, and stops, closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and very calmly crawls onto the floor, belly first, and lays perfectly flat with his face pressed to the tiles.

“I hate it here,” he says serenely. He pauses for a minute, thoughtful. “Also, I hate you.”

“Ditto,” Keith mutters, finally giving up and joining him on the floor. He tips his head back until it thumps on the elevator wall and sighs, loud and long, wondering vaguely if this is punishment for the hundreds of times he mocked Shiro for his fear of squirrels. He truly thinks it might be.

All he wanted was twenty goddamn minutes in the pool. That’s all. He’d have even taken ten. He just wanted to swim a few laps, maybe float for a bit, and pretend he was in a lake somewhere without pressing problems such as saving the universe and the fate of every single soul in it.

Eight minutes, really. Seven.

The lights flicker back on. Lance lifts his head, hopeful, then stretches out one ridiculously long leg (seriously what is the deal with that he’s basically a giraffe, it’s too much, Keith should talk to someone about it because since when were legs allowed to be that — long and shapely, or whatever, it’s weird) and presses the closest button with his toe.

It does nothing. Lance stares at it for a few minutes, as if attempting to bring the elevator alive by manifestation alone, but no life is forthcoming. Lance huffs sadly and returns his face to the floor.

“That’s really disgusting,” Keith says, although he has his fair share of Floor Time. “People walk on this floor all the time.”

Lance doesn’t bother looking up, groaning loudly for several minutes before simply rolling away to the opposite side of the elevator.

“Shut up,” he says finally, after so long Keith almost forgets his original comment. “You just —”

Abruptly he straightens up, pulling the towel off his neck and crawling forward to place it in the middle of the elevator. Keith rolls his eyes so hard it actually hurts, a little.

“You and your commentary stay on the loser stinky mullet half of the elevator,” Lance says. “The pretty half that’s not infected with your rancid vibes belongs to me.”

“Were you trained to be this annoying?” Keith ponders, half out of genuine curiosity. “Like, do you do this on purpose?”

“Ignoring you now,” Lance says primly.

Keith scowls. He’s not — Keith isn’t the one who’s too irritating to be around without going insane.

“I’m ignoring you, asshole.”

Lance doesn’t respond. Keith closes one eye and holds up his thumb and forefinger to the approximate shape of Lance’s face, pretending he’s squishing his head. It brings him great peace.

After a while, though, he starts to get restless. His legs starts bouncing, up and down so fast it’s blurry, and then his fingers start to tap, but the feeling of rustling under his skin only gets worse, spinning faster and faster and coil tightening more and more in his stomach until he just — implodes, really, until his brain goes boom and says if you don’t get moving right this second, and Keith says in response to it, believe me I’m on it. He’s scrambling to his feet before he has the conscious thought to do so, hands moving before he tells them to and pushing him upright, bare feet padding rapidly on the floor as he paces, three steps until he hits the wall then pivot then three steps then pivot then three steps again. Over and over and over. His fingers stop tapping but his shoulders get twitchy; itchy under his skin and on it, sweaty because there’s no airflow and this goddamn elevator is sweltering. Or he’s just hot. He usually runs hot. He’s not sure and he doesn’t care to know, because the pool would have been refreshing but instead he’s stuck in a ten by ten by ten cube stuck somewhere on a ten thousand foot tube and to his right his rival-slash-teammate keeps huffing and rubbing his hands on his arms and muttering to himself.

“Could you maybe cut that out,” Keith snaps, which is entirely unfair because his pacing isn’t quiet, but Keith is three seconds away from attempting to climb the walls and it’s Lance, anyway, when are they not arguing, so it doesn’t matter.

Maybe when you’re having a crisis-brought bonding moment, says a voice in his brain. Stuck elevators are kind of a crisis.

Shut up or I’m going to give myself a concussion, Keith responds to it.

“Not my fault it’s goddamn freezing in here,” Lance snaps.

Keith pauses. He looks down at Lance. He frowns.

“Your lips are blue,” he observes, bewildered.

“Eat shit,” Lance responds, predictably. He’s fucking — he’s shivering.

Keith is made astutely aware of the cooling sweat on his back and grimaces.

“Lance,” he says slowly, “it is not cold in here.”

Lance blows out a breath like the goddamn weight of the world is on his shoulders. He flicks his eyes up to meet Keith’s, who is standing behind his head and leaning down, and somehow manages to seem like the more put-together person between them, which is bonkers.

“I’m anaemic, stupid.”

Keith blinks. Suddenly the air feels very solemn, and he shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.

“I didn’t know you had an eating disorder,” he manages eventually.

Lance’s faces scrunches up in confusion for seven whole seconds before it clears, and he looks at Keith like he is the dumbest man alive and then bursts out laughing.

“That’s — anorexic, you idiot! I don’t have enough blood!”

“Oh,” Keith says, face heating. He scowls as Lance continues to laugh way harder than what was called for, clutching his stomach with tears rolling down his face. He pokes Lance aggressively with his toe, and by that he means his kicks him. “Will you stop — it’s not that funny, dickhead!”

“It really is,” Lance wheezes.

Keith scowls harder. His face is as red as his shorts and the flush is starting to spread down his chest and Lance notices and it only makes him laugh more, because he’s a shithead of the worst kind. “I hope you choke.”

Keith flicks his towel over his head and yanks, embarrassed, stomping to the other side of the elevator as if that will somehow make Lance shut up faster. It doesn’t, obviously, and he hears Lance laugh for several minutes until he finally winds down to giggling, then eventually nothing.

Keith harrumphs quietly to himself. He resolves to sticking in his corner like he should have from the very beginning, until the elevator starts moving again or someone on the team comes to save them. At this point he’s so done he wouldn’t even care if it was Shiro, wouldn’t even care if Shiro gloated about it for eternity (Keith saved his ass from government experimentation, anyway, so he wins by default for the rest of time). He faces his corner and pulls his knees to his chest and starts picking at a loose thread in the seam of his shorts to amuse himself.

Several minutes later, he hears Lance shifting. He ignores it. He pulls at the thread until it comes loose, then busies himself with tying the thread into the most complicated and random knot he can.

A few more minutes later, and there’s the sound of fabric rustling and draping, then quiet cursing. Keith untangles and retangles his knot for the fourth time.

After what must be a half hour, Keith hears the sound of teeth chattering.

He sighs. He looks forlornly at his knot.

“I could just ignore him,” he mutters to himself. “He probably won’t die.”

He thinks of how short Lance’s shorts are. He pinches his own towel in his fingertips, so thin he can practically feel his fingerprints. He remembers blue lips and a clenched jaw and raised gooseflesh.

He sighs loudly, more of a groan, and flicks his ball of thread away.

It takes Lance a few seconds to respond to Keith looming over him, which is worrying. But eventually he cracks open one brown eye and flares up at Keith.

“What,” he mutters. His teeth are chattering so bad it sounds like two words.

“You’re freezing,” Keith says. His voice is softer than he expected it to be.

Lance huffs, closing his eye again and curling further into himself. “No shit.”

Keith frowns. “I’m not.”

“Well, rub it in, why dontcha.”

Keith frowns. “You’re not understanding.”

Lance ignores him. Keith has a sudden and vivid memory of the year Shiro and Adam drove him up to Seattle in the winter so he could be more cultured, or whatever (or less of a desert menace, Adam had argued, and perhaps more inclined to stop biting people), and spent the whole car ride lecturing him about hypothermia.

“It doesn’t take very long to set in,” Shiro had said.

“And once you have it you need to warm up or your heart can stop,” Adam had finished, very serious.

Suddenly Keith starts to feel very panicked.

Lukewarm tea, warm blankets, skin to skin contact with someone who’s warm, were Shiro’s instructions. And then possibly hospital.

Well. Keith has one of those things.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he wraps a gentle hand around Lance’s shoulder, tugging him upright, then pulls him forward so his cradled hands are pressed against Keith’s chest and his head is tucked into the junction of Keith’s neck.

Worryingly, it takes Lance almost thirty seconds to start complaining.

“You smell like mullet,” he whines. But he doesn’t move away. In fact, he burrows closer.

Keith swallows down his worry. “Mullets don’t smell like anything, dumbass.” He brings his hands up to press against Lance’s back. Lance groans, curling deeper into Keith’s hold. His nose is icy and burns a trail across Keith’s shoulder, down his collarbone. Keith’s flush from earlier makes an enthusiastic return, because nothing good still exists in the world.

“I still think you’re annoying,” Lance mumbles. Every move of his lip brushes against Keith’s skin.

“Shut up and focus on not freezing to death,” Keith snaps.

Lance snorts. “I’m not gonna freeze to death, doofus. It’s just a dead elevator. Once I fell asleep on the Garrison rooftop in January and only had to spend three days in urgent care, so basically I can withstand anything.”

Keith pauses. He tries to reconcile the Lance who just said that to the Lance who came up with a life saving plan in thirty seconds on the Balmera to the Lance who threatened to stick Keith in a wormhole to the Lance who smiled and said they made a good team before passing out in Keith’s arms.

“You are a very confusing person,” he says when all the reconciling does absolutely nothing.

“Thank you,” Lance says, sounding pleased.

Keith snorts and tightens his hold. Lance sighs and sags a little. Slowly his fingers stop feeling so much like ice blocks, and his breathing doesn’t sound so erratic. Keith doesn’t know how long it’s been. He stopped trying to count somewhere between when Lance’s cheek squished against his chest and his fingers started tracing featherlight patterns across his skin.

Lance yawns. Keith tries to fight his but ends up yawning anyway.

“Is it bad to let a person with hypothermia sleep?” he mumbles, half-slurring his words.

Lance hums. “‘M not hypothermic.”

“Dunno. Could be.”

He sighs again, a puff of air against Keith’s neck, and spreads his palms against Keith’s chest, flat. “‘M not. You’re too warm.” He pauses. “Freak.”

His tone is fond. The corners of Keith’s lips quirk up. “Weirdo.”

“Mhm.”

He falls asleep trying to count Lance’s breaths. It’s — groundbreaking, somehow.

———

(“Oh, my God.”

Keith cracks open bleary eyes, lifting a hand to rub his face. Lance groans from his place on Keith’s chest — in a puddle of drool, why is that not nearly as revolting as it should be — and snatches Keith’s wrist way faster than he should be able to as groggy as he is, placing it back around his waist.

“Oh, my God,” the voice repeats, gleeful.

“Shut up, Shiro,” Keith mutters. “Fuck.”

It takes him a minute.

His eyes fly open at the same time as Lance’s, and they look at each other, and then Keith is being shoved and kicked at the same time somehow and Lance is scrambling backwards at the speed of light, screeching. A loud bang makes Keith look over and he discovers his brother, who is dead to him, collapsed on the floor, laughing so loud Zarkon can probably hear him.

“What — Shiro — go — stop fucking laughing, you piece of shit!”

Lance continues to screech. Keith whips a towel at him.

“You gay pining loser!” Shiro shrieks. “I’m going to tell literally everyone!”

Keith puts his head in his hands and wishes he’d fallen down the goddamn elevator shaft.)

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choerypetal · 5 months

Text

Changing room / Sam Winchester

summary: Whenever you and Sam are out together, your curious eyes don't go unnoticed. This often leads to playful teasing, whether it's directed at others in your company or when you're apart. (Sam is 30 while you're in your mid-twenties.)

Author's note: I've noticed many fanfics to this prompt featuring Dean, but as a Sam’s girlie, I couldn't help but write one. xo

ps: english isn't my first language, so i apologize for any grammar errors.

enjoy! xo'

Sam didn't mind the age gap difference between you two. In fact, he relished the idea of women his age or slightly older showing interest in him. Or when he would see men your age doing the same. Today, the two of you were shopping for new summer clothes, with the focus on you. You vaguely recalled the conversation, when you knew Sam would be the lone male in the store, anticipating the possibility of playful interactions with other women. After all, who could resist his charm?

The woman, who seemed to be of your mother's generation, exuded a familiar flirtatiousness, particularly noticeable from her interactions with the kind of flirtation the Winchesters were used to. It didn't catch you off guard; rather, it made you smirk inwardly as you started to try on the skirt Sam had been eager for you to test. "What brings such a handsome man here?" she quipped.

Sam, ever the polite gentleman, nervously shifted on the cushioned seat as he awaited your return. His anxiety was palpable as he clutched the clothes you had selected for purchase, a gesture not lost on you. "For a friend?" She had inquired, her fingers idly playing with a lock of hair. Though hesitant to directly oppose her assumption, Sam simply nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips, as it shifts off to his usual cocky smirk. Anticipated your emergence from the dressing room, at any moment, eager to hear your thoughts on the skirt.

You had been biding your time, patiently waiting for the right moment. It came when you learned of her single status, a fact she seemed to emphasize even more pointedly when her fingers "accidentally" grazed his thighs. It was as if Dean himself had possessed her, with the mirroring gestures and familiar phrases she effortlessly employed.

As you spun one last time, the delicate lace of the fabric caressing your skin, the woman's presence slipped from your mind entirely. Upon drawing back the curtain, you found Sam's unwavering gaze fixed upon you. His eyes traced the contours of your silhouette, from head to toe, betraying a desire both intense and restrained, a hunger he struggled to conceal.

"Thoughts?" you chimed, a broad smile gracing your lips as your hips swayed playfully. Your fingers toyed with the hem of your skirt, a subtle maneuver intended to leave Sam weak-kneed and flush-cheeked. "I told you so," he quipped, his smirk mirroring yours. However, when his gaze shifted to the woman beside him, her expression shifted. Disgust mingled with shock as she comprehended what she had witnessed.

As Sam rose from his seat, a soft chuckle escaped his lips. You leaned in to peck his cheek, only to find his smirk growing slyer. His fingers grazed your skin as he discreetly adjusted your skirt, ensuring your modesty remained intact. It was a silent gesture of possession, a reminder that you belonged to him alone. "Wouldn't want to make the lady uncomfortable," he murmured, loud enough for the woman nearby to overhear. You feigned innocence, but her audible gasp betrayed her annoyance before she promptly rose and left the area.

As you moved to retreat back into the changing booth, Sam's grip on your arm tightened slightly. Turning to face him, you couldn't help but pout in defense. "Such a pity," his voice was husky, his gaze lingering on your skirt as his fingers trailed from your waist to lightly grasp your hip, drawing you closer to his chest. "Can't I have a moment to admire it? After all, I'm the one who’s buying it."

"No, not now," you shook your head, quickly brushing your finger against his bottom lip, a hint of desperation in your pout as you hoped to avoid catching the attention of any store employees. You were aware of Sam's desire for a moment of intimacy, even willing to whisk you back to the changing booth for a private rendezvous. But meeting his gaze with a smirk, you proposed, "Let's finish up here first, then we can head to Baby's." Sam understood your aversion to public displays of affection. Though he had been careful not to push boundaries, he didn't want to make you uncomfortable. With a nod, he released his grip, allowing you to proceed with your task.

"Sounds good, babe," his reply was so convincing that he couldn't resist adding, "How about we warm up in Baby's, huh?" He edged closer, as if beckoning you towards the booth, but you teasingly pushed him away with a chuckle. "But what if Dean—?"

“Screw Dean,

I want you.”

#sam winchester x you #sam winchester imagines #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester #spn x you #spn preferences #spn x reader #jared padalecki x reader #jared padelecki #spn x y/n #spn imagines #spn family #spn fanfic

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sometimes-i-write-good · 2 years

Text

Where I’m From

Top Gun: Maverick - Hangman x f!reader [no use of y/n]

3.6k | Jake Seresin could handle lots of things. He was the only naval aviator of his time to have a confirmed kill - two, actually. He kept forgetting about that second one. It was newly under his belt, and, considering the circumstances surrounding it, he hadn’t felt too inclined to brag about it. Still, the point remained. Jake could carry the weight of taking a life, of saving a life, and of putting his life in harms way.

What he could not handle was the weeping girl in front of him, brushing away tears on their first date.

===

Genre: Fluff, slight angst

CW: swearing, kissing, mentions of past relationships (neglect)

Author’s Note: Is Jake slightly ooc? Yes. I just wholeheartedly believe this man would be a gentleman on a date. Also, soft!Jake >>>>>>> || cross-posted on Ao3

Part Two

===

“You’re early.” You said, opening the door wider and waving him in once you realized it was Hangman (a story you were hoping to pry out of him on your date tonight) standing across the threshold. “I’m almost done, I promise. I’m so sorry.”

“No need to apologize, sugar.” Something about the careless way he slung around terms of endearment like that heated your cheeks.

Jake stepped in with that same easy grin he was wearing when he’d asked you out. You look good, but I think you’d look even better sitting across from me at dinner tonight. Cocky, arrogant. A toothpick rolling back and forth between his teeth. Not your type at all, but it had been so long since you last dated someone.

So, when the blond in a military uniform slid into the booth across from you this afternoon at lunch you agreed. Without a single care for all the alarm bells ringing and desperate reminders from your subconscious that all men sucked.

And now you were standing in front of him with a half-zipped dress, half done hair, and nerves that made your hands shake so badly it was hard to finish anything at all. “Give me 5 minutes?”

Jake nodded, then, as though remembering why he’d gotten here so early to begin with, he moved his hand from behind his back and presented a small bouquet of flowers to you. Simple and sweet. “These are yours, darlin’.”

The accent brought you back to reality. Tied you down to earth and kept you from tearing up. “Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”

“I’m a gentleman, mostly,” Jake said, “so tell me where I can find a vase and I’ll get this set up. You go get ready.”

“Under the sink.” You waved your hand off in the general direction of the kitchen eyes still a bit too wide in shock. Someone had given you flowers. A complete stranger had given you flowers.

The stranger made towards where you vaguely gestured to but came halting to a stop shortly after. “Problem, doll?” He asked, turning back towards you with slight concern. Warranted concern, really, seeing that the noise that just escaped you made you sound like you’d been stabbed in the side.

“I’m sorry-”

“You need to stop apologizing.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” You ignored the look he shot you. “I- just… can you take your shoes off? Please?”

An easy smile crossed onto his face. More human than those prideful grins his flirting game so heavily relied on before. “Yes, I can do that.” Jake laughed, but it wasn’t rude or condescending. A kind-hearted, ‘I am so glad that’s all the problem was’ kind of laugh. “Go get ready so I can make everyone in that restaurant jealous that I’m takin’ the most beautiful lady out on a date.”

There wasn’t much arguing with that. You’d tried to come up with something witty to say to him as you finished getting ready, but every time you thought of what Jake had said to you your heart would beat a little faster and your head would spin. It was pointless. You could hardly remember your name when you looked his square in the face. If you were to actually stare into those green eyes of his you’d surely melt into the floor. Exactly what happened when you finally emerged from your room, shoes in hand, and let him at the front door.

Jake had been lingering in the foyer staring at all the pictures on your wall and the decorations that comprised who you wanted the world to see you as. A bit to honestly now that your eyes followed his to the goofy selfies or the ‘boofa deez nut’ candle you’d gotten as a gag gift and proudly displayed as a middle finger to the friend that had gotten it for you. The embarrassment should have killed you, but instead it was Jake’s eyes flicking up to meet yours that did you in.

You stumbled slightly. In your attempt to cover the movement to make it seem like you were bending over to put your shoes on, you’d stumbled more. Jake moved forward almost unconsciously to steady you, let out a low whistle and said, “You clean up nice.”

“You’re only saying that ‘cause you’ve seen me looking like half a disaster.”

“If that’s half a disaster, then you truly do put the ‘hot’ in ‘hot mess’, sugar.” Jake laughed and opened the door for you. He held it open, closed it behind you, and waited as you locked it. Then walked with you to the car to open the door for you there as well.

You thanked him, short and polite and completely caught off guard. Everything he said in that short walk from your front door to his car completely escaped you. Something about how you made a casual dress look like the most elegant outfit on earth. Just another charismatic comment to deepen the warm pool in your stomach. As though there weren’t enough butterflies flapping around in there already.

“You can pick the music.” Jake nodded toward the radio.

“I like classic rock,” you said. “It’s my favorite, actually.”

Jake grinned. “After my own heart. See, I knew there was somethin’ about you.” He turned slightly to put his arm around the passenger seat as he reversed, and you caught a whiff of his cologne. Subtle. Yet entirely welcomed, up until he winked at you.

Maybe this was all a game to him. Jake seemed like the type to charm a girl and leave her heartbroken. The prying eyes at the counter back at the diner had almost confirmed that for you. Whispers and nudging that you had wished you’d seen before you agreed to go out with him. This whole evening could very well be some big bet for the hot shots in the Navy to cash out on. All at your expense.

“So.” Jake cleared his throat. “You from around here?”

Once again, an awkward reminder that the two of you knew nothing about one another besides your names and addresses. Well, just Jake knew your address. He’d insisted on picking you up.

“No,” you told him. “Midwest, born and raised.”

“Stir crazy so you moved out West?”

“Something like that.” You nodded. “I’m going to take a shot in the dark and say you’re from down south?”

Jake laughed. Your heart skipped yet another beat and if it didn’t stop doing that you were going to have to schedule an appointment with your doctor before the night was out. “You’re a good shot.” He glanced over at you out of the corner of his eye. “Texas.”

“Oh, a cowboy?”

“Hardly.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to the best of the radio. “I know my way around a horse, but I like to think I belong in the sky.”

“So, I should call you flyboy instead?” You ask with a slight giggle to your voice. More nervous than anything but there’s no mistaking the way the corners of Jake’s lips pull back at the sound. You want to take a detour to base just to ask those friends of his if he normally smiles this much or if you can allow yourself to feed into the delusion that someone as stunning as him saw you in a rundown diner having lunch and was so enamored by you that he simply had to ask you out.

“Only if you put a ‘my’ in front of it.”

Conversation flowed easily after that. The drive to the restaurant wasn’t long but still let you have a good idea of who Jake was. A flirt, first and foremost. He couldn’t go thirty seconds without calling you ‘darlin’’ or ‘sugar’ and any way Jake could make a comment about how wonderful you were, he was taking it. You stared at him the entire ride, studying his profile. He was a handsome man. There was no denying that. Old-fashioned in the way where you and your friend would flip through history books and point out who you would have fallen in love with during that time period. If someone were to show you a grainy photo of a navy pilot, his was the kind of face you’d imagine.

He pulled into a spot, and you immediately set to unbuckling and letting yourself out of the car.

“Ah,” Jake said as he shut off the car, “stay where you are.” And he hopped out to jog to the passenger side. “Here you are, darlin’.” He opened the door, offering you a hand, and helping you out of the car.

“Do they teach chivalry classes down in Texas?” You ask. He’s too busy positioning your hand on his bicep and leading you into the restaurant, where he holds open the door for you again, to answer.

“Sersin. Party of two,” he tells the host, who leads you to a table with a single, unlit candle in the middle.

Jake pulls your chair out for you, then settles in across from you in a strange mimicry of earlier today. You half expect him to spew the same cheesy pickup line but instead he fishes a lighter out of his pocket to light the candle.

“That’s better,” he says and turns his full attention on you with a grin. “So, tell me everything there is to know about you.”

You laugh, genuine this time. “About me?” He nods. “There’s not much to know about me. I’m kind of boring.”

Jake shakes his head. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m serious! My life is eat, sleep, work, repeat.”

“So is mine.”

“Yeah but you’re flying fighter jets and I’m too nervous to ask my boss for a promotion when I’m doing the work of two people.”

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up. “The work of two people, huh? You’re a hard worker, and I’m guessing you’re damn good at what you do, too. I wouldn’t call that boring.”

You roll your eyes at him, but the compliment brings a smile to your face. “I guess you could say that.”

“Okay, so, you’re hardworking, talented, and beautiful. What else is there to know about you, doll?”

“Actually, flyboy, I want to know why they call you Hangman.” You lean forward and rest your chin in your hand. “That’s what everyone was calling you earlier today.”

He nods, leaning back in his seat. You drink in the movement. The way Jake squaring his shoulders has his nice green button down straining against his muscles and how he runs his tongue over his lips as he conjures up a thought.

“The real story, Seresin.” You raise an eyebrow in his direction.

“You remember my last name?”

“I texted it to my friend just in case you were secretly trying to murder me.”

He nods slowly. “You can never be too careful now a days.”

“Yup.”

“Well, you can tell your friend the only reason I’ll be making you scream is because my tongue is magic.” The waiter chooses that moment to appear over your shoulder asking if you and Jake are ready to order anything, leaving you a stuttering mess as you struggle to order something to drink. You can hardly form the word water to the point that Jake does it for you. “Thanks,” he tells the waiter as he walks off. Then he focuses his full attention back on you. “You held yourself together well.”

“Oh fuck off, you did that on purpose.” By the way he doesn’t deny it, you can tell you have him pegged. “Back to your true story.”

“It’s not as interesting as the one everyone else likes to tell.”

“I don’t care, flyboy. I want to know you, not everyone else.”

Interest sparks in his green eyes. “If you insist.” He leans forward, mimicking the way you’re on the edge of your seat. “In flight school we were running drills out in an old hangar when this nasty storm rolled him. Hurricane level winds and shit. Came out of nowhere. None of us were feeling too inclined to make a run for it in that kind of rain so we figured we’d hole up in the hangar for a few hours. There was an old radio that worked for a little bit, and we figured there was no time like the presence to get some maintenance on this jet done until the weather down, but the power went out.

“We had some flashlights and lanterns and things so it’s not like we were totally in the dark, but the stories ran out fast. We were bored out of minds. So, I recommended playing hangman. Something easy and simple ‘cause you can’t get too competitive with these guys. They take it way too far.”

“By them,” you cut in, “I’m guessing you mean you?”

He nods. “I won every single round and stumped them with all my puzzles.”

“Impressive,” you say, “I bet that pissed them all off.”

“Let’s just say everyone else’s version of why they call me Hangman holds a slight hint of disdain.”

The rest of the dinner flows naturally. You two talk without a single lull in conversation. He makes you laugh. He continues to compliment you every chance he can. But the real thing that works its way under your skin and lodges itself in your chest is the way he offers to switch plates with you when you take a bite of your meal and realize you don’t like it.

“No, Jake, you don’t have to. I’m a big girl. I’ll just deal with it.”

“Nonsense. It was my recommendation anyway.” Jake stares at you, jaw set, and voice firm. “I am not having you starving on this date. Give me your plate.”

And so, you swap plates with him taking a bite out of the steak he’d been raving about in the car when something in you breaks. You can hear how excited his tone of voice was. “It’s hard to get a decent steak when you’re on base.” He had told you. “The chow hall is okay if you like shoe leather and all, but now I hardly have time to make a decent cut of meat for myself.”

He gave it up so easily. The minute you set down your fork after three or four bites. Jake was telling you he’d switch. It… it was too much and you couldn’t help the sweeping off tears pushing at the back of your throat.

“Ah, shit.” He whispered. “Do you not want the steak? I can order you something else-”

You cut him off with the wave of your hand, which you quickly used to press over your mouth and stifle and unflattering sob. “No,” you whimpered, “this is perfect. Everything is perfect.”

“Are you sure?” Jake asked. “Because most ladies don’t start crying on dates when things are going well.”

You could tell he meant well. There was a joking lot to his voice and the bastard grin was back in his face but it only reminded you of how out of your element you were right now.

“I’m sorry.”

“I already told you to cut that out, sugar.”

“I know.” You sniffled, but tears kept falling. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“It’s okay. Just take a deep breath.” Jake softened a bit. He reached out across the table, palm up waiting for you to slip your hand in his. When you did, he squeezed softly. “Want to talk about it?”

With your free hand you swiped at your cheeks. “I haven’t been on a first date in- actually, I’ve never even been on a date.”

There was no denying the way Jake’s eyes widened. “You’re tellin’ me men aren’t breakin’ down your door to take a pretty thing like you out on dates?” You shake your head. “See, that’s the issue with California folk, they’re idiots.”

He grins gently at you, which you return in full. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would.”

“I’ve had a couple boyfriends, but we never did relationship stuff.” Jake’s brows furrow in confusion and you rush to explain. “They would never want to leave the house. If I wanted to go out it would have to be by myself. They never asked me on dates or called me ‘darlin’’-” Jake rolls his eyes at your imitation of his accent- “or tell me I look beautiful. None of them ever held a door open for me. This is the first time I’ve even gotten flowers…” you trail off and bite down on your lip.

“I guess I should have seen it coming,” you fill the silence. “Everyone I’ve ever been in a relationship with has cheated on me. I guess I’ve always been a side chick or a rebound or whatever and you don’t really take side chicks out on dates. I always figured I wasn’t worth the romantic stuff, but there you are taking me out to a nice dinner and swapping dinners with me and… and I got overwhelmed.”

Jake is staring at you with a strange mix of anger and confusion. The gaze is lacking pity, which you appreciate. If he were to think of you as a poor girl who couldn’t land a date, you’d walk home before finishing this dinner.

He says your name so softly for the first time that night. There’s a thousand times more emotion in that name than all the pet names he’s been calling you.

“This isn’t romance.” The words make your heart sink. “This is the bare minimum. Basic kindness, sweetheart. You deserve this and nothing less. I- it makes me so frustrated to hear you talking about a relationship where some asshole let you believe you didn’t deserve to be treated like a princess.” Jake’s voice wavers slightly as he talks, anger bleeding in but not raising his voice to an unacceptable level. “Where I come from this isn’t chivalry. This is the way things are done. If I’m taking a beautiful girl like you out on a date, you better believe I’m going to make sure you know that I’m the lucky one.”

More tears prick at your eyes. Your bottom starts to quiver and when you open your mouth to apologize for getting weepy again Jake shakes his head at you. “I don’t know which one of those ducks told you that you had to apologize all the time, and I’m sure it was one of them, but you never have to apologize for things like this, doll. You’re allowed to have feelings. You’re allowed to talk about them.”

“Yeah, but it’s not good etiquette to bring up your exes on a first date.” You slip your hand from his to better wipe at your face. This sinking feeling of shame seeps into you. You probably look like just as much of a wreck as you were turning this date into.

“So this won’t be our first date, then.” Jake says it so simply. The easiest solution in the wonderful despite it not making sense in the slightest.

“What?”

“We’ll call this afternoon our first date. I stole food for your plate and took a couple sips of your drink, so it counts.” Jake grins at you. “This is our second date, which means it is completely okay to talk about your exes.”

With a small sniffle you manage to meet his eye again. The intensity that he looks at you has your face warming up again. “I have to say, Jake. I think I’m the lucky one tonight.”

“You’re not sitting on my end of the table.”

===

Bonus:

Jake insisted on opening the door for you again when he pulled up to your house after dinner. The two do you had lingered as long as humanly possible, but the wait staff looked as though they were going to run the pair of you through with a kitchen knife, so you reluctantly chose to head back towards home.

“Thank you.” You grabbed his hand as you stepped out of the car.

“Gives me an excuse to walk you to your door, pretty girl.”

“Oh, so this was all part of your masterplan?”

He laughs and stops under the light of your porch light. You’re fiddling with your keys, not too eager to open the door and end the night. Jake steps closer towards you, saying your name again for the second time that night. It’s a magnet, pulling you towards him so that his hands can settle at your waist. Those green eyes of his flick down to your lips. “Can I kiss you?”

“I was waiting for you to ask that.”

Jake slides a hand from your waist to cup your cheek and he brings his lips to yours. No kiss you’ve ever had feels the way this one does. Right. Even your long-term relationships were twinged with shame or doubt. Kissing Jake feels like forgetting your own name is completely normal because you want to be washed up in this feeling of bliss for forever. He pulls away after a few seconds, resting his forehead against yours, and it takes him a moment to finally open his eyes.

“Do you want to come in?” You ask, voice cracking slightly.

“I don’t know,” he says, “I don’t want you to think I’m only trying to hook up with you.”

You smile and press another soft kiss to his lips. Once again Jake takes a few seconds afterwards to fully look at you. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’re having hesitations about sleeping with me on our second date and that’s something only gentlemen do.”

Jake laughs. The sound is like the bliss of your kiss personified. You want to drown in it.

“Plus, I think you promised me that I’d have a story to tell my friend about how good your tongue is… or do you only use your mouth to talk big game?”

He nipped at your bottom lip. “Unlock that damn door right now, dollface.”

You thought he’d never ask.

#Jake 'Hangman" Seresin #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman x you #Jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin x reader #reader insert #top gun #top gun maverick #top gun fic #jake seresin fluff #fluff #top gun imagine

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laundrybiscuits · 1 year

Text

“I need your help to find Robin a girlfriend,” says Steve.

Eddie shuts the door in his face.

“You know I’m not gonna just leave, man!” Steve hollers through the door. “Come on, let me in, we gotta, like—strategize.”

“No!” Eddie yells back, loud as he can. “Fuck off!”

Gratifyingly, he hears Steve stumble a little. It’s not a thick door, and Steve must’ve been right up next to it.

“Don’t you want Robin to be happy?” says Steve, at a much more normal volume. “She thinks you guys are pretty close, you know.”

Now that’s just dirty pool. Sure, it turns out he and Robin get along pretty well; sure, they’ve been thick as thieves ever since Robin inquired in a rambling roundabout way if certain rumors were true, and Eddie allowed as to how they might be. So what? Not like it means Eddie has to let himself be suckered into whatever hare-brained scheme Harrington’s cooked up now.

He tells himself all of this, then sighs and opens the door anyway.

“Okay, Harrington, come in and explain so I can tell you why this is a bad idea in excruciating detail.”

Steve smirks all smug and insufferable, and pushes past Eddie to sprawl on the couch.

“So, you know how the Vickie thing ended, right?”

Eddie shrugs. He kind of does, but he’s pretty sure he missed some things. He’s never gotten the full run-down or anything like that, he’s just rubbed Robin’s back as she got spectacularly drunk about it and puked in a bush.

“Anyway, it’s been like three months, and Robin’s still moping. She’s gotta put herself out there again, like getting back on a horse.”

“Bet she loved you telling her that,” says Eddie.

“Exactly, so, we should team up and do some of the legwork before I bring it up again. Set her up for success. I’ve got the charm, and you’ve got…” Steve gestures vaguely in Eddie’s general direction.

“A killer music collection? Impeccable personal style? Terrible taste in friends?”

“No, man, you’re—I mean, you’re gay, right?” Steve looks suddenly uncertain. It’s not like it’s a secret, obviously, but they haven’t talked about it in so many words before.

“Yeah, more or less,” says Eddie. It’s not like he’s never ever seen the appeal of any woman, but—yeah, more or less. Close enough for government work.

Steve claps his hands together decisively, like some kind of dorky Little League coach. “Great! Great, that’s perfect. So I can help Robin with the whole flirting-with-girls thing, and you can handle the gay stuff.”

Eddie bats his eyelashes and grins like the compulsively self-sabotaging dumbass he is. “Well, usually I make pretty boys buy me a drink before I handle any of their gay stuff.”

Steve Harrington, the little shit, isn’t phased at all. “You saying I’m not pretty enough for you, Eddie?” he drawls, leaning back and kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.

Eddie wonders if he can get away with lying down on the floor for a minute to recover. He probably can’t, so he just takes the psychic damage and swerves back to his main point.

“Look, Harrington, I think we should just let Buck find her own way. Be free, spread her wings, et cetera.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, uh-huh. If we do that, she’s gonna turn into some kind of weird hermit and never talk to another girl in her life. We’re on her team, right? We gotta get her confidence up so she can ride into the sunset with the babe of her dreams.”

Eddie drags his hands down his face, wishing desperately that Steve were just a tiny bit less…whatever this is, so his goddamn heart could maybe catch a break.

“I could really use a hand here, Eddie,” Steve says. He frowns a little, pressing his lips together and glancing away. “I know there’s stuff I don’t…I just don’t want to screw this up for Robin, okay? She deserves to be happy, but I need you to make sure I don’t do anything too dumb.”

“Think that one might be a lost cause,” says Eddie, but he collapses onto the couch with a resigned sigh. “Just—talk me through what you’ve got, okay?”

Steve lights up, throwing an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and shaking him a little, pulling him tight against Steve’s side. “Yes! Okay! Let’s do this!”

This is going to be a test of fortitude, but at least Eddie’s pretty sure it’ll all be over soon. How long can it possibly take to find a girlfriend for Robin Buckley?

#is this anything idk #I've been super busy but this just sort of spontaneously emerged; might be the start of a new fic fr? no promises #might fuck around and try to sell y'all on a rarepair for robin #(obviously this is also going to be steddie)#fic: somewhere sometime somehow

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cranberrymoons · 9 months

Text

that old black magic

prompt: magic au (@steddieholidaydrabbles) word count: 1,000 rated: t tags: fortune telling, witch/appalachian eddie, post-season 2

welcome to Day 20 (!!!) of the fic advent calendar – bite-sized fics posting every day during the month of december. enjoy!

The cards don’t actually do anything.

See, he waves his hand around and says some fancy words over some very old looking cards with very old looking art on them, and people assume that’s where the magic is – and the cards are old! And so is the art! But they just don’t actually do anything.

No, the magic sits in him. It always has. That’s always been the secret.

His mother had it, and his grandmother before her and her father before that and on and on, all the way back as far as the eye can see, right up the family tree to that one person at the top who made a deal with something in the woods one night, something as old as the hills themselves, that lurks behind trees and makes offers to desperate passing travelers.

But all that was hundreds of years before Eddie’s time.

These days, there are psychics on TV and people who do tarot readings in over-perfumed salons while they sit on a throne made of cheap velvet and clatter around with their bracelets and bangles and shawls. There are people who read palms and sell incense and run little bookshops that sell mass-produced spellbooks. Crystals and incense and moon charts, the whole world awash in fake magic. All of it, all of it, noise.

But Eddie’s one of the rare real ones. He doesn’t exactly go around advertising it, but give him a set of cards and enough money? Sure, he’ll do a little fake fortune telling for you, maybe even give you a real answer or two, nudge something in the right direction so you feel like you got your money’s worth.

All that to say, the first time Steve Harrington finds him after class, one day right before winter break, and takes a furtive look over his shoulder, Eddie’s fully prepared to do the usual song and dance.

“Um, hey man,” Steve says in a low voice. “I heard you uh –” He clears his throat, shuts his eyes like he can’t actually look at Eddie as he says it. “That you can sort of see the future? Or tell people what’s going to happen or whatever.”

He opens his eyes, and Eddie studies him for a moment, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “And?”

Steve makes a face, hitching his bag higher on his shoulder. “There’s some really weird shit going on,” he says, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder. “It’s kind of hard to explain but basically… there’s something that I really hope is over, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to ask or whatever but –” He lets out a breath. “Is it actually over?”

“Harrington, that’s –” Eddie shakes his head, running a hand back through his hair. “So fucking vague. How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

“Okay, just –” Steve lets out a breath. “If you could like… I don’t know, just give it a general look, see if I’m…”

As he continues rambling, Eddie tunes him out in favor of flipping through his timeline like a mental rolodex, just to see what he’s working with. Just to see what he can spin out of King Steve’s future, but –

“What the hell did you do?” he asks abruptly, cutting across Steve halfway through blabbering about something to do with someone named Justin or Dustin or – “There shouldn’t be blank spots, Harrington. Why do you have blank spots?”

Steve blinks at him. “I –” He frowns. “Blank spots?”

“Past and future, you’ve got these weird –” Eddie flaps a hand around in the air, lost for words, because – “Blank spots. I’ve never seen that before.”

Steve’s face goes blank with surprise. “Wait, like… you can actually see my future?” he asks. “Like right now, you’re seeing it? What are you seeing?”

“I’m… just –”

Eddie shakes his head, shuts his eyes to block out the feedback loop his brain seems to be caught in, because alongside the blank spots – and there are blank spots; what the fuck – he keeps seeing himself standing with Steve, which must be his brain trying to fill in the weird gaps?

Maybe?

How the fuck is he supposed to know? He’s never seen anything like this before.

“Did something happen around Halloween?” he asks finally, letting out a sharp, frustrated breath. “That’s where the first gap is, and then the next one is in like… a year or two from now? It’s kind of hard to tell.”

Steve’s expression drops, and his shoulders slump.

“The tunnels,” he says. “That’s – Halloween. I was in the tunnels at Halloween.” He says this as if it explains anything, but Eddie honestly feels twice as lost as he was thirty seconds ago. “So it’s going to happen again, then.”

Eddie makes a face, sort of aiming for – sympathetic? That seems like what Steve needs right now, probably.

“If it’s any consolation, you’re going to survive.” He shrugs. “There’s stuff after, a long life. I keep –” He takes a breath, considering not saying the rest, but Steve is going to ask for more details if he doesn’t. “I can’t really see a ton of it, because I think the blank spots are messing with me. I keep seeing myself there in your future stuff, but I’m sure my brain’s just filling in the gaps. It’s not like –”

“Like you’re part of my future.”

“Right,” Eddie says. He laughs. “Yeah, that would be –”

“Yeah.” Steve lets out a relieved little breath, and – sure. Fair enough. “Anyway, um – thanks, man. This is… not exactly good news, but I feel a little better, you know?”

“Yeah,” Eddie echoes. “Uh– anytime.”

Steve starts like he’s just remembered, and he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. “How much do I–”

“No, just–” Eddie shakes his head. “No charge. Just get home safe, okay?”

Steve nods, smiling a little. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

[also on ao3]

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddieholidaydrabbles #my fic

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effloradox · 9 months

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what would you do, if you only knew (that i can see you)

thomas thorne x ghost hunter+fem!reader (set during season 2 episode 1)

synopsis: being able to see ghosts for most of your life almost seemed to force you into being a ghost-hunter of sorts (not that your boss is actually good at his job), it’s only on a trip to button house and a reunion with an old friend from your student days that your ability actually comes into use after a run in with a particularly dashing ghost

a/n: this is massively inspired by the song i can see you by taylor swift, the plot just came into my head after listening to it and here we are, it was meant to fulfil one of the requests i’ve been sent but it went so far from the prompt that i decided to make it a separate fic and do another fic for the prompt

If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re not sure how you ended up in the ghost hunting business. It’s not something you even thought was a real job when you were a kid, it seemed like something you'd see people doing in the cartoons you watched. It was only after a close call when you were a teenager that almost killed you that you realised that you could see ghosts.

It made living in London quite difficult, the sheer amount of people who’s spirit hadn’t moved on was difficult to deal with but you managed to set yourself up with the so-called Ghostmaster General and it gave you a steady stream of work going round the country with him seeing if the buildings were actually haunted or not. You’d never explicitly said you could see ghosts to your employer but you could express enough knowledge that he kept choosing you to go on the trips. When photos of a grey lady surfaced on Facebook and Twitter from a mansion in Hemel Hempstead your boss had called on you immediately to join him on the trip.

Button House didn’t seem to be any different than the countless other manor houses you’d seen over the past few years. It's in a worse state of repairs than you're used to but aside from that it seems like every other fake haunted house you've visited. You’d left your boss to sort out whether you were being allowed inside the house, not wanting to drag the many bags of equipment to the front gates if you were going to have to just bring them back to the van. It’s only when he gives you the go-ahead to go and start setting equipment up inside that you grab a few bags and make your way towards the entrance.

It's with a jolt of surprise that you realise you recognise one of the owners of the house. You’d been friends with Alison at university until the two of you had both finished your degrees and parted ways, keeping in touch only to wish each other a happy birthday or similar milestones.

“Alison, hey!” The woman looked your way at her name, and her face bloomed into a confused smile when her eyes fell on you.

“Hey! Oh my god!” She pulled you into a hug as soon as you were within arms reach and you did your best to reciprocate without hitting her with the equipment bag slung over your shoulder.

“This is your house?”

“Yeah, well it was my great-step-aunt’s house and I inherited it when she died.”

“That’s amazing! Much easier than trying to get lucky with London real estate.”

“So how did you end up doing this?” Alison gestures vaguely to the bag pulled across your shoulder. It’s all you can do to shrug your shoulders lightly, trying to look as blasé as possible as you readjust the strap before it starts to slip down.

“It pays the bills.”

You couldn’t help but notice how nervous Alison was about the whole situation she’d found herself in but you chalked it up to nerves about having so many strangers in her home and didn’t think to push it. She’s kind enough to give you directions up to one of the rooms near the attic that your boss has assigned for the thermal camera currently resting against your shoulder. You agree to a cup of tea and a catch up before making your way to the room.

Everything was going normally with the equipment setup until you suddenly heard a voice shouting down a corridor. It immediately pulled your attention from the camera you were setting up, your eyes trained on the closed door to the room you're in waiting to hear footsteps approaching. When silence lay steady, your focus returned back to the camera.

It takes a great deal of self-control to try not to flinch when a figure suddenly comes through the closed door. You try not to let your eyes flicker away from the camera but can’t help but quickly scan the figure. It’s not the grey ghost you saw in the pictures, the man is dressed like a scout for some reason and the only abnormal thing about him is the arrow sticking out of his neck. You can’t help but wince slightly at that, what a terrible way to go. The ghost is talking to himself apparently in a thick northern accent or that’s what you assumed until another ghost steps through the door.

It takes everything within you to not stare at this ghost. He’s clearly from a few hundred years ago based on his attire but he might be the most beautiful man you’re ever laid eyes on. He was mid-sentence when he walked through the door saying something about finding the others but his voice trailed off when he looked in your direction.

“But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and you are the sun.” The way his voice carries the words is nothing short of reverent and you can practically feel the embarrassment rushing through your body. It's not the first time a ghost has found you attractive but normally they're plague victims or half-mad, they don't normally look as though they've just stepped away from a recreation of Pride and Prejudice.

“Thomas! It's not polite to stare.” The scout almost looks apologetic which is quite sweet given that there’s no way he can know that you can see him but his words have done nothing to deter Button House’s version of Mr Darcy.

“And yet we hang the most beautiful paintings ever created in galleries so that the masses may gaze upon their beauty. Would you deny me a similar experience Pat?”

As nice as it is to have someone speak about you like that, you’re aware that it’s going to be very difficult to get through the night if you have a ghost following you and all but swooning over you. Part of you wonders if you could try and feign being sick but also you know how one-track minded your boss will be about this house and there’s no way he’ll be willing to leave to drive you into the nearest town to get a train back to London.

You hear the familiar sounds of the camera as it’s finally finished setting up facing the door and, as you expected, shows no sign of any heat signatures. You decide to leave your other bag in the room for now, choosing instead to go and find Alison. The two ghosts are mid-debate as to whether it’s polite to stare at someone who doesn’t know they’re being stared at as you walk over to the door.

It’s with slightly shaking hands that you twist the handle on the door, opening it as calmly as possible as you try to remember your way out of the house. You can hear the ghosts talking in the room and the voices don’t seem to be getting any further away but the only cohesive thought in your mind is that you have to track down Alison and ask her what she knows about the house.

“Hey, you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.” Alison laughs nervously at her joke but it does nothing to relax you.

“I need to speak to you.”

“Okay?”

“Outside.” Alison must see something in your expression that worries her because she allows you to take her by the arm and gently leads you to the front door. It's only when the front door is closed behind you and you can't see anyone dead or alive around that you find your anxiety easing. When you stop moving, you make sure to have your back to the front door, if only to put yourself at ease.

“Are you okay?” You’re about to speak when a voice cuts through the silence.

“Alison! You must reveal the name of this fair maiden at once! Her beauty outshines the sun in a way I never believed possible up until this very moment.” You have to give credit to Alison, she's very good at hiding the flinch when a voice suddenly appears from through the front door. It's only from a lifetime of doing something similar that you catch it, and you watch her eyes darting to something behind you before looking back towards you.

“Sorry, did you say something?” To give Alison credit, her voice only wavers slightly after the interruption. Maybe it’s unfair of you but when you speak, you make sure to do so in a quieter tone than you would normally. You have to be sure that she can see and hear him before you say anything and if you can make it harder for her to hear you under the loud gushing of the ghost then you’ll do what you can.

“I think there’s something upstairs.” You try to pay close attention to any reactions that Alison has to your comment but it’s very difficult once the ghost appears by your side. Up close he really is gorgeous. It’s almost a shame he’s dead because if you saw him in public you’d want his number in a heartbeat. It’s very hard to not let your eye wander in his direction, especially when he’s so close to you. He hasn’t stopped talking since he appeared through the door and whilst you’re more than used to a chatty ghost, you can see that Alison is getting more and more distracted by him.

“Alison! I must insist you express how ardently I admire this fair lady immediately or I shall never give you a moment of peace!” The threat, however serious he is about it, seems to be the final breaking point for your friend, whose face shoots in his direction.

“Thomas, stop talking for one second!” Even the ghost seems surprised by her outburst, staring at her with wide eyes and an open mouth. She catches her mistake in an instant, staring at you with an almost mortified expression as she waits for your reaction.

“I’m guessing you have more than two ghosts here then?”

“What?” Alison’s voice is tentative, like she’s waiting for you to either laugh in her face or run away screaming. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“I can see them too.”

“What?!” You don’t blame Alison for being surprised, it’s not something you ever told her during your time as students, not even when you had both had a bit too much to drink and your secrets spilled easily. You’d learned early into your time seeing ghosts that telling people the truth was a quick way to alienate yourself from friends and peers alike. It was much easier to lie and say you were just an anxious person by nature who startled easily than to explain that you flinched every time you saw a particularly gruesome looking ghost.

“Sorry for not telling you. Pat seems really nice.”

“Oh my god.” A beat passes as the news sinks in, and then another wave of acceptance seems to reach Alison and with it comes another shout. “Oh my god! You can hear him?” She points in Thomas’ direction and the ghost in question has the good grace to look somewhat mortified by the idea you’ve spent the past thirty minutes listening to him regale you with compliments that he thought you couldn’t hear.

“I can.” For a ghost that’s just spent the better part of an hour showering you with compliments, he suddenly seems unable to string a sentence together. It’s easy to put him out of his misery though. “You’re very handsome by the way. I’m very flattered.” His face goes red at the compliment and, for the first time since he appeared in front of you, he seems genuinely speechless. Alison seems to be in a similar state.

“Does your boss know?”

“Absolutely not! I didn’t want to spend most of my adult life being ridiculed for something no one would ever believe to be true. Have you told anyone?”

“Mike knows. Kind of hard not to tell him with so many of them.” Mike is quickly making his way into your good books with everything you hear about him and you make a mental note to buy him a nice bottle of wine for being such a supportive husband.

“How many have you got?”

“Too many.” You let out a soft noise of consideration before turning to the still shocked ghost standing beside you.

“Would you introduce me to your friends?” Thomas seems to snap out of his shock at your request, bowing slightly and extending a hand in your direction. It’s a sweet gesture even though both of you know you can’t physically take his hand.

“It would be my pleasure.”

“I’ll uh, catch up with you later?”

“You might want to worry about the twenty-something ghost hunters running amok in your house first.” Alison pales slightly at the reminder of what situation has brought the three of you to where you currently are.

“Oh god. I need to go and find Mike.” Your friend is quick to dash back inside her house, leaving the door open for you and Thomas to follow her. Manly you, since he could just phase through the door again.

“Shall we Lady-uh…” It’s only in that moment that you realise Alison never actually told Thomas your name and you’re quick to correct that.

“(Y/N).” You supply.

“Lady (Y/N).”

“We shall.” Thomas walks towards the house first, waiting just beyond the door for you to follow him. Your only thought as you walk through the door is that you hope you don’t run into your boss for the next thirty minutes or so otherwise you might have some explaining to do.

#my writing #fics #thomas thorne x reader #bbc ghosts x reader #fem!reader

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drbased · 2 months

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I wholeheartedly believe that the rise of andrew tate is a direct response to metoo. There's always been edgy misogynist male figures that men have gravitated towards, but andrew tate was the first one for whom there wasn't a veneer of jokey irony. and the thing about metoo is society really did not fucking know how to handle it. any feminist worth her salt would not be surprised at the obvious pattern, but for the first time in all of recorded history we had that pattern laid bare for the world to see. if famous and powerful men and women were committing sexual assault at the same rates, then I don't think we'd have seen such a backlash. literally no male figure was 'safe' - the edgy ones, the nice ones, the strongly political ones, the toughguy ones, the hot ones, the 'wife guy' ones, the forgettable ones, the accessible average ones. one from every category has been found committing some sort of assault, and it's jaded our entire populace. society did not fucking know how to handle it. and now, we have an entire generation of boys raised in a society already full of misogyny but no veneer of 'only the other type of man is the Bad Guy, not me - he's the one who's the wrong type of masculine'. leftists themselves didn't even know how to handle it, really - they've tried to talk about 'toxic masculinity' and 'no positive male role models' and 'men in power' but there's this stink all over it - like the stink of a cheap air freshener trying to cover up decades of bad air. it's literally impossible to engage with metoo without directly engaging with feminist theory, just as it's impossible to engage with blm without directly engaging with white supremacy. these social issues once considered niche have become mainstream and forced the normie populace to engage with ideas well beyond their comfort zone, forcing apolitical people to take a stand. most people have tried to take some sort of neutral stance by vaguely gesturing to 'the patriarchy' as some nebulous force that hurts men as much as it does women, but there's an increasingly large subset of men for whom engaging with even the most casual of media now has to involve being reminded of feminism - for a lot of us, there's kind of no escapism anymore. I've seen comments like 'enjoying a song and hoping the singer isn't caught with child porn' which very much echo my experience when engaging with any media made by... oh shit, it's really is mainly men, isn't it?

I'm a millenial, pretty squarely a millenial, and my generation of teenage boys were obsessed with edgy humour - eminem, dead baby jokes, rape jokes, family guy, south park. but that era is dead - if there's irony now it's a knowing irony. and that's what metoo did. teenage boys have always wanted to play in the dirt of society, they've always wanted to engage with the shittiest of what society has to offer. as they come of age they learn that society is their stomping ground, morality their playground. if rape of women is no big deal, then why care about the rest of morality? it's all just one big joke. and once, that joke used to carry with it a sincerely held belief that it was all just a joke - that is, inconsequential. but now we all know that this is shit isn't all theoretical - we've all heard the term rape culture, and the harmful effects of the n word. so if the joke has to continue, then it has to be on new terms. there has to be no irony anymore. if theoretical rape is funny, and rape of women is real, then real rape has to be funny. if rape isn't allowed to be funny, then rape has to be righteous.

andrew tate's popularity is an active 'fuck you' to society. it says that if men can't hide behind a veneer of respectability, blame rape on 'the other guy' and there aren't any nice guys, then fuck it, there aren't any nice guys. the idea of the 'white knight' has been popular in the manosphere for some time - the concept of a man only being kind to a woman because he's trying to sleep with her is something mras despise not because of the dishonesty to her but because of the dishonesty to other men. they value men being honest to each other in their hatred of women. and andrew tate is the embodiment of that mentality in the mainstream. men didn't mind the concept of popular powerful men being dishonest about their hatred of women because it was a useful societal buffer. perhaps you might even believe that these men liked the 'unproblematic' famous guys precisely because thinking about evil stuff all the time can make you feel a bit bad sometimes; a lot of the cool meme guys have an image that's nothing to do with women or sex. but if even those guys can't be divorced from misogyny and rape, then fuck it, we're not gonna pretend to care anymore. the veneer of male respectability was always for the sake of men. if women aren't gonna let us hide, then we're not going to hide.

#theory posting #my writing

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throneofsapphics · 10 months

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old faces, part three

Rowaelin x f!Reader

Summary: you and Rowan meet again, and deal with the fall-out of your secret.

Warnings: violence, descriptions of violence, death, minor injury, drinking

Word Count: ~5.3k

A/N: more rowaelin in the next chapter! coming late tonight/tomorrow if everything goes according to plan

series masterlist

True to their word, you didn’t see Aelin or Rowan before their departure yesterday. Fenrys came by once, letting you know they’d spoken to the future Emperor and Empress, and that they’d be keeping an eye out for you. You never saw them, but you sensed their presence. It brought a small bit of comfort. Not enough to let your guard down.

Overwhelmed. That’s how you felt. Ceri and Ani seemed thrilled at the ‘new adventure,’ even more excited it was a secret, that they couldn’t tell anyone exactly when they were leaving and where they were going. Reya had been a mixture of contemplation and excitement but you - you were an anxious mess.

New challenges, and more exposure you couldn't avoid. You were nervous for Ceri, above all. Nervous about how she’d be treated, about what this meant for her. At least she’d have her best friend with her. The vague plan was to visit a few different parts of Terrasen, starting with Orynth, and if the trial went well, it would be a group decision on where to settle.

“You’re nervous.” Reya commented, you shot her a look and she held her hands up in a placating gesture. “Have you decided what to do with your home?”

Home. A pleasant surprise in your mother’s will. A home you fully intended to keep in the family. But, Reya’s asking if you’ll rent it out or not. It would be easy to let magic seal it up, but if you rented it, you could deposit the money into a bank account and leave you with a fund if you ended up back here.

The last week had been a gods-damned whirlwind, giving you barely a moment to rest. Liquidating your assets, downsizing, late nights finishing up projects, informing vendors you’d no longer have goods available, pulling the girls from school, and more.

“Renting would be a good option,” you finally replied. Reya nodded, she was doing the same thing - and you trusted her sister to take care of both properties - for a fee of course. At least there was someone you could trust.

“They’re going stir-crazy,” Reya commented. You could see it too, the frustration on their faces at being cooped up. “The park is right around the corner.”

“It’s risky,” you hesitated.

“We all need it.”

You couldn’t argue with that, or with the excitement on their faces as you told them. Still, you slipped a trusted knife into a sheath under your dress. On the way, Reya reminded them to keep their ‘adventure’ secret. To answer ‘I don’t know,’ if anyone asks questions, and to inform the two of you. No chances.

There were a few other women there you vaguely recognized, and children both Ani and Ceri sprinted towards. They climbed over the various obstacles, running around and making up different games. Ceri, of course, took the lead in organizing everyone, directing them like a general. What would Rowan think if he was here? Probably pride. And maybe alarm at just how wild his daughter ran. Her Fae heritage let run and climb faster, and it took away a certain sense of self-preservation.

“Will she be immortal as well?” Reya murmured quietly.

“Most likely,” you admitted. Maybe in a selfish way, you really hoped she would. If you had to watch her grow old … you shoved the thought to the back of your mind. There was enough to worry about for now.

Three hours later, the two of them exhausted enough energy to start asking for dinner, and agreed to leave. The break was good for you, the fresh air and walk in your city calming your nerves. Another chance to see it - your shelter and safe haven.

Ceri held your hand on the twenty minute walk, chattering about the games she’d played, her enthusiasm and joy confectious. Ani was doing the same to Reya in front of you.

Just around the corner, the hair on the back of your neck pricked. Something was wrong.

“Reya,” you called, voice just drifting over the wind, laced with warning. Her head swirled, the whites around her eyes showing and you mouthed; act natural. Letting your senses take over, you listened in for movements, for heartbeats, for whatever the hell was out there.

A magic you didn’t recognize was present, and probing at the wards on your home. A male, mortal, magic wielder. Across the street, but still too gods-damned close. You needed to get inside, to get into safety.

Throwing up what you hoped was a discreet shield, you kept your pace and body language natural as you approached. First thing you learned; don’t let them know. But, Ceri had picked up on it, her hand tightening around yours, head on a swivel. Quickly, you spared a glance at her; trust me, you tried to say, and she gave you a small nod. You prayed you’d show yourself worthy of that trust in the next few minutes. Maybe some of the emperor and empresses ‘eyes’ were nearby. But, no sense in hoping or relying for something that might not be true.

Thirty paces away, male disappeared, cloaked from your sight- but you could sense his location. Reya fell back with Ani to walk next to you. It was Ceri they were after, and that brought lethal focus to your mind. Let those instincts rise, the instinct to protect your family and friends.

Ten paces, Reya’s nerves were showing but she kept herself loose, putting her trust in you.

Everything happened within a minute, but each second dragged on. You had the seconds to shove them back behind the gate, throwing the wards up. Reya knew to drag the girl’s inside - Ceri’s yells and shouts echoing in your ears. If you went in as well, there wasn’t anyone to stop him from trying to shatter the magic, and you couldn’t do shit from behind them.

The bits of training you picked up over the years came into play, the glint of a knife in front of you, and you thanked the immortal reactions and senses you’d been born with - gifting you an advantage. A knife flew to your shoulder, you dodged, shifting again as he threw another - shallowly slicing across your cheek. You palmed your one fighting knife, the pain fading into the background, and slashed across his forearm, severing his tendons. The dagger clattered, metal echoing off the cobblestones, copper scent filling the air.

He spat a curse, and you danced around each other, before landing another slice. Blood spurted from his arm in rivets - eerily like a fountain, and you heard the whistle.

An archer on the opposite roof, gesturing to the side. They needed a shot that wouldn’t risk hitting you. You hoped they’d leave him alive - you had several questions for him. They got their shot a second later, and you watched as an arrow lodged through the man’s skull, his body flopping to the pavement in front of you. So much for your questions.

You prayed Reya had shielded their view.

A plain-clothed guard was there in seconds, and you let your back hit the wall behind you, adrenaline still coursing through your veins, and used your dress to clean the blood from your knife. It was ruined anyway, a little more blood wouldn’t make a difference. The strange sense and scent of death filled the air as slid it back into your sheath, focusing on one movement at a time, keeping yourself grounded.

You tried, you really tried, not to hate Rowan in that moment. It’s not his fault, not his fault he’s the father. He’d mentioned the target, the risk and dangers, but it hadn’t quite set in until that moment. Stupid, you were stupid for leaving the house. If anything, it was your fault. By some miracle, none of your neighbors were peeking their nosy heads out.

Reya’s muffled voice came from the garden. Gods, she must be screaming at the top of her lungs for you to hear her. You turned, giving her a ‘thumbs up.’ It felt childish, considering someone had just threatened your lives, but she returned with a tense smile, one arm barely holding back a furious Ceri. Ani tucked behind her, head just poking out.

“I’m fine,” you mouthed to your daughter. She signed back - you were a bit surprised she remembered that language, it had been a while since you used it.

You’re bleeding.

Not my blood. I need you to keep Ani calm.

Give her something to do, a task, and she’d focus on it. Sure enough, it worked and she tugged her friend back inside.

The guards had multiplied, at least seven of them on the surrounding street now. And - a certain blonde haired male sprinting down the street. Fenrys stood by your side as you answered all of their questions. The magic shielding the house behind you didn’t waver, not for one second.

“You should get that looked at,” Fenrys murmured, as the body was carted off, a small crowd dispersing, and one official-looking woman promising updates.

“Hm?” Your eyes flicked to him. He gestured to your cheek, to the cut already healing.

“It scarred.”

The small sting had faded to the back of your mind. Frowning, you ran two fingers over your face, an angry raised red line. That shouldn’t be there, not unless … you crouched to the ground, snatching the same knife that cut you.

“Iron,” you murmured.

“Still shouldn’t leave a scar,” Fenrys took a step closer, eyeing the weapon.

You twisted the blade in your hand, surprised the guards hadn’t already picked it up. Marks etched into the handle, marks you recognized.

“He was a magic wielder,” you had his full attention now, “it’s not … cursed, but enchanted to leave a scar.”

Your fist white-knuckled around the handle. He meant to mar your daughter.

“Can you let us inside?” Fenrys requested, distracting you from the pure wrath filling every inch of your body. The guards had finished their questioning, some now obviously stationed down the street - another archer joining the previous one.

You willed the magic to bend slightest bit, enough for the two of you to slip inside, before slamming it shut again.

“How soon can you be ready to leave?” Fenrys’s voice was insistent. You had a feeling he’d drag you to the ship soon if he had to.

“Aren’t we traveling with you?”

Fenrys nodded, and paused for a moment. “Can you be ready tomorrow by dusk?”

You’d wrapped up the last of the ‘official’ business this morning, intending to give you a week to sort things out at a leisurely pace. But, words were too much right now, everything was too gods-damned much, so you answered with a nod. By tomorrow would be stressful, but doable.

“We’ll leave then. I’ll announce we’re leaving at dawn the day after.” Smart, giving a false departure. “Only us, the captain and the crew will know, and they won’t know who it is until we board,” Fenrys continued - maybe more to reassure himself than you. Part of you wondered why he was going through the effort but … Rowan was his bloodsworn brother, maybe he felt some kind of duty to the two of you.

“How’d you get here so quickly?” You asked the question lingering in the back of your mind.

“I didn’t. I was already on my way.” Fenrys’s mouth opened, and you could read the next word,

“Say sorry and I’ll kick you in the balls.”

He winced, and feigned sealing his mouth shut.

The door slammed open, knocking into the wall, and Ceri sprinted out, silver hair flowing behind her. You braced yourself as she slammed into you, arms wrapping around your stomach.

“I kept Ani calm,” she whispered, squeezing you tighter.

“I’m proud of you,” you ran your non-bloody hand through her hair.

After a few minutes, she released you. Her small hand reached up, and you stayed still as she ran a finger on the scar. “Why would he do that?”

When you hesitated, Ceri turned to Fenrys, as if he might have the answer. Her green eyes nearly bore a hole through his head.

“Sometimes people do bad things and we don’t know why,” he answered slowly, “but everyone’s safe now.”

“What happened to him?” She turned back to you.

“He died,” a small tension left your chest - she hadn’t seen it.

“You killed him?” Her head tilted, no judgment - just curiosity and a desire to gather all of the facts.

“No, I didn’t,” you anticipated the next question, “and neither did he. One of the royal guards did.”

Ceri mumbled something suspiciously like; I wish I killed him, and grabbed your hand - dragging you back inside. You shot an alarmed glance at Fenrys, whose mouth curved up at the corners. Seven years old, and already bloodthirsty. Maybe you should’ve questioned what kind of bed-time story Rowan told.

“Just like her father,” he murmured, quiet enough only you heard.

An inelegant snort left you, “I was thinking the same thing.”

Reya’s eyes scanned you from top to bottom, and you were aware of the blood staining your skin and clothes.

“Ceri,” she called, gaining her attention, “can you help me run a bath for your mother?” She looked at you for permission, you forced a soft smile, watching her take off after your friend, Ani’s dark hair flashing as well, never one to be left out.

“Are you going to insist on spending the night?” You didn’t look at him.

An edged chuckle, “I'm afraid I will.”

“Males,” you muttered under your breath, but shot him a grateful smile. Another set of eyes, another person to watch out for Ceri. Not that you’d get any sleep tonight. Reya returned a minute later, shoving a bundle of clothes in your hands, ushering you off towards the bathing room.

Ceri was proud of the rose scents she’d chosen. Once, you’d loved Lilac - but you shedded that when you left Wendlyn. It hadn’t felt right anymore, it felt like an old version of you. The female left behind. Plus, it made you nauseous during your pregnancy.

Fenrys didn’t leave for the rest of the night, entertaining the girls as you and Reya cooked, helping with the dishes, a perfect guest. Even with a spare room available, he insisted he’d crash on the couch closest to the door. He didn’t comment as you exited your room each hour, traveling past the sitting room to peek into where Ani and Ceri slept, both sound asleep.

You caught maybe two or three hours of sleep total, but pure adrenaline kept you going the next morning. It spurred you and Reya into near-frantic packing, listening to Fenrys’s request to stay put when he left for a few hours. One small trunk each, plus one extra for books - your personal ones and school books. Everything else ended up in the attic, sealed off by magic. The tears stayed at bay as you deactivated the wards, dropping off the keys to Reya’s sister - who was informed less than an hour before, and vowed herself to secrecy. Everything about this felt so … cloak and dagger. Ceri and Ani viewed it as some grand adventure, but you and Reya were tense, entire bodies taut with nerves.

With twenty minutes to go, you closed the door to the bathroom, hands bracing on the counter. An angry red scar ran diagonally across your cheek, still slightly lifted from your skin. If you adjusted your hair, just a bit, it mostly cloaked it from sight. Another permanent reminder.

A nondescript carriage, made less discreet by armed guards, picked up the five of you just after sunset and took the long way through the city. It gave you a chance to see everything gaze through the window, making out a few details by moonlight. There’s no telling how long it would be before you see it again. Maybe a year, maybe a decade, but one day you’d at least come back to visit.

Not a permanent goodbye.

Fenrys ushered you onto the ship, joined by a few others you didn’t recognize. Soldiers, disguised as courtiers. Or maybe soldiers turned courtiers.

“Did you send word ahead?” You murmured, the captain directing you to a spot still on deck, but out of the way. The girls bounced with excitement, barely managing to keep themselves still.

“No sense in it,” Fenrys countered, “we’re on the fastest ship available. It would probably get there after us.”

You learned quickly what fastest meant. Magic wielders were on board, the ‘soldier-courtiers.’

Most of the first day was spent holding back Reya and Ani’s hair, convincing them to take some of the nausea tonic you’d brought with you.

The second day, Fenrys showed Ani and Ceri some more advanced self-defense.

The third day, the girls had convinced the sailors to tell them stories.

The fourth, you rolled dice and made bets - Fenrys sharing his liquor with you.

The fifth, you thought you might lose your mind of boredom - until Fenrys dragged you out to see how much self defense you knew. According to him - better than expected. He quickly added a ‘not surprising,’ considering who your father was. That particular detail, you usually forgot about - or tried to.

The next several days passed in similar fashion, interrupted on day eight by Ceri trying desperately to convince you to shift to your animal form - then to teach her to shift to her animal form. It’s too dangerous at sea, you told her. When it didn’t work with you - she moved to Fenrys, who repeated your words, adding that she needed to be a bit older. After that, she gave up, thank the Gods. The last thing you need is to rescue an adolescent bird from the water.

On day twenty, you spotted land. The first look at Terrasen. Mountains, still snow-capped in the summer, green forest, a small city. Illium, according to the maps you’d acquired. Then, you’d cut into the Florine river, taking you right to Orynth. Where you’d reconnect with Rowan and Aelin, and figure out what comes next.

According to Fenrys, it’s normally a two week journey, but they dragged it out enough that the five of you would arrive closer to the expected time, after the rest of their court did. He declined to inform you of that until a few days before.

“Will they know we’re coming?” You asked, propped up against crates, Fenrys stretched out next to you, tan face tilted up towards the sun, Reya on your other side, Ceri and Ani a few paces away, playing a card game they learned the night before.

A genuine friendship had formed between the three of you over the last few weeks. Fenrys could’ve easily ignored you, but instead he sought out both of your company. The girls attached to him as well, eagerly taking in all of his lessons, pestering him with questions about Terrasen, all of which he answered patiently and thoroughly.

“Depends,” he turned to shoot a lazy grin at the two of you, “on how much chaos Aelin decides to cause. It’s been a while since she surprised anyone, I wouldn’t be shocked if she convinced Rowan to keep it a secret.”

Gods, you tilted your head back this time, letting it rest against the top of the crate. There’s a chance you’d arrive to Orynth, the entire court with no fucking idea who you were, who Ceri was. It had the potential to be incredibly awkward, or hilarious. You refused to stress over it, it was out of your hands for now.

Their court gathered to discuss the results of their visit to the southern continent, as planned, arriving earlier that afternoon. The scouts reported the ship carrying Fenrys and company would arrive tomorrow after dusk - perfect timing for a discreet entry. But … two days early. That unsettled both her and Rowan. There wasn’t a good reason for them to arrive early, especially without any kind of notice. Although, with the crew they had - any notice sent would likely arrive after them. Instincts told her something went wrong, and she saw it echoed in Rowan’s face. They tabled it for later. There wasn’t anything they could do until they saw them. Until they had a chance to launch questions at Fenrys.

Aelin wouldn’t call it a fight, but she’d argued with Rowan over whether or not to tell their court about their surprise.

“At least before they arrive, Fireheart,” Rowan sounded exasperated.

“At breakfast, then,” she wound her arms around his neck, tilting her head up to grin at him. Tomorrow, they’d be here, and she was looking forward to your company. Aelin thought she might feel jealous of the connection you shared with Rowan through Ceri, but she didn’t. Instead, she wanted to be your friend - there was something soothing about your company, and she saw why Rowan grew … close to you. Even before she met the two of you, he’d been upfront about how you traced the line between friends and lovers, how you both knew it was a temporary arrangement.

Her mind tried to tell her it was wrong that she felt this comfortable with Rowan being near an ex-lover, that her Fae instincts should be rearing with territorial jealousy. Thankfully they weren’t - otherwise it could make their current situation very difficult.

“Should I be the one to make the announcement?” Rowan pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I’m much better at them,” Aelin gave a smile, honeyed with false innocence.

“You’ve given us enough surprises for a lifetime,” he muttered - but she knew he’d follow her lead. As much as he denied it, Rowan didn’t mind shaking everything up once in a while.

“Evangeline will be excited,” she pressed up on her toes, placing a kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“She’s much older,” he murmured.

“I imagine she’ll take them under her wing.” Aelin pulled back to watch Rowan’s face. Nervous, her mate was nervous, one of the few times she’d seen him like that. It was oddly endearing. She was nervous too, of course, but it was … refreshing to be nervous over something not quite life and death.

She decided now was the wrong time to remind him they’d be able to explore different parts of Terrasen - to decide where they’d want to live after Ceri’s ‘trial.’ If they stayed in Terrasen.

Rowan sensed her shift in mood, and tilted her chin up to look at her. “It’ll be fine.” Aelin forced air in and out of her lungs, and nodded.

“Bed,” he muttered, and tugged her off towards their room.

“What is it?” Aedion sat down his glass, looking between Rowan and Aelin. Rowan kept his mouth shut, sending a pointed look at Aelin. She wanted to make the announcement, she could do it. “Please tell me you’re not planning something,” Aedion groaned.

“It wasn’t planned,” Rowan muttered before he could stop himself.

Aelin’s foot stomped on his insole, and he pinched her thigh under the table.

Aelin propped her forearms on the oak wood, and everyone’s attention turned to her. Their entire court was here - minus Fenrys. Ren, Aedion, Lysandra, Evangeline, Elide, and Lorcan - who wouldn’t let Elide go anywhere alone.

“We have some guests arriving with Fenrys.”

“Who?” Lysandra asked, lifting a glass of water to her lips.

Fuck it, Rowan could say this for himself..

“While we were in Antica, I ran into an old … friend,” Lorcan’s eyes dug a hole into his skull, and he avoided his former commander’s gaze. “I have a seven year old daughter.”

Lysandra yelped and shot back as Aedion spewed water across the table, Elide’s eyes were wide, Lorcan looked contemplative, Ren and Elide blinked several times, Evangeline - as Aelin expected, looked thrilled.

“Ceri, Rowan’s daughter, her mother - y/n, her friend Reya, and her daughter Ani will arrive this evening,” Aelin cut in. Rowan caught Lorcan’s gaze as soon as Aelin said your name. Dark eyes flashed in recognition. Interesting.

Aelin continued to explain the deal they’d come to. His wife even asked if they’d be willing to let the group explore living in their respective lands, conveniently mentioning some of your skill sets and how you’d been open to working here.

“Gods, Aelin.” Aedion sighed at the end. “And Rowan,” he added, ignoring his glare. “A little warning would’ve been nice.”

Still, he had a contemplative look on his face. You’d done the same thing his mother had - to protect his daughter from Maeve. A silent understanding passed through them, that Rowan was getting the chance Gavriel didn’t, that he’d honor it.

“How did she go … undiscovered, in Antica this long?” Ren asked cautiously.

“Well, Sartaq suspected there was a Whitethorn relative living in the city, but as Fenrys said,” Aelin ignored the elbow he discreetly jabbed into her side, “Rowan has an army of cousins - there were plenty of possible sire’s.” That drew a few chuckles and eye rolls.

“She wasn’t going to tell you?” Elide pushed.

“We don’t know.” Aelin said honestly. It was luck … or fate, that he ran into you during that trip. He had a feeling your paths would’ve crossed eventually, but the timeline was pushed up.

“I’m surprised she agreed that quickly,” Lorcan said.

“It wasn’t safe in Antica, anymore. There were already people gathering outside their home.”

“It won’t be completely safe anywhere.” Lysandra replied, “but it’s safer here.”

“Considering who her father was, I imagine she can handle herself,” Lorcan drawled. Aelin’s brow furrowed, and Rowan frowned. He hadn’t shared that, it hadn’t really struck him as particularly important.

“Are you going to explain?” Elide pinned him with a look, and Lorcan - firmly on her leash, kept talking.

“Her father was a skilled warrior. He mated to a demi-Fae from Antica, met while visiting Varese, and finished out his military service not long after,” Lorcan said, adding “he declined the blood oath for centuries, eventually Maeve gave up on him,” as an afterthought.

“Was?” Elide asked quietly.

Lorcan looked at Rowan, almost asking for permission to share this part of your story - or giving him the chance to. He wondered how Lorcan knew, when it took him a lot of convincing to find out.

“Her parents died when she was young,” he made a point to meet each of their eyes. “Don’t push her about it.” His warning tone was enough that nobody, even Aelin, pushed the question further.

Rowan remembered enough to know how you locked up at any mention of their lives and deaths, how it took a decent amount of liquor to pull any personal details out of you. One night - after you’d had a good amount of particularly strong brew, you spilled.

For some reason, Rowan had a fixation on knowing your story. He wanted to know everything he could about you. A terrifying feeling, but he didn’t see the harm in learning, gathering information was a habit built over centuries. Even if this particular story wasn’t pleasant. If it involved you, he wanted to know. Learning your fathers name surprised him, and as soon as you said it - he didn’t know the story, but knew how it ended.

“They bought me time. There must’ve been nearly three hundred of them - mortal soldiers,” one Fae warrior was as good as a hundred mortal soldiers, but against those odds, against three hundred …

“They hit them both with Iron first, and my mother made me promise to run for the hills - told me if I came back I would be dead, and then they would win.” Rowan kept his face neutral, but inside he winced. That was a harsh way to put it, but effective. “I made it to the hills, and hid in a tree. But … I could see everything. Eventually, they were overrun. I watched the whole thing. They spiked their heads on our fence posts, but left the house intact. For seven days, they waited to see if someone would come back. I still don’t know why.”

He did, her father had built a reputation, and wiping out his entire family line would’ve been a prize to them. He didn’t tell you that.

“After I was certain they were gone, I buried them, took what I could carry, and left. I’m still not certain what happened to the rest of the soldiers. Maybe twenty were left by the end.”

Rowan knew. Lorcan hunted them down. Made a brutal example out of them. By the time he opened his mouth to tell you, you were already asleep.

“We could use more women - and females, around here,” Lysandra switched the subject with a grin.

“What’s she like?” Evangeline asked.

“We didn’t get to spend much time with her, but we’ll find out.” Aelin answered.

Time. Rowan would take full advantage of every second he could spend with Ceri. He’d missed too much already.

The ship steadily made its way up the river, your eyes glued on the surroundings. Terrasen was … absolutely beautiful and different than anywhere you’d seen before. Snow, that would be new to you. The sun was setting as you approached the city, steady but slow.

“We’re going to arrive after dark,” Fenrys said, arms propped on the railing next to you. “More discreet.”

You hummed in appreciation before your mood sobered. “Everything’s about to change, isn’t it?”

“No need to be so dramatic,” he tutted, nudging you with his shoulder. “But yes, it is.”

With three hours left, you all disappeared below decks to try and make yourself as … not stinky as possible. As you were making the final approach, Fenrys offered you a small flask. Alcohol - but the scent was barely detectable. Could easily be explained as time spent on a ship. You shot him an incredulous look.

“Liquid courage, they won’t scent it on you.” You stared at him for a few moments, where had he gotten that? “If you don’t want it,” he reached a hand towards it, but you snatched it back - tipping a small bit down your throat. Just enough to take the edge off. You wiped the droplets off with the back of your hand.

“Thank you,” you handed it back, and watched as he took a drink himself.

“For solidarity,” and something else he wasn’t telling you. You decided it’s not your place to push.

It certainly took the edge off as you pulled up to the docks - a carriage waiting to take you right to the castle. It was a comfortable fit with all of you. The two girls pressed their faces against each window, although with the sun already set - they couldn’t see too much.

You knew they got closer, because Fenrys’s shoulders rolled back, his body tilting forward to look out the window. “A few more minutes,” he said. It felt like an hour, but it likely was less than a twenty minute ride. As you approached, each clop of the horse's feet, each turn of the wheel, each small murmur from a driver, all seemed to thunder in your ears.

“Breathe,” Reya whispered next to you, and you forced air in and out of your lungs. You could do this, it would be fine. Ceri’s excited. For her, you reminded yourself. So she can have a father, so Rowan can be a father. For safety. Everything would work out, and you for her, it didn’t feel like a sacrifice. Since you felt her little life growing, you knew there wasn’t anything you wouldn’t do for her. This is no exception, a bit of discomfort you could survive. You’d adjusted before, and you would again now.

Reya grabbed your hand in her own, for her comfort as much as yours, and the two girls squealed as the gates groaned, the carriage passing through. “A better world for us,” she whispered - so low you barely heard it, but squeezed her hand in reply. A safer place for Fae, a place for Reya to find some peace, new things for your daughters to experience.

A hand thumped on the carriage, and Fenrys swung the door open. You breathed in through your nose, out through your mouth. You could do this.

#throne of glass fic #rowaelin x reader #poly!rowaelin x reader #rowan whitethorn x reader #aelin galathynius x reader #rowaelin x y/n #poly!rowaelin x y/n #aelin galathynius x y/n #rowan whitethorn x y/n #throne of glass x reader

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