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saintshigaraki · 3 years

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ONE DAY WE’LL REVEAL THE TRUTH (THAT ONE WILL DIE BEFORE HE GETS THERE)

title: youth by daughter

pairing: dabi x f!reader

words: 1.7k

excerpt: But what is rage, you’d ask him, if not one of the many faces of grief?

a/n: dabi my beloved (derogatory). this fic is my love letter to parentheses.

tags: angst, toxic relationships, explicit s*xual content, light choking, dabi is a bastard but he is a needy bastard

in case you’d rather read it on ao3!

MDNI

He’s just outside the door. He hasn’t made a sound, but you know he’s there. You can feel it; in your blood, in your bones, in your marrow.

(You’ve always been able to feel him, monstrous and cruel beneath your skin. An itch. An awful taunting itch. You’ve wanted him out since he first stuck his claws in you and buried himself deep, but he’s near impossible to shake. He won’t leave until he’s hollowed you out, until your flesh is no longer your own, until all that’s left of you is him. Until all that’s there, is what he believes there should be.

He’s a self-important bastard like that.)

When he finally decides to open the door, he does so with a slam. It would’ve made you jump if you hadn’t been so focused on the skyline. Tracing the buildings, looking for stars you know you won’t be able to see. They get swallowed up, this deep in the city. Drowned out by light.

(When you were a child, you didn’t quite understand how stars could vanish in the night. Weren’t they the brightest things in the universe? Burning and brilliant, even light years away?

You understand it better now. How mankind has this nasty habit of ruining, of polluting, of blotting out things of wonder and then desperately trying to remake it in our own image.

It’s never as beautiful as what was, but it’s far too late for us to admit defeat now.)

He’s mad, burning up with fury. You can feel the heat of it, cutting straight through the heavy chill of the night air. It’s stifling, your balcony so small that he’s practically breathing down your neck with how close he is. Accompanying his presence, always, is the faint smell of burnt flesh he can never quite mask, no matter the amount of cheap aftershave he tries to drown himself in.

He’d texted you, and you’d ignored him. For a week, you’ve ignored him and if there’s one thing Dabi hates, it’s when he gets ignored.

He’s the one that ignores you, it should never be the other way around.

You know that, of course. You know all his little unwritten rules.

(Don’t ignore him is at the top of the list. Except, of course, during those nights when he thinks you’re asleep and he clings to you like a child, his tears burning where they touch your skin. Even his grief, you can’t help but think, is scorching.

On those nights, you’ve found it’s best to stay quiet. He wields his grief like rage and you’d rather not be caught in the crossfire.)

He’s waiting for you to talk, to stumble over your words, make some sort of vague attempt at an apology. It’s what you would usually do after you’ve broken one of his rules.

But you say nothing, content to sit in the too-heavy silence. You’re tired. Of him. Of whatever it is you two have been doing. It’s the same stupid story, the same vicious cycle. A snake cursed to eat its own tail.

He’s using you. He has been for a long while now. If you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, he most likely has been since the beginning. And God, it’s exhausting work, being used.

Although, really, you’re not all that much better than he is. In the beginning, you were with him purely because he fascinated you. All his grief laid bare, and so vulnerable. So obvious and painful. Undeniable in its brutality.

(Rage, he’d say, it’s righteous rage, not grief.

But what is rage, you’d ask him, if not one of the many faces of grief?)

It didn’t take long for you to realize he’s chasing something. And it took you even less time to realize that whatever he’s after, is probably going to kill him one day.

(You wonder if he knows he’s chasing his own death. You wonder if he’d care at all.

He reminds you of Eve, eating the forbidden fruit. You think she’d take a bite of the apple, again and again and again if ever given the choice, even knowing the consequences. Even with intimate knowledge of the suffering to come. How could she not? How could any of us hold our fate in the palm of our hands and choose not to sink our teeth into it?)

He’s growing impatient beside you, burning up with it. If he touched you, you’re sure he’d melt your flesh straight to the hollow bone.

But you don’t break. Just once, you want him to fall apart first. Just once, you want him desperate.

(He’s always been so good at making you desperate, with a hand around your neck, just tight enough to leave you gasping for air, your back to his chest and his staples drawing blood, as he pounds into you so hard all you could do is dig your nails into his arm.

His lips are right by your ear, you’re mine, he says. You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re mine.

And God, with his cock hitting all the right spots in your cunt you’d believe it. You’d believe anything he’d said to you as long he just kept going.

Say it, he hisses, say you’re mine.

You don’t answer him right away, mostly because you can’t, not with the way he’s fucking you. You can’t catch your breath enough to form a sound, you can’t get your bearings enough to collect a single thought that isn’t Dabi Dabi Dabi.

Annoyed at your lack of answer, he brings a searing thumb down to your overstimulated clit. You keen, arching, desperately trying to get away from the sensation that at this point is more pain than pleasure.

Say it, he says again, there’s a strange sort of edge to it. Looking back you think it might’ve been desperation. Say it.

When he presses down just a little harder, you finally crack.

Yours, you gasp. I’m yours. Yours. Yours. Yours.

He laughs, so deep in his chest that you feel it in your own.

It echoes in your head for weeks afterward.)

“What,” he grounds out, low and furious, “the fuck.”

It’s not a question.

You turn towards him, at last. Though you can hardly see him, surrounded by shadows. There are glints of his piercings in the polluted light, a gleaming flash as he runs his tongue along with his teeth. But it’s his eyes that you lock on. Bright and a brilliant blue. Glowing and monstrous in the dark.

(You’re reminded, once again, of the stars. Burning and burning and burning.)

With no preamble, you say, “I think I love you.”

The air around you quiets. Like the city itself is holding it’s breath.

It’s not a sweet confession under the moonlight. In the week since you came to the realization, it’s already started to fester, to rot straight through your bones.

It’s a curse more than anything. You love a man whose chasing his own death. You love a ghost. Or, you suppose, a ghost in the making.

Before you can say anything else (though really, what else is there to say) he cuts in sharply, meanly, “No, you don’t.”

You can’t help but tilt your head at that. You don’t really know what to say. You don’t know if you’re supposed to say anything. His lips are pulled back, teeth bared, he’s gleaming and sharp, pulled so taught with tension you wonder how he’s even breathing. He reminds you, vividly, of a cornered animal. A scared one. Though he’s trying to mask it with annoyance, with a type of anger that toes the line of fury.

He’s always doing that. Masking his fear with rage. Masking his grief with rage. Hiding any part of himself that might be perceived as weak, as soft, as vulnerable, under the guise of rage.

You can’t imagine that it’s anything less than exhausting.

Though you have to admit, you didn’t expect this response. You didn’t expect fear. You thought he’d be unbearably smug about it. Proud of himself for finally sinking his teeth into your heart. Ready to chew you up and spit you back out. You were ready for him to move on.

You didn’t expect him to deny it.

(He could be right, though you doubt he is.

You wonder what it means to love, you wonder how you’re supposed to love. You wonder if you can only love someone if you’ve seen the cruelest parts of them first.

You suppose if that’s the case, then he might be right.

You’ve never actually been able to force yourself to look up what exactly he’s wanted for. What exactly it is he’s done.

Mostly because you’re afraid that even if you knew every last gory detail, it wouldn’t be enough to make you walk away. And how would you be able to look at yourself in the mirror, after that? Knowing exactly who you let share your bed? who cried scorching hot tears into your shoulder?

Ignorance is bliss, they say. In your case, it could very well be your only hope for salvation.

But, you don’t really think there’s a set way a person is supposed to love. It’s what makes it so terrifying. It’s an unknown. And it’s so hard to not fear the unknown.)

“Dabi-” you start.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he spits out. Eyes flashing, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

You want to laugh at the absurdity of it all, of him trying to tell you what you do and do not feel, but you think he’d turn you to ashes for the slight. His pride has always been so easily shaken.

“Dabi-” you try again.

But he’s two steps ahead of you. He always is.

He’s already turned around, hiding his face from view, opening the door. And you don’t stop him. You don’t see why you should.

You can’t shake him from the path he’s on. You don’t think anyone can, really.

Grief is all he has, it’s all he’s let himself have. It’s fundamental to him now. It’s all he is. And you’re sure he believes whatever he’s chasing is going to fill the hollow void it’s made of him.

It won’t. You’re sure of that, at least, because even if he does succeed, what will he be left with then?

You don’t say any of that to him, because you’re not his fucking therapist. And because you’re not so sure he wouldn’t kill you for it.

It’s anticlimactic, watching him disappear into your darkened apartment.

But all you can think about when you hear the click of the front door closing behind him is how honest his fear was, almost childlike. Remnants of a poor, grief-stricken boy.

What a monster it’s made of him.

a/n part two:

thinking about adrianne kalfopoulou’s ‘grief will keep you reaching back / for what is not there.’

i could not tell you why this took me over two weeks to write. i had a lot of fun with it though. dabi my beloved. go to therapy please. also i know dabi can’t cry but....let me have this.

#bnha x reader #dabi x reader #bnha smut #dabi smut #bnha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #dabi imagine #bnha x you #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #bnha x y/n #bnha imagine #vicwrites #vicwritesbnha #vic.thirsts

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kar-krashew · 3 years

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my someplace is here [AO3]

Five times Alec gay panics at a bus stop (ft. umbrellas, jackets, and a bus driver who really isn't paid enough for this).

rated: T

for @rainyhuman and @peachygos (ily!)

This is so cliché and over the top and I have absolutely no regrets <3. Sometimes (always) Alec is a himbo who is in love and his actions reflect this entirely. I don't control these things.

One.

Alec Lightwood doesn’t believe in love at first sight, but the man across the bus stop is absolutely gorgeous, and he’s twirling in the rain like a goddamn movie cliché, and Alec’s first thought is holy shit, so maybe Alec Lightwood is an idiot, and love at first sight is definitely a Thing.

Alec’s second thought is that the man is an absolute maniac— because really, the dude doesn’t even have a coat on— but Alec’s the one with an insane urge to kiss a stranger in the middle of the street, so, whatever; They’re probably both maniacs.

Alec’s third thought is that he’s about to miss his bus. Shit.

—

Two.

For the record, Alec does not usually walk into bus stop poles while staring at his phone, nor does he usually yell out “Ow, shit — !” if the aforementioned event does happen to occur. He does, however, end up doing both of these things at once a week later, and the stifled laughter behind him informs him that someone at the stop has definitely seen him, and he’s never going to live this down, ever.

“I’ve personally found that walking around an obstacle tends to be much more effective, darling,” the someone says, and Alec supposes that was called for, but hey, rude. He looks up to face the speaker, preparing himself to be offended, and—

Oh.

It’s the beautiful stranger from last time.

The man smirks at him from the bench, drenched again, and God, he’s even prettier up close. Brown eyes, smudged eyeliner, water trickling down his neck, with a tunic open down to his navel and pants that look painted on— Alec’s brain is short-circuiting.

“Hit your head a little hard there? Or do you just see something you like?”

“Huh?” Alec glances up from where he’s been staring at the man’s collarbones.

“I asked if you saw something you liked, pretty boy,” the man repeats.

Alec opens his mouth, presumably to say something that would be considered appropriate and normal in this situation, but he somehow misses his own memo and instead stammers out: “I, uh, I have an umbrella.”

He prays the rain will have mercy and just drown him on the spot.

The man’s brow quirks upwards in amusement. “Excuse me?”

Alec, unfortunately, is still alive, so he must now suffer the embarrassment he’s managed to cause himself and find a way to explain whatever has just come out of his mouth. He ducks his head, trying to avoid eye contact as he speaks. “If you want it,” he elaborates, “I have an umbrella I can give you.”

The stranger just looks at him for a moment. Alec’s sure he’s going to be told to fuck off (which would be a perfectly understandable reaction and probably have been his own in this situation) but after another second, the man defies all of his expectations and grins, so wide that it steals a little of Alec’s breath away.

“Handsome and chivalrous, I see. Do you make a habit of offering your belongings to strangers?” the guy asks. “Besides, I’m sure you’ll need it later. Perhaps you should rescind your offer, I promise I won’t harbor any grudges.”

“I have a coat,” Alec insists, “and you’re. . .” —incredibly attractive, doing things to my brain function— “more in need of its services.”

He’s not really sure why he’s so adamant about this, especially since the man is right: he will be needing the umbrella later, but his pride’s involved now, and he hasn’t really been thinking things through for the past ten minutes anyway. He might as well argue about his dumb umbrella with a beautiful man at a bus stop.

“I suppose you’re right,” comes the man’s response. He taps painted nails against his chin as he hums. “I’m not in much of a position to refuse, now, am I? Though, I doubt I’d refuse any position with you involved,” he winks. “But, yes, if you’re being serious, I shall gladly accept your umbrella.”

Alec blinks. He honestly did not think that argument would’ve worked. (He chooses to ignore the blatant innuendo to preserve his sanity for now.)

“Well?” the man prompts.

“Oh! Yeah, sure.” Really, the whole zoning-out-while-staring-at-the-hot-guy thing is going to become a problem very fast if Alec keeps doing it every two minutes. He gathers his thoughts enough to fumble with the umbrella in his hand and give it to the man, who accepts it with a graceful flourish.

“I’m Magnus Bane, by the way,” the man offers. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”

“I’m Alec. Lightwood. My name’s Alec Lightwood.”

Magnus holds out a ring-covered hand from where he’s sitting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alec. Short for Alexander, I presume?”

“Yeah,” Alec nods. He reaches out to shake Magnus’s hand, adding, “but no one really calls me that.”

Magnus’s smile turns into something incredibly flirty, and Alec can feel his cheeks heating up. “I like to be special, Alexander,” the other says, “and it suits you far better.”

Alec’s not really sure how to respond to that, because the way Magnus says his name is doing things to him, and that, combined with the fact that he’s still clutching Magnus’s soft hand in his own, is probably going to give him a heart attack. He’s about to say something decidedly stupid about Magnus already being special and perfect and amazing when the bus saves him from humiliation and pulls up next to them.

Alec releases Magnus’s grip to awkwardly gesture at the vehicle. “I should really. . . you know,” he trails off, and Magnus blinks at him for a second, surprised.

“Oh, right! You should get going, places to be and all that.” He waves his hand through the air dismissively. “I’ll return your umbrella to you next week, same time?”

Alec smiles dopily as he nods. “That sounds great.” He takes a step back. “I’ll see you soon, then?”

“Of course.” Magnus gives him a little wave. “It was lovely to meet you, Alexander. Safe travels.”

“Thanks, uh, you too.”

Having to walk home in the rain is so worth it.

—

Three.

Izzy laughs at Alec for the entire week when she finds out why his umbrella’s been missing, then makes it worse by telling Jace, who gives Alec an incredibly long-winded speech about umbrellas as metaphors for protection during sex or something. He also deigns to throw a condom at Alec’s face when he leaves to get the bus, which sends Izzy into another bout of cackling laughter.

They’re both assholes, and Alec is never going to cover for them at family dinners ever again.

So he’s scrolling through his phone at the bus stop, trying his best to ignore the increasingly obscene texts his siblings are sending him, when Magnus shows up, bright and beaming and decidedly dry this time, though he’s still not wearing a jacket despite the cold.

And dear lord. If Alec thought Magnus looked gorgeous while soaked in rainwater, this is something else entirely. Gold-streaked hair, unbuttoned shirt, immaculate matching eyeshadow— fuck.

“Alexander!” Magnus greets. He sits down beside Alec on the bench, and grins as he hands over Alec’s umbrella. “Finally a little dry, hm? Though I might’ve underestimated the cold and left my coat back home.”

“Yeah,” Alec says. “Not that you were wearing one when it was raining.” He’s trying his best not to stare at Magnus’s mouth, but the man is very close to Alec’s face right now, and he cannot be blamed if his gaze slips a few times, okay? He’s only human.

Magnus shrugs, drawing Alec’s sight to his shoulders instead. “Coats are irrelevant, anyway. I haven’t worn mine all week, so I might as well continue the trend,” he remarks, and Alec snorts.

“I don’t think that’s as impressive as you think it is. You sound like a petulant toddler. How have you not had, like, five colds by now?” he says. Magnus feigns a pout in response, and Alec stifles a laugh.

“Such cruelty, Alexander!” Magnus replies, “Ah, I suppose I’ll just have to suffer the elements until I’m finally back home again, since no one seems to harbor any sympathy for me. Woe is me, and all that.” He tightens his hands around his biceps, rubbing up and down to warm himself up while sighing dramatically, and Alec, well,

Alec gets a really stupid idea.

“Do you want my jacket?” he asks. “I won’t be out in the cold for that long, and I’m wearing a much warmer shirt than you are.”

Magnus’s lips part in surprise as something conflicted flashes behind his eyes. “I—” he starts, then clears his throat. “I wasn’t being serious, darling. That’s your jacket.”

“Is that a no?”

There’s a moment of silence before Magnus shakes his head. “No, it’s not. I, uh, I’d love that.”

Alec beams, and Magnus clears his throat again. “You’re horribly trusting of someone you’ve only met twice,” he says, voice a little strangled, but Alec just shrugs as he begins to wrestle the black fabric off of his shoulders.

“It’s just a jacket,” he explains, leaning closer to drape it over Magnus, “Even if I never got it back, at least you wouldn’t freeze to death on your way to wherever you’re headed.” He fixes the lapels dutifully, and smiles to himself. “Besides, you’ve already given me my umbrella. I trust you.”

“Is that so,” Magnus answers weakly, which prompts Alec to look up from his fiddling, and oh wow, their mouths are so close to each other’s.

If Magnus inches in just a little bit closer, then they’d—

They’d—

“Um!” Alec jerks backwards, face flushing, “Yes, uh,” he stammers, trying not to look overwhelmed. It’s not going great, because moving back means that he’s now being treated to the sight of Magnus in Alec’s jacket, and he’s having some issues thinking properly right now. It swallows Magnus’s wrists almost entirely and looks far too plain for his expensive printed shirt, but fuck. It’s possible that Alec didn’t think this through.

Magnus opens his mouth, hopefully to tell Alec to kiss him but also probably to tell him to fuck completely off for whatever move they almost pulled, but the bus suddenly turns the corner and pulls into view, cutting him off.

Alec’s not sure whether he’s relieved or furious about this.

“Next week, then,” he ventures. Magnus blinks at him slowly, then nods.

“Yes, of course,” he smiles softly. “Next week.”

—

Four.

“Remind me again, why your presence is necessary today?” Alec grits through his teeth, tightly gripping his umbrella as the rain pours down on them. Izzy punches his arm, not even looking up from her phone as she does so, where she is no doubt giving Jace a play-by-play of Alec’s every action as they walk towards the bus stop.

“Because I’m never one to miss out on good blackmail content,” she replies, which is true. She’s got about four folder’s worth of content of “embarrassing shit Alec has done” on her phone, most of it consisting of his painful attempts at being straight in high school, and Alec’s pretty sure she’s started a fifth, probably titled “Alec’s horrible attempts at flirting with men,” which isn’t that much better than the straight one. Alec is debating turning around and just walking to his destination so that his sister won’t be able to gain more content for her virtual blackmail folders, which is exactly when Magnus comes into Alec’s field of vision.

Alec freezes in his tracks. Holy shit.

Magnus is standing in the center of the street again, drenched from head to toe with his head thrown back . The streetlights illuminate him from above, highlighting the curve of his neck and the colored streaks in his hair as he laughs to himself, staring up at the stars.

He looks ethereal. Alec’s never been one for the romantics, but he’s pretty sure this is what poets mean when they talk about true love and angels and immortal moments in time.

“Oh, he’s hot,” Izzy whispers approvingly. Alec agrees, because, obviously, but he pretends he’s unaffected and straightens his face.

“He’s probably freezing,” he says instead. Izzy rolls her eyes— she gets that from him, he really should stop doing that— and then, before Alec can stop her, calls out.

“Hey! Hot Umbrella Guy!”

What the fuck.

“Are you insane?” Alec hisses. He was trying to look nonchalant and not like the totally lovestruck idiot he is, but now Izzy is waving at Magnus like a maniac and Magnus has noticed them and is walking towards them and Alec is going to die. He’s going to write Izzy out of his will and then he is going to collapse into a heap of embarrassment and gay panic right here, and it’s going to be his sister’s fault.

“Relax a little, hermano,” Izzy replies, and before Alec can provide her with an alphabetized list for every reason he cannot relax, Magnus is already standing before them, smiling as water trickles from his hair.

God, he’s beautiful.

“Hello, hello!” he greets. Alec suddenly notices that Magnus is wearing Alec’s jacket, which is, well. Something. (Izzy is never going to let him live this down, and also Alec is having a very hard time thinking any thoughts.)

Magnus seems to notice Alec’s wandering line of sight, following it and glancing down, eyes widening. “Oh my god, I was fully intending to return this to you, I’m so sorry. I got a little distracted. I’ll have it cleaned and returned to you next time, I promise,” he explains. Alec shakes his head.

“No worries,” he manages, cutting himself off before he says something even stupider like “it’s yours forever” or “marry me” or something, and Izzy snorts from beside him. Alec hates her.

“Thank you,” Magnus says, then turns to face Izzy, “And what may I call you, dear?”

“I like him,” Izzy declares, in what Alec assumes is meant to be a reassuring whisper but instead ends up being incredibly loud, “I’m Izzy, Alec’s sister. And I assume you’re the elusive Magnus I’ve heard so much about?”

“Izzy,” Alec warns. Magnus smirks and shakes her hand.

“The one and only,” he confirms. There’s a mischievous sort of glint in his eye as he glances back up at Alec, and Alec’s not sure how he feels about Magnus and his sister already getting along so well, but he’s sure it can’t lead anywhere good.

“Well, Isabelle,” Magnus says, “If I asked him, do you think your brother would join me for a dance?”

Alec chokes. “What?” he splutters. Magnus turns his grin to face him.

“If I asked, Alexander, would you join me for a dance?”

“I—” Alec starts, staring down at the hand Magnus has outstretched in front of him. There are so many reasons he should say no, and so many reasons this is a bad idea, but also the most beautiful man Alec has ever seen is holding his hand out for him to take, and what else is he supposed to do? “Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

The first thing Alec notices is how soft Magnus’s hand is in his as he pulls him out into the rain, laughing as it hits his face again, and Alec can’t help but laugh along even as water soaks into his shoes and drenches into his socks. There’s something so childish about it; giggling and spinning in an empty street without any music, holding hands like toddlers, and Alec wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You’re thinking too much,” Magnus murmurs, then he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “It’s about being in the moment.”

Alec smiles. If only he knew, all he’s thinking about is this moment: how the water catches in Magnus’s lashes, how he’s humming something entirely off-key under his breath, the way he presses against Alec’s chest. Fuck. Alec’s known this man for three days, and he’s halfway in love already.

He closes his eyes against the rain, too, and smiles at the thought: loving a man like Magnus Bane.

Yeah, he could get used to that.

—

Five.

When Alec reaches the bus stop today, Magnus is nowhere to be seen and Alec’s jacket is sitting in a bag at the bus stop with a little post it signed with the letter “M.”

It’s fine, Alec tells himself. Magnus is probably just busy with something else, and this has nothing to do with the fact that Alec froze up awkwardly when Magnus kissed him on the cheek last week, to the point where Magnus had to nervously laugh it off because Alec was too busy panicking.

It’s a flimsy argument, but it keeps Alec from losing his mind for about fifteen minutes until the bus pulls up early and Alec realizes that this is it. He’s not going to see Magnus this week— maybe not ever again, if Magnus has decided that Alec’s gay panic is not worth his time, and Alec wouldn’t even blame him.

God, he feels so stupid. If he hadn’t acted like a complete idiot last time, then he would’ve at least had some closure.

“Sir, are you getting on or are you waiting for another bus?”

Alec blinks, glancing up to see the bus driver raising her eyebrow at him. “Right, sorry, give me just a mo—”

“Alec!”

It can’t be.

“Alexander!”

Alec spins on his heel, turning to face whoever called his name, and oh my god, it’s Magnus. He’s running up to the bus stop, waving frantically, and Alec is overcome with such a large wave of relief that he forgets that the bus driver’s been waiting for him for like five minutes now and he climbs off and runs towards Magnus, only vaguely registering the sound of the bus leaving without him. He doesn’t even care; Magnus is standing right in front of him, panting heavily but still so beautiful and perfect, and Alec would walk home everyday if he got to see Magnus because of it.

“Alexander,” Magnus huffs, gathering his breath. He absentmindedly reaches out to grab Alec’s shoulder, and Alec immediately wraps his arms around his waist to stabilize him. “Oh lord, one second, I ran all the way here.”

“I thought you were gone,” Alec says, still holding onto him. “You left the jacket and I thought—” he trails off.

Magnus frowns. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I thought I’d made you uncomfortable last week and didn’t want to make it worse, but I didn’t realize how rude not showing up would be. I know you probably don’t feel the same way but perhaps we can still be friends? I can be completely professional about it, though you seem to have just missed your bus—”

Alec grabs Magnus’s tunic (because he’s still not wearing a jacket, Jesus Christ) and kisses him.

Magnus blinks at him when they pull away. “Oh,” he says, a little breathless, and Alec smiles.

“I don’t want to be professional about it,” he admits.

“Oh. . .”

Magnus still seems shell-shocked, so Alec makes a move to let go of him, shifting his arm away from Magnus’s waist, but then Magnus leans back in and presses his mouth back to Alec’s and oh, nevermind then.

Alec’s not sure how long they spend there, kissing like handsy teenagers under the roof of the bus stop, but he’s aware of a few cars passing (and possibly another bus), so he’s not ignorant of the fact that it’s definitely been a while when they finally pull away for more than a second. Magnus is staring at his mouth when they part, though, which is not helping Alec’s resolve to actually have a conversation about this.

“We should talk,” he manages, and Magnus nods, still staring at his mouth.

“Right,” he agrees. “That would be a wise course of action.” His eyes flick upwards for just a moment, and something flickers behind them before he beams. “My place is two stops away, if you’d like to talk there. Perhaps we can wait for the next bus together, since we seemed to have missed the one I usually take? It might take a while, though.”

Ah. Alec swallows back a grin of his own. “Of course,” he replies, “I don’t suppose you know any way to keep us busy till then?”

“I’m sure I could think of something.”

(The bus comes late, and they still somehow almost miss it. Alec refuses to take any blame for this.)

—

+ One.

Alec Lightwood didn’t believe in love at first sight, but the man standing at the bus stop is smiling softly at him as he approaches, twirling an umbrella between his hands as he waits, and Alec’s first thought is holy shit, so maybe Alec Lightwood was an idiot, because what else could it have been?

“Hello, stranger,” the man says when Alec finally reaches the stop. He glances down, taking in Alec’s rain-soaked button down and slacks, and grins. “Forget your umbrella back home?”

Alec laughs. “My coat, too,” he agrees. “I got distracted this morning.”

Magnus hums, leaning in to kiss the rain off of Alec’s mouth, and Alec smiles into it, tasting the faint wax of lipstick and the salt of the rain. “Must’ve been a pretty good distraction.”

“Yeah,” Alec says. He leans in again, because he can. They have time. “He is.”

Magnus’s lips have got a lovely little tilt to them by the time they pull away, tint slightly smudged from Alec’s attention, and he’s never looked more beautiful, even with the dingy lighting of the shitty bus stop they’re standing under.

God, Alec loves him. He feels a little stupid with the feeling, and he can’t help but step back out onto the rain, holding out his hand.

“Hey,” he murmurs. Magnus’s eyes light up with understanding. “Care to join me for a dance?” And sure, Alec’s shit at dancing, and sure, they have to get on the bus sopping wet minutes later, but they’re both giggling like idiots and clutching the umbrella together between their intertwined hands and Alec’s got a little ring box in his pocket just waiting for the right moment, so what else matters?

They’ll probably have to invite the bus driver to the wedding, though. It’s only fair.

#my writing #malec #malec fic #magnus bane #alec lightwood #i totally forgot to post this here but its fineeeee #also if ur that anon that @'d me ab the phrase gay panic im literally gay <3 thank u

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yandere-daydreams · 3 years

Text

Title: Rose Tinted.

Pairing: Yandere!Kuroo/Reader, Yandere!Kenma/Reader, Yandere!Akaashi/Reader & Yandere!Bokuto/Reader.

Word Count: 3.9k.

Synopsis: Life is stressful. It was stressful when you were your own person, when you were free, and it is now, when you’re relegated to a captivity spent in the arms of your four captors. It’s only natural that you adapt to your current life by modifying the details of your old one.

TW: Prolonged Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Mentions of Physical Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Mentions of Past Toxic Relationships, and Implied Non-Con.

Kuroo reminds you of your old roommate, sometimes.

It’s a sickening comparison to draw, but you can’t help yourself, not when you’re with him, not when he’s acts so much like her. Kuroo’s a morning person, and with his busy schedule and all the time he spends traveling, he tries to steal every minute he can with you, every second you’re not wrapped in Bokuto’s arms or sitting on Kozume’s lap or doing whatever Akaashi does, after he forces those little white pills down your throat and your mind gets too fuzzy to form memories, even if that means he has to fish you out of bed before sunrise, deposit you on the countertop, and mutter one of his favorite threats in your ear, just to ensure you won’t make another lunge at the knife block. You’re almost grateful for that last step. It gives you an excuse not to strain yourself, so early in the day.

It’s a vague link, but it’s there. In the way he hums to himself as he cooks, how absent-mindedly he moves around the kitchen as he puts together the meal you’ve watched him make a thousand times. He’s more rushed than she used to be, though. Whereas your roommate would still have one eye shut as she cracked an egg over a sizzling pan, Kuroo’s already fully dressed, even if his shirt’s slightly unbuttoned, his tie loosened and his blazer draped over your shoulders despite your attempts to subtly shrug it off. That was something she’d done, too, but differently, more innocently. She’d ruffle your hair as you collapsed on the kitchen island, commenting on ‘another late night’ or how helpless you’d be without her help. Kuroo doesn’t have to ask. He knows where you are, where you were, all the time, every day, and if there’s a lapse in your schedule he isn’t sure how to fill in, then you wouldn’t be watching him cook.

You’d be locked in a closet, left without food or water or warmth for however long it took for you to swallow your pride and admit that you’d spent two hours trying to break the deadbolt on your bedroom’s window yesterday, all while Kuroo sat on the other side of the door and congratulated you on finally being honest.

You almost don’t notice when the humming stops, Kuroo turning the stove off before he shifts, his eyes flickering in your direction while a soft grin tugs at the corner of his lips, more patronizing than endearing. You can almost bring yourself to hate him for it. In the moment, you think you do. “You’ve been awful quiet,” He starts, once you fail to say anything on your own. “Something on your mind?”

Lying to Kuroo is useless. Bokuto never catches it and Kozume doesn’t care, but Kuroo doesn’t allow it. He thinks it’s a sign of disobedience. He thinks it means you’re falling into old habits. “Just my roommate,” You mutter, hoping you sound disinterested enough for Kuroo to drop the topic. “She used to cook a lot, too.”

There’s a hum of acknowledgement, a collision of wood on wood as he opens the nearest drawer. Idly, you wonder if Kuroo can do anything without making noise. “Blonde hair, brown eyes? The same girl who always skipped out on rent?”

“She couldn’t keep a job.” You almost glance towards him, if only to smirk and tell him that, whatever he’s making, she would’ve made it better, but you stop yourself before you can. He wouldn’t like that, and as bland as Kuroo’s cooking is, your roommate probably would’ve burnt the pan beyond repair and left the mess for you to find, hours later. “It wasn’t her fault. She always got stuck with strict bosses, and she wasn’t good with schedules. She was really nice, though.”

Kuroo chuckles, taking a second to prod at your side. “C’mon, sweetheart, nicer than me?”

You don’t answer, but Kuroo doesn’t seem to mind. There’s another laugh, another prod, and he steps in front of you, positioning himself between your open legs and supporting himself against the cabinets lining the wall, caging you in. It’s probably supposed to be a playful gesture. It’s probably supposed to be, he probably wants it to be, but somehow, you can’t find it in yourself to feel so light-hearted.

When he raises a hand, you don’t flinch, but you have to fight the urge to recoil as he cups your jaw, tracing his thumb over your cheek. You don’t want him to touch you, but you know better than to push him away. “We’re in a good mood today, alright?” The question is soft, well-meaning, but you frown regardless, tightening your grip on the edge of the countertop. “No fighting, no tantrums, and no trying to get away while I’m gone. I know the others go easy on you, but when I come home, I don’t want to hear a word about your behavior.”

They don’t go easy on you. No one goes easy on you. Kuroo’s just too harsh.

Kuroo’s strict, but… he makes good on his promises. If there’s anything about him you like, it’s that.

Apparently, you take a little too long to respond. Again, you're forced to think about your roommate when he sighs, the same way she used to when you had to tell her you wouldn't be able to pick her up from that bar or go to this party, that you were too tired, that you didn’t want to see her face after working yourself to the bone so the two of you could afford to feed yourselves. Like she was disappointed. Like she had the right to be disappointed.

“I know you’re still getting used to this, but try to give it time. The guys and me, all of us love you, and none of us want to see you sulk. I’m not asking you to cheer every time I walk through the door, just…” There’s a pause, another sigh. Kuroo straightens his back, pressing a long, lingering kiss into the top of your head. “Just try to smile a little more, alright? I promise, I’ll make it worth the effort.”

Your answer is short, but you can still feel Kuroo’s smile against your skin. And, just for a moment, you think you might be grateful he bothered to ask.

“I’ll try.”

Bokuto reminds you of your boyfriend, in a certain way.

Out of all of your captors, his intentions are the most unquestionably romantic. Akaashi and Kuroo seem to think of you as more of a pet than a partner, and you’ve never been able to figure out what Kozume wants from you, but Bokuto’s straight-forward, Bokuto doesn’t feel the need to hide his intentions behind pretty words and selfish gifts and mantras about how much he loves you, even if the last still comes naturally. You don’t appreciate him for it. You don’t like him for it, but it makes Bokuto bearable. If you had the luxury of choosing a favorite, he’d probably be your first pick.

It helps that he’s still so convinced your relationship is normal. When he’s the one to wake you up, he lets you decide what you want to wear, and when he kisses you, you don't have to kiss back. You’re allowed to say no, with Bokuto. You’re allowed to refuse, and he won’t push you to change your mind.

Tonight’s an exception to that rule, obviously.

You think you’re in Akaashi’s bed. The sheets are white, tucked in a little too tightly at the corners, and the lighting is dimmer than it would be, if Bokuto’d had the patience to carry you somewhere more private. You don’t remember falling asleep, but you don’t have time to forget waking up. The jarring dip of the mattress, the strong hand on your shoulder, barely bothering to shake for a second before pushing you onto your back and pinning you down, thighs straddling your waist and his chest pressing against yours before you can do so much as open your eyes. You only realize it’s him, realize that it’s Bokuto when he kisses you, taking advantage of your stupor in that messy, clumsy way that always leaves you breathless and gagging. That leaves you hurt, more so than you would be if any of the others treated you so roughly.

He’s smiling, when he pulls away. It’s not soft and it’s not subtle, and it hasn’t faded by the time he finds your neck, latching onto the sensitive spot just above your jugular. If he had been your boyfriend, you might’ve laughed as his teeth graze against your skin, you might’ve found it exciting when he bite down. But, it isn’t. Your boyfriend would’ve asked, and Bokuto isn’t your boyfriend.

“I asked,” He cuts in, not waiting for you to finish. That’s fine. It’s expected, honestly. Bokuto’s like a puppy, too eager for his own good, a trait that borders on endearing at times, but only manages to come off as frustrating, now. “He’s always really busy, and you just looked so sweet, I didn’t know of I could leave you all alone.” There’s a laugh, abrupt and bright, the sound soon muffled against the crook of your shoulder. “Just an hour, alright? Then you can go back to sleep.”

“Kotaro,” You try, pushing lightly on his chest. It’s a futile effort, one that only results in a groan against your skin and an arm around your waist, but you try regardless. You’re not sure you’d be able to forgive yourself if you stopped. “It’s supposed to be Keiji’s turn and… I don’t know if he’d be alright with--”

That sounds like something your boyfriend would’ve said, too. Just an hour. Just an hour, then you’d be able to go back to sleep, or back to work, or back to whatever you did to pass time when you didn’t have any time to pass. And when you didn’t have an hour, when you tried to explain that, you two would spend an hour fighting, instead. At least you didn’t have to fight with Bokuto. He made that part easy, with his willingness to pout and cry and fuck you into the mattress with tears in his eyes because, although you could say no, he doesn’t care if you do. It just makes things easier when you don’t.

“I-” Again, you’re interrupted, the words fading into a small, high-pitched shriek as his canines sink into your shoulder. And you’d just gotten your hopes up that he might let his last set of love-bites heal without interruption. “I don’t want to do this.”

Now, that makes him pull away. It’s almost surprising, how little relief there is to accompany the gesture, how much guilt comes with having to meet those wide, glassy eyes and swallow the apology playing on your tongue. You didn't apologize to your boyfriend, not the last time, not the most important time. Or, your ex-boyfriend, you guess. You’re pretty sure you broke up with him, or he broke up with you, or someone said something that made you angry enough to storm out of his apartment and into Bokuto’s waiting arms, Akaashi beside him with a length of rope and a needle full of sedatives.

His voice shakes when he speaks. ”Are you… Are you mad at me, again?”

You aren’t. It’s hard to be mad at Bokuto, and you’re so tired of always doing the hard thing.

“Wouldn it matter if I was?” You mumble, falling back onto Akaashi’s bed. “It’s not like you’d listen to me.”

You’re looking at the ceiling, now, but there’s a shift, a slight change. Soon, you can’t feel his weight on your chest, and you have to suppress the urge to mourn his stifling presense. “I’d try to.”

You almost wish it was Akaashi on top of you. At least then, you might be able to believe he knows he’s lying. “You wouldn’t,” You sigh, trying to sound exasperated. Trying to sound genuine. “If you listened to me, you would’ve let me go, by now. If you really loved me, I wouldn’t still have to tell you how much I hate it here.”

Less than a month ago, you’d yelled the same words. Screamed them, repeated them, told Bokuto how much you hated him and his friends and everything they’d forced onto you. Now, it’s all you can do to say them with enough strength not to crack under the pressure, not to give into the temptation to throw yourself at his chest and claw until he’s the villain again and you’re helpless, just an uninvolved bystander in your own suffering.

To your credit, it’s a fleeting urge, one that’s gone by the time you roll onto your side, away from Bokuto, curling into yourself as he settles against your back. There’s a heavy sigh, another gentle kiss to the nape of your neck. His arm wraps around your waist, but there’s no attempt to drag you closer, no attempt to go any further. You almost wish he would.

It’d be easier to cry yourself to sleep, if you could blame him for forcing you to.

Akaashi reminds you of your co-workers, all the time.

He spends so much time working, it’d be impossible not to draw the connection. He smells like an office, like ink and metal and more chemicals than an editor should use, and he feels like one, too, his skin always cold and his hands always quick to clamp down around anything warm and kicking and alive. It reminds you of the receptionist who used to give you a hug every morning, a sourceless gesture that was always a little too tight to be comfortable. Of Kuroo’s handshake, when you were first called back after your initial interview. You suppose he has more right to the position than Akaashi, you must’ve worked under him for months, but Kuroo invited you out for drinks, he made small talk, he could take off his suit and defrost when he wanted to.

Akaashi couldn’t. Akaashi can’t.

That, or he won’t, and you don’t know which option scares you more.

It doesn’t help that he works so often, either, even when he’s home. You can try to block it out, try to ignore the constant click of his keyboard, the occasional creak of his chair whenever Akaashi tries to reposition himself, but there’s only so much you can do on his lap, your arms strung over his shoulders and your face buried in his chest, your sleep-deprived mind momentarily forgetting its distaste in favor of seeking out as much comfort as it could.

That might be what drives you to speak, to break the silence as Akaashi bows his head, his lips brushing against the dip of your shoulder while his hands fall from his laptop to your hips. As always, his touch is cold, unnerving, the shirt he’d forced you to borrow doing little to protect you from the chill. “I hate you.”

There’s a tap to your side, a noise of acknowledgement. “I know, angel. You’ve mentioned it before.”

“So much,” You go on, your voice muffled by his sweatshirt. “More than the others. Every night I fantasize about slitting your throat and stuffing one of your stupid toys in the wound. I still have a scar from that fucking collar.”

This time, you get a hum, low and absent-minded. “A small one,” He adds. “Kenma’s done worse, and I’ve already apologized.”

He has. This is an old argument, one you’re still mad about, but one you know you’ll never resolve, not with someone so apathetic. So, you try a different approach. Not something more honorable, but something different. Something that wouldn’t leave a coat of ash on your tongue, hopefully. “My friends probably think I’m dead by now, my family too.” It feels good to say, but it feels awful, at the same time. Like you’re admitting defeat. Like you’re submitting to the same man who's been whispering those very same words to you since your first night spent in his loving care. “Even if I get out, you’ve already ruined my life. I won’t have anywhere to go back to, not a job, no place to--”

“That’s a good thing, right?” It’s an innocent question, judging by his tone. You try not to take it as one. “You always hated your job.”

It’s almost a reflex to defend yourself. “I never--”

“Yes, you did.” If it was Bokuto, you could’ve told yourself he’d been fed a lie, or pushed into a delusion that featured you as a damsel in distress and him as your big, strong, brave hero. If it was Kuroo, you could’ve told yourself that he wanted you to believe you hated your job, your old life, everything he was kind enough to rip you away from. Kozume would’ve been uninterested enough to stop the conversation before you started to spiral, but you’re not talking to Kozume, or Kuroo, or Bokuto. You’re talking to Akaashi, and Akaashi doesn’t care whether or not you’re happy. He doesn’t have a reason to lie to you, not about something so mundane. “That’s why we had to take you home. You were too stressed, I was getting worried.” He pauses, his hands moving to your sides, pulling you away from his chest. You don’t resist, but you don’t look up, either, not until he cups your cheeks in his palms, his voice suddenly going from sterile to soft in the space between one breath and another. “It was painful to watch, it was painful for all of us. I know it’s hard to see from your perspective, but you used to cry so much, and you were so close to falling apart. We just did what we thought would help.”

“So you decided to kidnap me?” It’s the harshest you’ve been in weeks, even if you barely manage to raise your voice. You grab his wrists, but you don’t try to jerk him away. Instead, you settle on digging your nails into his skin, and in return, Akaashi ignores your minor show of rebellion. “You’re not doing me a favor. You’ll never convince me I want this, because I don’t. If you have to tell me I’m happy, it’s only because you know I’m not.”

“You’re not happy, but you’re happier than you used to be.” He doesn’t try to make light of the revelation, but his neutral expression still cracks, leaving the smallest smile in its place. Not amused, but not sympathetic, either. Not malicious, but certainly not kind enough to spare your feelings. “It’s easier, and I think you know that. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You just couldn’t handle life without a little help.”

You pull away, jerking your head out of his hands and crossing your arms in front of you, putting as much distance between you and Akaashi as you can. “You’re lying. You’re lying, and you’re not even doing it well.”

You can feel him let out a breath of a laugh, leaning forward just enough to push a kiss into your temple before drawing back, content to admire the long-awaited results of his work.

“Of course I am, angel.”

Kozume doesn’t remind you of anything, and it’s unbearable.

You’d worked with Kuroo, intimately. He’d introduced you to Bokuto, and you’d met Akaashi at his games, even if the two of you never shared more than a few polite niceties about the match at-hand. Kozume’s the only one who’s new to you, he’s the only one who’s just your kidnapper, even if he fit the role well. You can’t sympathize with him, because there’s nothing to sympathize with. You can’t understand his irrational connection with you, because he’s never bothered to offer an explanation. It shouldn’t upset you as much as it does. It shouldn’t be as awful as it is. He shouldn’t make you feel as disgusting as you do, but he does. You don’t know why, but he does, and you can’t forgive him because of it.

It’s almost a relief when you wake up alone on the edge of Kozume’s bed, tucked under heavy black sheets with sunlight already spilling through the open window. You consider rolling over, trying to go back to sleep, but you can already hear a lock clicking in the distance, light footsteps moving over wood as Kozume steps in, leaning against the doorway as he watches you start to stir. You’re purposefully lethargic, taking the time to sit up and rub your eyes until it doesn’t hurt to blink, but Kozume’s content to stare on. Part of you hopes you’ll get used to it, soon. The rest of you tries to smother the idea before it can spread.

“Mornin’,” He calls, when you make it clear you’re awake. He’s dressed, not formally, just jeans and a hoodie, but it’s more than you’ve come to expect from Kozume. Somehow, it only makes him seem more alien. “I’ve got few meetings today, Tetsuro’s out of town, Bokuto’s training, and Akaashi doesn’t get off until this afternoon, so you should have the house to yourself until sunset, at least.” There’s a glance to the floor, a quiet laugh. Despite everything, he can still seem shy when he wants to. “If you promise not to break anything, I could forget to lock you up before I leave. It’s not like you’d try to get out, anyway.”

“I would.” It’d be a damning confession with anyone else, but Kozume doesn’t blink twice. He’s already made up his mind, which means nothing you say matters. “I hate it here, and all of you know that.”

“Maybe, but you wouldn’t leave.” His voice is calm, his tone playful, but Kozume’s eyes narrow as he steps forward, and you square your shoulders, trying to glaring at the sheets rather than him. Still, you can feel him hovering over you, making you squirm as he goes on. “I mean, why would you want to? It’s not like have anything to go back to. Hell, from the way it looks, we might’ve been the only ones who stil pretend to miss you.”

“Of course I’d want to,” You snap, trying not to ball his sheets in your fists, trying not to acknowledge how reasonable he sounds, trying to ignore the part of your brain screaming for you to calm down before you make things worse for yourself. “I have a family. I have friends. I have a life outside of lying down, closing my eyes, and letting you live out whatever sick, perverted fantasy you’re trying to--”

“That’s not what I asked.” He doesn’t try to talk over you. He doesn’t have to, not when there’s already so little strength behind your argument. “You should want to escape, but…” Finally, his smile falters, but the unbothered frown that takes its place is no less comforting. He shrugs as he speaks, and you have to fight the urge to shrink into yourself. “Do you?”

You open your mouth. You open your mouth, then you close it again, then you close your eyes and drag your knees up to your chest, glaring childishly at the mattress, behaving exactly how they want you to. Kozume doesn’t try to push you any further. He doesn’t ask another question, he doesn’t force you to anwer, only sighing as he drapes an arm over your shoulder, slotting himself against your side, holding you. It’s cruel of him to do. It’s a small mercy. It’s nothing, it means nothing, but he’s mocking you, at the same time, belittling you, humiliating you. You hate him for it, but at the same time, you’re not sure you can. You’re so tired. You’re so, so tired, and you’re not sure you can be anything else, anymore.

You’re not sure you know if he’s wrong, anymore.

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krnsluvvie · 3 years

Text

look my way!

summary: you’re in love with one of your best friends, great. the fear of rejection and despair bring you to the very edge of cowardice and before you know it, you’ve lost him to someone who was a bit braver.

pairing(s): iwaizumi hajime x reader, platonic matsukawa x reader, platonic oikawa x reader, platonic hanamaki x reader; Seijoh 3rd years besties w reader (basically a friendship fic with angst in the background lol)

genre: angst, fluff, crackheadassery

word count: 8.7k

warnings: unspoken feelings, reader is a coward, gratuitous amount of hugging for no apparent reason

a/n: GRRRRR i hope you’ll enjoy reading!

( *L/N = last name, F/N = first name)

masterlist

───────────────────────────────────

The grand doors to the Aoba Johsai High School barely scrape your elbow as you run through the gap straight to your class, running late and soaked in the rain.

Morning was pretty eventful to say the least - not only had you wrongly set the alarm (somehow changing AM to PM) and completely forgotten to do some revising, but you also had not checked the forecast beforehand to prepare yourself for the brutal attack of raindrops that came your way. Bothered? Perhaps, but you couldn’t afford a walk back home for the umbrella, for you’d be more late than you already are.

As you set foot into your classroom, everyone turns their head towards you, all kinds of expressions visible on their faces — from astonishment to disgust - all of it and all in-between.

You simply ignore their gazes as you take a seat behind the only person you’re relatively close to — Iwaizumi. You both share a friend circle: there’s Oikawa, Iwaizumi’s childhood friend whose annoyance pushes all of you onto the edge of a cliff, Matsukawa and Hanamaki whose jokes and presence make your life a little bit brighter. As much as you love all of them equally, there’s a different feeling when it comes to Iwaizumi. It was felt back then and it is felt now. And frankly said, you don’t really know where that leads you.

You and Iwaizumi talk sometimes - although it revolves mostly around schoolwork (as you both have the exact same classes). But it’s enough for you. It always is. Your friends pointed that years ago - how you seem to ‘favor’ him. You smacked the back of their heads.

“L/N,” Iwaizumi turns around to greet you, only to be met with a frown and wrinkles across your forehead… oh, yes, and the badly camouflaged dark circles that lay beneath your tired eyes. You’re standing there, messenger bag draped across your body, your hair wet and the droplets dripping all over the uniform jacket.

Before neither you nor Iwaizumi could say anything, the teacher enters the classroom. You raise your hand almost immediately and excuse yourself to the restroom. He quirks up an eyebrow at you and upon noticing your horrendous state, he curtly nods. You were quite lucky to have him arrive a tad later than usual.

Now that you’re standing in front of the mirror, you notice just how horrible and indecent you look. You subtly shake your head and wash your face under the running tap water, not caring if it would wash off the half-assed attempt at masking fatigue. It was snippets like this when you realized how grateful you are for the times your mom still had the urge to wake you up at exact hours repeatedly, every day; it became your habit. So, it was the hunch, the inkling that something wasn’t right when your alarm didn’t go off like it normally would. You jerked up so fast it could’ve given you whiplash.

The universe seemed to hate you and you knew it. But somehow still, your luck has pushed forward and through, and instead of being soaked wet from top to bottom, you ended up with only the upper part of your body. The weather must’ve had mercy on you as well, as it started raining half-way on your way to school.

You splash your face with water. Over and over, and over again. It won’t alleviate the heat when you think back to your luck. You might be lucky… but not in the ways you want to.

---

“I heard your morning was rough,” is the first thing Oikawa says to you as you enter the gym. Why you thought becoming a manager was a good idea is beyond you. You thought of quitting numerous of times but then there was this small voice in the back of your mind telling you to just ‘suck it up and enjoy it while you can’ (with the addition of ‘it’s the last year with your friends before you part ways’ that has been bothering you for some months now). You were holding on because you didn’t want to let go of them completely, not yet. It might’ve been only 3 years since you’ve gotten to know them, but the way they’ve grown on you is just baffling. Baffling, yet plausible.

You set your mouth in a straight line and nod regardless.

Oikawa’s teasing smile disappears from his face, “Did I say—”

You sharply inhale and shake your head. “It’s all good. If you need anything, just call me or something.” Oikawa catches your wrist before you can go any further and looks you deadly in the eyes. You hate this look so much because it’s a way of getting information out of you (in your case, it’s your love life that they love to interfere in for no apparent reason). “Is this about Iwa-chan again?”

As if on cue, Matsukawa and Hanamaki appear by each of Oikawa’s side and look at you expectantly. Cool, what are you supposed to do now? Lie? “Of course not. I just really had a shitty morning. You even said it first.”

“Okay,” Oikawa hums. You notice how both Matsukawa and Hanamaki are staying eerily quiet. “And you were avoiding him for what reason, then?”

Of course you weren’t going to lie?! Because they would have called your bullshit out anyway. “I wasn’t avoiding him…” Oikawa sends you a glare and you subconsciously wince.

“I just needed some time figuring stuff out, I think.”

Matsukawa puts a hand on your shoulder, “L/N, how long have you liked this guy?”

“Imagine liking Iwaizumi,” Hanamaki butts in. Oikawa fist bumps him and you can’t help but roll your eyes. Are those really the ones you’ll be spilling your guts to regarding your love life? Crazy shit.

“Uh, um, since first year, I believe?” You might’ve told them that you had a crush on Iwaizumi but you never specified since when and how big of a crush it was.

When those words rolled off your tongue, you knew that it barely was a crush anymore.

And it seems like the guys knew it, too - you could tell especially by their widened eyes. You check the time on your left wrist and leave no room for any of them to comment anything by yelling, “Practice starts in 10!” And so, you shake off the grasp Oikawa had on your wrist and get into the ‘indifferent L/N’ mode.

You notice Iwaizumi making his way into the gym, changed into his sports clothes and you can’t help but feel the fluttering slowly increase in your stomach. Why is it so intense today? You accidentally lock eyes with him and you turn your gaze away so fast you would have snapped your neck.

---

Practice felt insufferably long. You noticed the team’s improvement as a whole, except —as much as you don’t like to admit it— Iwaizumi who seemed a little bit more aloof than usual. His spikes, though, were as powerful as ever, you noted. As you shouldered all the necessary bags and helped the team with cleaning the equipment, Iwaizumi tapped on your shoulder, sweat trickling down his temples. His cheeks were reddened from all the jumps and spikes. “Can we talk later? I’ll… wait for you.” You widened your eyes. Your mind was screaming at you to say No, or even some type of excuse - as long as you didn’t have to face him. Much to your dismay, “Yes,” was what you let out while walking forward to the exit to the secretary. You couldn’t afford looking at him directly, who knows what would happen then, had you had stolen a glance.

On your way back to the gym to retrieve your belongings, you met Oikawa, Matsukawa and Hanamaki by the exit. You sent them a glare and went past them. “You shouldn’t waste your time. Do it while you still can.” Oikawa said as he left. Matsukawa and Hanamaki sent you a sympathetic smile before following right after him. “You’re not waiting for Iwaizumi?”

“He said he was gonna talk to you!” The thought of strangling Oikawa felt just right at the moment.

So, this is it.

Iwaizumi is looking anywhere but at you. Honestly said, if you hadn’t known better, you would’ve deemed him as the silent and shy type of guy who would shut his mouth rather than voice his own opinions. But, you do know him better and you know that’s exactly what he’s not and, you can’t help but feel envious at the thought - he was never the type to not call out any of you guys’ bullshit.

So, it doesn’t surprise you when you hear him say, “L/N,” you sharply inhale. “Is there something wrong? Or, like, did I do something wrong?”

You draw your bottom lip between your teeth. You want to blame all the feelings on him; it’s his fault for being the way he is, his fault for acting the way he does, his fault for making you fall head over heels for him - a fact you never dared voicing out until recently. Ultimately, you shake your head and say, “What makes you say that?”

Mental facepalm.

Iwaizumi laughs, you can’t really tell if he meant it or if it was done out of a sarcastic manner, “Hm, aside from avoiding me all the classes and glaring at the back of my head all day, I don’t think anything in particular happened.”

You let a small smile overtake your features. “Oh, well, I did have a shitty morning. But at the same time I don’t want to blame it all on it and I’m sorry it came out the way you perceived it, and-”

Iwaizumi catches you by your shoulders and looks you so tenderly in the eyes you feel like melting from it. You look away as he says, “L/N, you’re ranting.”

You steal a glance at him and notice how his hair is messy from practice and how his cheeks are still pink-dusted. You slowly feel the redness wash over your own cheeks and you ignore the warmth that leaves you when you push Iwaizumi away. “You dumbass, you didn’t do anything wrong, so it’s all good.”

Iwaizumi tilts his head to the side. You sure? You nod and make your way towards the school gates. “Iwaizumi,” you call out, “I glare at you every single day. I’m baffled you realized now!” He catches up to you and ruffles your hair.

“Oh, you’ll be regretting those words.” He slings an arm over your shoulder as you two walk the same path home. Your heart beats a little louder and you internally berate yourself for that. You keep reminding yourself that the boundary between you two must be visible. And even if you crossed a millimeter, you’d be sure to compensate for it - whether that took lunch break spent under the bleachers, or missed practice because you ‘felt sick’ that day.

You were a coward. You were such a coward.

---

Three months later, you’re found in the library with Matsukawa. He needed help with explaining some school stuff you understood and thus, how your study date was born. You prop your chin in the palm of your left hand, the other hand twirling with a pen you found in your pencil case. You look into the distance and your gaze lands on the huge bookshelves, and you wonder if you could find an interesting book to read.

“- do I use a comma here or not?” Matsukawa asks. You hurriedly turn to him, your face softening as you ask him to reiterate the question. You knew it was probably a bad idea to stay after school and help your friend - since you’ve been unfocused and grumpy the whole school day; this session would only add more fuel to the fire. But, then you thought back to all the times when he helped you and you felt bad for not doing anything in return.

“Uh, let me see,” you say as you grab his textbook to go over the sentence he was struggling with. Matsukawa immediately retrieves the textbook from your hands and, with a puff, closes it. Not so softly.

“L/N,” Matsukawa sighs, you notice how his hands are folded atop the textbook. “Just why are you doing this to yourself?” His voice is soft despite what he’s said. “Mattsun, we’re not here for—”

Under the intense stare he gives you, you recoil and say, “I mean, he’s going out with someone already, no? Why would I ruin that now?”

Matsukawa massages his temples and looks you dead in the eyes, his hands clasping over yours. “L/N, you’re being ridiculous now. Just look at how miserable you are!” He fixes his gaze elsewhere, the grip he has on your hands tighten a bit and you sigh in relief. He’s telling you he’s here for you. “It hurts seeing you like this, you know? The guys might not show it but, they’re hurting as much as you are. But you know it’s not our thing to say nor even our business to interfere in.”

You grin, “Fancy of you saying this while interfering in my nonexistent love life.”

Matsukawa snickers and lets go of your hand. “It’s not that nonexistent.”

You’ve always known that out of all the guys, you were a tad closer to Matsukawa. How it came to that point, you don’t really know but even without having to say it out loud, you both knew you could trust each other. You give him a smile and a reassuring nod. You’re here for him, too.

Later that night, you receive a message from Iwaizumi. The temptation to ignore it was so strong yet, somehow, you find yourself clicking on his contact and read over the message.

From: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

> L/N! emergency! what do I wear on a formal date, the first or the second one? respond asap pls

You regret… You regret clicking on the message because it hurts - knowing there’s someone who can potentially make him happy, someone that Iwaizumi will come home to, someone that can be his forever. Above all, though, what hurts the most is that you brought all this pain upon yourself.

You look at the attached pictures: in the first one, Iwaizumi’s wearing a basic black suit, with a white dress shirt underneath the blazer and dark pants that reach above his ankles. The second is more ‘daring’ - he’s sporting a blue jean jacket with a hoodie beneath it and black jeans. You snicker at it, is this really what he considers wearing to the aforementioned formal date?

To: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

< iwaaaaa ur not serious about the second one r u?

From: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

> Lmao who do you take me for? Ofc not!

To: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

< what was the reason then ?!?!!

From: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

> Bored and wanted to talk to you.

Before you could respond, though, another notification pops up on your phone, signaling someone’s messaged you, or more like, the group chat.

From: Oikawa [Seijoh’s mightiest third years]

> lmaoooo yall heard? iwa-channn is going to a wedding. now place ur bets on how long it will take him to fuck sumn up

From: Makki [Seijoh’s mightiest third years]

> five dollars for less than an hour

From: Mattsun [Seijoh’s mightiest third years]

> Stfu (read: 5 bucks for less than two hours we gotta have faith in him cmon)

From: Iwaizumi [Seijoh’s mightiest third years]

> Just why.

Oh, this is the formal date? They must’ve gotten real close if Iwaizumi will be his date’s date.

You click on the chat with Iwaizumi.

From: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

> And the guys, I guess.

Another message incoming.

From: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

> Lol, don’t you just love jinxing yourself?

You send him laughing emojis. You two end up texting for some more minutes before that turns into a call and just hearing him talk about something that makes him happy is enough for you. You notice that whenever it comes to Iwaizumi, everything suddenly seems sufficient.

You both end up talking about miscellaneous things - one of them being his date. He tells you about how he met her (through Oikawa as the date attends the same class) and what exactly led to the point where they were now. You knew he was seeing someone but hearing it directly from him made you want to rip your hair off and yell slurs at yourself, and cry into your duvets and —

And what? You need to face the reality - you’re too late now.

“L/N?” Iwaizumi asks through the phone, his voice sounding weary and tinny. You rub your eyes and yawn. “Iwaizumi, we should go to sleep. I wouldn’t want to run late to tomorrow’s date!” You try to sound as cheerful as possible. Your voice cracked at the last bit but it seems that Iwaizumi brushed it off as drowsiness. “Right. Well, thanks for talking to me, dumbass.”

“Who are you calling a dumbass? Look at you, thanking your friend for talking to you. That’s ridiculous.”

“Look at the ungodly time, dumbass.” You do, the clock reads 2:32AM.

“Shut up, just sleep.” And you hang up.

You notice another message.

From: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

> I meant it, L/N. Thanks

You smirk.

To: [Seijoh’s mightiest third years]

< five dollars it will take less than thirty minutes

From: Oikawa [Seijoh’s mightiest third years]

> GASP game on b

A day after the date, you all gather at your and Iwaizumi’s joined desks. “So,” Oikawa starts, scrolling on his phone through the numerous posts. “Little birdie posted something and tagged Iwa-chan in it! Let’s see!”

Oikawa places the phone in the middle for everyone to see and clicks on her latest post.

The caption reads: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it took him 28 minutes to bang his head into the stand!’ Oikawa scrolls through the pictures where the said stand was not as straight as it should be. More pictures show him standing next to his date, his smile vibrant and eyes twinkling with happiness. You notice how Iwaizumi’s smile grows bigger each time Oikawa swipes to the left. It is a sequence where he and his date look at each other with so much adoration you have to bite the inside of your cheek to not break down right then and there.

“I can’t believe you dragged my girlfriend into this.” Oikawa visibly gasps, quickly stealing a glance at you and you dare say you caught the slight look of pity in the pools of his eyes. You look away. Even Hanamaki —who enjoys teasing the hell out of you— sends you a look of indescribable mix of emotions and you just brush it off by rolling your eyes at him. You can’t lie that the tears pricking your eyes aren’t present because oh, well, they are.

“Congratulations!” You find yourself saying a tad louder than you intended to. The three of them look at you with widened eyes, quizzical looks on their faces. You lock eyes with Matsukawa and you nod, silently telling him that you know, you know, you know.

The ambience in the classroom gets a little bit more suffocating. “If you’ll excuse me,” you say as you make your way towards the restrooms. Why can’t you just be happy for him? Why do you hold on to something so… trivial? Do you want to lose what you already have? You repeatedly splash water over your face.

I’m a mess, you whisper to yourself as you notice the puffy red eyes and run your hands along your cheekbones. You’re ready to curse the universe for treating you like shit because as much as you are aware of the situation, you don’t deserve to feel this way.

However, despite all of this, you know that in the end, you have no one but yourself to blame.

---

Seconds, hours, days, weeks go by and graduation seems closer than ever. Naturally, all of you have become more busy with preparing for the exams. As much as you hate to admit it, you miss them.

It felt good the first few days; you had them off your back and you didn’t have to deal with their bullshit you’ve grown accustomed to (for some reason, and very much to your dismay). But recently, you’ve been feeling empty and you haven’t been talking that much - though, not that you minded. Typically, you four would spend the sunny afternoons in your backyard, black-tinted sunglasses protecting your eyes from the scorching hot sun. You would stuff yourselves with too much ice cream, jelly sticks of all flavors and too many yogurt drinks that had no right tasting so good.

Once inside the house, Oikawa would lie on the table, fanning himself with the poor excuse of a textbook, Hanamaki and Matsukawa would solve like one and a half math problems and then rest on the table, too, cheeks pressed against the cold surface. Iwaizumi would prepare snacks and you’d help him with that.

You’d notice the way he talks so mindlessly when it came to the things he liked: it being volleyball or Agedashi Tofu. You’d play some music in the background as the two of you would work on preparing the snacks. You’d feel just how dangerously close you two are when he leans over your body to retrieve a cup from the shelf. You’d be hyper aware of everything and that was one of the things you loved and hated simultaneously.

So it was quite a surprise to get a call in the middle of your study session.

You slide to the right with your thumb, accepting the call. “L/N! My favourite person!”

“Cut the bullshit, Oinks. You need something?” You press the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you decide to cut up some fruit. “Actually, I don’t need anything.” You frown, then why did he call you? To waste your precious time? “I just wanted to let you know that the guys will be picking you up in,” a momentary pause, “like five minutes because we’ve missed you and you deserve a break from studying.”

You nearly yell at him but instead, you say, “I hate you.”

“Aw, I can feel the love!” You roll your eyes. Then comes silence. The sweet, bitter, hung-up-in-the-air silence that circles around you in vexing motions, driving you crazy.

“Look, about Iwaizumi’s relationship-”

You gasp, “Iwaizumi.” You mockingly repeat. Oikawa sighs on the other line. Right, no time for jokes. “L/N, his girlfriend makes him really happy. I honestly don’t know why I’m telling you this,” you don’t know either, “but I know you’re a good person and you wouldn’t want to ruin that. And, I know you hate people who pity you but I still feel the need to apologize-”

“You’re so embarrassing, I can’t believe you. Why should you apologize for something that was not even your fault?”

“Hm, kinda like a best friend’s duty, I dare say.” You laugh - this one’s legitimately genuine. “You can be, uh, bearable sometimes.” Oikawa guffaws so loudly you have to put your phone away from you to not get an ear-rape. “I’ll use that against you, ugly.”

“Just say you love me and go,” You jokingly say, not expecting the latter to say the words.

“Now, say it back,” he whines. All you let out, though, is an incomprehensible screech and a ‘See you there!’, and end the call.

Subconsciously, you might just have said them.

The doorbell resounds throughout the whole house and you run to the front door, peeping through the hole to see who decided to pay you a visit. You see Hanamaki and Matsukawa waving at you.

You open the door, the wind sending a refreshing swoosh to your hair and you smile upon seeing the two boys before you. “You look kinda scary when you smile,” Matsukawa says as you threaten to hit him with your palm outstretched. Hanamaki doesn’t seem unfazed by your antics as he asks,“Oikawa probably called you, no?”

You nod and get out of the doorway so that they can enter the house. “As usual, make yourself at home and you can steal some cut fruit in the kitchen.”

Five minutes later, you descend the stairs in your jogging pants and short-sleeved shirt. They didn’t tell you where you were going so you went with something casual yet comfortable.

Putting on your shoes, you lock the front door and catch up to the two that went ahead. You notice how both of them are wearing casual clothes as well - but unlike someone, they had the formality to at least wear jeans. You’re walking by Hanamaki’s left side, flanking him with Matsukawa on the other. “So, where are you two dragging me?”

Hanamaki turns to you and with a saccharinely sweet smile and elbows you lightly in the ribs. “It’s a secret~” You return the gesture with a little more strength than you wanted - hence, Hanamaki unintentionally pushing into Matsukawa’s side, nearly flying him into the fence of someone’s house if he hadn’t braced himself for the impact.

“Wow, L/N, if you’re mad, just tell us, damn,” Hanamaki rubs his ribs, dramatically hissing in pain. You roll your eyes but apologize regardless. “You good, Mattsun?” He nods at your question and you send him a contrite look of sorts.

“Is it just me or have you gotten a bit more aggressive?” Hanamaki nudges into your shoulder and you send him a questioning look - brows furrowed and a bottom lip tucked between your teeth. “Huh?”

Hanamaki sighs, “I don’t know, ever since Iwaizumi announced his relationship or whatever, you’ve been tense around him… avoiding him, too.Us, too… kinda.”

You look into the distance, noticing a building that you know all too well, “You know, Makki, you seem to notice a lot of things despite your unattentive nature.”

“I am,” Hanamaki inhales theatrically, “offended.”

“As you should be, honestly.” Matsukawa elbows him in the ribs. Hanamaki turns to him, “Just because L/N hurt my ribs from the left side doesn’t mean the right side needs to be damaged, too!”

“You spend too much time with Oikawa,” You tsk, letting out an airy laugh.

“Don’t tell me we’re gonna have to sit through Oikawa’s karaoke session again,” You slap your forehead. You knew that the two boys you are currently with didn’t propose this idea - if anything, they must’ve been forced into this… as would be you and Iwaizumi. Of course. It’s a tradition after all.

“Yep,” Matsukawa shrugs. “But look on the bright side, you can yell whatever to appease your anger you’ve been bottling up.” You glare at him and he raises both of his hands up in mock-surrender.

Hanamaki catches your wrist and motions Matsukawa to enter the building first. He complies. “Listen, we just want the squad back on its good terms, so we’ll hope you’ll talk it out today.” You slowly nod, ready to take off to the building behind Matsukawa. “One more thing,” Hanamaki loosens the grip on your wrist. “Remember that Iwaizumi was a friend first before he was your first love.”

You stiffen. Were those the words you’d always needed to hear but they’d never occurred to you? Iwaizumi was a friend first before he was your first love.

Something clicks.

How could you have been so selfish; wallow in your self-pity, run in circles because all you could do was to remind yourself that this was your fault, your reality now? How could you have been so reckless, risking years of friendship on the line?

“You coming?” Hanamaki yells, palms cupped around his mouth. You nod, slowly reaching the building.

---

Five karaoke sessions (and a very enthusiastic Oikawa-singing) later, you plump down on the couch, wiping the perspiration off your forehead. It’s tiring - watching Oikawa giving his all to convey the right feelings into the song. You must admit, he sure is passionate; it’s almost as if you were watching him play volleyball - except with a mic in his hand instead that he wouldn’t throw around… hopefully.

As the song nears its end, you all let out a breath of relief, a mix of annoyance, boredom, and tiredness hanging in the stuffy air. You let yourself sink further into the sofa, hoping it could swallow you whole and erase your existence.

Okay, maybe you should tone down being so pessimistic.

“How was I?” Oikawa asks, eyes sparkling. His hair is unkempt from all the unnecessary movements he made during the climax of the song and his cheeks are painted a rosy hue - you note even with the flashing lights casting every color across his face.

You smirk, “Not bad.”

Oikawa frowns at your response, tightening his grip on the mic. “What do you mean ‘not bad’? After everything I’ve done for you? I see how it is, you’re gonna hear me sing again—”

You steal a glance at Iwaizumi. You notice how he’s staring at the door, probably wishing he were anywhere else but here. Hanamaki comes into your line of sight and you motion him to do anything to catch Iwaizumi’s attention, thus Hanamaki getting buried alive as he slaps the back of Iwaizumi’s head. He glowers at Hanamaki, already rolling up his sleeves.

Hanamaki points in your direction and you catch Iwaizumi’s green eyes that glisten a little bit brighter in the excessively flashing-lit room. With your thumb, you point to the exit and he nods, a look of relief washes over his features.

Once outside the suffocating room, you inhale the fresh air. Summer is just around the corner and even though it was your favourite season, you can’t help but indulge yourself in the chilliness before it changes its course for the next three months.

“Uh, good day, yeah?” Iwaizumi shoves his hands into his jeans’ front pockets, admiring the gravelly ground. He’s put some distance between you two.

“Sure, if being forced into this activity with Oikawa is a good thing.”

Iwaizumi chuckles, “It’s our thing, L/N, and you know it.” You nod and purse your lips in a straight line because well, he made it awkward for no reason. Or was it you for saying something so obvious?

“How are the exam preparations coming along? Dream college or something like that?” You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, looking past Iwaizumi’s shoulder at passersby.

“Could be better but so far no mental breakdowns.” You can hear the sarcasm laced in his voice as he speaks. “Was thinking about sports science ‘cause you know, it hurts me to watch athletes injure themselves.”

“Hajime, you’re a good person.” The words tumble out of your lips before you can stop yourself; it felt too unnatural to not say it. Iwaizumi barks a laugh. “You, too, F/N.”

You grin, “Obviously.” If you truly meant it or not, you didn’t know.

Comfortable ambience surrounds you both as you let the wind carry out the unsaid words.

You were never a person of many words - you’ve alway been a little too blunt, a little too hotheaded, a little too selfish. Although in most of the cases you were not aware, it was about damn time you got your head out of your ass and looked around yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You mutter, hoping it would cover all the damage you caused (and fully knowing that would not be the case).

Iwaizumi looks up, eyes searching yours. He quirks his eyebrow in a silent question.

You reconsider your words. “I’m sorry for not spending that much time with you. I know we’re not bound to each other or anything but I just felt like… maybe it was better for the both of us? I mean, we’re graduating in less than two months and … yeah.”

“Oh, so that’s why. I thought you were avoiding me,” he scratches the back of his neck, tilting his head. “You also haven’t been showing up to practice anymore so I thought…”

Right. Of course.

“Well, I managed to lure this first year into taking over my duties for the time being that I figure my shit out, you know?”

Iwaizumi mock-gasps you. “You’re so irresponsible.” You roll your eyes as some sort of retort.

“Come here.”

You look up in horror; his arms are outstretched and there’s an evil smile strewn across his face. “What do you want to do, Iwaizumi.”

“Dumbass, just give me a hug,” he says as he steps forward and catches you off-guard by encircling his muscular arms around your shoulders, squashing your face in the crook of his neck. He pats your back in a steady rhythm, your arms unmoving by your sides. “Come to practice and let that first-year breathe, will you?”

You let a small smile snake its way onto your face. “After all, this is what you say?”

“Priorities,” he hums, holding you still in his embrace. You groan in pseudo-annoyance as you lightly punch his stomach to get him away from you, only to no avail. “Cute of you to even try, now hug your friend back or I’m not letting you go.”

You sigh, “Everyone sounds like Oikawa, just how much extra time have you all been spending together?”

“Maybe if you had tagged along, you would have sounded just like us, too.”

“Is that really a win?” You say as your arms weakly encircle his waist, ghosting over it. “Now, let me go, you sap.”

Iwaizumi infinitesimally tightens his grip around your shoulders. “I would never.”

You flutter your eyes close against his shirt, your forehead pressed against his shoulder. You notice it was quite similar to something you had with Matsukawa - some kind of reassurance that they were here for you no matter what. Whether Iwaizumi meant it in that sense or not, you let yourself drop your build-up guard as you snuggle deeper into the comfort of his embrace and mutter a ‘thank you’ you hope he caught.

---

“Hajime!” You look up, your hand with the pen halting on the clipboard sitting on your forearm.

The person in question runs up to the girl and hooks her hands around his neck as he twirls her around in front of his teammates that look surprisingly apathetic.

“She keeps coming to his practice, why does he act like it’s always the first time?” You hear Kunimi mutter by your right and you send him an eyebrow raise to which he responds with a scowl. You wince. Kids these days.

Kindaichi bows and apologizes on Kunimi’s behalf. You wave him off with a half-smile and ruffle his hair, saying how great his blocks were.

“I will do my best!” He says as he dashes off onto the court, meeting up with the rest of the teammates. You catch Oikawa’s concentrated face as he gives the second years some advice on spiking. You smile fondly to yourself; there truly was not a better captain; leader.

“L/N-san,” the first-year tugs at your jacket, you nod in acknowledgment, prodding her on. “I’ll have to go now, so if you'll excuse me.”

“Of course! Thank you so much for helping me! Have a great day!” The first-year bows and leaves the gym with a wave. You reciprocate it with an added smile.

The girl from earlier approaches you in light-weight steps, her uniform neatly ironed, you noted. She has her hair in a high ponytail and you notice how stunning she is. “These guys can be really mean on the court, no?”

It takes you embarrassingly long enough to understand that she’s talking to you. “Oh… uh, yeah. They can get aggressive.”

“How long have you been a manager?” She suddenly asks, eyes sparkling with interest.

“Ever since I became a first-year, so three years now.” You answer, noticing how she’s clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I can’t even imagine how bad must it be for your mental health to deal with these brats.”

Oh. “Hm, if you’re used to hearing their bullshit everyday, I’m sure you’d be just fine.” She laughs genuinely. You subconsciously tighten your hold on the clipboard.

“Maybe,” she mutters, her gaze landing on Iwaizumi who spikes the ball set to him specifically by Oikawa onto the opponent’s court, adding a point to his team.

“Honestly I admire you for that.” You stay still because… what else is there to do? “As much as I’ve always wanted to be one, I don’t think I’d be good at it, and it’s too late for me, anyway.” She dry-laughs, the sadness clearly woven into her voice.

“I can show you some things if you want. It’s mostly paperwork but there’s also—” (the habit of talking before thinking was getting out of hands now)

She eagerly nods as you hand her your clipboard you’ve been writing into the whole time. The coach sends you a questioning look but you wave him off, mouthing ‘okay’, ‘no problem’ and everything in between.

As you two work in silence - you showing her the basics and the fundamentals, and her nodding everything off and asking questions (which reminds you of the first-year that you were lucky to find because, let’s be real, who would be so excited over taking the responsibilities?), you both don’t notice Iwaizumi watching you two interact, thinking how two of his favorite people are conversing.

And that’s how he gets zonked. In the head. By Oikawa.

Before you could run off to check up on Iwaizumi, she catches your wrist. “He’ll be okay in no time.”

You let your jaw drop. “W-what…”

“Just look at him, this happens all the time, don’t worry.”

“But it’s my responsibility—”

“Look out, L/N!!!” You turn towards the voice, for the first time in your life catching the ball... with your face. And as you hit the ground, blackness is the only thing that surrounds you.

Your head is spinning, the pain pounding against your skull. You’re lying on a bed, the headrest slightly raised. You bring a hand up to your face, feeling just how much it is swollen beneath your fingertips. “You’ll be okay,” the nurse says, cleaning up the supplies. “It’ll take some time healing; you got a pretty severe hit.”

“Yeah,” you let out, defeated. “What about Iwaizumi?”

“Ah, yeah, he’s just left. He’s okay, if that’s what you’re wondering.” You let out a sigh of relief. Just what the hell happened? You throw a forearm over your forehead and flutter your eyes close, indulging in the way the mattress beneath your body feels nice. Before you know it, you slip into the dreamland.

;

The practices have been less and less rigorous, considering the fact that the third years prioritized their decent marks rather than ‘some hobby’ (“L/N! How could you say that!” Oikawa whined on one fine day, tugging at your sleeve. Iwaizumi sent you a glare that day.). After all, they could’ve retired after losing to Karasuno but Oikawa was rigid, and someone had to lead the team for the little time that they had left.

You also have been seeing Iwaizumi’s girlfriend come to his practices, cheering him on or completely shattering his ego. They fit one another really well; she was there to ground him if he got too aggressive. Their natures seemed to clash in the right way. You swallow the bile rising up your throat.

No.

“L/N!” You turn to the voice, noticing it was her. You wave at her. This has become some kind of routine you both fell into, with the rest of the team as well. “How’s school?” She asks out of the blue and you weigh out the options: to answer or to digress. Why would she start a small talk, considering you two aren’t relatively that close yet?

You ignore the nonsensical thoughts your mind loves conjuring up.

“Good.”

She nods, averting her gaze as she bits on her bottom lip. You two watch the game before you.

(Eventually, these little small talks turn into full-on hangouts on Fridays with the guys tagging along. And maybe, maybe your assumptions were wrong, after all.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I can’t believe we’ve made it.” You sniffle into your sleeve as you hold tightly onto the tube with the graduation certificate in it. The school gymnasium is teeming with sweaty bodies of graduates, holding onto their own tubes. Everyone’s chattering so loud it makes your head turn.

Oikawa nudges your shoulder and with a blinding smile says, “We really did, L/N-san.”

You grin and turn your body to him, catching him off-guard as you hug his middle, fake-sniffling into his uniform. “Don’t pry my hands off, this is my love language.” Oikawa gasps but you can feel him lean into the embrace, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Hey,” you lift your shoulder he’s resting his chin on. He hums in acknowledgement. “You did really well, Oikawa-san. I respect you so much, Oikawa-san. You have worked very hard-”

Oikawa jerks away from your warmth, holding you by your shoulders at an arm’s length. “You mean this, L/N-san?” He challenges you.

You flick his forehead. “Obviously not. Except the last part.”

Oikawa gets into a ranting mode as you look around the gymnasium, spotting numerous familiar faces. You send them a smile and a wave. On the other side of the gym, you spot Iwaizumi with his girlfriend by his side. Their arms are locked as they converse with Matsukawa and Hanamaki.

You notice the way Iwaizumi snakes an arm around her waist, probably trying to keep her as close as possible. Ah yeah, of course. Iwaizumi has always been a little too overprotective when it came to the people he cared for. You smile upon the fact; he was a bit too good for this world, although it might not seem so to strangers. But that was the beauty of it all, how only you — among the others he cared for— could see his true colors.

“L/N?” You look up. “Are you sure you’re fine? I mean it makes me really sad just seeing you so… sullen.” The tears are pricking your eyes. Why is Oikawa being like this?

“Tooru, I hate you so much.” You grab onto his jacket as he instinctually grabs a hold of your shoulders, slamming you against his chest. “Why are you like this.”

He tsks, “No, why are you like this?”

You let yourself indulge in the warmth and comfort of his embrace, tuning the world out for a second. “Thank you for the years. I mean it.”

“Now, now, why are you such a sap? Look,” he points behind you, “Mattsun and Makki are here!”

You scramble away from his hold, patting at your uniform as you pretend everything prior to this was just a hallucination, an illusion. “You two, can you believe this? L/N is so emotional it makes me cry, too.”

You grumble in embarrassment. “Let me be. I do have the right to be emotional. How are you not crying? You won’t get to see me anymore.”

Hanamaki joins the conversation. “I think that’s why none of us are crying.” Oikawa barks a laugh as he steadies himself on Hanamaki’s shoulder. You turn to Matsukawa, expecting some sort of back-up. “I mean, he didn’t lie…”

You pout. “Betrayal.”

“I knew you always had a favorite!” Hanamaki exclaims with his arms crossed over his chest. Oikawa stops laughing, already rolling his sleeves up, albeit unsuccessfully. “Unbelievable. I thought we didn’t play favorites?”

“We don’t!” You exclaim with as much rage.

Matsukawa steps into your personal space as he engulfs you in a bear hug, carding his fingers through your hair. “What are you doing?”

“You don’t have to lie to them,” Matsukawa says as he too-sweetly smiles at the remaining boys.

“Scandalous,” Oikawa says, hands already clenched in fists by his side. Hanamaki catches him by his middle. “Losers.”

You snake your hands into the inside of Matsukawa’s jacket and tickle him. “Ow,” He jerks away from you and sends you a glare. You only smile in return.

“You know,” Hanamaki starts, “you have never given me a hug.”

You widen your eyes because first of all, he’s absolutely right and second of all, why did he have the need to say it out loud and so… straightforwardly? Does he have no shame? You also hate the fact that your brain tends to short-circuit every time someone’s being too explicit and your body reacts a tad faster before you can realize it - naturally, your cheeks redden and you bring the tube to your cheeks to soothe the redness that is not going away. “Takahiro, shut!”

He shrugs. “For real, Oikawa hugs you like, all the time. Matsukawa does, too, which is surprising,” Matsukawa yells ‘Hey, I can be nice!’ , “and god, don’t get me started on Iwaizumi.

It’s as if Oikawa was made for this. His ears perk up at the mention of his childhood friend as he wiggles his eyebrows at you. “What?” You roll your eyes, wishing for some silence, freedom, ‘get me out of here’s.

“You were saying, huh?” Oikawa leans into Hanamaki, their shoulders bumping. “Get off me, you creep.”

Oikawa has this whole ‘lost-puppy-in-the-streets’ look going on and you almost give in to the temptation to comfort him. But bruh, nah, he’s a big boy. “Anyway back to our Iwaizumi!

“We all know he’s not affectionate, right, he’d punch us in the guts and say something like, I don’t hate y’all. But!” You flinch upon the raised voice. “When it comes to our not-that best and not-that impressive and stupid and dumb—”

“We get it!” You say, looking awfully bothered by it (not that it actually bothered you, haha, nope).

“He’s kinda soft. It’s totally different with his girlfriend but yeah.”

The rest of you eye each other. This was so not happening. “Did you just analyze this whole meaningless shit,” Matsukawa deadpans.

“Had to justify my lack of L/N Hugs.”

You slap your forehead. “Hanamaki, what the fuck even--” In that exact moment, you’re thrown in Hanamaki’s way, his arms instinctually wrapping themselves around your shoulders as you try stopping the momentum that could possibly make you both fall onto the hard, stepped-on by not-clean shoes and totally not-dusty ground.

“Is this a new way of hugging or something?” A voice asks from behind you and Hanamaki in each other’s awkward embrace. There stands Iwaizumi with his girlfriend by his side, an ever-so-wide smile strewn across their faces. “At least I got my hug.” Hanamaki unwraps his arms around you, completely disregarding you as he drops you to the ground.

“I feel so used.” You wipe at your metaphorical tear in the corner of your eye. As you’re about to hoist yourself up, a hand appears before you.

Without any second thoughts, you take it and with the person’s help, you lift yourself up from the ground. “Thanks, ‘Zumi.”

“Hm, you never gave me a nickname.” It sounds like he’s pondering over the words except he just accidentally said them out loud. You notice your friend group a feet away, chattering animatedly with other classmates, Iwaizumi’s girlfriend somewhere in the far corner chatting with her girl friends. Great, you two, just what you wanted.

You swear to god that you caught the three close friends of yours sending you unsubtle glances, making gestures, clowning, whatever. You shake your head.

“Something on your mind, L/N?” You divert your gaze to the ground. After all this time, why does your heart skip a beat faster whenever you’re the only ones around?

“I,” you start, fiddling with your fingers, the tube safely tucked under your arm. “I never got the chance to properly thank you for the years.”

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. A second, two, three pass by. He’s waiting. “Uh,” you straighten your back and hold the tube with both of your hands to stop them from shaking so damn much. At this point they could become engines with which you could drive around the neighborhood. “I told the guys already,” you point at them with your thumb, “so don’t feel special or anything.”

He smiles and that encourages you to keep going. “Well, I don’t think you know but I’m like, the biggest fan of you.” He sends you a knowing look. Oh, so you’re a fan of him?

“Of you all. And I might not have shown it as much but it’s the truth. I can’t even imagine how hard you all must’ve worked to get where you are. Your strategies, your excellent thinking, your intelligence, your view on things - it’s all so impressive to me and I wanna let you know that whatever you’ll choose in the end, just know this high school time was crucial to your growth.”

Silence. Did you say something wrong? Maybe it’s taking him some time to absorb, digest the whole word vomit you just let out. What’s filtering anyway.

“L/N, you know,” Iwaizumi averts his eyes to the high ceiling, the sunlight smiling down on you two. “I don’t think you should be saying this to me.”

You shake your head. “I promise I’ve already told him and I’ll let him know later again, but now, this,” you gesture to the air between the two of you, “is about you so stop selling yourself short. I thought you were over this.”

Iwaizumi quirks his lips up in a half-smile, eyes sparkling with an emotion you could actually tell - gratefulness. “See, I didn’t lie when I said you were a good person.”

You shoot him one of your best smiles, “Could say the same about you, sir.”

“Hey, you two! You going?” Oikawa yells from the other side of the room, pointing at both of you. He’s nearing the exit with the rest of the third years, still facing you. You give him a thumbs up and the last thing you see is the undoubted significant smile that had no ulterior motives. “So, we going?” Iwaizumi points to the exit, the hall slowly but surely emptying each passing minute.

“You go ahead, I still have something left to do.” Iwaizumi looks suspicious but after relentless bickering, he gave up and said he’d be waiting outside, somewhere near the school, you’ll find him eventually.

As you’re left alone in the emptied gym, you cannot help but think of the times when you first got to know the guys that you now call your best friends.

Awkward, embarrassed, clueless.

You were reluctant to join, for: firstly, what did you know about volleyball? Secondly, you were really not looking for any friends, so how come it ended up the way you didn’t plan to, yet you were never more grateful? What would’ve happened had you not decided to join the volley club as a manager?

You’d like to believe you were in-one-way-or-another lucky. You never questioned your luck, never questioned your fate. You believed in the universe - although you knew it had a very obvious, blatant dislike to you. Ignoring all of that, you went with the flow.

People come and go. Friends come and go. You are aware.

These lingering feelings? It hurts.

It hurts but that’s only because you were never brave enough to let them out. This was a choice you could’ve chosen. You didn’t have to wait for a miracle to appear in front of you and make you say all the words you’d always felt too scared to say.

Hadn’t it been for Oikawa, Matsukawa and Hanamaki, would you have been able to even fall in love with Iwaizumi in the first place?

Right, you did attend the same class but would the bond have been as strong as it is now?

No matter what, Iwaizumi was a friend first and although it hurts, you need to move on. One way or another.

“C’mon, L/N! We won’t get to any food if we dilly-dally any longer!” Iwaizumi shouts to you from the other side and you bite your lip to prevent the megawatt smile from spreading across your face.

It hurts.

It hurts so much, but the least you can do is to cherish him in the ways you can.

Cherish him as a friend.

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sneezefiction · 4 years

Text

found

Oikawa x Reader - Scenario

desc: Oikawa found a steadiness in the stars... and then in you too. alternatively, you’re Oikawa’s apartment neighbor & you two have gotten pretty close.

a/n: i’ve been thinking about stargazing and Oikawa lately. i’ve honestly always wondered how he adjusted to life in Argentina and if he ever got very close to anyone in his time there. here’s something fluffy along those lines <33

warnings: none

wc: 2.4k

---

The night sky has always had a gravitational effect on Oikawa.

Leaning up against the cold metal railing, head tilted back with tired eyes, he feels free to drop his composure and look up into the vast expanse of space.

Long days under bright arena lights are a constant in his life. He’s used to it by now and remains grateful to the fluorescents that have followed him throughout his blossoming career, but at 24 years old Oikawa has found himself drawing closer and closer to the bright specks in the sky.

The novelty of success had Oikawa on cloud nine. His hard work had paid off and his name was spreading like a wildfire, not to mention, he was finally making some good money…

But he was drifting.

That cloud had him riding a high... but it was also starting to sweep him off of his feet. And he desperately needed to remain planted, feet firmly pressed against the ground. He didn’t have Iwaizumi to knock him in the head anymore, so he knew he had to find something else steady.

That’s when Oikawa realized that those stars were the most grounding thing in his life.

And there wasn’t a better place to view them than from the unlit rooftop of his brick, Argentinian apartment building. It was an escape of sorts. One where he could easily slip on his coat, trek up the concrete staircase, and breathe deeply without any unnecessary attention. There was nothing more pacifying than taking in the skyline view and watching cars the size of ants pass below him.

To some, a starry sky is just a nice picture. A moment only briefly studied and then tucked away in ones memory. But to Oikawa? Stars are stablization.

A taste of humility.

The open-ended, unravelable abyss reminds him that he is just one man. A single person resting under the glow of a trillion stars. Oikawa feels small and, according to the galaxies above, that’s exactly how he should feel in comparison.

But lately he’s found himself up on the rooftop for another reason.

Which brings him back to you.

The tap of your shoes and the blowing of the wind are the only noises to break the silence of the chilly autumn night.

Oikawa perks up as he picks up on your footsteps behind him, but acts like he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t want you to think he’s been checking over his shoulder for you for the past 10 minutes, impatiently waiting to see your face.

Only once your feet meet the edge of the railing does he shoot you a glance.

Oikawa has to keep himself from leaning into you right then and there. He has to fight the urge to try and charm you like he does with his fan-girls and the pointed cameras.

So he keeps his arms crossed atop the iron rail, his chin resting on top of them snugly. One leg is placed further back than the other to keep himself balanced, while still propped up against the metal comfortably. There was a serenity to his pose. He was always standing up so tall. Always so poised.

Yet here he was... Leaning sloppily, eyelids heavy and dark circles on show, letting his guard down in front of you. Again.

“Took you long enough.” Oikawa pouts into his jacket.

His voice is whiny, but there’s an affection to it.

You rub your hands along your upper arms in an attempt to create some friction. You could really use some warmth right now.

“Yeah, sorry, I couldn’t find my jacket.” You mumble back, inhaling deeply and blowing it out to watch the cold air turn your breath into a little, misty cloud.

He turns his head toward you, but doesn’t lift his chin off of his arms, blinking and quirking an eyebrow in confusion.

“You could’ve just sent me a text. I’ve got tons of sweatshirts at my apartment.”

Oikawa has perfected the art of mock-petulance, his voice is breathy and feigning hurt.

But without hesitation, he stands upright and shrugs off his dark-blue coat, swooping it over your shoulders like a blanket. It retained his heat well and transferred the warmth from his body to your own in only a few short seconds.

“I knocked on your door, but you were already up here!” You sigh, tugging the jacket a little closer to your face.

You shuffle your feet, inching your body closer to his as you overlapped your forearms on the frigid rail.

Oikawa takes note of your cozy form. You’re unbearably endearing with your head tilted and your body wrapped up in his coat like that. Your nose is tucked within the coat’s collar; it acts as a warm shield, guarding your face from the biting breeze. If it weren’t so dark out, he might’ve tried to snap a picture of you, but the mental image would just have to do.

Oikawa goes back to his original position on the rail, noticeably closer to you.

“You don’t always have to be so quick to get up here, y’know?” You remind him, your elbow and side pressing up against his own, attempting to catch some more of his body heat.

He smiles, mouth closed.

You’re always so thoughtful. Always steady.

“Yeah, I know… but I wanted to see you.” He admits, breaking eye-contact to watch the cars below instead.

Oikawa’s words come out low and slow, but they’re coated in honesty, like thick, sweet honey. Something he hasn’t gifted anyone else with since he’d moved to Argentina.

“...I wanted to see you too.”

And with that response, you lean your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes.

It’s an awkward angle, but you couldn’t care less. You’d fallen into a habit of ‘shoulder leaning’ over the past few weeks and neither of you are complaining about it. Oikawa sneaks an arm around your back, tugging you into him.

The wisps of his hair tickle your forehead and tease at your ears, while the wind tangles your senses in his soft scent.

His cologne quickly reminds you of when you’d first met him. To be completely honest, you’ve felt drawn to him since the day he moved in to the apartment complex.

Those pretty, brown waves, his cheeky smirk, and the fragility that lingered just beneath his surface had you genuinely curious about it… you wanted to know him better. Most of your initial meetings were accidental run-ins and hallway chats - you just couldn’t seem to catch him at a regular time.

So you built up the courage to speak with him directly.

It started with a simple knock. A life-altering knock on a door across the hallway and two apartments to the left. And before you could even introduce yourself, you were met with Oikawa’s tired but warm voice explaining that he was heading up to the rooftop and that he could use some company.

The rooftop where it all started.

It’s been well over a year since you’d become friends and only a month since the dating phase had begun, however, Oikawa knows that he’s finally found someone that he can hold onto.

Someone who needs him just as much as he needs them. Someone who knows who he is deep down and still wants to stick around.

He’s found a bright light that contrasts beautifully against the dark sky.

And this time it isn’t a star or a flashing camera.

Oikawa breathes out a sigh of peace, pressing his cheek up against the top of your head.

“Whatcha thinking about.” You whisper, throwing him off his train of thought.

He hums into your hair.

“You.” Oikawa drawls sweetly, not missing a beat.

You should’ve known he would say that. He’s a witty one. The way you feel him smirk against your head makes it clear that he was prepared for that question.

But it’s true.

He’s really is thinking back to the day he first met you. He’s thinking about how nice it is to have your cold hand wrapped within his own right now. How badly he wants to make you smile and laugh. How much he wishes to touch your skin while pressing his lips against yours.

And that last option seems quite doable right about now.

Oikawa shifts, standing up slowly.

It prompts you to lift your head up off of his shoulder, your hand still intertwined with his own.

He stares at you with such adoration. There’s a subtle shimmer to his brown eyes, a spark that’s barely visible under the shading of the dark sky... but you know it’s there. It’s a look reserved for you and you only.

You can’t help but feel flush under his gaze.

There’s this forbidden, beautiful message within those umber-brown eyes. One that sets off a flame inside of you, burning and crackling deep within. Those brown pools catch you off-guard and vulnerable, trapping you in the gentlest of ways with a look that almost dares to say, “I think I love you.”

You turn your head, flustered, and look out across the city instead.

And it’s beautiful and vibrant.

The bright hues of streetlights and restaurants color the sidewalks in vivid shades of reds, violets, and blues. A neon glow casts a lively image across the entire cityscape... and yet, it pales in comparison to the male in front of you.

But you hold your head in place, still bashfully averting your eyes.

“S-stop looking at me like that, Tooru.” You stammer through a soft smile, your sweet expression denying the substance of your plea.

Oikawa doesn’t look away, and instead brings his hand to your cheek, caressing it. You almost flinch as his chilled fingers touch your skin, but you quickly tilt your head into his palm. It’s hopeless. Avoiding his eyes clearly wasn’t in the cards tonight.

“I can’t help it.” He replies smoothly, running a thumb across your jaw.

His cheeks are pink.

You can’t tell if it’s because of your close proximity or if it’s from the frigid air surrounding you two, but you like to think you’ve incited a little nervousness within him. After all, this relationship is still somewhat new to the both of you.

But his prior relationship experience allows him to feel a warranted confidence around you. Oikawa takes the lead, stepping forth and slowly leaning toward your face. He scans your eyes, concern and eagerness apparent.

He’s silently asking if this is okay.

And after giving him a small nod, Tooru closes in on you, eyes softening.

You meet him the rest of the way, taking his lips into a shiver-inducing kiss. Chills run up your arms, but are quickly followed by a wave of heat that fills up your chest and coats your entire body.

You don’t really need that jacket anymore.

Oikawa’s lips are cold, but soft and pleasant. They meld with your own in several gentle motions, getting a feel for you once more. You think he must have been taking notes from your last make out session, because he knows exactly how to move his head to accommodate for your comfort and how to make you jittery at the touch of his calloused fingers as they roam your neck, arms, and sides.

While Oikawa is busy reading you like an open book, you’re on your tiptoes in anticipation, wondering what his next move will be.

One moment he has your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging and inciting soft whines from you, the next he’s gingerly cupping your cheeks as if you were the only thing that’s ever mattered to him. A concoction of deep pleasure and unguarded intimacy - as fragile as a butterfly’s wing. And these aforementioned butterfly moments inevitably bubble their way out in nervous excitement and shaky, skin-seeking hands.

His tongue surprises you as it licks your bottom lip for permission. The warmth is inviting, so you gladly comply and let him explore your mouth gently and curiously. He’s patient. More than generous with his time, making sure to appreciate and savor every last second of you. You taste like nothing he’s ever had. It’s addictive. Like maple-syrup or freshly cut strawberries, your sugary lips had him sipping on you for another kiss. And another. And another

As you run your fingers up his neck with a fluttering touch, he lets his hands wander down to your hips in the process. You breath hitches and you feel him smile against your lips as he tips you back slightly. As your legs become shakier, knees threatening to give out as the kiss intensifies, Oikawa only pulls you closer.

Because you had a way of bringing him back to reality with the brush of your lips and the breath of your words. Those kisses are a gentle reminder that he doesn’t need to be on a court or draped in medals to be worthy. His career, his passions are important... but so is this.

And so those strong arms hold you up, their touch tender and protective. Like he’s guarding you. Cherishing you. Begging you not to pull away yet.

But all kisses must fade at some point.

Only when his thumb is brushing against your jaw do you part. In an instant, you miss his warmth and the sweet minty taste on his lips. You both find yourself panting from the long-winded session, seeking oxygen and energy... though you wish it were possible to breathe him in instead.

And while you’re feeling cloudy and dazed, you note that there’s a clarity to his gaze. It’s a clearness you can’t quite discern, but you know it’s coming from a good place, because he’s already pulling you into a hug, tucking you into his chest, and peppering your face with little kisses.

It’s a love letter in the form of a kiss… or 20 if you count all the pecks being pressed against your forehead and cheeks. Without words, he’s thanking you. Praising you. Asking you to stick around for as long as you can bear.

And, in a sense, you’ve discovered the real Oikawa Tooru.

The Oikawa who doesn’t have to hide behind his fame or his successes or his pretty face to receive your recognition. Because you see past all of that. You see him for who he is right now.

An achiever who needs to be reminded of his humanity. A man who craves touch and care just like any other. A lost soul searching for a space in the world and in your open arms.

You’ve helped him to find himself underneath all of the pressure and all of the lights.

You’ve shown him that there’s worth in just being himself. That you can keep each other grounded and stable, saving each other from themselves in more ways than one.

You’ve found him for who he is… and neither of you are planning on letting the other go.

---

tags: @cherryonigiri, @yams046, @miss-rin, @shou-kunn, @senkuwu-chan, @super-noya, @stcrryskies, @holaaaf, @sugacookiies, @vintgicals, @moonlightaangel, @kit-tea, theworldupthere, @sugasugawarau, @randomesk-yuku, @ideshine, @macaronnv, @anseoo, @aprettyfruit, @bbakougo, bloom-uwu, @spikertrash, @iguessimastannow

(comment, dm, or send an ask to be added to my general tag list - blogs in bold could not be tagged)

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa #hq #haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #reposted this from wednesday bc the tags werent working :/#thank u all for being patient w/ me!#i still dont know exactly how i feel about this fic #but i think i like it?#sneezefiction

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missorgana · 3 years

Text

can’t say anything to your face

pairing: bucky barnes/sam wilson

fandom: marvel cinematic universe

rating: teen and up

word count: 7779

warning: swearing, alcohol, brief mention of death

summary: Bucky loves Sam, and he tells him so, in his own way. (mostly canon compliant sambucky pining)

(my longest fic yet??? since TFATWS is still taking over my life, here’s some more sambucky fluff slash angst. they’re everything to me. this thing is a bit self-indulgent too, after the idea from this tweet! so all thanks to twitter user @/SAMBUCKY616 for this concept, even tho my danish is probably not the best interpretation jgdjd.... oh well! and thank you to Cat / @wendigostag as always, because you convinced me to write it and beta read and just..... ur perfect. mwah! hope you all enjoy this???)

read on ao3

A remnant that sticks with Bucky, still sticks with him after he’s rid of the Winter Soldier for good, is the language.

The only good thing, really. He could live without every one of the screams he hears in his dreams and lifeless bodies imprinted on his retinas, but that sticks on too, real tight. Being fluent in more languages than he imagined to be is bearable.

Not exactly bearable, though, not when many of them are tainted with those memories that he tries to distance himself to when he’s awake. He’s learning. It’s harder at night, when there’s darkness and stillness and no distractions from what creeps up on him every time.

French is hard. He knows every word to express the chaos in his head, but he can’t pronounce them. German, too. Russian, Spanish, Mandarin. He’s especially fond of Arabic, which is also particularly difficult for him to dig up from his brain, not because he doesn’t remember it, but because the screams in his head get too loud for him to think.

It’s a shame.

There’s one exception in his, quite frankly, extensively large vocabulary, and that’s Danish.

Bucky doesn’t know why this language in particular was something the Winter Soldier (he usually tries to think of him as a separate entity altogether, because, well, it hurts less) needed, given that, as far as his memory reaches, it was never used.

And this is why he finds himself drawn to it.

Of course, English is what he speaks on a day-to-day basis, and it feels… mostly normal. But somehow, Danish becomes a thing of comfort. Or safety, more likely.

He’s pretty sure his pronunciation sounds like absolute hell, the words sometimes more harsh than he intends, making him want to turn himself inside out in embarrassment. All these feelings, they’re difficult to describe.

Especially the ones relating to Sam Wilson.

Sam.

Sam, Sam, Sam. He’s the only other constant visitor in the back of his mind, and whether that’s a good or a bad thing, up for discussion. A welcome distraction or… something more painful.

Yeah, this feeling is a hard one. Maybe it’s because it’s more than two decades since he’s felt it, or maybe he knows, deep down, that he hasn't ever felt it at all.

Since they met, he’s sworn that he hated him. But he doesn’t. It’s so bleeding obvious he might as well get it tattooed on his forehead.

Annoying, positive, calm, vulnerable, perfect Sam. Perfect- ugh, yes, it’s the only word left for him to describe him. It makes sense, like a lightbulb flicked on in his head and since then it hasn’t stopped shining.

Bucky doesn’t really know how this happened. Why or when. Maybe it came to him in that final battle, finding himself living and breathing, and the very first person he saw, first of anything he put his eyes upon, was Sam.

Or maybe it already dawned upon him in Steve’s awfully cramped car, where Sam wouldn’t move his stupid seat up.

Regardless, along the way, his habit of mumbling to himself in the Danish tongue in frustration or anxiety has developed into a way of letting things he doesn’t want his… co-worker to hear flow through, and out into the wide world, without any worry.

If he says what he wants to yell at the top of his lungs, in a way Sam would understand, that could only be the last drop into the oblivion of hating the universe.

He won’t feel that way. Sam is so… good. Bucky isn’t. He deserves better than that.

It’s easier this way, he tells himself. It’s fucking easier. He has a hard time keeping his rage toward himself inside, but he does it.

And that’s exactly what he does, when their reunion in the airport has them at each other’s throats again , and as Sam goes on ahead, refusing for him to follow (of course, he does follow, anyway), and Bucky can’t help himself.

“Jeg skal være sikker på at du kommer tilbage.”

He utters the words through slightly gritted teeth, not realising how his breathing picks up too quickly until the other man glances back at him from the entrance of the aircraft, “What did you say?”

It’s the first time he’s not cursed at himself, and Sam’s response makes him jump in his skin. Honestly, the realisation of the words only settles afterwards, and he knows there’s no way he understood it. Not only is Danish one of the least widespread languages, so the chance of Sam even being aware of it is less than microscopical, but his voice is also in a steady fight with the wind. Lucky for once, huh.

“Nothing,” he lies. Sam doesn’t look convinced. Bucky adds, “Talking to myself. I’m still coming with you.”

The sounds are too loud around them, making him all the more eager to get inside. One of the many wonderful side effects of the aftermath of being brainwashed? Massive, stubborn headaches.

Funny enough, the pain might just be getting worse when the man in front of him visibly sighs, “Suit yourself.”

…

Going after the Flag Smashers, getting their asses handed to them, a certain thorn in his eye showing up, it all goes too quick for Bucky to fully comprehend.

In the end, Sam saves his life, because it’s Sam. Sam, who put his trust in him when he didn’t know him, when he had absolutely no reason to, and yet he did. He’s been spending a lot of time scared that the other man will come to regret it.

And it’s when they’re off the road and the world stops moving, and suddenly, Bucky’s looming inches above Sam’s face, grass grazing and tickling their faces. Or he’d probably feel that, if he wasn’t biting his cheek so hard that he might draw blood.

Sam groans but doesn’t move an inch.

I want to kiss you so fucking bad, Bucky wants to say. But that would be the stupidest and most reckless decision of his yet. Instead, he swallows the words and tells him, “Could’ve used that shield.”

Sam’s grip on his arms tightens, “Get off of me.”

The other man’s voice is strained and he pushes him off, leaving him to stare at the sky with a certain feeling of numbness.

He’s prepared for a long walk back from wherever they’ve ended up, too, Bucky’s not really paying attention to the surroundings besides the road and Sam relieving the tension that’s built up between them (far from uncommon with them, he’s got to admit) with his usual joking jabs.

He didn’t welcome his apology for Redwing much. It’s true, he hated that droid, but that doesn’t mean he’s not sorry… although, deeper inside of him he knows he’s saying sorry for totally different reasons.

I’m sorry you got hurt, is what. I’m sorry you had to pull me out of the fire that I got us into.

“What’s going on in that big cyborg brain of yours?”

Bucky sighs non committedly, he’s heard this one before. “It’s computing.”

And Sam laughs, softly and with a warm tinge that makes it hard for him to keep walking like he doesn’t care. The man next to him tries to be smug, and in the past these pokes at him would get him riled up and walk away without sparing it another thought.

It’s different now. He looks at his smirk for just a second before turning his head, and it’s fine, he won’t notice, stop worrying.

Sam doesn’t hate him, he’s realised. He realised that a while ago, admittedly, but what’s more important to the pressing in Bucky’s chest, Sam doesn’t fear him.

All this pain, hurt and confusion, the Avengers torn up from the inside and running from the government for years, and yet, there isn’t a hint of resentment in his steady voice, his deep brown eyes or the way he falls into step with his own body. Sam makes that joke because he’s a smug idiot who doesn’t let defeat bring him down. Maybe, he even makes that joke to get a smile out of Bucky.

The man at his side doesn’t hate him anymore. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever hated him in the first place.

“You know what?” Sam says in between his breathy laughs, sounding like he just discovered a lost treasure, “I can see it! I can see the gears turning.”

If Bucky had it in him, he would dare to smile. He would dare to join his laughter, but he doesn’t. It’d probably come out sounding all wrong, anyway.

Which is why he keeps his shoulders tight and gets back on track with what happened, and Sam follows suit. Sometimes he’s convinced the other man can read his mind. And because their arms move in synchron, within a distance where he could so easily reach out for his hand and feel what it’s like to hold it, his thoughts start running along with his mouth.

“Hvorfor gav du slip?” Bucky keeps his eyes glued to his feet, determined to keep the question to himself only, “Hvis jeg var modig nok havde jeg kysset dig.”

Sam’s voice returns to him, “Hm?”

“What?”

His co-worker laughs again, but he furrows his brows and suddenly it’s not that exact warmth that Bucky might’ve just allowed himself to feel safe in. Like the man next to him sees something in him no one does, not even himself. He’d like to know whatever secret Sam’s unlocked about him behind that look.

“You’re so weird sometimes, man.” he’s told, but there isn’t a single shred of judgement painted on any of the syllables. Sometimes.

…

“What was rule number two again?”

It was a stupid question, because Bucky knows. Those rules have been repeated too many times for him not to repeat it to himself whenever he needed to silence everything around him.

Don’t do anything illegal. Don’t hurt anyone. I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am James Bucky Barnes.

Then why, after a failed mission, after meeting that fraud who thinks he can just take on the shield like it’s nothing, after his therapist put him and Sam through a conversation that led nowhere at all, does he feel like he just broke that rule?

Of course, he’s been bending the rules a bit.

Of course, he knows why he’s feeling like this.

True to his word, Sam waits for him outside. “When we’re done, we both can go on seperate, long vacations, and never see each other again.”

The warmth that radiated off of the other man earlier that day had vanished somewhere unknown, and the pressure on that last part made it clear. That’s what fills Bucky with the type of guilt and regret that makes him want to rip his own skin off. He’s all too familiar with that feeling already.

He doesn’t blame Sam one bit, obviously. Well, he’d still like to grab that shield from John Walker and shove it somewhere the sun doesn’t shine, but the anger he’d misplaced on his co-worker, it vanished as fast as it had first arrived.

Sam is so fucking good, it almost makes him want to cry.

Sam trusted his heart, trusted what he believed was right, and he didn’t know the government was going to snatch that opportunity and hand the shield over to some nobody who doesn’t know what it stands for. Hand it over like they had any say in the matter.

Bucky didn’t doubt Steve’s decision for a second, and Bucky didn’t- doesn’t doubt Sam. Especially now, he looks at him in the evening glow and understands why Steve trusted him when he trusted no one else. Bucky trusts him. He hasn’t been this confident about anything in ages.

But because his stubbornness never fails to take a hold of him, Sam doesn’t know that.

The other man notices him coming and is already walking. He doesn’t look him in the eyes anymore. Why would he? It’s not like he earned it.

Bucky tries hard to breathe around the lump in his throat.

And he doesn’t even bother hiding his contempt around Walker anymore, while Sam keeps him tied to reality, a hand on his chest that causes everything in him to freeze, until the malfunction can’t make him do anything other than turn around and walk away.

Down to business, that’s what they fucking talked about.

Bucky has an idea and he’s gonna get it out and make it a reality, and, surprisingly enough, Sam agrees. We go deal with it.

It makes for another long walk. But now it’s long and painfully silent. Fan-fucking-tastic.

He steals glances at Sam too many times for it to be considered casual, or fleeting, and he memorizes his fingers tapping his thigh mid-walk, his jawline, every single eyelash that’s blinking hard, a habit of his when he’s stressed, Bucky’s noticed.

Their movements aren’t synchronised anymore. It’s sort of poetic.

He doesn’t realise he’s muttering it to himself, “Undskyld.” because he doesn’t have the courage to hear Sam’s answer, “Undskyld.” because he knows there’s no way the man next to him is going to forgive him, “Undskyld.” because he doesn’t deserve his forgiveness.

He’d overstepped the boundary. Whatever progress they’d made in this weird dynamic of theirs, whatever closeness became a tangible size, is wiped clean from the slate because he was pissed. But it had nothing to do with him. Steve had, but the shield doesn’t. Sam doesn’t need him to tell him that.

“That some sort of mantra?” is what breaks him out of his head.

Sam’s got an eyebrow raised, his hands absentmindedly reaching for something, phone most likely, given they have to move fast.

“What do you mean?”

So the other man slows down and tilts his head, “What you just whispered to yourself.”

Yeah, Bucky’s a horrendous liar. And he can’t feign ignorance around Sam. He can’t fake anything, his body language, his thoughts, his emotions. He wished they’d shut the fuck up for a minute.

He sniffs, shrugs, pondering on the easiest way to get out of this confrontation, if you can even call it that.

“No.”

“Didn’t sound like English.”

“‘Cause it isn’t.”

Sam looks terribly kissable right now. Not because of the streetlights or the faint noise of traffic buzzing around them, but because he’s standing under the moon, almost glowing. Bucky imagines his stupid, addictive smile, and how the moon doesn’t stand a chance compared to his beauty.

He wishes that he could lean over and the man wouldn’t push him away. He’s a tragic romantic.

His co-worker also has that expression on his face that tells him he’s too drained for snark, probably incredibly close to calling it a day. Actually, he expects him to speak, but five seconds pass, and his whole demeanor shifts, and then they’re walking again.

Once again, Sam seems to know him better than he knows himself. We go deal with it. Never see each other again. It sounds great, sounds perfect, sounds ideal, he tells his internal voice, because if he repeats it enough times he might just convince himself to believe it.

It’s not like the thought of Sam never looking at him, never speaking to him and never, ever, wanting anything to do with him again makes him want to scream until he’s got no air left in his lungs. That would be ridiculous.

…

Things happen, and at this point, Bucky just comes to accept it.

It’s almost become a bitter-tasting routine. Something bad happens, his plan backfires, something worse happens, it goes too fast for him to comprehend, so he’s been attempting for the last months to only focus on the moment.

The moment and the memories creeping in the shadows. They’re the hardest to keep at bay.

And at the moment, he’s seated on Sharon’s couch in her luxurious apartment in Madripoor, she’s telling them what to do, because their plan didn’t exactly work, Zemo’s wandering around like the cockroach he’d let out, and Sam’s taken his fucking shirt off.

So Bucky keeps his look square on his drink.

If he keeps his posture, trains his attention on Sharon’s voice, maybe he’ll avoid feeling so flustered.

He’s become pretty accustomed to faking it, admittedly. Not exactly a good thing to lie to his therapist, he’s well aware, but that’s a problem for when this is over. Dr. Raynor, she just… she couldn’t understand him.

That’s not her fucking job, he reminds himself. Her job is to help him move on with his life. Put the past behind him, get a fresh start. Talk about his feelings. “You have to talk about it,” she’d told him. “You can’t ignore your trauma. It’s dangerous.”

She’s right, but like he told her, he’s fine. Totally fine.

And that’s not what he’s struggling with right now, anyway. He hadn’t let Raynor in on anything about Sam apart from ignoring his messages, because these feelings of his are surely one-sided, and besides, Bucky doesn’t think he deserves it.

Being in love, he thinks it’s called. Or maybe he’s just not ready for it.

“Try to blend in.” Sharon’s voice calls in the distance. Her smile is incredibly smug for some reason.

It doesn’t faze him that Sam’s trying to get his attention, and that she leaves the room, until the other man’s sitting next to him (now fully dressed, both to his luck and disappointment), making it, like, 200 times harder to ignore him. And he’s examining him with those all-knowing eyes of his.

Sam can read people pretty easily. Or maybe it’s just Bucky. Or maybe he’s just too obvious, that anyone could read him like an open book.

“Bucky.” is what he says, and Bucky simply nods tightlipped, but apparently that doesn’t serve as sufficient acknowledgement for Sam, because he places a hand on his shoulder.

He feels sort of pathetic for not knowing how to breathe now. Such a simple touch. A friendly touch. A gesture. Yet he can’t think of anything else.

Out of the corner of his eye, Zemo’s watching them and opens his mouth, but the man next to him beats him to it with, “Didn’t you hear her? Go.”

The hard tone always sounds wrong in Sam’s whole being.

And the man looking at them accepts the defeat, surprisingly enough, seeping out of the room faster than Bucky could blink.

So, they’re alone. Cool. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, besides keep drinking. Keep drinking, don’t say anything stupid, don’t hurt him more than you already have.

When he finally chances a look at Sam, he seems… troubled.

He’s not sure if it’s his imagination playing tricks on him, or if he’s stupidly hopeful, but somehow, it feels like the other man’s got something on his mind. What that is, who knows.

The hand on his shoulder hasn’t left.

“Hey,” he starts, barely a sound, more a whisper, perhaps in fear that Bucky would startle and hide away, “I won’t force you to talk about it- or, well, anything.”

Did Sam just stutter? That was definitely his imagination. He’s just… he’s so… warm. Comforting. Beautiful. Bucky’s hand is getting clammy around the glass.

And when he looks at the man again, his big eyes are utterly sincere, so much so that Bucky would rip his heart out and hand it to him if he wished.

He’s not sure how well he’s doing with controlling his face, careful, not to offer any tells.

How would Sam react if he kissed him, right now? If he made a big, dumb love confession? He doesn’t even know how to describe his feelings to him, so it’d probably be clumsy. Messy. And his worst fear of all, that the man next to him would push him off in confusion, or embarrassment, or disgust.

Bucky can’t risk it.

Sam sighs, “I’m just worried about you.”

That makes him frown, and his co-worker looks back in bewilderment. He should stop doing that. Stop looking at him like he means something to him.

It’s the look that pushes the question out before he can think, “Why?”

Sam just seems tired. Not tired of your shit, but rather tired of you talking yourself down, kind of. That’s what he gets from his face, anyway.

“Come on, Buck.”

“I mean, aren’t we supposed to never see each other again?” he then asks, but it comes out more blunt, and sharper than he intended.

Sam retracts his hand. His shoulder aches to follow it.

“Mmhh.” is all the other man’s voice comes with. He folds his hands in his lap, stares at it for a while like it’s the most interesting thing on the planet. Why, oh God, why does he look like he just got his heart broken? “Yeah, I did say that.”

He’s only seen that expression on Sam a handful of times. Once, when Steve gave him the shield. Two, when his friend- Torres, that was his name, mentioned something about Afghanistan and Sam promptly jumped out of the open shaft without a warning. Three, when he’d pushed him off of him in the field. What does it mean now?

Bucky’s brain plays all his words over and over, but doesn’t know how to process them, or analyze them, or come to a natural conclusion. So he downs the last drop of whiskey, “Jeg har brug for dig.”

Geez, that was blunt. He guesses it's thanks to the stars he chose the right language to blurt that out, and Bucky proceeds to release the tight grip on his glass, about to get up and follow Sharon’s order, but Sam’s looking at him again, and as he established forever ago, that makes him weak in the knees. His entire body, actually, now that he thinks about it.

“Is that- that the same language?” Sam asks. Bucky’s awkwardly frozen mid-sitting, mid-standing, listening. “You know, you were talking to yourself. Outside the station.”

He’s right. He always is. So Bucky nods.

“It’s a saying.” and that only makes it the other man’s turn to frown, understandable. Not the most creative excuse, but now he’s gotta run with it, “Like ‘Don’t give up’, or whatever.”

He recognizes every look in Sam’s eyes, jotting them down in his memory in fear of forgetting the only person that makes him feel human. His co-worker is tying him to reality. Yep, another revelation, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

This is the I don’t believe you for a second look. “That’s what you said? ‘Don’t give up’?”

Bucky snorts, “Nope.”

And so they both stand up, and from the other man already steps ahead of him, it’s clear he’s ruined another conversation. Like Sam gave up on understanding him altogether, and it makes him feel sick, because he isn’t exactly making it easy for him.

Look at me, Bucky hopes. Just look at me again. Please.

And Sam does. “And here I thought we were beginning to get along.”

…

Sam’s sigh is all too heavy for Bucky not to notice.

He thought he’d distract himself from Zemo’s annoying presence and annoying private plane by polishing his hand, but suddenly, the man in the other row looks painfully hopeless.

Sam can’t be that. It’s all wrong. He’s supposed to be made of sunshine and full of hope. He makes Bucky have some sort of hope.

“You okay?” he finds himself asking. He’d even put a hand on his shoulder the same way the other man did back in Madripoor, but it feels a little too personal when he remembers the third person in the room.

By the way Sam jumps just half an inch in his seat, so subtle you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking closely, Bucky can only guess he’s surprised he’s the one initiating conversation, for once.

“Yeah,” he answers, but it doesn’t sound all that true. “Just thinking about all the shit Sharon had to go through.”

That’s the thing about Sam, because he cares, cares like he’s pouring out his heart on everyone and saves nothing for himself. He cared about Bucky after knowing him for a day. He had a hard time believing it, but it’s true. And it’s what he likes- loves… loves about the other man the most.

Sam continues, “And Nagel referring to the American test subject like… like Isaiah wasn’t even a real person.”

Bucky feels stupid for nodding along. He should be saying something, or he feels like he should be making up for weirding him out back in Sharon’s flat, or apologise for yelling at him in the shootout, or anything. Apologise for breaking out the douche who’s plane they’re currently in, most of all.

See, talking seems easy, but it’s not when the words are overthinked as deeply as he does himself. Maybe that’s why him and Sam are as they are. Or maybe it’s in spite of that.

When Sam talks, he means every word. His voice is hushed, and he’s leaning into Bucky’s space now (which may or may not make him panic) to make sure Zemo stays out of their business. Not that they both don’t know he’s not going to do that, obviously. Again- his fault.

“Maybe I should’ve destroyed it.” takes him by surprise, though.

In his mind, in his inner voice of logic that he never listens to, he instantly understands why Sam says it, and agrees. There’s a lot of people in this world Bucky’s wronged. There’s a lot of people he hasn’t, but he still longs to help, or somehow feels guilty for. He still wants to change things. Isaiah is on the top of the list.

Which list is Sam on top of?

He’d not thought about his feelings like that before, but it hits him like it hit him back in Madripoor. He’s the only one I have left is replaced with He’s the only one that makes me feel like this so easily. Lightheaded and aching for his company, his attention, whatever else Sam will spare him.

Instead of agreeing with him like his brain is telling him, though, his pride kicks in and circles back on The shield is yours, Sam. You fucking perfect asshole.

And Bucky’s not gonna take the shield, it’s bullshit. The other man knows it’s bullshit, and the look they share is a silent agreement that it’s bullshit.

Mysteriously, the cockroach owning the plane disappears to the bathroom, or whatever.

Maybe he’ll put his hand on Sam’s shoulder now. That would be meaningful. Would prove to the man that he cares, and he knows that Bucky cares about Isaiah, and the shield, and the mission, but he doesn’t fucking know that he cares about him.

But once again, his stomach drops and he keeps his hand to himself. Stupid.

It’s when the other man leaves his space and opts for leaning against the window that he has time to wonder about Sam fully, and why he hesitated back there. They shouldn’t see each other again, but he hesitated.

Does he regret saying it? No, that’s crazy.

It’s for the best, Bucky figures. He supposes he shouldn’t mourn the loss before it’s even happened, but it already seems like he’s reaching out in the darkness for Sam, who’s better than he’ll ever be, who deserves better than to drag him around like this, and it’s like he’s already gone.

Fuck, he really should talk with Dr. Raynor about that.

And the man he can’t stop looking at would probably have that concerned look on his face if he heard Bucky putting himself down like this again, out loud.

Sam wanted to talk to you that nagging voice tells him, for the millionth time. Why didn’t you let him?

He can’t figure out what he would’ve said if he could go back and change it. Stay completely silent? That would annoy Sam. Take that love confession by the horns? Sam would let him down in the nicest, most gentle way ever, he’s sure.

That wouldn’t hurt that much, but his chest always gets a little tighter when he lies like that. It would hurt endlessly more.

Bucky does come back to reality, eventually, when a door clicks shut and Zemo’s talking to his friend (servant? pilot? who gives a shit), and his co-worker's breathing has evened out.

It’s probably more than a little creepy to watch him sleeping. Hm. But peace rests over him and it, somehow, stretches its wings towards himself as well, regardless of Sam’s position with his neck and half laying on his arm that doesn’t look comfortable in any shape or form.

“Jeg ville følge dig til verdens ende,” Bucky says. It’s barely a whisper to himself, to shut up his head crying out loud of possibilities, because what if Sam wanted him to stay? What if in some miraculous alternative universe, he felt the same way? It’s a daydream, is what it is, “hvis du bare ville give mig lov.”

…

He clenches his fist, unclenches, clenches.

Sam seems worried. Bucky can’t see him, since he’s turned his back towards him and faces the window while gaining the feeling back in that vibranium arm of his, but it radiates off of him.

Maybe he does need the space his co-worker’s giving him. Or maybe he just needs a drink and a hug and a chance to sleep. Who knows?

He hasn’t hugged anyone since reuniting with Steve. Well, unless you count Sam saving him as a hug, which he doesn’t.

It’s when he turns around again that the other man is, first of all, a lot closer than he expected him to be, secondly, giving him a small, tense smile. But it doesn’t look uncomfortable, in fact, the effect is exactly the opposite, and Bucky can’t help but return it, gratefully.

He doesn’t think too much about this smile not being forced, like the ones he’s gotten used to doing in public. Sam doesn’t need to know that.

Bucky also is, for once, two steps ahead of his co-worker, answering the question he doesn’t have time to ask, “I’m fine.”

Not easily fooled, he knows the man watching him from the couch looks wary, but Sam’s probably too shocked by the fight and Zemo’s escape to argue. He himself knows he is, which doesn’t help his guilt. But what point is there in guilt anymore? It’s not like he can un-let him out of prison.

He sits down with reasonable space between them. Significantly further away from each other than back in Sharon’s flat, not close enough to touch.

Truth be told, Bucky’s still processing it. Zemo’s escape, he accepted that easily, and it’s probably the least surprising thing he’s experienced in a while. When Ayo removed his prosthetic, that was something else.

And his friend left without another word. What could she have said that made the case anymore clear, really?

They don’t trust him, and despite the overshadowing thought of No one trusts me, Nothing’s changed, Not even myself, it’s hard to blame Shuri, or T’Challa. They saved his mind, saved his life, and he’ll be in debt to them until his grave.

Bucky understands them, he does. He does. He wouldn’t trust himself.

But a little sliver of his stomach still wrings itself inside out of… betrayal? He doesn’t know if that’s the right word, but it’s sufficient for now. Of not being told. Of not knowing everything there was to know about this thing that was a part of his body now. Still feels partially alien, a separate entity altogether.

But there’s no anger to be found. Instead, he lets his attention fall upon Sam. As always, “Are you okay, though?”

The shorter man furrows his brows. Smile’s still intact. “Depends on your definition of okay.”

Of course, he makes another bloody joke, at a time like this. Bucky snorts, and his co-worker looks all too pleased to have it succeed.

Sam glances back, seems like he’s seriously considering the thought of a drink that Bucky’s too exhausted to fulfill, but apparently decides against it, “I didn’t know you were so sentimental, Buck.”

“Can you shut your face?”

Why does it feel exceptionally good to laugh when Sam laughs? Doesn’t surprise him, the feeling he supposes are metaphorical butterflies in his gut doesn’t, either.

The other man’s keeping his eyes in his lap again, picking at the skin around his fingernails and, for the first time ever in the time he’s known him, looks nervous. It’s strange, but so endearing, and he’s so, so pretty.

Funny, that word endearing, Sam’s strong arms could wrap around him as easily as they could take several people out if he wished, which- okay, don’t think about that right now. The imaginary sensation of the other man’s skin against his and Bucky’s face buried in the crook of his neck, that is.

He feels lighter. Sam always knows what’s needed after a shared experience like this. Does he know him too well?

What Bucky does know is that the other man stands up, and instead of heading towards the door, he passes him on the way to pick up their jackets. A hand on his shoulder again. Gracing it more than a steady grip, but still.

He doesn’t stay for long, but his fingers glide down his arm a bit. The touch is the softest thing possible, ghosting over him like Sam doesn’t want him to notice.

But he does. A shiver runs down his spine.

It’s so faint that it disappears as unexpectedly as it comes, and his co-worker’s already at the other side of the room when he finally gains the courage to raise his chin.

Sam’s attention is taken by his cellphone, so Bucky decides to speak, “I don’t blame you, ya know.”

A beat before he notices, snaps the phone shut, tightens the hold on his jacket just a smidge, “For what?”

“The shield.”

“I thought you did.” he replies, because yeah, that’s what he said literally minutes ago. He doesn’t look offended, though. Good.

When Bucky can’t find the sufficient words, he nods. Licks his lips. Then tries something, “I’m an asshole, I know.” and grimaces at himself, “I’m too stubborn. I’ve been listening- I listened to you. I put all this shit on you… I’m trying to apologise.”

The other man smiles again, not tense anymore. Not gripping the jacket like it’s lifeline anymore, either. He slips it on instead.

He just wants Sam to know, so badly, that he cares. This is a start. “Sorry. I can’t believe my apologies suck, too.”

The silence is calm, it’s maybe ten, fifteen seconds tops. Just enough time for his insides to freak out before the shorter man hands him his own jacket, and then offers him a hand to pull him up. Act cool. Act fucking cool, Bucky.

He also wishes he could cling to Sam forever, but that would be the direct opposite of cool.

“It doesn’t,” he tells him, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, pats his arm a couple of times to get the message across, he guesses, “Thank you. And thank you for having my back. You know, I think this communication thing could work, if we really tried.”

Stop being so ridiculous. Stop being so fucking dreamy. Seriously.

Bucky doesn’t roll his eyes, and if he looks lovestruck right now (he’s fairly sure he does), he’ll just have to feign ignorance later if the other man notices. This feels… yeah, you guessed it, good. Tingling in his chest a little. A lot.

He doesn’t even care that the man in front of him reaches for his phone when it rings, controlling his neutral tone of voice when he says, “Tak fordi du stolede på mig.”

Bucky’s fairly certain the words go unnoticed when he puts on his jacket, but of course, Sam covers the microphone and reaches him with a promise, “One day I’ll figure out what it is you’re whispering to yourself about.”

…

On the water, the 2am darkness enveloping him and reminding him just how alone he is, Bucky has time to think.

Mere days ago, the government’s very own Captain America murdered one of the members of the Flag Smashers, and in an eerie and familiar haze, all he and Sam could do was watch. So did Karli. So did numerous regular citizens with mobile phones.

And before Bucky could break and chase Walker down (because let’s face it, a government putting him in the suit? Bucky doesn’t trust those superiors for a second), his co-worker’s got a hold on his wrist and tells him he needs to go check on his sister.

When he follows along, Sam doesn’t complain.

Maybe, possibly, the other man even invited him. It’s not like he’s got anywhere else to be, and it seemed like, for once, Sam didn’t know what to do. A timeout is necessary, he said.

That’s an understatement.

Bucky just hopes that Karli and the rest of the Flag Smashers did the same and got the hell out of there. The shorter man’s got her number, so he suspects he told her so himself.

And Zemo? How the fuck is he supposed to know? The world’s gone to absolute shit, and they’re stuck in the middle in some kind of limbo.

Add Bucky’s unresolved feelings for his co-work- friend? Friend.

Surprisingly enough, Sam’s sister didn’t seem particularly surprised that her brother brought someone along.

Sarah’s a heaven sent. She smiled brightly and hugged him with one arm like they’ve known each other for years, juggling things out of crates on the harbour like it’s nothing. Witty, albeit a tad more serious than Sam, and she doesn’t take his shit for a second.

Her sons were more overwhelming, but Bucky’s not used to being around children, mind you.

They ran to him in excitement, speaking over each other, and he took a step back, because those creeping memories of the soldier and the fear of hurting someone again is rooted too deep to disappear.

Sam patted his back, though. It’s fine. You’re fine.

The boys also couldn’t take their eyes off his left arm and convinced him to lift them both when they bet he couldn’t. They surely know how to drive a bargain.

It’s funny, how much they liked that thing. Makes him think he could get used to the extension himself, eventually.

Sam’s family is so… normal. They’re warm and excited and hard-working and hilarious. He likes the way the other man looks around here, even more bright than usual, domestic and bantering with his sister for a living. They remind him of his own family. He won’t think about that.

But it’s the third night he spends in their home, after another one of the best dinners he’s ever had in his long life, amusing the boys with superhero stories until they’re exhausted and sent to bed, that Bucky wakes up in a cold sweat on the couch.

There you are, nightmares. It’s been a while.

It’s not surprising, of course, but he’s been avoiding sleep until the point of passing out, lately.

And Bucky didn’t know where to go. He didn’t want to rummage around in the kitchen he’s been too kindly invited to for alcohol, which they most likely didn’t have lying around anyways, as well as risk waking any of the family sleeping blissfully unaware.

But he also couldn’t stay, he was itching to move.

So, here he is. He found his way back to the harbour, and Sam’s family boat, not even dressed in more than his t-shirt, banged up jeans and boots, but the cold is a welcome distraction.

Would be good if he had a bottle of whiskey too, but whatever.

It’s times like this he’d rage inward on himself. Curse his head, curse his feelings. Curse his fucking decisions and stubbornness. Curse Walker and Zemo and Hydra. Curse the shield and curse Steve.

Yeah, it’s too much. He really should let Dr. Raynor in on this, if he gets a chance to go back to his regular sessions, that is.

The staggering quiet almost invites him to yell some of that rage out loud. Until, “Thought you might be here.”

Bucky would’ve sprung up and grabbed whatever could be used as a weapon nearest, if he didn’t immediately notice the tenderness in Sam’s voice, noticeably hoarse. He doesn’t know what to answer, but the other man sits down across from him, looking exceptionally soft.

You’re a goner, Bucky Barnes.

The silence between them is nowhere near awkward, but he feels like breaking it regardless. “Sorry I woke you.”

Sam huffs, and he imagines he’s rolling his eyes, “You didn’t.”

Hm. He scratches his neck and his chin. The cold is suddenly becoming a problem, so he wraps his arms loosely around himself. The other man’s doing the same, despite wearing a sweater.

“Nightmare?” he asks, eventually. Bucky nods.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

Is this the end of the conversation? God, he has no idea how to continue, anyways.

He’d ask about it. Ask Sam what he’s seeing behind his eyelids at night, and if it invokes the exact same kind of pain he feels himself. Ask him about the Air Force and how his world changed and came crashing down. Ask him about Riley, who he only knows by name and a single photo.

Bucky can’t get the words over his tongue. Instead, he just wonders why he’s here in the first place, why Sam’s still sticking around with him and why he was allowed into his life.

Well, he followed him first. But he doesn’t feel like he deserves the peace he’s been given the last few days, or Sam’s nephews looking at him with wide eyes and zero judgement. Sam looking at him with zero judgement. Fuck.

He clears his throat, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

He’s adjusted his eyes to the darkness now, and there goes the shorter man looking at him, not intensely but just… looking, the way that makes Bucky’s stomach jump in loops and urge him to stand up and kiss him already.

Sam shakes his head, smile timid but sure, “Another time. I’ll let you know.”

Oh boy, does he know that feeling. They’ll talk about it, eventually. He’s not ready himself, but one day he will be. He hopes so. “Me too.”

The boat’s swaying subtly, a sliver of moonlight is touching Sam’s hand on the railing and Bucky thinks he might fall into an non-existent black hole.

On the contrary, the other man is slightly shivering from the ocean wind. He shouldn’t think about what it’s like to hold him. They’re friends now. Friends. Friends.

Still doesn’t stop him from sealing the deal to himself, “Jeg elsker dig.”

Like he hasn’t known all this time. Since that day they reunited, since before. Bucky’s painfully in love with someone he’ll never have the courage to tell, openly and upfront, anyways. Maybe he’ll get over it.

It does take him a few minutes before he notices Sam’s soft smile, worn like his heart on his sleeve, second nature and drawing everyone in with ease, turning into a shirt-eating grin.

Weird. Whatever. Wait-

“Really?” he asks him.

Oh my God. Oh no. Oh fuck.

Bucky’s eyes must widen to the size of fucking teacups. He’s never been this eager to get up and move out of a situation before till now, “Sorry?”

Sam notices his unease before he even finds it himself, “Bucky.”

“Oh my God.”

“Bucky-”

“I have to go.”

Doesn’t get very far. Five inches maybe, before the shorter man stops him in motion. Bucky could easily shake his hand off, but he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. Sam gets under his skin every time.

His thumb caresses his wrist, “I want you to stay. Can you stay?”

Fucking fuck. Bucky gulps the embarrassment down and relaxes his stiff shoulders. Or tries to, at least. His ears are ringing.

“Will you look at me?” Sam then asks, and how could he refuse anything from that man?

Takes some courage, of course, but he has to. Take the rejection already. Come on. But when he turns around his friend doesn’t seem disgusted, or disappointed, like he fully expected him to.

“Stop looking at me like that.” he finds himself saying, before he can shut his stupid mouth up. And Sam looks absolutely desperate, “Like what?”

“Like I mean something to you.”

Kiss me. I wish you would kiss me. Sam’s perfectly formed lips are still in a smile, not small, not a grin. But just right. And then a hand is touching Bucky’s cheek.

“That’s the thing, you idiot.” the shorter man tells him, “I can’t exactly stop it. But if you want me to-”

“Have you known all along?” he interrupts with. Feels like laughing at himself. God, that would be beyond ridiculous, wouldn’t it? Saying everything on his mind, not knowing his friend heard every word of it. Secret’s out.

There’s another hand finding its way to his face, “I didn’t. Google helped me- uh, after Madripoor. Took me a few tries with the spelling before it gave me a clue. And, well…”

“My pronunciation is pretty sloppy.” Bucky’s circling around what’s happening. Why is he doing this? Because it’s too good to be true, probably. Please don’t be a dream.

Embarrassing, then… then the warmth against his cheeks. Then the impossibly soft and meaningful eyes not escaping Bucky’s for anything. Then his heart beating too fast, like it’s going to crawl up his throat and escape his vessel.

Sam shakes his head with a laugh. Heartily, caring, “Do you mean what you said? You love me?” to which Bucky laughs himself.

“Yeah,” he feels weak in the vocal chords, but gets it out, because he has to, “‘Course I fucking do. Is that okay?”

“It’s more than okay.”

And there, on Sam’s family boat in the middle of the night, wind rushing behind his ears and his breathing too loud like everything isn’t quite real, Bucky smiles like his life depends on it. Because the man in front of him deserves to know. He needs him to know. And fuck the world. “Will you kiss me now?”

Sam’s smile is so fucking pretty, it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. He looks at him like he’s special, and he feels it. Feels everything deeper and deeper, “I thought you’d never ask.”

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patchwork-panda · 4 years

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“I won’t tell a soul.” (BSD Nakahara Chuuya x Reader #1)

AO3 link: HERE

“Title: “I won’t tell anybody”/“誰にも言わない” Genre: Romance Rating: PG-13 for alcohol usage (eventual language/physical violence/kiss scene) Reader-insert is written as a civilian, femme and 20+ Plot: You meet Chuuya at a wine bar and over time, you become close. Your regular meetings become something you both enjoy so when Chuuya stops visiting for several weeks, you begin to worry... When you meet again, you learn the truth... But do you care? Mini Fic is written in 2nd person. title is reference to new Utada Hikaru single

“You have good taste.”

You lower your wineglass slightly and glance over the round rim, across the bar at the man who just spoke. You’ve never seen him before but he speaks as though he already knows you and something about that catches your interest.

You study him.

He’s well-dressed. Better dressed than most of the other patrons, with his gray vest, half-jacket with the sleeves rolled up and fancy black hat worn low on his head. There’s an expensive-looking black coat lined in rose-colored satin draped on the chair behind him and a belt-buckle choker gleams at his throat.

Beneath the brim of his stylish, black hat, the man’s hair is bright orange and curls just so about his face, with a single lock, kept long, draped casually over one shoulder. And his eyes... his eyes are the deep blue of the ocean on a wintry day. His lips pull back into a confident smile as he sees you looking and he briefly tips his hat in greeting.

You smile.

You know that even if you didn’t already have a glass and a half of your favorite cabernet flowing through your veins, you would still find him attractive.

The man across the bar raises his glass to you and as the dark garnet-red liquid inside catches the light, you see that he has selected the exact same wine as you.

“Thank you,” you reply, raising your glass as well. “Same to you.”

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

And that was how you’d met “Chuuya.”

He never gave his last name, so you chose not to either, but that didn’t stop the two of you from getting to know each other.

Like you, Chuuya had been coming to this particular wine bar for some time now, but he tended to come by very late, usually just before closing. The only reason you’d caught him on that first night was that you’d stopped by a little later than usual, having had a particularly long day at the office and that he’d come a little early. But you’d really hit it off that first night, and so, as if by some secret, unspoken agreement, you kept meeting here, at this nondescript wine bar a stone’s throw away from the five large black towers that dominated the Yokohama skyline.

Every Friday night at eleven, you would come here, sit at the bar, order a glass of wine (whatever the special was that night) and wait for Chuuya to come.

And he always did come, usually never arriving more than five minutes after you, and always greeting you with his usual lift of the hat and half-smirk of a smile. Then, you would gesture to the free seat beside you and he would take it.

Chuuya wouldn’t tell you what he did for a living, nor did he ever ask you much about your personal life, but other than that, it seemed like the two of you could talk about just about anything.

Tonight, you find out that he likes hats, fine wine (especially bold reds), and surprisingly, rock music. Specifically certain types of alternative rock.

“No way,” you sputter, nearly choking on your drink when he tells you, “You like Visual Kei? That doesn’t seem like you!”

“Oh, really?” Chuuya’s tone is challenging, albeit a little playful thanks to the glass of port he’d just downed.

He leans in a little, a subtle glint in his blue eyes.

“What do I seem like?” he whispers, just low enough for you and only you to hear.

You take a slow sip of your Cabernet and think carefully before you answer.

Chuuya is fascinating to you.

There was something about him, about the way he carries himself, that makes him seem taller than his one-hundred-sixty-centimeter frame. Sure, the hat might be a part of it, but Chuuya is suave. Unlike other men you’d met or dated who were around his height, Chuuya doesn’t seem to be insecure about it. Out of habit, you’d made sure not to bring it up but you secretly suspected that if you did, he’d just laugh and point out that you were still just a tiny bit shorter.

“Well?” he asks again.

“You seem... sophisticated,” you decide at last, setting down your glass.

Slapping one black-gloved hand against the counter, Chuuya throws his head back and laughs.

“And Visual Kei is not sophisticated?”

You shrug.

“Honestly? With the hat and the whole...” you gesture to his outfit, “get-up, you seem more like a jazz kind of person. You know, something cool and refined--”

“Oi, Master,” Chuuya demands, his cheeks tinged with pink (he might’ve had a little too much today) as he addresses the bartender, a stately gentleman with a well-groomed mustache.

Chuuya points at you, looking very much amused and yet very flattered.

“Get a load of this! She thinks I’d be into jazz--!”

“I believe the young miss is calling you cool and refined, Chuuya-san,” the bartender states, with just a hint of a smile.

Chuuya stops laughing immediately. When he turns to look at you, you simply pick up your glass of wine and bring it back to your nose. You insist that you are only smiling because you are enjoying the aroma of the drink.

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

Weeks pass and you continue to meet.

You start dressing up more for your outings to the bar and your friends and coworkers have taken notice.

“Oh?” another lady in your department comments brightly when she sees you strolling out in a pair of new, black heels. “Going on a date?”

“Not quite,” you say, but your chest warms at the idea of Chuuya seeing your weekly outings as “dates.”

“I’m just meeting a friend for drinks.”

“But you’ve been meeting this ‘friend’ for drinks for a while now, haven’t you?” your coworker presses, studying you closely. “What kind of person is he?”

She grins.

“Is he cute?”

You smile back, your expression giving nothing away.

“Since when did I say my friend was a ‘he?’“

“You didn’t have to,” your coworker responds, her grin widening.

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

“Yeah?”

Chuuya laughs, the sound bright and clear, like music to your ears.

His voice is more pleasant than the actual music (something jazzy and old-timey sounding) softly playing throughout the bar.

You smile.

“And then what happened?” he asked, propping his head up on the counter with one hand. His vibrant blue eyes are fully focused on you and they seem to sparkle in the soft light around the bar.

As you finish telling him the rest of your story (about an unfortunate incident that happened at work), Chuuya smile grows wider and he lets out another peal of laughter.

“Was it that funny?” you ask but Chuuya is too busy laughing to hear you.

His laughter is infectious and soon, you find yourself laughing too.

And then Chuuya lets out an actual snort. A loud one.

At once, his eyes widen and he rushes to cover up his face with one hand. His cheeks flood with pink. He looks so uncharacteristically flustered (and adorable) that you can’t help but laugh even harder.

"H-hey, stop that,” Chuuya snaps, but he’s still smiling.

You shake your head and try to apologize but it doesn’t come out quite the way you want it to because you’re still giggling a little.

“Well if you’re gonna keep going on like that...”

Chuuya leans in. His lips curl upwards in a devilish grin. There’s a glint of mischief in his deep blue eyes and your heartbeat quickens as his voice drops low.

“How ‘bout I give you something to really laugh about?”

You grin, take a small sip of your wine and lean in to mirror him.

“Yeah?” you challenge.

“Yeah.”

Chuuya’s grin widens. He looks into your eyes, at the way you refuse to back down and leans in even closer.

“What are you gonna do?” you ask, drawing closer to him.

“The sort of thing,” Chuuya says, “that gets cheeky girls like you to stop laughing.”

You’re only inches apart now.

“Then do it,” you whisper.

You’re staring into each others’ eyes. Neither of you seems willing to back down. The other patrons and even the bar itself seems to disappear...

And then, a slow and subtle flush creeps across Chuuya’s face. His blue eyes flick down towards your mouth and suddenly his grin falters.

Quick as a flash, his fingers wrap around your wineglass and he steals your drink.

“Hey!”

You reach forward to stop him but he’s chugged down the last sip in your glass before you could get it back.

“Ha!”

He slams the glass down on the table, nearly shattering it and looks up at you, his grin triumphant but not quite as self-assured as it usually is. His face is still very red.

“That’s what you get for laughing at me!”

But your eyes are on the wineglass in his hand, at the place where your lipstick had left a mark on the glass. That lipstick mark was now smudged and you could even see traces of the rouge on Chuuya’s lips.

“Ch-Chuuya-san...”

“What?” Chuuya asks, completely unaware of what he did.

He wipes his mouth carelessly with the back of one hand, orders you both a second round and you decide to let it slide.

You can’t bring yourself to tell him that what he just did was known as “an indirect kiss.”

Click here for Part #2

Click here for Part #3

#nakahara chuuya #chuuya x reader #chuuya x y/n #chuuya nakahara #chuuya #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd chuuya #bsd nakahara chuuya #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x y/n #fanfiction #bungou sd #bsd #bsd x y/n #bsd x reader

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nbrook29 · 3 years

Text

💞 my sobbe fic recs part 2 💞

I did the first part in October but since then we have been blessed with so many good fics that I needed to do another one! We are currently experiencing a sobbe drought so these fics are helping us to get through it basically ✌🏻

Part One

✔ if there’s a fic on this list that you decided to give a shot and loved it, please remember about leaving a comment under it to let the author know that

Let’s go!

1k - 5k

let me be your man (let me hold your hand) by thekardemomme (@wlwharrys) | T

Summary: “what if i hold your hands?” robbe asks, voice gentle and soft, all teasing completely gone. sander turns to look at him, and robbe just gives him an encouraging smile. “will that make you feel more comfortable?”at first, sander wants to say no. he’s an adult, he should totally be able to drop in without needing to hold his boyfriend’s hands. but then he looks down the length of the ramp again, and he ends up nodding.

Sander learning how to skateboard. Basically, A FIC WE ALL NEEDED and this writer provided amazingly.

you just own it by noobishere | G

Summary: He bites his lip as he unhooks the jacket, feeling like he's five years old again, snooping around his mother's closet and trying on her heels.(a.k.a the one where robbe wears sander's clothes)

You know, with this writer it’s like, you see who wrote it and you just know it’s gonna be good. And it may be the most trivial idea but they always turn it into something fun. Oh and the pencil line is living in my mind rent free 🤣

paper rings by thekardemomme (@wlwharrys) | T

Summary: When Sander’s nose twitches, causing him to make this soft little whimpering sound, Robbe can’t help himself. He leans forward enough to kiss Sander’s forehead again, and then he dots one on each cheek, and then finally on his nose.“I can’t wait to marry you,” he whispers.

Angsty flugg with such a cute ending, where are my tissues at 🥺🤧

It’s My Turn by isaksliveterna (@to-enter-polaris) | T

Summary: Just little Sander moments through Robbe's eyes as he makes the anniversary video.

Remember Even’s video to Isak? This is sobbe’s version and it’s oh so cute 🥰

5k - 10k

All You’ve Got to Do Is Win by berrevy | T

Summary: “Careful, now.”“Or what?” Robbe walks off, over to his side of the net, voice raising as he goes. “You may as well just draw a picture of you winning cos that’s the only way it’s gonna happen.”It's Sander's turn to splutter. "Jesus...who are you and what have you done with Robbe? Where did this little savage come from?"(or, how that tennis match might've played out)

Oh my god, for me this is perfection ❤ This author can truly capture the real essence of sobbe. And to think I completely missed that fic the last time!

dreaming of you by ivy_seas | E

Summary: Snow, gift giving, wrapping presents, watching movies in bed (+ other activities in bed), celebrating Christmas together.

Sobbe preparing for Christmas together, just the perfect amount of fluff I needed 🤗

you’re my stars... and everything in between by aurorawinds (@robbesdriesen) | M

Summary: A Star-Crossed Lovers, Romeo & Juliet inspired, AU where Robbe and Sander are the sons of Antwerp’s two most rivaling families of tech companies, head over heels in love with one another as they find it more and more difficult each day to hide their relationship from their families. To hide their love.

Are you kidding me. Romeo and Juliet sobbe AU?! I was so into it from the very beginning, THEY ARE SO CUTE OH MY GOD and the angst oh yes

Taking pictures of you as the light came through by allforyoumylove | M

Summary: Robbe photographs Sander in bed. Things take a steamy turn.

It’s not easy to write the perfect amount of fluff as I tend to not like the overly fluffy stories. Somehow this writer always hits the mark and delivers just what I love.

You say you want your freedom by ayellowcurtain (@ayellowcurtain) | G

Summary: Sander is going away for two weeks to do some college stuff with his teacher. He doesn't tell Robbe right away, but he needs time.

This was really interesting and quite different from the usual approach I would say. I think there are very few fics with sobbe “fighting” and I love me a little angst sometimes so this was just *chef’s kiss* 😍 Also, I liked how *spoiler* the ending isn’t just Sander’s bff suddenly liking Robbe but that they rather work around it.

time may change me but I can’t trace time by abittersweetsong (@honeyandsinn) | T

Summary: “You’re my best friend and I love you.”It’s a simple admission and it settles gently in Robbe’s soul Or Robbe and Sander find each other in every universe, but in this one they're best friends first

This is WIP and as a rule I don’t include WIPs in those recs but I’m gonna make an exception because I absolutely loved it and I need this writer to come back and post more 🥺 I’m in love with their writing style and how they make me care about these characters so much ❤

10k - 20k

sander driesen versus mistletoe by dottori | T

Summary: it’s not a fair match. (or, sobbe go on a christmas date, and sander really wants a kiss under the mistletoe.)

This is a very fluffy fluff so proceed with caution 😂 I liked the Christmas vibe here a lot.

hop in the corolla by noobishere | E

Summary: “Oh dear,” Robbe’s mother cuts in. “You haven’t even started your trip and you’re already at each other’s throats.”Sander takes immense pleasure in the way Robbe’s eyes widen in panic, and before Robbe can even warn him with his glares, Sander is already saying, all too gleefully.“We’re always at each other’s throats.”(a.k.a sobbe's summer road trip)

“I found it. It's official. I found the best sobbe fic.” This is the comment I left and I’m still standing by it. It has so many small gems, it’s just UGH. So goooooood 🤩🤩🤩

my hand around the base of you holy neck by allforyoumylove | E

Summary: “All Robbe knew was that Sander was rubbing his hand up and down his back, nails scraping his skin gently, that he smelled like safety, sweet and warm, and that there was nowhere he would rather be than in his arms.”(aka the one where Robbe and Sander are “just” friends with benefits, but the amount of times they call each other ‘baby’ and the way they can’t fucking stop kissing begs to differ.)

Friends to lovers AU. One of my favorite tropes. It’s smutty and fluffy at the same time which, you know, perfection.

Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) by berrevy | M

Summary: Robbe bites down on his lip, shaking his head. “You make a habit of luring boys into your lair?”“Only the pretty ones. Don’t worry, schatje, there’s nothing to be afraid of. And if there is,” Sander shrugs, taking a few more steps backwards, “I’ll protect you.”(aka the boys go on their own private Halloween adventure)

So basically, it was Halloween and wtFOCK so DID NOT deliver and we were all pissed off but then this writer came in and gave us what we deserved. Thanks to this fic I discovered this writer’s other story that is one of my sobbe favorites. Oh the symbolism in this fic. I’m just a big fan of this writer’s style in general 🥰

20k+

this rough magic by aholynight (@aholynight) | M

Summary: Though he’s a sixth-prefect and the newest member of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, Muggleborn Robbe can still hardly believe that he’s made of magic. Sander is the seventh-year Gryffindor beater whose wild behavior and delinquent reputation precedes him. Though Robbe desperately wants to believe in the angel-faced boy he sees in front of him—and ignore the rumors of Sander’s devilish behavior—he’s not sure his heart can afford the risk. But when Sander and Robbe are left in a nearly-empty Hogwarts over the Christmas holiday, avoiding Sander might no longer be an option.

I don’t know how I could have missed this one in my last fic rec. Sobbe in Hogwarts. During Christmas. I mean, I’m sold from the start but on top of that this also has a captivating story and made me go 🥺

#wtfock

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hadleeestenlily · 3 years

Text

One of the Boys | (ATYD timeline)

paring: Regulus Black x James Potter (Jegulus/Starchaser)

genre: Marauders Era, Harry Potter

warnings: child abuse, graphic depictions of violence, major character death

summary: Follows the timeline of ATYD through Regulus’s PoV, 1972-Death.

status: incomplete

!! This is only the first chapter !! You can read the full fic here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29866974/chapters/73494978

Chapter One | First Year: The First Meeting

“Hurry up! We haven’t got all day, Reg.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, trailing after his older brother with little enthusiasm. He wasn’t nearly as excited as Sirius, who'd been bouncing off the walls before they even left for Platform Nine and Three Quarters. When he had come back for the summer, he could hardly shut up about Hogwarts. It was the only thing he seemed to talk about anymore, specifically during Regulus’s piano lessons, and dancing lessons, and history lessons, and all the other lessons his mother had given him to busy himself before he got to school. It seemed she wanted him to learn every useful thing he could before studying magic, and Regulus couldn’t really blame her. Ever since Sirius got back, he’d become a complete waste of space, lounging around and scribbling away at what he said to be homework, though Regulus knew he was secretly writing letters to his friends.

Sirius had dragged him into a compartment on the train, pulling Regulus by the sleeve and saying, “You’ll love them! I know you will.” Surprisingly, Regulus had let him. He wouldn’t usually encourage such behavior, but it wasn’t every day that Sirius looked so cheerful, and part of him didn’t want to ruin that, though he’d never admit it.

Summer had been a right mess, though he wouldn’t admit that either. Bellatrix’s wedding went smoothly, but after that, everything had started going downhill. Sirius just didn’t know when to stop. He never did.

“Here we are,” Sirius said with a grin, sliding open the carriage door and gesturing to the seats.

There was only one other person in the compartment, a straw-haired boy that looked like he could be younger than Regulus. He was abnormally small for a twelve-year-old, and he looked nervous, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether he was sitting in the right seat. His eyes darted between Sirius and Regulus, no doubt noticing how similar they appeared. Maybe he was actually having trouble telling them apart.

“Sirius,” the boy greeted, finally, giving the older brother a timid smile. “Have you seen James yet?”

“He’ll be along,” Sirius said, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh!” he added, as if he’d already forgotten, “This is my brother, Regulus. Reg, this is Peter.”

Peter smiled cheerily, but Regulus shot the expression down with a fierce glare. He didn’t have time for making friends with filthy half-bloods. Instead, he brushed into the compartment and sat down in the corner seat, placing his chin in his hand and staring broodingly out the window.

“Er… Sorry ‘bout him,” Sirius said apologetically, stuffing their stuff into the luggage rack.

“S’ok,” Peter said, twisting his hands anxiously in his lap.

Sirius plopped down on the seat next to Regulus and nudged his elbow, to which Regulus shot him a glare. Surprisingly, his brother didn’t return it. He only raised an eyebrow at him quizzically, silently asking why he was in such a foul mood. But Regulus didn’t want to talk about it. He never wanted to talk about it. He wouldn’t even know where to start.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The source of all their troubles always led back to one person in particular; their mother. Sirius knew that better than anyone, it seemed; even better than Regulus. He always knew exactly how to get on her bad side, and did so quite often. Too often, in Regulus’s opinion, but no matter how hard he tried to get Sirius to do as he was told, he just kept disobeying. He’d already fallen out of their family's favor for being placed in Gryffindor. You’d think that might’ve been enough, but no, not for Sirius. If anything, it had given him even more determination to be the worst kind of nuisance the Black family had ever seen.

Which led to Regulus’s other problem; what house he’d be placed in. He was terrified of what would happen to him if he got into Gryffindor, or any house other than Slytherin for that matter. His mother was so adamant that he not add to the list of family disappointments; first Andromeda and now Sirius. What would happen if a third Black child was led astray? Their family reputation would be in ruins. They would fall out of favor with the other pure-blood families, and what then? Regulus wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want to find out.

It was then that the door decided to slide open, cutting Regulus’s thoughts short. He didn’t even bother to greet whoever it was - just another dirty blooded wizard his brother had befriended - but his ears still pricked upon hearing the joy in Sirius’s voice as he welcomed the newcomer.

“James!” Sirius cried, jumping out of his seat and clapping the other boy on the shoulder.

Ah, yes. The infamous blood traitor.

“Hello Sirius, been a while,” James drawled, sounding just as cheerful. “You too, Pete.”

“Hiya James,” Peter replied, much more relaxed now that the other boy had arrived.

Regulus didn’t bother to greet him, or even glance at him. He just studied the view out his window all the more intently, watching as a girl chased an orange tabby cat down the platform, attempting to squeeze through the crowd so as to not lose track of it. He saw another girl hugging their mother goodbye, tears in her eyes. Pathetic, he thought silently.

Then Regulus heard rustling from behind him as James placed his luggage on the rack. “And who’s this?” he asked no one in particular.

“Ah, that’s just my prat brother. Don’t worry bout him,” Sirius said as the boys settled into their seats. “You seen Remus?”

As if on cue, the door slid open again. Regulus rolled his eyes, becoming increasingly agitated with the noise. Was it too much to ask for a little peace and quiet? As the chorus of greetings started again, he attempted to stay focused on the platform, watching as a small boy tried to stick his fingers through an owl cage. Regulus wanted to warn him, but instead he just grimaced as the bird pecked the boy’s finger, drawing blood, and watched him burst into tears.

“Lupin!”

“Hiya lads. How’s it been?”

“We should be asking you!” James laughed. “Not one owl all summer!”

“You know I’m practically a muggle over the holidays. Couldn’t even get into my trunk to do homework; they locked it up.”

Regulus scoffed at the word muggle. He couldn’t help it. It’d become a habit he’d picked up from his mother. She always seemed proud when he did it, and it certainly didn’t hurt her mood. It was too late, however. The boy was already frowning at him. He was on the taller side, with a shaved head of hair and a glower that seemed oddly familiar. Regulus found himself not fully despising this one. At the very least, he didn’t sound nearly as cheerful as the rest of them.

“This is Reg,” Sirius introduced, now that his presence had been acknowledged. “Say hello, Reggie.”

“It’s Regulus,” he corrected irritably. Sirius only used ‘Reggie’ when he wanted to sound older, even though Regulus was the one who acted more his age.

“My darling brother,” Sirius told the boys.

Then someone shoved a hand toward him, and Regulus finally looked up to meet the gaze of the boy sitting across from him.

“Hi Regulus, I’m James,” he said, with an annoyingly friendly smile. His head was topped with dark curls, and large round glasses took up most of his face, but it didn’t stop his eyes from twinkling brightly. Regulus felt his stomach flip, no doubt a reaction from studying James’s detestable features, and looked down at his hand with all the disgust he could muster.

“Potter,” he spat.

That earned him a slap upside the head, which he flinched away from. It didn’t hurt, but whenever Sirius touched him, it always managed to take him by surprise.

“Stop being such a little prick,” Sirius snapped. “These are my friends.”

Friends. Sirius’s ‘friends’ were half-bloods and blood traitors, and Gryffindors at that. Regulus shouldn’t be seen with them. With any of them.

“I didn’t want to sit here,” he snarled at Sirius. “You made me.”

Something flickered over Sirius’s face then, and Regulus thought it might’ve been disappointment, or even guilt, but it was gone so quickly that he thought he must’ve imagined it.

“Oh, go on, piss off, then,” Sirius said coldly. “Dunno why I bothered.”

Something boiled in Regulus’s chest. Sirius had no right to hold his convictions against him. He was only trying to make their family proud, something Sirius had failed at over and over again. He thought about slapping him back, but quickly decided against it. He didn’t feel like getting into a fight. That would require yelling and hitting, both of which Regulus wanted to avoid. Instead he stood, storming out of the car and slamming the door behind him. He made his way down the corridor, realising he hadn’t bothered to grab his bag. He decided he’d just go back for it once they arrived at the castle.

“Regulus?”

He stopped short, turning to see his cousin, Narcissa Black, poking her head out of a compartment door. She’d curled the ends of her new, platinum-blonde hair, and her bright blue eyes were narrowed at him suspiciously.

“Can you not find a seat?” she frowned.

He shrugged noncommittally at his cousin, not really wanting to sit with her either. Not if she was all cozied up next to her boyfriend, Lucius Malfoy. He didn’t want to have to watch them stick their tongues down each other’s throats, which he’d already seen plenty of at Bellatrix’s wedding.

“Come,” she beckoned to him.

He clenched his jaw in silent retaliation, but still did as he was told, walking toward the compartment timidly and pausing at the door. Thankfully, his sister was not with Lucius Malfoy, but with two other Slytherin girls, who smiled at Regulus fondly. They all wore the same silvery pin on their robes, encrusted with a ‘P’ for prefect. He’d almost forgotten that Narcissa had gotten the position, but now recalled how she’d offhandedly mentioned it at the wedding. She seemed quite proud of herself when she said it, but was quickly brushed aside without so much as a single voice of praise. Regulus had wanted to say something to her about it, but never got the chance.

“This is my cousin, Regulus,” Narcissa introduced. “It’s his first year at Hogwarts.”

“Hello,” he greeted them shyly.

“Wait,” one of the girls gasped, “Isn’t he the brother of your other cousin? The one who got into Gryffindor?”

Regulus flushed with shame, his eyes darting away from the girls as he grimaced. Apparently, Sirius had already formed a reputation at Hogwarts, which would no doubt only hurt Regulus’s image further. He wished his brother would just shut up and blend in for once.

Narcissa rolled her eyes. “Ugh, please don’t bring up Sirius. He’s such a disappointment. Don’t worry though. Regulus is nothing like him. Isn’t that right, Reg?”

Regulus hesitated for a second. He felt like saying it out loud would be wrong, like some sort of betrayal, so instead he just nodded curtly.

“See? He’ll end up in Slytherin for sure.”

Then Narcissa patted the seat beside her and Regulus obeyed, sitting down next to his cousin. The girls began to chat about their summer holiday, but Regulus didn’t feel inclined to join in. Instead he looked out the window, propping his head up on his hand like he’d done before, and as he watched the countryside whiz by, he couldn’t help but feel more out of place than ever.

* * *

When they finally arrived at Hogsmeade station, Regulus slumped back to his brother’s compartment, in search of his bag. When he made it to the door, he was surprised to find the seat was still occupied by none other than James Potter. He had kicked his feet up on the opposite bench and was sucking on a Liquorice wand contentedly. Regulus’s bag sat next to him, teetering dangerously on the edge of the cushioned seats. When he opened the door, James scrambled to his feet, pulling the candy from his lips as he gave the younger boy a once over.

“Er… Regulus. Right,” he said. He grabbed the strap of Regulus’s bag and offered it to him with a smile. “I figured you might come back for it.”

Regulus snatched it from him, carefully keeping his distance from the older boy.

“Didn’t steal anything, did you?” he snarled.

James frowned at him, shouldering his own bag. “No,” he replied indignantly.

“Good,” Regulus snapped. Then he rounded on his heel and began making his way off the train. He rummaged around in the bag, just to make sure that they really hadn’t stolen anything. It seemed everything was in its place, as far as he could tell, and he allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Down the platform, someone was calling first years, and he headed in that direction, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he went.

No one had told Regulus about the boat ride across the Black Lake. Unlike the other eager students, who awed at the reflection of the glowing castle, Regulus felt a wave of uneasiness wash over him. He studied the dark water warily as the students were called into the boats, but it wasn’t like he had much choice in the matter. He took a deep breath before stepping inside and taking a seat, staring contentedly at his feet for the duration of the trip. He wondered if Sirius had conveniently forgotten to mention the lake to him, or whether he was indulging in the slow torture Regulus was currently experiencing. The trip couldn’t have lasted more than ten minutes, but to Regulus, it felt like it’d taken ages.

Then came the even harder part: the sorting.

Regulus was too apprehensive from the boat ride - and too concerned about the sorting - to care much for the magical ceiling of the Great Hall, or the floating candles, or the intimidating row of teachers at the head of the room. He just wanted to get into Slytherin, please his parents, and get it over with. That would end up attracting the least attention possible. He just wanted to fit in, and as a pure-blood, and a Black, there was no better place than Slytherin.

As the first years made their way to the front of the hall, Regulus spotted Sirius sitting at the Gryffindor table. Their eyes met briefly, but Regulus quickly glanced away, not wanting to think about what would happen if he ended up like his older brother. He could only imagine what his parents would say - or do - none of which was pleasant.

He was at least thankful that his last name started with a ‘B.’ That meant he got to be one of the first ones to go, which was better than anxiously waiting for his turn. Still, he felt his heart drop into his chest when his name was finally called. He slowly made his way to the stool, sitting on it and placing the hat on his head. It covered his eyes and most of his nose, and he jumped when a small voice spoke in his ear.

“Interesting,” it said softly. “Another Black .”

Oh Merlin, Regulus thought, Please let me be in Slytherin.

“You want to be in Slytherin?” the hat asked, though it didn’t seem all that surprised. “Are you sure? You have plenty of courage; intellect too. Not to mention your determination...”

Yeah, determination to be in Slytherin, Regulus thought sarcastically.

If the hat could laugh, Regulus thought it might’ve, because when it spoke again, it sounded exceedingly amused.

“How very resourceful of you,” it said gleefully. “Have it your way... SLYTHERIN!”

Regulus felt an enormous wave of relief crash over him, and he took the hat off, placing it back on the stool as he looked toward the uproarious table on the far right side of the room. Narcissa was smirking at him, her eyes twinkling with pride. He felt a surge of satisfaction then, and made his way to the table, his peers shaking his hand excitedly.

Suddenly, a boy with greasy black hair and a long, pointy nose patted him on the back. “Lucky you’re not a foul git like your brother, eh Black?”

Regulus felt a hot sear of anger flash through him, and he had the overwhelming urge to break the boy’s already ugly looking nose. He shoved the feeling down, however, as he always did, instead following the boy’s gaze over to the Gryffindor table. His eyes landed on Sirius, who was staring directly at him. His expression was unreadable, but there was something heavy in his gaze. After a second, Sirius looked away, his long hair falling into his face as he turned towards James to say something.

Regulus watched them for a moment before Narcissa grabbed his shoulders and smothered him in a hug. He cringed, trying to squeeze out of it, but she was a lot stronger than he was. Finally, she pulled away.

“Our family is going to be so proud, Regulus!” she beamed, elated. “I can’t wait to show you everything! You’re going to love our common room.”

Regulus only smiled, too taken aback to say anything. He rarely ever got hugs, especially not from his family, but he had to admit she seemed freer here; happy even. Possibly more exuberant than Regulus had ever seen her at home. She sat him down beside her, and the sorting continued. He attempted to catch Sirius’s eye again, but his brother didn’t so much as glance in his direction for the rest of the ceremony.

The feast was a welcome distraction from this, however, and Regulus indulged himself in the wide selection of foods. He never got to choose what he ate at home, so this small freedom was a welcome one. Then, when dessert came, he regretted filling his plate so much, thinking he might combust if he had one more bite.

“But you barely had anything!” Narcissa exclaimed as she offered him a platter of chocolate eclairs.

Regulus only shook his head, nauseated just by the thought of taking one. His cousin shrugged, picking out one for herself and lowering it onto her plate.

The greasy haired boy had introduced himself as Severus Snape, and the boy to his left was Garrick Mulciber. To Regulus, they both seemed frightfully impertinent, but Narcissa talked to them conversationally, smiling wickedly whenever they began to complain about the other houses. Severus brought up a group called ‘the marauders’ once or twice, but Regulus wasn’t curious enough to listen to his pompous complaints. Instead, he chatted with the first year who’d sat down next to him, a freckled boy named Bartemius Crouch.

“They just call me Barty though,” he told Regulus through a spoonful of pudding. “I’m jealous. Regulus sounds much smarter.”

“Well, thanks,” Regulus said with a small smile. “I think Barty is alright.”

Barty let out a sharp laugh in response. “Yeah, right,” he said sarcastically, grinning as he took another helping of pudding.

Regulus smirked and shrugged. “Actually, I think Sirius has the coolest-”

“For Salazar’s sake, please don’t bring him up,” Narcissa interjected. “You’ll only make things worse for yourself.”

Regulus glanced over at her, wondering if she was joking, only to be met with a look of genuine aversion. He blinked at her for a moment before turning his gaze toward his crumb filled plate. Suddenly, he felt quite bad for his older brother. Sure, he had a knack for trouble and a flair for rebellion, and he did bring quite a mess to their family name, but he was still Sirius. He was still their family.

Narcissa seemed to notice his dejection and let out an annoyed sigh. “Don’t you remember what happened with Andromeda?” she asked tightly.

Regulus jerked his head up to look at her. He didn’t need reminding.

#atyd #jegulus #james potter #regulus black #sirius and regulus #wolfstar #all the young dudes #ootb #one of the boys #narcissa black #sirius black #black family #noble house of black #remus lupin #marauders #marauders era #fanfic #james and lily

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deviantdrkate · 4 years

Text

De-Composure

Pairing: Herbert West X Reader, Rating: M, Word Count: 3327 Summary: Herbert gets home after the Miskatonic Massacre, and it’s clear that something’s gone horribly awry. Hashtag MiskMass, Hashtag Herbert West’s Best Friends Race. +~+~+~+~+~+ You were ripped from sleep by the front door slamming followed by loud WHUMP. The boys had been off doing their dark bidding around the hospital. You’d assumed so, anyway. The house had been empty and quiet when you’d returned home from your shift at Friendly’s, sick of the condescending M&M gaze of the “Cone Heads” you’d been constructing for the past 6 hours. Sometimes you’d bring home a cup of ice cream for Dan, but Herbert never wanted any. If you asked, he would look like he’d been caught doing something bad, and firmly issue a “No thank you.” You were used to him rejecting any sort of gift, and it didn’t bother you or anything, but maybe it did sting just a bit. You couldn’t tell him that though, for fear he’d come back with something about “tendencies for nurturing” and the idea of that was repulsive… Even if it might’ve been a little true.

You could hear some labored gasping through the walls, accompanied by a few groans. Normally, this could be attributed to the late night actions of Dan and Megan, but something was off.

“Damn it!”

By the finale of the curse, you had confirmation that it was undoubtedly Herbert. Worse, it sounded like he was genuinely in pain. You gathered your velour throw around yourself as a makeshift robe and slunk into the hallway, snaps of exhaustion firing off behind your eyes.

“Herbert?” You called.

He didn’t respond. You ventured further into the living room to find near darkness. You could see Herbert, though. The moonlight had him backlit so that you could only see his outline, with soft halos of color around the edges of his form. He was almost hunched over, bracing himself against the back of a chair. It looked like his arms were quivering from trying to hold himself up.

“Herbert, what’s happened?”

“Nothing.” He was lying.

“Where’s Dan?”

“I don’t know—”

“Herbert—” He snapped his head in your direction, cutting you off. The lunar glare reflected in his glasses flashed at you, an imitation of the tapetum lucidum that betrayed a wild fear.

“I DON’T KNOW!”

His outburst startled you and you flinched in response. You still couldn’t see his face, but he could see you. Whatever fleece you’d wrapped yourself in was falling off your shoulders, revealing the lace straps that crossed under your bust. He felt so cold, and a racing thought informed him that if your blanket dropped down a bit farther, the thin rayon of your gown would reveal whether you felt the chill as well.

Herbert shook his head to clear the thought, and turned himself around, leaning back and stretching a little.

“I— (Y/N) It…” Herbert began.

You moved closer to him, the shock of his shout having subsided. Hesitantly, you reached out to touch his shoulder and he jerked his focus to where your hand hovered above his acromion. He realized you’d been staring at him the whole time, and it provoked a nervousness in him. His breathing stuttered, and for a moment you thought he might draw back. You laid your palm onto him carefully, and he looked away with a sound you couldn’t quite decipher.

“Are you hurt?”

Your voice was so gentle he almost laughed at the absurdity of how easily you offered such a kindness. He was sure that once you knew what his ambitions had wrought upon your friends, you’d offer him nothing but malice. A chuckle tried to manifest low in his lungs, but a sharp pain in his left side caused a gruff wince instead. Hill’s Intestinium Constrictor had probably broken one of Herbert’s ribs, and upon realizing that he sneered to himself. There wasn’t much that could be done to heal it besides rest and ice, and he considered it one of the more annoying injuries to suffer.

“Herbert…” Your voice was firm now, and he brought his gaze back to you. You raised your hand from his shoulder to cup the side of his face, and to his own mild resentment he leaned into your touch.You were so warm.

It was a harsh juxtaposition against the memories of frigid hands and arms that had clawed at him violently, tossed him about like a rag doll, and rendered him helpless to someone else’s will. The last heat he felt was a product of Hill’s patented—probably stolen—Laser Drill burning down against his temporal ridge. He shuddered at the memory and tried to turn away, but you brought your other hand to the side of his face and kept his eyes on you.

“…What happened?”

His brows knit and his shoulders slumped before he let out a rough gasp and shot back up. Your eyes popped and you released his face. One of your hands shot behind him, landing between his shoulder blades, and the other pressed flat against his sternum. It steadied him enough to catch his breath.

“Okay, come on, just—Just sit down for a minute, Herb.” Normally, he hated your nicknames, but he nodded wordlessly and let you lead him. He groaned as he lowered himself down on the sofa, and it gave you reason to be conscientious as you sat down to his right. You took the blanket off your shoulders and he tried to avoid noticing the confirmation of his earlier fragmented thoughts.

“I need you to lean up.” You were speaking barely above a whisper, and it gave him goosebumps before he glared at you for daring to ask. You raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him as you held up the blanket in front of you, like a magician about to reveal a disappearance. He understood though, and cautiously let you wrap an expanse of the blanket around him. Relief spread over him. You had to have been cocooned for some hours before he had stumbled into the house. The difference in temperature made his teeth chatter, and he whined as his torso shook. Watching Herbert in this state made you feel more than uncomfortable, because you’d seen him like this before.

“Herbert, do you need me to get your reagent?”

The fact you acknowledged his habit was almost enough to make him go still.

“No… It’s not that,” he choked out. He couldn’t tell if his ribs were truly the source of his reaction, or if it was shock. He didn’t want to think about how your close proximity to him could be factoring into it. Gingerly, you leaned forward and put your hand over his, finding him still ice cold, and slowly you rubbed your palm over it, trying to create a modicum of friction. He almost froze completely at this. You’d always found it ironic that intimacy was such a touchy subject for him, but the severity of the present situation pushed that musing to the back of your mind.

“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to… I’m going to go make you some—” You started to get up, but the hand you’d been petting suddenly gripped your arm. Not in a manner that was rough, but you got his message.

Stay.

It was enough to let you know how severe the situation had become, so you did. You brought yourself closer to him and he released your arm. You tried to weigh your options on how to proceed but then a sound ripped you from your calculations. Herbert was muttering under his breath, but his face was twisted into a scowl of vexation and disgust. You were about to pull back, but another sound tore through him.

Herbert sobbed.

It felt like he drew the air right out of you before he wailed and lurched forward, trying to throw his head in his hands, but he wheezed sharply and flew back against the couch with a tight grimace and tears running out of his eyes. His whole body went rigid as he took in pained breaths to try and stifle his lamentations. He twisted a bit in discomfort and you realized this was the first time Herbert had ever seemed powerless. Usually he had so much control.

Ice moved through your chest like a long dagger.

Dan was probably dead.

“Herbert?” You didn’t expect your voice to cut through the air, but it had.

“What?” He replied bitterly.

“Where does it hurt?”

He still had angry tears streaming down his face, and they were beginning to fog his glasses. He awkwardly ripped him off his face and shoved them into his shirt pocket with an agonized look.

“Left Side. Either a true or false rib, I can’t be sure.”

You inhaled deeply and nodded as he took a few wet breaths, trying to calm himself down. Soon enough, wretched giggling started to worm it’s way into his gritted panting. You swallowed and cleared your throat.

“Herbert, I’d like to try something…”

He kept his head forward but cast a glance at you.You had to be meticulous with your approach. Herbert’s ego had been drawn and quartered, and at that moment he was as exposed and fresh to you as one of the graves he’d given vacancy. You inched forward and tentatively wrapped your left arm around his shoulder, guiding his right arm underneath it to wrap behind you.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You had his full attention then. The only emotion he showed beyond wet, red eyes was a look of study. He was searching for clues on your face. The least you could do was offer him a mirror of his usual stoic stability. If you matched his emotional level at that moment, he might recoil and harm himself further.

“My intention is to allow you to use me as an incline, to stretch out and take some pressure off your ribs. I’ll… be able to keep you from shivering as much, you won’t have to go up the stairs, and I can move one of the cushions to keep your leg straight so there’s not a curve to pull on your core—”

“Your Iliac crest would grind into my side, and contort me—”

“I would be laying on my back. My legs would make sure you… remain secured…” You said this with a deadly serious expression, almost glowering at him, something he would’ve been able to recognize from his own mannerisms. Truthfully, That’s not how you wanted to phrase any of it, and the robotic nature of the way you’d had to say it was inciting a small internal revolt that urged you to say, “Just let me hold you, you miserable dumb bitch.”It wasn’t about you, though. It was about Herbert, and if you were going to find out what had happened to make him fall to pieces like this, you were going to have to play the long game. It was something you’d been unknowingly researching the entire time you’d been living together. You would find out later that this had not prepared you for his eventual response.

“That’s a lot of posturing to get me between your legs.” He didn’t sound angry or mocking. Instead, Herbert sounded exhausted; maybe a little congested.

“Even if that were the case would you really have a problem with it?” You kept your voice flat and low like you’d planned, but the content of your statement had been too quick to catch. He averted his eyes, and you did your best not to freeze up. He surprised you with a tilt of his head and a raised brow, one of his tells for concession during consideration. He didn’t say anything, but cinched the arm that was wrapped under yours tighter to pull you closer to him, and you took your cue to lie back.He let out a pained whimper as you both postured yourselves as you’d described, with his face tucked into the crook of your neck. It was followed by a heady exhale that skirted over your shoulder as you tried to pull the blanket over the two of you. It sent a rush of ardor through you that threatened to arch your back in response, but you kept yourself still. Herbert shivered on top of you. Your hands found their way to his hair, absently winding twists into it that wouldn’t stay, and stroking his scalp. Your hand moved lower to a little over his brow and suddenly he hissed. You ripped your hand back.

“What’s wrong?”

“I have a… burn on my forehead. I didn’t even remember it until now…”

“You don’t strike me as a curling iron type, Herb.”

He smiled at you and you caught yourself before you could melt into the couch.

Satisfied that you’d avoid the offending area, he nestled back down into you, his free arm draping over your waist. This had to be what it felt like to be chosen by an unfriendly cat, that allowed itself to be pet instead of wishing to be. You suddenly recalled the incident with Rufus and buried any and all cat imagery that lay in your mind.

“Hill tried to lobotomize me.”

If you hadn’t been acutely aware of his injuries, you would’ve shot up like a rocket. “Hill did what??”

Herbert sighed against your throat again and you had to close your eyes to keep them from rolling back into your head. “He stalked me back here the day after the incident with Dean Halsey…he wanted to steal my work…”

Your eyes narrowed at the ceiling. You already knew where this was going.

“…So, I stopped him…”

“How did you do that, Herb?”

“He—he wanted to control me…”

You could feel a trembling starting in his core, and he made another pained noise.

“I had to do it, (Y/N)… He stole from Gruber, and he was going to ruin me too!” He had started to rile up again, his voice was strained.You do your part to counter it. “I believe you. I do want to point out your mouth is riiight next to my ear, though.” Your voice was less stoic by that point. His weight on top of you had an unintended side effect of flooding you with bliss. In any other scenario, it would’ve been easy to slide out of this moment and into a personal fantasy, but Herbert had rarely hinted that he had emotional needs before, let alone expressed them. You had to be present for him.

“I decapitated him with a shovel in the basement.” He informed you plainly.

That was a bit shocking.

“Herbert…”

“The serum worked perfectly on him…” He continued.

“You injected a disembodied head with reagent?”

“I… injected the decapitated body too.”

“And… How did it go?” It was all you could think to say.

He was straining again as he spoke. “He… knocked me out… stole it all anyway.”

“He was responsive?” Your tone ticked up in excitement. Herbert hadn’t had a fully responsive subject yet, and normally that would have been an extremely important event.

“He had Dean Halsey kidnap Meg… I thought I was being clever by taking Dan there, to save her…” Herbert’s voice gained a hard edge and you could practically hear the deep twist of a frown that formed around his word, his tone creeping into a snarl as he continued.

“He trapped us down there… Had an army of the dead waiting for his word to attack… and I walked us right into it.”

Your hand was back in his hair, behind his ear this time, far away from the burn over his eye, and he froze.

“Are they dead?”

Herbert didn’t answer right away, and when he did he was practically choking around his words.

“I don’t know… Hill was giving a soliloquy, and I was being held down… Halsey grabbed Hill and it… distracted him…” You could feel your shoulder growing damp, and you ran your fingers down to the base of his neck, stroking the unruly locks that always stuck out of his collar. He shuddered against you, some of his tension dissipating from the contact.

“We could’ve escaped then… but I stopped us. I wasn’t done. I… had a theory a-a-and I injected Hill’s body with enough to reanimate him and his recruits twofold. I started to monitor the body’s reaction—But Halsey crushed Hill’s head like a cantaloupe, tossed it like a bucket of paint, and—when he did it—it broke whatever hold he had on the bodies under his control, and they went mad… I tried to stay focused on the body, but it erupted. Hill’s organs had become sentient, and he… attempted to crush me… suffocate me…” He trailed off.

“How?”

“His intestines ripped out of his stomach and caught me by the throat… covered my mouth and wrapped around me like a giant python and squeezed…” he growled through his teeth. It hit you suddenly that he was warm now; almost clammy, even. Part of you wondered if it was from the seething hatred that radiated off him as he recounted his evening to you, or if it had just been too long since he could feel another living person.

“Dan tried to help, but one of… Hill’s playmates…” he spat the summoned insult out dramatically, “knocked over a shelf of volatile chemicals. They reacted with each other and gassed the place… He had to get out. I was only able to throw him my notes at the last minute… I don’t know if he got out.”

“Did Meg get out?”

“I don’t know that either.”

The room fell silent, and his breathing was growing more haggard with each passing second. He was falling into his own head. Failure and regret brewed under his surface more volatile than the reaction he described, and threatening to asphyxiate him all the same.

You finally turned your head to face him. His glasses were still in his pocket, and the only word you could find to describe him, as he glared up at you from underneath an arched, accusing, brow, was fragile. Your affections moved from his neck to trace idle shapes along his bicep before you asked him

“Herbert, how did you escape?” The question was designed to keep him engaged in the present, and not sinking into the past, to decisions he’d made that he couldn’t change.

He broke eye contact with you, nervously looking anywhere else. “Doesn’t matter. I’m alive aren’t I?”

It clicked in your mind and you had to halt-morbid giggle when you felt him unwind back into your embrace.

“Does this make you a cannibal?”

“No… maybe… I’m not concerned with it.”

Your hand came back up to caress his neck again and he hummed at the contact. You don’t let yourself think about how closely the sound resembles a purr.

“I think it’s only cannibalism if you like it…” You breathed out. His whispered reply in your ear is so sweet, that you can feel it in your teeth.

“I’m not worried.”

You looked at him again. His eyes were closed and he seemed as close to peace as you’d ever seen him. He cracked an eye open to look back at you.

“What?”

“I’m glad you came home.”

He buried his face against your neck in response. You laid a kiss at his hairline and comfortable with his own repose, you let sleep come back to you. Herbert dozed off listening to the rhythm of your heart, beats echoing steadily inside your chest.

Dan found you both curled up like that the next morning. The light that streamed in from the doorway caused you to stir and sit up to see him, but Herbert’s arm reached up to pull you back down to him. You raised your other hand in response to Dan’s arrival, just to let him know you saw him; a friendly, “Hey pal, congrats, you made it.”

You didn’t fully wake up until you realized Meg wasn’t with him.

#herbert west x reader #re-animator fanfic #herbert west x you #Dan cain is also here but this is not about him

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

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Title: Dissonance.

Word Count: 3.0k

Commissioned by the lovely @arthurtheghostmechanic.

[Part One]

TW: Kidnapping, Captivity, Emotional Manipulation, Unhealthy Power Dynamics, Non-Graphic Violence, and Suffocation.

Every morning, Diavolo would help you get dressed.

It was a daily ritual, one that’d begun the first time you’d shown more interest in burning his gifts than wearing them, and he’d realized he liked the way you squirmed as his fingers brushed against your collarbone, his palms pressing against the dip of your back and his hands tracing the shape of your waist under the guise of fastening a row of clasps that’d been sewn in more for exorbity than security. You supposed this was how he intended to ‘court’ you, as he put it, or it was his favorite method, at least. The others came and went, and although he still occasionally took the time to bring you flowers from the castle’s garden or refuse to feed you at all until you let him feed you by hand, he always had an outfit waiting for you by the time you woke up, he always knew exactly how he wanted you to look, and he always helped you get dressed. Always. It was one of the few constants you could count on, with a man as busy as Diavolo.

Today, he was taking his time. Swabs of silky, scarlet fabric had already been draped over your form and adorned with just the right amount of black and gold to outweigh any individuality you might have retained, and yet, you could still feel warm breath ghost over your skin as he toyed with the strings of an already-bound corset, making you unsure whether he was still contemplating how to perfect it, or if he wanted to undo the intricate knots altogether. You could easily step away, finished or not. He’d positioned you to face a full-body mirror, one of the many scattered around the corners of his bedroom, but there was space, and he wouldn’t stop you, you were sure he wouldn’t stop you. Of all the things he was willing to do, raising a hand was where he drew the line, even if your stubborn neutrality often left him gritting his teeth and appealing to your sense of defeatism. It should’ve been a reassurance, it should’ve been a god-send, but in practice, his self-restraint only made you feel like the villain. If he wasn’t going to shove you away, then you’d have to shy back on your own. And if you did that, then you’d be the one to blame for his subsequent disappointment.

So, you stayed in place, glared at the floor, and wordlessly willed him to grow tired of watching you squirm sooner, instead of later.

Diavolo, however, was not as content with the silence as you were.

“You’ve been quiet, today,” He started, unprompted, unasked for. There couldn’t have been classes, that day. Clearly, he didn’t have anything better to do than draw your suffering out. “Is something wrong, my love?”

You could’ve told the truth. It would’ve been easy to, but there was some twisted, contorted part of you that still thought of Diavolo as someone distant, someone you shouldn’t upset, if only because it was so difficult to dampen his spirits, and he seemed so determined to keep them up. Even after he’d taken you away from the brothers, taken you away from the life you’d wanted, locked you into a gilded cage, and told you to sing for him, you still had to remind yourself to hate him. Fearing him was second nature, but loathing him was another burden entirely. Rather than spouting out the obvious, you let your eyes wander, past the mirror and to the well-decorated wall that lay beyond it. “I’ve been… with you for two weeks, and I haven’t seen anyone besides you and Barbatos,” You starters, letting your gaze fall onto a portrait of a young boy with gold eyes and crimson hair. It had to be Daivolo, but that wasn’t the surprising part - there was only Diavolo. No parents, father or otherwise, a theme that carried into many of the other decorative pieces, as you were beginning to notice. “Is it just the two of you?”

“Is that what’s been bothering you?” He chuckled, shrugging off your flat tone with all of his usual carelessness. If it was a sensitive topic, you couldn’t tell, but you could never tell, not with Diavolo. You’ve only seen him truly, genuinely affected a handful of times, and you doubted something as simple as a conversation would be the thing to finally leave a permanent impact. “If you’re worried there might be a lack of guests, don’t be. The only reason you haven’t met a diplomat or an ambassador or someone new and exciting is because of our budding arrangement.” He said it as if it were nothing, as if you’d just signed yourself into a contract you had yet to realize the full scope of. In his eyes, you might’ve. You were still trying to work out what exactly Diavolo thought your ‘arrangement’ was. “I thought it would be best to give you time. Humans can be such fickle creatures, and not all demons are as understanding as I am. I don’t want you saying the wrong thing to the wrong person while you’re still new to playing host.”

You should’ve known better than to press. You should’ve, but you pushed forward regardless, another singular pair of eyes in another all-but empty portrait working to spur you forward, despite your better judgment. “Still, you’re only a prince. Your father--”

“My father is asleep.” He spoke with the calm, practiced tone of someone who’d used the same excuse one too many times, of a child, scared and alone, trying to convince himself of something he didn’t really believe. “He has been, since the day he decided I was capable of ruling on my own, and while I’d be honored, I doubt he’s going to disturb his slumber to meet my chosen mate. He’s not a factor you should concern yourself with, darling.”

You were beginning to think there was nothing you should concern yourself with, not here, not when Diavolo thought of himself as so honorably, valiantly reliable. You hadn’t thought you’d miss that, about life with the brothers. You were left exhausted more often than not, in over your head with Mammon’s scheme’s or Lucifer’s standards or the twins’ insatiable habits, but at least you’d had enough to do to warrant exhaustion. You never thought you’d long to trip over a cursed book on the floor of Satan’s bedroom or find the door to Leviathan’s room blocked off by a dozen too many boxes, and yet, you found yourself waiting for it, sometimes, listening for an out of place scream, anticipating the next crisis. Diavolo said it was too much strain, for you. He said you shouldn’t be held responsible for a family so unpredictable.

He didn’t think you could handle it, so he sought out a way to handle you.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek. “That sounds lonely.”

There was a slight pause, a hint at a trace of hesitation. The closest thing you’d come to one, during your time with Diavolo. “It was.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Taking kind of prolonged stillness was unlike him, but Diavolo managed to redeem himself with a heavy sigh, a shake of his head, an arm wrapped around your waist as he slumped gingerly against you, leaning down as he slotted himself against your back. It was a heavy sort of tenderness, the type a desperate man might seek from a remorseless stone pillar, but your resolve felt a little less solid with every drum of his fingertips, every shaky breath he let echo against the back of your neck. You were the one to speak, though. If only to stop yourself from breaking first. “And that’s why I’m here, right?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because you’re lonely?”

You felt him stiffen against you, going rigid at the suggestion alone. “(Y/n), I never--”

“You have other people.” It was more frustration than anger, the sudden awareness that you’d been taken by him, because of him, for him, despite all the luxurious, loving ways he tried to dress it up. “Your father might be gone, but you have options. There’s an academy full of students who’d be happy to find themselves at your side, there’s a kingdom of subjects you could choose from, if you wanted to. Is that why you ran the exchange program? You just didn’t have enough options, you wanted to see what the other realms had to offer. Were you going to kidnap Solomon, if I wasn’t good enough?”

“I wasn’t looking for company,” He countered, his hold becoming a little more secure, growing a little more controlling. It was oppressive, one arm crossed over your stomach and the other over your chest, making it more difficult to inhale as you struggled to keep your breathing even, but somehow, his affection did little to comfort you. If anything, it just made you want to rip yourself away from him more. “When I found you, I wanted you. There’s no one else I’d consider--”

“You have Barbatos,” You went on, letting your hands curl into fists at your sides. “He’s your friend, and you have him, and you shouldn’t need me, too. Even if that wasn’t enough for you, Lucifer’s still there. He looks up to you, he’s loyal to you, if there was anything you needed, he’d go to the ends of the Earth to find it. You have him--”

“I used to have him,” Diavolo hissed, the words nearly muffled against the nape of your neck. “I had him, once, but it seems that someone has caused his attention to stray.”

Your jaw clenched shut, instantly, but you made a point of narrowing your eyes at his reflection. It was a small rebellion, one he barely seemed to notice, but it felt too right for you to really care about whether or not he deserved it. “I’m sorry,” You muttered, frantic irritation fading into mild, blatant displeasure. “I didn’t realize how much you hated it when your toys find other people to play with.”

Diavolo went tense. He went tense, he took in a sharp breath, closed his eyes, and with little more fanfare than that, he relaxed again, as calm and composed and infuriating as he always was.

This time, when his attention returned to your attire, it centered around the ribbon choker around the base of your neck, the fabric as soft as a newborn lamb and as dark as the Devildom would be, in the dead of night. His fingers slipped underneath the strip of material, and for a moment, you thought he’d tear it off completely, but he’d never been that kind.

Rather, he took his time, untying the loose knot and speaking, as he did so. You were beginning to hope he’d talk himself to death.

“Lucifer’s interests align with his heart. He’s smart, and I do value him, but he’s a sentimental creature. He only pledged himself to me because of Lilith, and now that you’ve given him something of Lilith, he’s satisfied. He doesn’t have a need for me, anymore.” The choker was pulled taunt, for a moment, cutting you off halfway through an inhale. It wasn’t suffocating, but Diavolo made no move to let go. “And while Barbatos will always be my closest companion, he is a servant. His loyalty to me is a loyalty to the crown, and there’s no doubt in my mind that he’d put a knife in my back, if he thought it would benefit the realm.”

It took you a moment to respond, your voice coming out weaker than you would’ve liked. “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“It’s because I want you to be more than that,” He started, the words nearly a plea. Despite his tenderness and his airy tone, the choker was still biting into your neck, still making it harder and harder to breath. If anything, the task was only growing more difficult, one of your hands unconsciously finding its way to your neck, following the indents where the fabric cut into your skin. “You may choose not to believe me, but I’m not looking for power. I’m not looking for somone I have to chain to my side, if I want them to stay. I want you to love me. I want you to look at me and see someone who you couldn’t picture yourself going on without.” A pause, a ragged exhale. Again, you felt him shake his head, Diavolo leaning forwards just enough to kiss the top of your head. “That’s how I feel about you.”

By now, you were pulling at the choker, prying at it, trying desperately to put a hair’s width of space between your neck and that noose. It was barely a scrap, just a strip of material, and yet in Diavolo’s hands, it became a vice, a chain, a collar attached to a leash just couldn’t stop yanking. You kicked blindly, scrambling to throw your elbow into his stomach or tear at the choker or do something to make it a little easier to breath, but Diavolo only laughed, the sound low, throaty, warm and heavy and fatal.

“I do want you to love me. If nothing else, I want you to care for me. Worry about me, if you have to. I know beggars can’t be choosers in a situation like this.” When he released you, letting the choker fall to the floor and pulling away from you completely, saving your dignity wasn’t an option. You stumbled forward, gasping, choking, trying to cough air into your lungs as you groped at your now-tender skin, reddened bruises already forming a tight ring around your neck. Diavolo watched you passively, letting you stumble forward and brace yourself against the standing mirror. “I want you to love me,” He went on, slowly. There was a step forward, a footfall softened by the slightest trace of reluctance, and Diavolo’s hand came to rest on your shoulder. “But I’ll find a way to live with it, if you have to fear me.”

It was all you could do to close your eyes as you fought to catch your breath, to rest your forehead against the cool, welcoming surface of the mirror. You couldn’t see your reflection, but you didn’t have to - your throat ached, throbbed, and when you forced yourself to give him a reply, it was raspy, as jagged as all the many things you wanted to drive into your kidnapper’s anatomy, at the moment. “I can’t believe I ever felt bad for you.”

Diavolo only grinned, letting you catch the edge of the expression in the corner of his eye as he stepped forward. A firm hand came to rest on the small of your back, but it was fleeting, chaste, as far from comfort as the light, almost unnoticeable kiss he pushed into your temple. “I’ve never been one for pity.”

With that, he stepped away from you completely, leaving you hunched over, your body shaking and your pride stomped so far into the ground, you doubted you’d ever nurse it back to its full health. You should’ve stopped there. You should’ve let him go, given yourself time to recover, and resigned yourself to spending the rest of the day sobbing your eyes out into satin sheets, but there was something burning in your chest, something hot and rough and ruthless, as it urged you to speak, to yell, to scream. You didn’t know if barking after Diavolo like his disloyal mutt would do anything to sate it, but there was a chance that it might, and that was a chance you were willing to chase after like your life depended on it.

“You can’t keep me here.” That was enough for him to pause, to glance over his shoulder as he moved to tell you that he was already doing just that, but you faster than him, this time. “I won’t let you keep me here. I’m going to get out, and once I do, I’m going to put myself so far out of your reach, you’ll be lucky to remember what I look like, by the time I’m done.”

He wasn’t facing you, but he didn’t have to be. You could hear his expression drop, his smugness not disappearing, but dampening. “I’ve told you, (Y/n), the brothers think you’re in the human realm, and the other exchange students have yet to express their concern. There’s nothing Lucifer or his--”

“Fuck Lucifer.” That earned you the slightest flinch, a subtle delay as he finally turned towards you, but you were past the point of patiently waiting for his reaction, for his approval. It was almost sickening, in retrospect, how you’d given him the benefit of the doubt after he’d kidnapped you, after he’d failed to have the decency to show a shred of remorse. He thought you were going to sit pretty and wait to be impressed, and you had to prove to him that you wouldn’t be so spineless. Brothers or no brothers. “I’m not locked in a tower. I’m not helpless. I don’t need to wait around for someone else to save me. I’ll crawl out of here, if I have to. I’ll claw my way out. I don’t care what I have to do, I will get away from you.”

You almost expected him to lash out. You might not blame him after that, but to your relief and your disgust, his composure never faltered. He didn’t raise a hand, did storm out or take you by the hair or do something violent and ugly and expected. It didn’t matter, though. His aggression was repressed, but that didn’t mean it was concealed, not when you could make it out in every clench of his jaw, in the way his head cocked just a little too far to the side. In the stretched, seamless, sadistic smile that soon found its way to his lips, only reassuring you that your new resolve would’ve been necessary, whether or not you were the one to provoke him.

“I’d like to see you try.”

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thekitteninlove · 3 years

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Good thing no one knows me around here or i wouldn't be posting this smutty fanfic with Amon. If i say that i like the villain most people will jump to conclusions and say that i must be as bad as him. But you know what? While i do my best to avoid people like him irl, this is just fiction. It's not like any of the horrible things he did happened in reality, so it doesn't bother me that much that he's a villain. One thing is when a fictional character does something horrible and a different thing when a real life person does the same thing. I once had a crush on Oliver too, since he's also a genius, but he kept calling me/ the MC stupid, so i disregarded him. I'd rather be tortured by Amon.

Since the intensity of his nuttiness would've killed the character i had to make him less nutty, so he's a bit OOC. I tried my best to keep the other characters in character in my previous fics, but this time i just couldn't avoid it

Characters: Amon Jabberwock

Warning: smut, whipping

Since Dalim asked me to go and get him some documents from Amon, I was now in his room, waiting for him to hand them to me. I somehow managed to become Dalim’s assistant to gather some information about my enemies and things have been going smoothly thus far. Although… gaining Amon’s trust was proving to be quite difficult. He kept eyeing me suspiciously and watching my every move whenever I was in his presence. I had to find a way to make him at least a little bit less suspicious about me, but how?

“Tell me, why are you helping me conquer the world?” He asked me all of a sudden, giving me a suspicious look like he always does.

That question took me by surprise and I started to grow tense. If i didn’t give him a good answer he’d become even more suspicious of me if that was even possible. I thought about my answer carefully and then told him “Because I agree that the world needs to be changed” I could make a really long list of all the things that were wrong with this world. Although I didn't think that Amon could change it the way I wanted it to, I didn’t say that. I valued my life. “And also because I sympathize with you. I heard from Dalim that you were treated like a monster just because your mother was from the Land of Reason. This was considered to be bad by the residents of Cradle and you had to hide all your life. I hate it when people treat another person horribly just because they’re different from them. You said that the world is unfair and want to change that, didn’t you? Well, so do i” If that didn’t make him trust me more, I wasn't sure what would make him do that.

He had a faint smile on his face, which was good. “Alright. Is that all?” he said as he began to slowly approach me.

I was wondering if he wanted me to tell him more reasons, so I decided that flattering him should make him lower his guard a bit. “I admire you. You’re a genius that accomplishes anything they set their mind on.”

My compliment had the desired effect because his smile widened a bit. “Oh, i see” He grabbed my chin and made me look into his dark amber eyes. “So it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that you have feelings for me?”

Feelings for him!? i… no! That can’t be true! Why does he think that?. His question confused me and i looked up at him in puzzlement

“Don’t play innocent. I’ve seen how you’re looking at me sometimes”

Huh!? Come to think about it… i might’ve been in denial about this. But that’s because i didn’t want to accept that i had feelings for such an awful man. Out of all people, why does it have to be him!?. The way he was looking at me told me that he was sure of what he believed. Even so, i didn’t want to admit it because if i did that then i was certain that he’d use my feelings to manipulate me. I had no idea how to get out of that sticky situation, so i kept silent.

“So you won’t say anything, hm? Fine, then i’ll find a way to make you admit it”

I started to feel a surge of panic at his words. He won’t torture me, will he!? Where's Dalim when i need him?

My feelings were probably showing on my face because the next thing he did was to chuckle and say “Don’t worry, since you’re our precious informant i won’t hurt you”

I felt one of his fingers slide over my lips before he pressed his own lips against mine. I was taken by surprise, so i gasped, parting my lips a bit. He took this opportunity to slide his tongue in my mouth and i closed my eyes, enjoying the passionate kiss he was giving me. I should’ve pushed him away, but i didn’t. I wanted to put my hands in his long pale hair and draw him closer, but that’s the same as admitting that i was interested in him, so i did nothing.But even if i didn’t respond to his kiss, he kept at it, twirling his tongue in my mouth and making me feel light headed. Does he want me to say that so badly!? Suddenly, he pushed me down on his bed. When i looked up, he was on top of me, giving me a knowing smirk. “You didn’t reject that. It still means something” His long hair was cascading down on either side of me and that shorter tuft of hair on the left side of his head that looked like a floppy wolf ear was making him look so adorable.

I looked away, trying to hide the burning desire that was growing within me. Then i felt his breath on my ear as he whispered “I’ll make you say it no matter what”

Uh-oh, he was bent on making me admit that. He started to lick my neck while he was unbuttoning my shirt, which made me sigh with pleasure. I was wondering why he was behaving like that, but i was also worried that in the end i’ll have no choice but to say it. Most likely, he was just toying with me right now because if he was serious he would’ve made me admit it a long time ago.

He took off my bra and cupped one of my breasts with one hand, while the other was traveling up my thighs and under my skirt towards my sweet spot. Once his hand reached his destination he began rubbing it through my panties. I bit my lip to prevent myself from moaning at his sensual touches. If i let him know that i was enjoying it then one of the secrets i was trying to keep would be revealed. His lips moved once again to my ear, whispering “So you still won’t say it, hm? Alright then” He took off my panties and inserted two fingers in me, moving them in and out. I was gripping the sheets and trying to stifle my moans, but i felt like i was going to give in soon enough. He pulled his head away from me a bit, so now i could see his pretty face and messy hair that made him look like a wild beauty. He smiled confidently at me and said “There’s no use holding back. I know you like it”

I didn’t want to give up yet, so i didn’t say anything. Instead, i just gazed up at him. He sure was eye candy. It was such a shame that he wore his hood up almost all the time. I wished he didn’t hide all that beauty under that.

Amon gave me a smirk and said “I see you’re being stubborn. I’ll have to get serious then.” He took out his whip and moved it first around my thighs, then over my sweet spot that was wet from being sexually stimulated so much. This made my heart beat even faster in anticipation of what was to come. “If you’re a bad girl i’ll have to use this on you” he warned me in a cheery voice.

Since i wasn’t a scaredy-cat i looked up at him defiantly and said “Then go ahead and whip me, My Lord”. This seemed to take him by surprise and i felt a grin spread over my face at his reaction. I doubt that anyone has ever said that to him. His mood then seemed to improve as his smirk was back on his face. “I see you’ve got courage. Let’s see how much it’ll last” As he delivered the first strike i felt a sting on my thighs, but it wasn’t something i couldn’t bear. He was still fingering me, but now he began to use 3 fingers, which made me feel more pleasure. While he was doing those dirty things to me, he kept whipping my thighs, but he wasn’t putting much strength into it. It was almost like he was just playing with me. Each whip was sending a surge of adrenaline through my body. The pleasure was building up inside me and i couldn’t refrain from moaning anymore. “Ah~, My Lord, it feels so good”.

One look at his face and i could tell that he was enjoying it too. He giggled at my reaction and said in a joyful voice “You’ve finally surrendered. You admitted it”. He stopped whipping me and instead lowered his head to one of my breasts and licked it, which sent more waves of pleasure coursing through me. He kept moving his fingers in and out, which made me feel some delicious sensations through my body that were intensifying by the moment. This feeling finally reached a really high intensity and i gripped the sheets even tighter as i moaned loudly.

I was still trying to catch my breath, when i heard his voice and looked up. “You’ll stay by my side, won’t you? You won’t betray me, right?”He was focusing his searching gaze on me as if he was trying to figure out what i was thinking.

Do i really look that untrustworthy or is he unreasonably distrustful? I didn’t know what to tell him anymore. The things i said earlier don’t seem to have put him too much at ease.

Seeing that i wasn’t saying anything, he added “If you stay by my side no one will dare mess with you ever again”

If he told me that 10 years earlier then i would’ve jumped at the occasion. People kept picking on me because i looked weaker and i wished i could have the power to make them go away. But now i’m stronger and i think i can fend for myself now.

“When i conquer the world i’ll make you my Queen and we’ll rule together” He was now giving me a confident smile and looking as if he was certain that his offer would keep me by his side forever.

Whoa! He’s going so far as to offer the world to me!? Am i really that good at my job or… does he have another reason? Hmm… what could i say now? The offer was quite tempting. No one will ever look down on me if i become the Queen. I know i shouldn’t care that much about what other people say, but it’s like a bad habit i just can’t get out of. He made an offer that i… couldn’t refuse. “I won’t ever betray you.” I looked him straight in the eyes so that he won’t think that i’m hiding anything.

A self-satisfied smirk spread on his face. “Then now you’re mine, my wicked Queen”

#ikerev #ikemen revolution #ikerev amon #amon jabberwock #smut #fanfic #one shot #i'd understand if you want to send me to therapy #but i won't go #good thing no one knows me #i can write anything #a less nutty almond

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bonyarishitafuan · 3 years

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Somehow Roy being back and remembering the past (where he didn’t just have a daughter with Jade but had actually been in love with her once) made me crave for some Jaderoy angst, so here it is:

He knocked on the door, then in a few seconds when no one answered, he let himself into the seemingly empty mansion as if he had been in the place dozens of times instead of just once.

They had lain together a handful of times during these last couple of years, where they would run into each other occasionally and they would fight and she would take off and show up again later while he’s all alone in wherever he had been staying at the moment. It had always been just sex, or at least that how he had told himself--always except that one time, not long before his “death”, when she had suddenly thought of inviting him back to her place here.

There’s another place of hers in another time just like this, where the two of them didn’t just get into bed with each other but had been together truly, naked without any of their masks. He didn’t remember the last time he had been here, but now it was coming back to him, the place faraway in Japan; he wasn’t sure if that old place could still be found outside of memories.

At present, the inside of her mansion here was lit dimly with streams of sunlight through the windows. Not bothering to look for the light switch at the hallway, he moved into the living room.

His eyes searched the room for a moment, but could find nothing he was aching to see.

He almost believed he was all alone in this room, when he caught a whiff of her sweet scent, right before the instant she pressed up close behind him from the shadow, her slender hand with sharp poisonous nails that was fully able to send him to a death more painful than his recent one seizing his throat in a soft, almost tender grip.

“You look good for a dead boy,” spoke her lips to his ear.

Without turning his head or trying to break himself out of her grip, he replied calmly, “Hi, Jade.”

“‘Jade’?”

“Your perfume,” he pointed out, knowing for certain that he wasn’t the only one who was in civvies here. “You don’t carry any scent on yourself to let people know you’re coming while you’re in the costume, no costume, no Cheshire, just Jade.”

Her nails dug slightly deeper into his neck as he moved to draw her hand off his throat. Then again she relaxed her grip on him.

“How did you know I’m here.”

“I didn’t. I just hope you’d be,” he replied, turning to stand face to face with her after freeing his throat from her hand. “I needed to see you.”

“You needed to see me or you needed to see if there’s any daughter of ours I’ve been hiding?”

So she did remember.

“Is there?”

She held his eyes with a blank expression. “The memories might’ve been back, but as far as I could tell, the world we’re living in is still very much the same as the last time we saw each other, and in this world you still haven’t been able to put a child in me, Roy.”

“Would you actually tell me this time if there really is a child?”

“So that’s why you’re here instead of having a return-from-death party with your hero families and your hero friends,” she sneered, “to find if there’s a daughter you could steal away from me again.”

“I’m here because I don’t think there’s anyone else I can really talk to. The others, they had lost too, they understand how it’s like to lose someone, but not how it’s like to lose her, not even Ollie. No one but you and me, Jade, her parents.”

“Some parent you were,” her face hardened at once, she stared at him as if she could kill him. She probably could if she really wanted. If she really tried, she could have him dead all over again.

He remembered hoping for her to really try and kill him; at the time she would’ve only been doing him a favor if she did manage to kill him for failing to protect their daughter.

She could never manage to kill him, though; not even when she had wanted desperately to, not even when he had desperately wanted her to.

“I went to your funeral,” after a pause she said, “I didn’t know why I’d bother. I didn’t even remember anything just then, we’ve only been in bed a couple of times before, you’re not supposed to be anything to me, but I went. Even if you’re nothing, you’re still something, you could still weaken me--my love, my weakness, the only one in the world who could break my heart and get away, who had left a child in me, then stolen her away from me. I could’ve killed you and taken her back, you knew that, didn’t you? But I wasn’t strong enough to kill you, and I didn’t take her back because I thought she’d really be safer and better with you. You’re supposed to keep her safe, Roy. What good are you if you couldn’t even keep our daughter safe? Why couldn’t it have been you, why should you be the one who gets to live.”

“I asked myself that too, more than enough times,” said Roy, as he looked right into the accusing eyes of the mother of the child he had had once.

The child more precious to him than life, it wasn’t so devastating right now that he would only be relieved to die as he had been once. It was from a different time, a distant time, but even the distance had made his pain dull, he could still feel the void it had left inside him.

Even before the past had returned, he could feel the void. He never could’ve put a name on it, but all this time he could feel it, just as he could feel the question hanging over his head all the time--Why? Why not me? It should’ve been me.

The malignity on Jade’s face faded to sorrow, she uttered quietly, “I wish it’d been you.”

“I wish it’d been me.”

“Do you remember…? Her eyes, Roy, were they dark or were they green? I remember her, but I can’t...I can’t really see her, there’re so many things, different things--it’s all mixed up.”

“Green.” He couldn’t see the face too clearly either, but he remembered. “Green eyes, dark hair, just like her mother.”

“Yes, yes you’re right, I can see her now. And she’s beautiful, wasn’t she?”

“The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“The most,” a smile crossed her lips; then she paused for a beat. “...There’s another, I don’t think I’d ever told you that. A boy. I wanted...I loved her, but she’s yours. I knew that she’d always be more yours than mine. And I wanted one that’s all mine, so I got myself another one, a baby boy.”

“What happened?”

“He died,” she said in a sullen murmur. “I didn’t think anything could hurt me again since you, but it hurt when he died, and I don’t even remember I’d ever loved him half as much as I loved her. I want to see her again, Roy, I want to hold her; that’s all I can think about ever since I started to remember. Do you think it’s possible? For us to have our daughter again? Here in this world?”

“It wouldn’t really be her, would it? Even if we have another daughter, another Lian. It wouldn’t be the same.”

“Maybe not,” she edged closer to lean herself against him; “but we’ll still have our daughter, you and I, Roy, we may even be able to raise her together this time, don’t you want that?”

Screwing his eyes shut, he tightened his arms around her.

He wished that they could have their daughter back, and he wished it was true that the two of them could raise their daughter together.

Even if they had a daughter again, they still wouldn’t be able to raise her together, not in the way he hoped, not with someone like Cheshire between them.

If they had a daughter again, it wouldn’t be that same little girl as the one in his memories, not the one he had known and loved most deeply for years, with all her unique quirks and habits, the one he had read stories to, the one he had taught to walk, had taught to speak, the one who would constantly cry for him in her crib in the middle of the night until he crawled out of bed to pick her up from the little crib he had made her, and rock her softly in his arms and sing her back to sleep.

The one who had liked to wear her long hair down just like her mommy, who had always said that she wanted to be like her daddy when she grew up.

It wouldn’t be the same little girl, but it would still be the same for her; it would still be the same between her parents.

He might be attracted to Cheshire, but he didn’t love Cheshire. He couldn’t. He could never truly be together and raise a child with Cheshire.

“You know there’s only one way we could ever raise our kid together,” he said to Jade, pressing his lips softly into her long hair, dark and thick and beautiful, just like their daughter.

She pulled back a little to look into his face.

“...You want me to kill Cheshire.”

“I want us to have a chance together, a chance we’d never really had before.”

“Would you ever kill him for me?” she questioned bitterly in reply, “Speedy? Arsenal? Whatever he’s called?”

“I could give him up if you would give up Cheshire.”

As far as he knew, the Cheshire in this reality still hadn’t destroyed an entire country; it wasn’t too late for Jade to leave her behind and start over.

They could start over, here in this new world, in the universe that was finally changing and no longer a hateful generator of endless heartbreaks and tragedies; they could have their daughter again and truly have a future together.

Please, he looked imploringly at Jade, who held his gaze with a look in her green eyes that he could remember seeing in the eyes of someone he didn’t just have a daughter with but had loved once long ago in Japan.

He had never dared to admit it, not even to Dinah. It was just sex, nothing but physical attraction, a stupid mistake not so different than heroin, that it had only happened because he had been too young and too stupid at the point--that’s what he had always said when someone had asked him about it, and everyone had believed him. He didn’t think anyone had known the truth except their daughter, who had never really quite asked him about it but always seemed to know that she wasn’t just a result of some inane attraction.

Please, he continued to plead with the dark-haired woman in his arms silently, as she continued to say nothing but just gaze at him in a mixed anguish and sorrow; please say you could do it, Jade, for her, for us--say you’re different this time, say it, damn you, say we’re more important to you than Cheshire--

Restoring a plain look on her face, she stepped away from him eventually.

“...I’ll see you’re around, Roy,” was all that she said before she started to leave.

#roy harper #jade nguyen #jade/roy #jaderoy #DC comics #my fic #whether or not Jade lied about not having a baby is up to you #DC #cheshire #arsenal

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laurawritesandgames · 4 years

Text

Title: The Children We Never Had

Fandom: Beetlejuice (Musical)

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Beetlejuice/Barbara/Adam

Prompt: Hurt/Comfort

Content Warning: References to miscarriages and abortion

Summary: As Delia and Charles prepare to start their family together, Barbara reflects on her chance to have her own children. What once seemed so simple can become much more complicated when you’re a ghost....

Delia and Charles had just completed the first round of IVF treatments. Delia was fanatic about getting all toxins out of the house, so one Saturday the Maitlands, Beetlejuice and Lydia were helping Delia get rid of any plastic containers in the kitchen, to be replaced with glass containers.

“Why is there so much Tupperware?” Delia exclaimed.

“One of Mom’s friends sold Tupperware, and we had a few parties,” Lydia said. “Mom was sick for years. If she’d been able to keep up with the science, I doubt she would’ve kept them. She was nuts about the environment.” Lydia frowned thoughtfully. “Say, Delia, what exactly are your thoughts on vaccines?”

Barbara and Adam shared a look. They knew from the Maitland-Deetz’s biweekly parenting meetings that Delia had anti-vaxxer tendencies. She was, at least, open to a respectful discussion about vaccines. Give Charles a few conversations and she’d probably give in to science and reason—the newlyweds were crazy for each other.

Not that Lydia had any of that context.

“I’m just not convinced vaccines are necessary. I have some very interesting websites I can show you later, Lydia. There’s a lot of doubt about the so-called ‘science’ that Big Pharma doesn’t want you to see.”

Lydia’s lip curled in the disgust.

“Are you an idiot?!” Beetlejuice said. “I lived in a world without vaccines. It was shit!”

“I just don’t know if I’m willing to take that risk,” Delia said, with her polite, argument-deflecting smile. Adam’s parents had been masters at avoiding conflict, so Barbara knew what would happen next. She’d say something light or silly and try to get everyone focused on the kitchen again.

“I should draw a door and bring you to the Netherworld, Delia. Give you a tour of Diaper Town so you can see all the dead babies that’re there from before childhood vaccines were a thing.”

“Diaper Town?” Lydia asked.

“Eh, that’s not the real name—just what we called it. Where the dead babies go. Ugh! I had a shift in Diaper Town for a few decades. It was the worst.”

“I imagine they look like they did when they died,” Lydia said, thoughtfully.

“And they never age! That’s the only reason people hang around babies—because they eventually become not-babies.”

“What about miscarriages? Mom had a few before me. Is there going to be a clump of Deetz cells in the Netherworld?”

Barbara reached out for Adam’s hand and found it within seconds. (He’d been across the room a second ago. He must have teleported.) She clenched it. Hard.

Beetlejuice didn’t notice.

As a ghost, you were always cold. Barbara couldn’t get colder. She also couldn’t swallow to try to wet a dry mouth. Her hands wouldn’t grow cold and prickly with shock. Her emotions were completely disconnected from bodily sensations. She could feel Adam behind her and leaned back into him slightly. Not that he made her feel warmer. Nothing ever would.

If she’d been alive, she might’ve looked like Delia: her face pale as she forced a too-wide smile onto her face. “Let’s all talk about something else, shall we? I don’t want any bad vibes.” Her hand rested on her stomach. During one of their parenting meetings, she’d mentioned she only had a few eggs left. “Not—not right now.”

Lydia glared at her. “Seriously? Hearing about a dead woman’s fertility issues isn’t going to hurt your fetus.”

“The Deetus,” Beetlejuice added. “Deetz fetus. Get it?”

Lydia ignored him. “Bad vibes aren’t a thing!”

“We’ll agree to disagree on that one.” Delia hurried out of the kitchen. “Would anyone mind a smudging ceremony? Just to clear the air and usher in tranquility?”

Lydia followed with a shriek of rage. “’Smudging ceremony’? Are you from an Indigenous tribe, Delia? Because if you’re not, that’s major cultural appropriation!”

“Ooo, cultural appropriation! I know that one!” Beetlejuice said, delighted. When he’d first come back from the Netherworld, the Maitlands had held a few sensitivity seminars for him so he could stop getting into arguments with Lydia. Beetlejuice’s views were a weird mix of surprisingly progressive and incredibly archaic. “It’s a culture, not a costume!” He floated over to Barbara and Adam. “Did I do that right? Do I get a kiss?”

It took a lot of effort to focus on Beetlejuice right now. “Sorry,” Barbara said. “We’re not going to reward you for being a decent person. But thank you for trying.”

Beetlejuice huffed in disappointment.

Adam cleared his throat. Barbara glanced at him. Adam tilted his head slightly at Beetlejuice, raising his eyebrows questioningly. He was asking her for permission to tell Beetlejuice. After a moment’s thought, Barbara nodded. Beetlejuice liked to keep things light, but he was their boyfriend, after all. He should learn a bit more about Barbara and Adam.

“What happens to children who died before they were born?” Adam asked quietly.

Beetlejuice shrugged. “I dunno. I was born dead in one of the original versions of the musical, but it ain’t canon. There aren’t any fetuses floating around the Netherworld. Maybe they go someplace else?” He shrugged, spreading his hands. “I got nothing.”

Out of habit (not because she actually needed to breathe), Barbara sighed in relief. Thank God, was her first thought, despite having a pretty good idea that God didn’t exist. She let of of Adam’s hand, giving him a small smile.

“Why do you wanna know?” Beetlejuice asked.

Barbara shared another look with Adam before saying, “When I was 22, I got pregnant.” She cleared her throat. She hadn’t talked about this in years.

Beetlejuice didn’t like silences. Immediately, he said, “Quit pulling my leg. If you were pregnant, then where’s your—”

It took a few moments, but his eyes finally widened and his jaw dropped. “Oh. Ohhhh. I didn’t think…” His hands began flapping, then running up and down his sleeves and fiddling with his cuffs. “So we’re bringing in some of the movie backstory. Okay. Okay. Sure.”

“The what?” Adam asked.

“Nevermind. So you guys had a miscarriage.”

“An abortion, actually,” Barbara said.

Beetlejuice stopped bobbing faintly, freezing in mid-air. His voice rose in pitch as he said, “I saw the tags on this fic and I assumed you’d be hurt/comforting me! I’m the one with all the issues! Who the hell told you that you guys could have issues?!”

“What now?” Barbara said, forcing her tone to stay even.

“And also, our lives weren’t perfect,” Adam said. “I just want to remind you that both of my parents are dead. So…yeah. When we were alive, we had struggles and challenges like everybody else.”

Beetlejuice began coughing. He stuck his fingers in his mouth, eventually pulling out a foot and tossing it on the ground. (Barbara had learned not to ask whose foot.) “Um. Can I try again?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Feel free.”

Beetlejuice opened and closed his mouth a few times, but didn’t say anything.

Adam said, “Just so you know, Bug, this isn’t something to share.” Beetlejuice was a compulsive oversharer; they’d learned to explicitly tell him what was appropriate and what wasn’t.

“It’s not because we’re ashamed,” Barbara said quickly. “It’s just our story to tell, that’s all.”

“Right! I can do that.” He focused on something in the middle distance. “Although maybe some people could really examine their need to inject complicated real-world issues into a stupid five-page fic for Beetlelands Week. Not every fandom and every fic can bear that weight! And some characters definitely aren’t designed to deal with shit like this! They’re awesome Deadpool-style badasses and not…not…whatever this needs!”

Barbara loved Beetlejuce, but he was getting on her last nerve. I didn’t think he’d completely disassociate like this. It’s only a goddamn abortion. He didn’t even have to deal with anything! “Well, I’m sorry my and Adam’s history is such an inconvenience for you. I’m going to go find something to do. If you want to talk when you’re not spiraling and doing whatever this is, come find me.”

Barbara teleported to their bedroom, the Deetzes’ former guest room, upstairs, and Adam teleported with her.

Tears wavered in his eyes. Startled, she held him, stroking his back.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“No, don’t be.”

He sniffled a few times, wiping his tears away. Their ghostly bodies still remembered how to produce tears, and if Beetlejuice was any indication, that memory would stick with them for centuries. He whispered, “We would’ve had a child. If it weren’t for me—”

Adam had always felt needless guilt about mentioning the abortion first. She’d thought he’d gotten over it. “You didn’t force me. We had student loans, the recession had just hit the year before, we couldn’t find work, and most importantly? We weren’t ready. We were barely ready 10 years later, when we had a house and good jobs.”

He smiled sadly, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Sorry. I don’t know where this is coming from.” He stroked her cheek. “I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

She blinked. “I’m…fine? I’ve been fine for 10 years.” She hadn’t been fine immediately before and after the abortion. There’d been lots of crying, praying, and long conversations, but that had been a long time ago. Gently, she asked, “I thought you were, too. Was I wrong?”

When did we really talk about it except immediately after? Barbara couldn’t recall.

Adam gave her that same distracted smile he used to give her after his parents’ funeral. He was a brave little soldier, marching forward. “You weren’t wrong. I’m fine.”

You didn’t push when you saw that smile. “I think I’m going to read something. Want to join me?”

“I wouldn’t mind working on the model a bit more. Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.” She kissed his cheek, and he went up to the attic to work on his model of Winter River.

She was choosing between Michelle Obama’s biography a polyamory how-to guide when a spider skittered underneath the door. The spider climbed up the wall then began spinning a web in the corner of the room at unnatural speed. Letters appeared in the web.

SORRY

I WAS A BAD BOYFRIEND

It’s a Charlotte’s Web homage, Barbara realized. She’d loved that book as a child. He remembered. “Apology accepted, Beetlejuice.”

He knocked on the door. Opening it revealed him reading from index cards. Delia, who was using her life coach skills to help Beetlejuice adjust to being part of the family, had encouraged him to write down important things.

“I should have reacted a lot better than I did,” Beetlejuice read. “You and Adam trusted me with with a part of your lives, and I should have liz—lizden? Shit, I’m bad at spelling.” He looked up from the cards, rocking back and forth on his feet. “Anyway, thanks for trusting me, baby. Sorry I was being a dick about it. You and Adam having an—an abortion had nothing to do with me or my feelings.”

Beetlejuice could talk about the filthiest sex acts and talk about rotting corpses without flinching, but now he was stumbling. Interesting. “Well, ‘we had an abortion’ might’ve been a lot to throw at you. We could’ve prepared you better.” She nodded him inside, and he floated in. She closed the door behind her. “I imagine abortions weren’t really talked about in your day.”

“Well, we thought ladies’ wombs wandered around their bodies, so…no.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Um…are you okay?” He fidgeted. “You’re all…y’know, motherly and shit. Are you sad about having an abortion?”

“No. I mean, I don’t love that I needed it. Adam and I were a lot more careful making love after that, believe me. But Adam and my family had my back, and luckily I live in a state where I can access an abortion easily. I also found some forums, and chatting with people who’d also had abortions helped me feel less alone. Honestly, until Lydia brought up miscarriages today, I hadn’t thought about my abortion in years.” Feeling awkward, she chuckled. “Um, really glad I won’t have to deal with a clump of cells following me around in the Netherworld, though.”

She felt a twinge of guilt for not feeling guiltier. Her Good Christian Girl upbringing still reared its head now and then. But I did what was best for my family at the time. That’s all anyone can do. If I’d known Adam and I were going to die 10 years later, we might’ve done things differently, but how could we have known that?

“So, that’s my story. I was supported and very lucky. I’m not sad or guilty or anything.” She frowned. “Adam might be, though. He was strangely upset.” Did I do something wrong? Has he been suffering for years without me noticing? “He’s upstairs working on the model again.”

“I’ll cheer him up!” Beetlejuice said. He clapped his hands together. “It’s hurt/comfort. Time to be goddamn comforted, Adam.”

“I’d give him a few hours.” Adam was a brooder. There was a certain point where he just wouldn’t engage.

Beetlejuice chuckled, patting her smarmily on the head. “Your boring, married-couple rules don’t apply to me, Babs. I’mma shake things up and heal his wounded heart. You can come up and watch, if you want. Watch me win.”

Barbara made herself laugh as she tried to ignore her jealousy. Beetlejuice was just being his usual low-grade dickish self, but what if he was right? Maybe Adam will respond better to Beetlejuice than to me. I didn’t expect Adam to be this sad, after all. What else have I missed? “If you succeed, feel free to come back and give me a play-by-play of your victory.”

Beetlejuice poofed away, and Barbara picked up the how-to guide to polyamory. It couldn’t help to get a refresher.

If Beetlejuice made Adam feel better, then that was a win for everyone. She could ask him how he’d done it and learn from him. The entire point of dating Beetlejuice was to break out of their old patterns and add a little excitement to their afterlives.

Barbara was lying down on their bed, reading the first chapter when Beetlejuice teleported back in.

“You mighta been right,” he grumbled.

“It’s almost like I’ve been dating him since I was 16.”

“Of course you were high school sweethearts. You two are so cliché, I blocked that out.” Beetlejuice floated closer, whining, “Sexy raised his voice to me, Barbara!”

Barbara set the book down. “Oh, I’m sorry, Bug.” That was the Adam equivalent of full-blown shouting. (Adam had shouted at Beetlejuice before, of course, but that was when Beetlejuice had been a villain.)

“Me! The favourite!”

Barbara raised her eyebrows. “Maybe you should read this chapter with me about egalitarian polyamorous relationships—and how terms like ‘favourite’ are toxic.”

Beetlejuice floated away from her. “Mmm, nope, too many things to do.”

She’d expected that. It wasn’t clear when Beetlejuice had died, but it was definitely before therapy and couple’s counselling had become more mainstream. He didn’t have the same ability to talk about and reflect on his and other’s feelings that Barbara and Adam had. Usually, he just reacted to his own. Barbara wouldn’t have gotten into a relationship with Beetlejuice if she’d been unwilling to teach him.

“Lemme know when he’s ready to talk, okay?” the demon continued.

“Well, I don’t have a psychic link to him, but I’ll try…if you read this chapter with me.”

Beetlejuice crossed his arms over his chest, harrumphing. After a few moments, he shrugged, floated over to the bed, and curled up beside her.

If her eyes could water, they might have at the smell of rotting flesh. But Barbara quickly got used to the smell. “Let me guess—your clones poked around and didn’t find anything else interesting happening right now?”

“Ha! Busted! Delia, Lydia and Charles are still arguing about vaccines. Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap. Making out with you is way more fun.”

“We’re learning how to have a more equitable, communicative relationship. Not making out.”

“We’ll see, baby.”

They approached Adam later that afternoon.

He looked up from a figurine he was painting, expression guilty. “I’ll come down when it’s time for dinner, okay?” he said quietly. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Is there anything we can do for you now?” Barbara asked.

He looked between Barbara and Beetlejuice. His eyes were so haunted…. Barbara took a few steps forward.

“Adam?” she said softly.

“You said we weren’t ready,” he murmured roughly. “What if we would’ve been? We never even gave ourselves the chance….”

He showed her what he’d been working on: a little child figurine with her blonde hair. “There would’ve been part of you and me living now. Someone with your hair and my eyes, or your smile….”

Okay. We haven’t talked about the abortion in years, and now he’s making a model of what would have become our child. So, this is new. But I can handle this. I know him. I’ve got this.

Nevertheless, a tiny part of her really wanted to tag out and let Beetlejuice handle this one. Not that he would’ve done well—he was frozen except for his eyes, frantically flicking between her and Adam.

While Barbara thought of the most empathetic, respectful way to respond, Beetlejuice blurted out, “Someone’s got a case of the Shouldas.”

“Hmm?” Adam grunted, looking uninterested.

“You know, shoulda done this when I was alive. Shoulda done that. Every newlydead goes through it. Of course, usually they’re stuck in an endless void and not chilling in the living world with their sexy boyfriend.” Beetlejuice nodded to Barbara. “And your sexy wife.”

So he had learned something from that chapter they’d read together. Barbara gave him a small smile. “How do newlydeads usually get through it?” she asked.

“‘Get through’ is real optimistic, Babs. They just get crushed by overwhelming despair and hopelessness. It’s the Netherworld. Everything sucks there.”

Adam grunted again.

Beetlejuice rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I can’t really talk about ‘healing’ and shit….” He gestured frantically for Barbara to do something.

One thing about spending so much time with Beetlejuice was that you got used to out-of-the box thinking. It was time for a little experiment. Barbara didn’t give herself time to think, and dove right in.

“Congratulations, Maitlands.” She made air horn noises. The words ‘The Life We Never Had’ appeared in bright text above the model town. “Welcome to your life where you had your child!”

Adam and Beetlejuice both stared at her in stunned silence.

“This got so dark, so fast, but I kinda love it,” Beetlejuice commented.

“Well,” she said, “first of all, forget this house. We’d probably be living with your parents. They don’t even live in town.” She took a few moments to create a mental map, then gestured at the model. It grew larger, to the surrounding counties. Adam’s family farm was on the outskirts of this new map.

“And forget the CPA degree. No way we can afford that now. But your uncle Eddy has that plumbing business. He’d probably give you a job.” She manifested Eddy’s truck, making it drive through town. “I’d probably knit and sell things on Etsy…. Wait, it’s 2010. Does Etsy even exist?” Barbara couldn’t remember. “Or I’d sell them at the local farmer’s market. We probably still love our projects, even if we don’t have as much time for them now.”

Barbara could’ve gone darker. In this future, she would’ve been stuck in Adam’s parents’ home with no career prospects and a baby she wasn’t sure she wanted. If anything was a recipe for postpartum depression, that would’ve been. But she kept it light.

“Oh, jeez,” she realized, “I forgot all about names! What do you think of Aspen?” Barbara had always wanted a nature-themed name.

“It has the word ‘Ass’ in it,” Beetlejuice complained. “Do you want bullies to give your kid swirlies?”

“You’re not here, mister. You don’t get a say.”

“Hey, that’s right! We never meet if you don’t move into the house.” Beetlejuice frowned. “Truly, this is the darkest timeline.”

“What about River?” Adam said. “For our child.”

“River. That’s beautiful. Okay, so little River goes to school here.” She gestured to the school in town. “What do you think? Good grades?”

“Of course.”

“And then you guys commit crimes!” Beetlejuice interrupted.

Barbara raised her eyebrows.

“What? Boring people commit crimes all the time and become awesome. Weeds? Breaking Bad?”

“I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t.”

“Argh, fine, I was just getting bored of all this slice-of-life shit. Let’s spice things up!”

“Ooo, maybe we solve crimes? Like a cozy mystery set in rural Connecticut.”

“Committing them is way more fun, but I’ll take anything at this point. Your ideal lives are so boring! River’s gonna do meth just to feel alive!”

“They might fall in with a bad crowd in high school,” Barbara said.

“Thank you! A little conflict, please. It’s the essence of drama!”

“But we’d be there for them,” Adam said. “Hmm. Mom and Dad would still die, I suppose. I’d probably disappoint my Maitland ancestors and sell the farm.”

Barbara watched him intently. He wasn’t smiling, but he seemed a bit more engaged than he had been.

“We could move into one of the homes here,” she suggested, nodding to one of the small houses on the outside of town.

“That’s gonna really suck for you when the zombies attack,” Beetlejuice said.

Barbara kept making up their fake life, with Adam chiming in every now and then, both of them trying to ignore Beetlejuice’s input. They tried to give River a nice life, with a full-ride scholarship to NYU (which was, coincidentally, Lydia’s dream school), lots of friends, and a home that may not be full of money but was full of love.

Eventually, Adam smiled and shook his head. “Thanks for playing dolls with me, guys.”

Barbara hugged him from behind. “If you need time to mourn, take all the time you need. Beetlejuice and I are here for you.”

Adam wiped some tears from his eyes. “I think I do. Sorry, sweetie. Sometimes all the things we never got to do…they just hit me, hard. Even things I’d made peace with long ago. I spent so much of my life worrying….”

Barbara moved to stand beside him, kissing his cheek. If she could’ve made him feel warm, she would have.

Beetlejuice was spaced out, staring into the middle distance. Thinking of his own Shouldas, maybe? Nah. He never looks back unless he’s trapped in a traumatic memory about his mother. Probably wondering when we can make out again.

She nodded him over, and he blinked, coming back to the present. Hesitantly, he floated over and rested his chin on Adam’s head.

They were both still and silent, two things Beetlejuice hated, so it wasn’t surprising when a horde of centipedes skittered across the model, or a tiny King Kong grabbed a figurine and climbed up to the top of the town bell tower, roaring.

Lydia interrupted them when she she poked her head into the attic and told them dinner was ready. “And the leftovers will be stored in glass containers—if you leave us any leftovers, Beej. Delia cleared the cupboard of all plastics. Don’t worry about the baby, either. If Delia continues to believe tea tree oil can cure pneumonia or whatever, Dad and I will get the kid vaccinated when she’s not around.”

Barbara smiled at her chosen daughter. Beetlejuice was right; they weren’t stuck in the lonely void of the Netherworld. There was life and family just downstairs. “I’m glad. But I’m sure we’ll be able to convince her otherwise. We have nine months.”

“You’re more optimistic than I am, Barbara.”

Adam put the River figurine with the smattering of other children outside the grade school. “Let’s go,” he said quietly.

The three of them followed Lydia to the dinner table.

#beetlelandsweek2020 #beetlelands #goldenbeetle #beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice #adam maitland #barbara maitland #beetlejuice x adam x barbara

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 4 years

Text

Where You Want My Lipstick

Part Two | Masterlist Notes: Takes place after the series; slight spoilers, but nothing explicit. Not Beta-read. This may have another part to it, I’m thinking about it. We’ll see what happens.

Warnings: This fic has explicit sexual content.

Sugar daddy-esque relationship, oral sex, dirty talk, fingering, vaginal sex, Daddy kink mention, Dom/Sub dynamics, alcohol, under-negotiated kinks, If you dislike any of these, please don’t read. Thank you. Pairing: Andy Barber x Reader Summary: The first time he'd left one on my desk, it was a mauve; I'd picked up the label and read the name of it - Dark Desire.

He had started out by buying me little things. A coffee here and there, a book I'd mentioned that I'd seen a review of and was interested in reading, a fountain pen ("What do you mean, of course I remember. You went on about them half an hour during the last team happy hour, how they're the superior pen type-- the fact that you went to bat for a pen type, that stuck with me," he laughed later).

But it had progressed from there, slowly, the better I got to know him. The gifts drifted into flirtier territory: the coffee cups had invitations to eat lunch together written on the side, and instead of a fountain pen, I'd get a new lipstick.

The first time he'd left one on my desk, it was a mauve; I'd picked up the label and read the name of it - Dark Desire.

An IM popped up in my computer a few moments later.

AB: Your shade?

I glanced down the hall through Andy's open door to find him peering out at me. His lips curled into a small smile. I set the tube aside and turned back to my computer.

Did you get this for me?

AB: I heard you mention to Selena that your favorite was running out.

You didn't have to do that

AB: Who said anything about having to?

How much do I owe you?

AB: You don't owe me anything.

I chanced another look at him. When he met my eye, he gave me another smile and a small head shake.

The next morning, I went in early. There were a few people already in, but no one batted an eye as I went into his office. I had gotten a coffee for him, wrote thanks on the sleeve. I debated my next move, hesitant. It could be misconstrued; if I was reading him wrong, I could get in a lot of trouble.

But Andy didn't seem to be buying anyone else little gifts. I opened the camera on my phone and pulled the tube of Dark Desire out of my bag, applying it with slightly unsteady hands. Why the hell was I so nervous? I tucked my phone and lipstick away again before picking the coffee cup back up. Beside my note, I pressed a kiss, leaving the lipstick print beside it. I bit my lip, setting the coffee cup down beside the monitor and hurrying out of his office before I could lose my nerve.

The others filled in quickly over the next twenty minutes, the morning rush bringing in chatter and some sleepy coworkers. Andy arrived at his usual time. Our eyes met over my monitor and we shared a smile. His eyes darted to my lips and I saw his smile widen; I lowered my eyes back to my work, hoping he didn't see my cheeks flush as he made his way to his office.

A few minutes later, a message popped up on my computer.

AB: It looks good on you.

You picked a good shade.

AB: Looks good on my coffee, too.

I tipped my head forward and rested my forehead on my hand, my face flushing hot, not even daring to look in the direction of his office. When I did pick my head up again, there was another message:

AB: I told you you didn't owe me anything

Maybe I just wanted to do something nice for you

Here's the thing.

I had been with older guys before. Guys older than Andy, guys that wanted to throw their money at a pretty young piece of ass, guys that liked it when I called them 'Daddy' because I was actually young enough to be their daughter, that didn't care about the books I wanted to read or the types of pens I preferred to write with.

Andy wasn’t like them. I wasn’t sure what he was even like yet; he was hard to pin down sometimes - always patient with the clients that came in, careful hearing their side out, meticulous going over evidence, running down leads. I thought when he got there that he would be a hot shot with a big head - a former ADA coming to work at a small nonprofit law firm? But he was caring, and careful. I hadn’t been with guys like that. I had been with jerks.

Jerks that I didn't work with.

Andy kept buying me lipstick - one a week, sometimes two. I had never owned so many in my life. I got into the habit of buying him a coffee in the morning. I wouldn't always leave a note, but I'd always kiss the sleeve. I'd only use the shades he bought me when I was at work. I found myself looking for peaks of him when his door was open; I had to talk myself out of messaging him when I had no real reason to, other than wanting to talk to him; if something needed running to his office, I'd volunteer, even if all it'd get me was a quick smile, the brush of our fingers as I passed him whatever it was, and a, "Thanks, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

That had cropped up in a message after I'd left him a thanks for lipstick #7 (a pink pearl shade called Precious), and hadn't lost its shine since he'd started using it. He didn't use it when others were around; if we were in the middle of a crowded break room, he wouldn't call me that, he'd use my name, but in his office, or if he was messaging me, or if he happened to be heading out before I did and the others had already gone-- AB: Looks good sweetheart; "Thank you, sweetheart,"; "Don't stay too late, sweetheart."

It was an office outing that had been the tipping point. The others had called it a night, but Andy and I had spent the night slowly drifting closer as the numbers dwindled, like two magnets drawing together as obstacles were moved out of their path. We wound up side by side at the bar, shoulders brushing as we worked through our beers.

"Tell me something," I said, once I'd plucked up the courage to (we'd exhausted several other areas of conversation, and I didn't want to talk about work anymore, and god forbid he move the conversation to sports, I'd be totally lost... and unable to feign interest).

"Anything, sweetheart," He answered easily, resting his arms on the bar. He looked open, relaxed - had loosened his tie, unbuttoned a couple of buttons, rolled his sleeves up. He was watching me with intent, studying, almost; it was a variation of a look that I had seen directed at jurors, at judges, clients, prosecution, but something softer, more curious. He wasn’t looking for clues or incriminating evidence.

"Why do you buy me things?" I asked. Andy's brow quirked at that, head tipping to the side as if I'd just laid a verbal trap and he was looking for the tripwire.

"Don't you like them?" He asked.

"First of all, it's very rude to answer a question with a question. Second of all, that isn't a real answer."

"Well, then I'd like to go on the record as saying that I buy them for you because I thought you'd like them. Now, do you like them?" He asked again. There was a stern set to his brow now, a worry, almost.

"Yes," I nodded, "I do. I guess I just... I don't understand why you feel the need to give me things." I turned my head to look at my beer, running my thumb over the label. I stilled as Andy's hand rested on my thigh.

"Because I want you to have nice things, sweetheart," He murmured. I hummed, thoughtful.

"So the books... and the pens and things show that you listen when I talk."

"I do."

"And the lipstick makes me think you spend a lot of time staring at my mouth," I slid my eyes to Andy's as I picked up my beer to take a drink. I watched his eyes drift down to my lips, and I took my time, tongue flicking around the rim of the bottle as I pulled it away from my mouth. Andy's hand tightened on my thigh, his own tongue darting out to wet his lower lip.

"What do you want out of this, Andy?" I asked softly, setting the bottle down.

"What do you think I want?" Andy challenged. I tipped my chin up, considering.

Andrew Barber's last couple of years had been hell. The murder trial, the media circus, the divorce. His life had been torn apart, and he was working hard to rebuild it. I could tell from our talks that he missed being a family man - having people to come home to, to dote on.

I thought Andy wanted someone to take care of.

"Sex," I answered. Andy's eyes flickered over my face, looking for any sign of deception; I held his eyes steadily, even as my heart pounded in my chest, as a flush rose in my cheeks.

"And you'd be interested in that?" He asked.

"If I wasn't interested, I wouldn't be kissing your coffee cups every morning," I admitted with a laugh. Andy smiled, sliding his hand further up my thigh.

"So...?" He asked, leaning in a little.

"So," I said softly, "Take me home."

If I wasn't more distracted by the prospect of getting my hands down Andy's pants, I might've commented more on Andy's bachelor pad. I did notice the boxes right away, though - my foot hit one as soon as I stepped inside. Stubbed my toe like a son of a bitch, too, but what the hell did that matter when Andy's mouth was on mine, hot and hungry.

He shoved the door shut behind us before his hands landed on my hips, steering me back down the hall. I slid my hands up, shoving at his suit jacket. He let go of me just long enough to take it off and let it drop to the floor. He turned us, leading the way into his bedroom. He bit my lip before he sat down on the edge of his bed, reaching over and turning on the lamp on his bedside table.

Andy turned back to me, reaching up and untucking my shirt. He peered up at me from under his long lashes, laying kisses on my torso as he pushed the fabric up. I reached down, tugging it off and dropping it aside. I reached my hand back to undo my bra, but Andy made a noise. I stopped moving, raising a brow.

"Hands down, sweetheart. I wanna be the one to take you apart," He murmured against my skin. I obeyed, lowering my hands and sliding one into his hair. His hands slid to the zipper on my skirt next, sliding it down before slipping the fabric down. I stepped out of it, then out of my heels, kicking them aside. Andy's hands felt warm as they smoothed over my hips and down my thighs.

I drew him up into a kiss, shrugging out of my bra after he undid the clasp. Andy's lips drifted down my chin, over my neck and down to one of my nipples. His tongue circled it lightly before blew cool air over it. I sucked in a breath, shuddering as he sucked the pebbled bud into his mouth. He flicked his tongue against against the tip lightly before he turned his head, mouthing over my breast before he leaned over, treating the other nipple to the same treatment.

Andy's hands slid down to the band of my underwear, fingers skimming along my hipbones. My hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt.

"I'm.... Feeling very exposed here," I laughed shakily. Andy raised a brow.

"That bothering you?" He asked. I shrugged a shoulder.

"Just-- Not something I'm used to," I mumbled, tipping my head forward to hide face with my hair.

"Hey," Andy reached up, pushing my hair back behind my ear before he lightly gripped my chin, making me meet his eyes, "Don't hide from me."

There was a firmness in his tone that made me shiver a bit. He clocked it - he was incredibly observant, even now.

"You want my shirt off, too?" He asked.

"Yes."

"Alright."

When Andy didn't make a move to undo the shirt himself, I knelt down in front of him. I could feel him watching me intently as I undid his tie, then the buttons of his shirt. My hands settled on his belt, next, eyes lifting to his as I murmured,

"Please?"

Andy smiled, approving.

"Go ahead," He agreed. I undid his belt before I reached for his button and zip.

"Ah-- Didn't ask for that, sweetheart," He warned. I raised a brow.

"No, but I assumed this area was a... Package deal," I teased, skating my fingers over the bulge in his suit pants. He laughed, stroking a finger over my lower lip. I let my tongue poke out, flicking over the tip tenderly.

He didn't object when I unbuttoned and unzipped his suit pants, when I reached in and pulled out his cock. I gave it a couple of strokes, thumb sliding over the head and smearing the bead of precum there.

I rose up on my knees, watching Andy for any objection, and when I didn't receive any, I took him into my mouth. I heard him sigh, felt him slide his fingers into my hair. I bobbed my head, timing my strokes in time with the bobbing of my head. My tongue swirled around and flicked the head on every other pass.

"Shit, sweetheart," He hissed, tightening his grip in my hair. I groaned at the pressure change, sliding a hand up his chest and lightly scratching my nails over his stomach. I smiled at the feeling if his muscles tightening under my touch.

He cupped my jaw, pulling me off of his cock with a 'pop' and dragging me up for a filthy, open-mouthed kiss.

"Come here," He murmured, helping me off of my knees. He wrapped his arm around my waist, twisting me around and lowering me onto the bed as he kicked off his pants and briefs. He was over me in seconds, one hand beside my head, supporting himself as he kissed me. The other drifted down my body, grazing my breasts and my stomach before it dipped between my thighs.

Andy’s fingers skated over the fabric of my underwear, feeling the wetness there. “You’re all wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart,” he murmured. I nodded, leaning up for another kiss. He leaned away before I could, though, and my head fell back onto the mattress. I made a show of pouting up at him that he smiled sweetly at. That sweet smile widened into something a little more handsome, almost devious, as my eyes drifted closed, mouth falling open as his fingers tapped over my clit. I wriggled my hips, trying to chase that light, staccato pressure, but Andy pulled his hand away. “None of that,” He warned. I settled down, swallowing thickly. “Sorry,” I muttered. “Sorry, what?” He asked. “... Sorry, da--” His head tipped to the side, eyes glinting dangerously at me, and I recalculated. “Sir. Sorry, sir,” I finished. He took a moment before he nodded. “That’s better,” He nodded, lowering his hand back underwear. He slid his hand over them again, fingers prodding over my opening now, the heel of his hand pressing into my clit. I held in a breathy moan as I fought the urge to press down into that touch. “Good girl,” he murmured, and I felt myself flush at the praise, eyes squeezing shut.

“You like that?” He added. His voice was closer now, head lowered, his mouth brushing against my ear, his beard rasping over my neck, “You like being my good girl?” “Yes, sir,” I sighed. “Tell me what else you like.” My eyes opened at the order, and I peered up into Andy’s, quivering at the darkened blue. “I-- I...” “Don’t get all shy on me now, sweetheart,” He cooed, slipping his fingers under the waistband of my underwear and grazing his knuckles over my clit. My hips stuttered at the contact and my eyes widened. “Sir, I’m sorry--” I rushed, and he shushed me. “S’alright,” He murmured, pressing a kiss to my forehead before he leaned back to look at me again, “But don’t let it happen again. Can you do that for me?” I nodded quickly. “Now, what else do you like?” He asked again. I bit my lip. “I like... I like sucking your dick, sir.” He chuckled and awarded me, sliding a finger down and teasing the tip into my opening. “Yeah? What else?” “The pens you gave me. I use them every day--oh,” I sighed as his finger slid into me. “I like how that feels,” I breathed, “And-- and I like when you stop by my desk, just to talk--” His thumb flicked at my clit a couple of times before stopping. I needed to talk more-- what else did I like? “I like looking up and seeing you looking at me, I always wonder how long you’ve been looking and what you’re thinking, if you want me as bad as I want you--” A second finger joined the first. No teasing this time. Andy’s head dipped, mouthing along my neck and collarbone, kissing and nipping and sometimes stopping to suck. “I like coming to my desk and finding a new lipstick-- means you’ve been thinking about me--” “Always think about you, sweetheart. I always think about you,” Andy murmured into the hollow of my throat before laying a tender kiss there, a soft counterpoint to the third finger he’d just slipped into me. It was a struggle to not press down into those fingers like I wanted to, or reach my hand down and play with my clit as he fingered me, to feel how wet I was because of him. “Andy-- Sir, please,” I begged. He didn’t comment on the slip, just turned his head, capturing my mouth with his and kissing me fiercely. “You’ve been so patient for me, so good,” he murmured. He pulled away, and I whined at the loss of his fingers. “I know,” He soothed, pulling my underwear down, exposing me to him. Then he was between my legs, curling one hand around my hip to steady me as he tongued my clit. I gasped, pressing into the sensation, and groaned at the vibrations of his subsequent chuckle.

“Fuck,” I sighed, hands gripping his sheets. His free hand came up, fingers coated in my juices. I reached out, gripping his wrist and taking his fingers into my mouth without hesitation. We both moaned at that, my tongue tracing over the tips and ridges and knuckles of his fingers as his tongue delved into my pussy. I could feel the warm curling in my stomach as he let go of my hip, sliding a finger back into me - his nose was nudging my clit and his beard was brushing against me in the best way. “Sir-- ‘m close,” I warned, figuring he’d stop, but he redoubled his efforts, saliva-slicked fingers drifting down to play with my nipples as his tongue and fingers picked up their speed. I bit my lip, quieting the moans that bubbled up in my throat as my hips bucked, my orgasm washing over me. I looked down at Andy to find him peering up at me, blue eyes fixed on me. I hesitantly brought a hand up to his cheek as he pulled away, his mouth shiny with juices. He reached out to his beside drawer, pulling out a condom. I watched him roll it on, spreading my legs wider for him as he settled down. He smiled, gripping himself by the base of his dick and tapping the head against my clit. I groaned, my overstimulated clit aching at the feeling. Andy slid the head down to my opening and began to push the tip in.

“Now listen to me, sweetheart,” He murmured, watching me from under those lashes again, “I don’t know what you think it is that I want, or what you’ve been told, but those pretty little sounds you just forced yourself to stop making? I wanna hear all of them.” My lips parted as he pressed into me, looking down at where he was easing in, and moaning loudly when he bottomed out. Andy slid a hand down my thigh, giving it a squeeze, then a light slap - not hard enough to mark, just hard enough to sting. “That’s it, sweetheart,” He nodded, grinding his hips forward, “I wanna hear all of it.” I wrapped my arms around Andy’s shoulders, drawing him closer and wrapping my legs around his waist. “Know what else I like?” I asked softly. “What else?” He encouraged, nudging his nose against mine. “I like to get fucked, sir.” Andy groaned like I’d just punched him in the gut. “Jesus, sweetheart,” He hissed, pulling out most of the way before slamming back into me. I cried out at the feeling out it, fingers gripping him more tightly as he set a brutal pace. Andy’s fucked into me in short, harsh thrusts, loosing the occasional grunt. I couldn’t help the sounds coming out of my mouth - a pathetic mix of moans and sighs and yes, and please, and sir, and Andy. I knew he was getting close when his hand snaked between us, tapping at my clit again. “Think you can come for me again?” He wheedled, “Just one more for me, sweetheart, just come on my cock.” I whimpered at that, clenching down around Andy as I came for the second time that night. He buried his face in my neck, hips hammering as he came. His pace eventually slowed, then stopped, and we lay there for a while, sweaty and coming down. Andy pulled out of me gingerly, rolling away and tying off the condom. He dropped it into the bin beside the bed before disappearing into the en suite bathroom. In the few seconds that followed, I had time to panic. What the hell happened now? Did I just go home? Did we never talk about this again? Had this been a massive mistake? The immediate soreness between my thighs said no, but knowing I’d have to see him at work on Monday said yes. Andy coming out of the bathroom halted any further internal dialogue. He’d cleaned himself up, and he knelt down between my thighs, a wet washcloth in hand. “Oh-- You don’t have to--” I started, but Andy waved me off, murmuring, “Just lay back.” I did as he asked, settling down and staring at his ceiling as he tenderly wiped me down. When he reached my neck, he pressed a gentle kiss to what turned out to be a very tender mark. I sucked in a soft breath, turning my head a little to shoot him a questioning look, and he smiled. “Sorry,” He said, but he didn’t look it at all. “I’m not,” I said honestly after a few moments. Andy reaching up, sweeping my hair out of my face. “...Let me know when you want me to head out,” I finally said. I couldn’t stand it any longer - I hadn’t been able to kick the question out of my head and it felt like it was sucking the air out of the room. “You only have to leave if you want to,” Andy said, setting the wash cloth on the bedside table before he laid back down beside me, resting his hand on my hip. I raised a brow. “...So you wouldn’t object to round two?” I asked. Andy grinned. “I’d be an idiot if I did, sweetheart.”

#Andy Barber #Andy Barber x Reader #Andy Barber x You #Spoilers #Kinda #i mean #idfk #smut cw #18+

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