#day six: outsider pov
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Consequences
Summary: Miguel’s obsession with you reaches a breaking point, and now he’s left to deal with the consequences.
Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x spider-woman!reader
Word count: 2.5k
18+. Miguel POV. Obsessed and jealous Miguel. Shy/inexperienced sweet reader. Pining. Pillow hump*ng.
Part 1 (if you’re just starting out) - Previous part
Miguel hadn’t managed to get a single second of sleep.
After having heard you mumble that name over and over, he had retreated to the living room, scanning through your file like a madman, hoping he’d find out who this person was.
Tom.
He had Lyla comb through everything, but nothing had come up.
By the time six in the morning rolled around, you exited the room with a long yawn, stretching out your arms, as Miguel sat on his counch, eyeing you intensely.
Still not wearing a bra.
Still in his shirt.
But having mumbled someone else’s name.
Needless to say, this ordeal had effectively killed his boner for good.
It was hard for him to hide his scowl. “Sleep well?”
Your lips curled into a satisfied smile. “Hmm. You?”
Laughable.
He nodded, not wanting his voice to betray his feelings.
“Do you think I can take a shower before I go to the lab?”
“Sure.”
You glared at him, arching an eyebrow. “Is… everything okay?”
“Of course,” he said, clearing his throat. “You have some fresh towels in there.”
“Great!” you chirped happily, disappearing into the bathroom.
Maybe a few hours ago, Miguel O’Hara would have been rock hard from the thought of you being naked with nothing but a door in the way.
But he was having a hard time focusing on anything beyond his blinding jealousy.
Who was Tom? A boyfriend? Family? A pet? Someone random?
Or someone important?
Why didn’t he know about this? Was he overreacting? Maybe there was nothing to be jealous of.
But he was sure of something: he needed answers.
He walked up to the kitchen and brew himself a cup of coffee, needing to deal with the headache that had settled.
Not long after, you emerged from the bathroom, completely soaked in the scent of his body wash, and he nearly gasped at how it completely overtook his senses.
Already in your suit, you quickly dropped by his bedroom to drop off his clothes, and walked right back, bearing a sleepy smile.
“Want something to eat?”
You nodded, sitting on the stool by the counter. “Yes, please. Do you have some fruit?”
He grabbed his cup of coffee and scanned the cupboard. “An apple?”
“Yes!” you beamed.
Miguel offered you one that you immediately brought to your lips, sinking your teeth into the soft surface.
To someone on the outside, this could be considered a moment between a couple who was just getting ready to start the day.
Everything looked very… domestic.
Except, it wasn’t.
Maybe he shouldn’t ask. Would it be too much?
But he had to know. It was eating him alive inside not knowing.
“Who’s Tom?”
Your eyes shot up to meet his and you immediately stopped chewing. “What?”
Miguel tried to appear as casual as possible, but something in your reaction made him regret having asked in the first place.
There was no going back now, so he might as well push for it.
Right?
“I heard you in your sleep,” he went on, taking a sip of his coffee. “You whispered that name.”
Your face had hardened lightly and your gaze dropped to the apple in your hand. “Uh… yeah. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”
I didn’t even sleep…
“Is he family or…?”
You swallowed and slid off the stool, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s no big deal. Wait… what time is it?” you said, tapping your watch. “Oh. I need to head back to the lab.”
At this point, Miguel knew he had maybe fucked up big time, and went into full on panic mode.
“I’m sorry that I asked, I-”
You immediately shook your head. “Don’t worry. It’s fine! Thanks for letting me stay over.”
He rounded the countertop and walked up to you, desperate to fix whatever he had just broken.
“You can take the day off if you need.”
You smiled again, but he knew that this time it was genuine. “That’s exactly what I don’t need. Now that I’ve managed to get the chips to work, I need to get back and run some tests.”
He allowed himself to relax slightly. From this distance he could smell his shampoo on you, and it made his heart clench.
There you were again.
His hardworking sweet girl.
You gave his arm a light pat. “Thanks again, Miguel. Your bed is really comfortable,” you said, heading to the doorway while rummaging through your backpack. “Much more than mine.”
He’d have it in your apartment in a heartbeat, and he nearly offered, but chose silence.
“See you later!” you waved with a smile before taking another bite out of the apple, and disappearing beyond the sliding door.
That smile could break a man.
It had broken him long ago.
And now Miguel wanted to scream.
To break something.
Not only did he not get an answer from you, but now he was under the impression he had crossed a line he shouldn’t have by having asked you.
He stormed into his room, and paced hurriedly from one end to the other, trying to decide what to do next.
That was until your scent gripped his heightened senses again.
He glared at his bed.
Your scent lingered in the bedsheets and, as if on autopilot, he paced towards it and gripped one pillow, bringing it to his face.
The family rush of blood downwards was almost painful.
You had been in his bed, and he had lost count of the amount of times he had fantasised ravaging you in it.
He allowed his digital suit to dissolve, leaving him fully naked.
Miguel knew deep down that this was too desperate. Even for him.
But that didn’t stop him.
Instead, he got on top of the mattress, right above where you had slept, and positioned the pillow lower, until the underside of his cock was resting on the soft material.
You had left his shirt neatly folded on top of another pillow and he brought the fabric to his nose, breathing in your scent mixed with his.
His hips rolled once.
It was intoxicating, but he couldn’t stop himself from slowly dragging his cock up and down the pillow soaked in your scent, soon to become soaked in his precum.
His grunts were muffled by the fabric and he felt his fang tear through it.
He wasn’t going to last long.
This was too much.
With a few more snaps of his hips, and feeling more and more precum spill out, Miguel was a moaning mess.
How he wished you’d be right under him, taking all those thrusts deep inside, whimpering and sobbing as he filled you over and over again.
The thought of you struggling to take him for the first time was enough to push him over the edge, and more sounds of fabric being torn filled his ears.
He stilled as a guttural growl broke from his throat, strings of cum shooting out and seeping into the soft fabric below.
His breathing was still erratic by the time his fangs retracted.
Once he found the will to get up, he picked up the cum-drenched pillow and decided to throw it away.
The post-nut clarity hit him like a thousand bricks, as he cleaned up the mess, allowing his suit to cover his entire body once again.
If you weren’t going to tell him about Tom, then he knew just who to ask.
Jessica Drew.
Pulling out two orange screens in his livingroom, your file immediately coming up. He then tapped on his watch twice.
Jessica’s hologram popped up. “Morning, Miguel.”
“Busy?”
“Just headed out to brief my squad.”
“Who’s Tom?” he blurted out, positioning his wrist so that she could see your file on the screen.
“Oh.”
He scowled deeply. “What do you mean ‘oh’?”
Jess clicked her tongue. “I mean that I’m not surprised this is about her.”
“What?”
“You’re not as subtle as you think you are, Miguel O’Hara,” she said with a teasing smile. “You might be able to fool others — hell, even her —, but you can’t fool me.”
That was Jessica Drew. Perceptive as always. He wasn’t all that annoyed that she could read him that well. After all, he had recruited her for a reason.
“I’m just concerned about her,” he said, admitting defeat.
“I’m sure you are,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “But maybe you should be asking her, no?”
“I did, and she pushed the topic away.”
She shrugged. “Well, I don’t know of any Tom. That name never popped up while I was scouting her.”
He felt disappointment and frustration grip him tightly, and he began scrolling through your file, wishing he could have missed something.
“Look, I may head out to her dimension later today, and see what I can find,” she offered with a sigh.
“Thank you, Jess.”
“But Miguel…?”
His crimson eyes darted to the flickering hologram. “Yes?”
“If she doesn’t want to talk about it, there may be a chance you won’t like what I find out. If I find anything, that is.”
Point taken.
He was started to accept that the truth might be an inconvenience for him.
But he had to know. The frustration of not knowing was driving him crazy.
“Just do what you have to do.”
She nodded and the hologram faded.
The first time Miguel had been at to your place was to check up on you after almost an entire week of going without sleep.
You were stubborn. Even more than he had been in his younger days.
You’d go home, but continue working, so he had no choice but to restrict your access to the lab data from outside HQ. As expected, you weren’t happy, but finally took his advice and got some rest.
Now he was back, but for a different reason, and he could only hope things between you two hadn’t soured.
He had kept his distance throughout the rest of day, occasionally checking you through the cameras as the mic in your suit.
Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary.
But he had an uneasy feeling brewing inside him, so he had to make sure.
You had promptly let him in even though it was close to midnight, slightly confused as to the reason of him dropping by.
As he stepped in, he was met with a sight he hadn’t seen the last time he had visited: there were wires spread everywhere along the floor, mixed between card boxes and paper scattered across every possible surface he could set his eyes on.
“Sorry for the mess,” you giggled apologetically. “Wasn’t expecting visitors.”
Good.
But also… very workaholic of you.
You were dressed in just a shirt — seemingly wearing a bra, this time — and some sweatpants, with a pencil tucked behind your ear, as you paced in circles, glaring at your pad.
“Love what you did with the decoration,” Miguel mused, trying his best to strategically avoid stepping on anything. “Fire hazard aesthetic, is it?”
You paused to stare at him with a lighthearted chuckle. “Bingo!”
Your reaction made him feel more at ease. Perhaps he had read too much into things.
You were still acting like his sweet girl.
The table at the center had barely any room left, and he managed to find a vacant spot on a chair nearby. “May I sit?”
You were looking through a tube with five different wires running along it. “Oh… I was going to place this there.”
Miguel immediately moved away. “Right. Of course.”
Priorities of any scientist.
Flashing him your trademark grin, you moved around to rest the tube horizontally on the chair.
This place truly resembled his when he was first getting started with Nueva York. All the blueprints and planning and computers and screens.
Oddly enough, your apartment made him feel nostalgic.
“So, what’s up?” you said, before taking a sip of your water.
He ran a hand through his hair and heaved a deep sigh. “I wanted to apologise for earlier today.”
You blinked.
“That conversation… about Tom?”
“Oh!” you suddenly said as realisation hit you. “There’s nothing to apologise for, Miguel! It’s a non issue.”
Well. He begged to differ, actually. Whoever this Tom person was, it had already created a slight rift between you two, even if unintentionally.
And he wanted to fix that.
Miguel was a fixer.
“I just want to make sure that Tom isn’t going to become an issue. For you… or for us.”
He added that last part in an effort to compel you to talk about him, which stemmed from genuine concern. What if Tom was someone dangerous and that could put spider society at risk?
You waved your hand dismissively. “He won’t. Don’t worry.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, feeling the urge to continue with the questions, but it had become clear you weren’t going to collaborate.
It didn’t matter.
He would have information on Tom soon enough, and then he’d decide whether he was an issue or not.
But then… “Are you two close?”
He mentally slapped himself for his impulse.
“Oh, yeah… I guess you could say that,” you said, dragging your finger along the screen in front of you. “But, really, there’s no point talking about it.”
But why?
So he was someone close to you… he had dreaded this possibility becoming true.
But maybe… maybe it was just some family member.
He began pacing around with arms crossed, glacing outside the window and into the night sky.
Deep down, he wanted you to know he was there for you, but he also wanted some answers.
He needed answers.
“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
At this, you slammed your palms on the table, a frown settling on your face. “Miguel! Drop it, please… it’s nothing.”
That was unexpected.
And so unlike you.
And it was enough to stop him in his tracks. “I’m just looking out for you.”
He was. Truly.
And for his relationship with you. A future one, hopefully.
Your features softened as your eyes met his, and he felt the sudden urge to close the gap between you two and pull you into an embrace.
But he chose to keep his distance, not wanting to seem overbearing.
“I know. I’m sorry,” you drawled out, rubbing your temples with both hands. “I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”
He shook his head at once. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I’ve been too overloaded with work, which is my fault, I know,” you said, pacing nervously. “But… I just want to help.”
Miguel sighed. “And you are. You don’t need to constantly prove yourself. No one will think less of you for not figuring things out at first,” he continued, and he meant every single word. “There’s so much trial and error in our line of work. We should work hard, yes. But not to the point of exhaustion.”
You halted, glaring at him like he had just uttered something unthinkable.
Unexpectedly, you were the one to close the distance between you two with unsure steps.
Dropping both arms against his sides, Miguel watched in silence as you paced closer and closer, your face holding a hint of sadness that should be forbidden.
You should never have to feel sad.
“I know you care,” you said, you voice but a whisper. “And I’m really grateful for you.”
Miguel’s heart sped up, as you tilted your head to stare at him. “Can I hug you?”
How could he ever say no to you? He’d give you anything. Everything.
You just didn’t know that.
He was left baffled and could only nod, and you wrapped your arms around him, pressed your cheek to his chest.
For a man who was perceived as a genius and had built an entire city from the ground up, Miguel sure felt like a fish out of water. So out of his element. He hadn’t shared this level of closeness with anyone in years.
But slowly, he managed to place one hand to the back of your head while the other pulled you closer, in the hopes that you would find safety and comfort in his embrace.
“Thank you.”
A few hours ago, he was humping his pillow thinking of you, fully drunk in your scent. Now, something else filled him.
Anger.
Rage.
No… there was no doubt whoever this Tom individual was that he had left a mark on you. And he couldn’t stand seeing his sweet girl like this.
He had to find out what had happened and what he had done to his sweet girl.
He would find him and he would break him if he had to.
Your tears were wetting his suit, and he had to muster all his willpower not to bolt into your dimension in search of him.
The fingers on your back caressed you slowly, lulling you into a comfortable position.
“I’m here for you.”
He felt your arms tighten around him, and he heard a sob. “Can… can you sing something?”
“What?”
“It distracts me…”
He felt puzzled at first, but he did want to help you. “Uh… anything?”
You nodded with a sniffle.
“Okay… uh… the itsy bitsy spider craw-”
You broke into a laughter. “Seriously?”
He felt his lips turn into a warm smile, as he kept rubbing your back.
Slowly, you loosened your grip around him and tilted your head to stare at him, chin resting on his chest with a sweet smile.
It had worked.
“You have such pretty eyes,” you whispered.
On impulse, he brushed his thumb along your cheek, wiping away a few teardrops.
His eyes then fell to your lips as they parted slightly, and he brought the thumb to brush along them, enjoying the softness and how your breath came out in shallow pants.
His sweet girl…
How he really wanted to—
And then his watch stared beeping, cutting the moment short.
Of course.
You jolted and he bent his arm and glared, as spider-byte’s hologram emerged. “Boss, Jessica has found subject A on Earth-2848.”
Fuck.
You immediately tore from him, wiping away the remnants of your tears.
“My Earth? What happe-”
He quickly cut you off. “Send me the file.”
Margo glanced briefly at you. “Uploading the file, boss.”
Miguel immediately terminated contact, and the hologram dissolved. He was then met with your questioning face
“Is it an anomaly? Is everything okay?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “We are just tracking some unusual activity.”
He didn’t want to lie to you.
But you had left him no choice.
He had to know who Tom was.
For you.
“I’m taking care of it,” he tried to reassure again.
You didn’t seem all that convinced, but didn’t insist.
Instead, you took a few steps back, and he felt your warmth painfully leave him at once.
He could get used to it so easily.
Then, he glared down at the screen of his watch, waiting for the file to be ready.
“Hey, Miguel?”
79%
Almost there.
“Miguel?”
His gaze remained fixed. “Hmm?”
“Do you think you can unlock my suit settings?”
That made him snap his head to glare at you.
What?
You were holding your pad, extending it to him. “I’ve been getting this weird interference in my suit,” you sniffled, eyes still puffy from crying. “I wanted to troubleshoot, but it doesn’t let me access the settings.”
Of course not. He had made sure of that.
But something else began looming over him… “What kind of interference?”
You shrugged, tapping the screen. “Static, I think? I only hear it from time to time, though.”
Miguel’s heart instantly dropped, Lyla’s words of caution ringing inside his head: “You’re not the only tech savvy spider here.”
No, no, no…
“So… can you let me in?”
The mic.
Fuck.
Part 5
Masterlist
#miguel o’hara x reader#miguel o’hara#miguel o’hara smut#miguel o’hara x you#miguel o’hara x fem!reader#spiderman 2099 x reader#miguel ohara x reader#miguel o’hara x y/n#miguel o’hara fanfiction
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i found a genre of longform videos that is just 8-10 hours of someone driving around freeways during thunderstorms and i have a lot of thoughts about this but also: stede the driver who films long pov driving vids and extremely stressed ed who gets addicted to his channel
it's meditative, and it reminds ed of being in the car with his mum, driving across aotearoa. he feels like she's there with him sometimes. but the more he watches, the more he becomes aware of the driver--a sigh here, the shuffle of fabric in the seat there.
there's almost no information about him on his channel, the gentleman driver, not even a name or a pic, and ed becomes a little fixated on picking up details about him. doesn't happen often, but once or twice ed catches the driver humming a few beats before falling silent again, clearing a throat, sighing, clicking his throat like he's talking silently to himself.
once, on hour six of a ten hour vid, ed's rewarded by the view of an elegant hand reaching across the screen to grab something that must be on the dash in front of the camera. four seconds ed plays over and over.
"is there someone in the car with you while you drive?" ed asks in a comment. "or is it just you?"
the gentleman driver writes back, "just me and the open road!"
maybe it's the format that makes ed ask, the anonymity. maybe he's just half asleep. "don't you ever get lonely?"
it's days before the gentleman driver writes back again. "do you?"
ed's not got an answer for that. or, he does, but not one he's willing to face head on. he asks instead how the gentleman driver chooses his routes.
the driver doesn't get very many comments and definitely not very many questions, and soon they're having little conversations in the comments of every video. ed gets another glimpse of that elegant hand, with a big turquoise ring, freckled forearm; hears another few bars of 'here comes the sun' hummed.
then the driver does something new: he stops at a rest stop.
and he leaves the camera rolling.
ed watches in rapt fascination as the driver crosses the screen in front of the car, goes into the rest stop. blond hair, broad shoulders, floral shirt. he's actually wearing jeans for an eight hour drive which is insane, and ed gets a glimpse of his profile as he smiles. insane.
if the driver's ever stopped before, it's been very carefully edited out. maybe he forgot this one. maybe he wanted ed to see. that's delusional, ed thinks, but he still navigates to the driver's about page and pokes around until he finds an email address.
nice shirt, he sends.
oh god, the driver sends back, and the video disappears from his page half an hour later. i forgot the editing. i'm sorry if it was distracting.
no, i liked it, ed tells him. it was nice to see the man behind the steering wheel. and then, hesitating only a bit, he adds: i'm ed.
hello, the driver writes. i'm stede.
the emails go on, and on, and eventually they turn into texts too, and promises from stede to check in on his longer drives, to "call if you ever need someone to keep you awake."
"i'm supposed to be sending you to sleep," stede argues.
"i'll sleep better knowing that you're safe," ed writes back.
the next video stede posts, he lets the camera run all the way until he's pulled into a parking spot at a roadside motel just outside of denver. the camera runs one minute, then five, and any reasonable person would've turned it off by now, but ed waits until he hears, very quietly: "safe and sound, now. go to sleep. goodnight."
is it stupid, to think you can fall in love with someone after just one sentence? is it still stupid, if that one sentence repeats at the end of every new video?
then one night the phone rings. it's late, dark out, and ed knows stede was doing a drive that wouldn't have him at his next stop until nearly one in the morning. he picks up. "hello?"
"oh, ed," the voice says. "you've no idea how good you sound just now."
it's a voice he's only heard before in hums and whispers, but it doesn't matter. lots of things about love are stupid, ed decides. this isn't one of them.
stede's blown a tire. "i'm okay," he insists. "i was just hoping for some company while i wait for the tow."
"where are you?"
"middle of nowhere," stede says, but when he names the spot, it's only two hours out. ed can be there faster than a tow probably would, and there's a note of anxiety in stede's voice he doesn't much like.
he's got his shoes on and his keys in his hand before he can think twice.
stede hems and haws but in all his fussing he doesn't actually tell ed not to come, and he stays on the line while ed piles blankets in the car and as he gets behind the wheel and as he sets out on the freeway. he stays on the line and they talk until they're both creaky with exhaustion and dry air, and then they're quiet, just like in stede's videos, but together this time. then ed crests over a hill and there it is: a car pulled off to the side with its hazard lights blinking. reminds ed of a lighthouse. 'i'm here,' the lights say. 'i'm here.'
he pulls to a stop behind, starts his own hazards. the driver side door of the car opens, and then there's a leg, and a body, and there he is. stede. he's still got his phone pressed to his ear; ed can hear him breathing.
"i'm going to get out," ed says.
"okay," stede says.
it takes another long moment, watching stede stand there in the dark, waiting for him. stede, with his hair and his voice and his hands and the way the quiet in him already feels like home.
"i might kiss you," ed says.
he watches stede swallow, hard. eyes widen. "okay," he says.
ed reaches for the handle. pops the door open. puts one foot out on the pavement and looks up to meet stede's eyes as his cabin lights come on, as the car starts to ding its door-open warning.
"oh," stede says.
ed takes a step. they both still have their phones in their hands, their breathes in each other's ear. ed takes a step and takes a step until he can reach out to take stede's phone from him. press the call end button.
"hi," he says.
stede kisses him.
after that there are other, shyer hellos, and other, more awkward ones too. there are ten minutes to a 24-hour macdo drive-thru for coffee and another ten to a motel and a late night that becomes an early morning by way of conversation. there's laughter, and more kisses, and careful fingers learning the planes of each other's faces. in the morning there's breakfast and a tow truck and an invitation to a place just two hours away.
and there's a long break in updates to the gentleman driver's channel.
when he comes back, weeks later, his update schedule isn't quite as frequent, and his drives don't usually go as far. there's giggles sometimes, in the background, like there might be someone else in the car with him.
"do you miss it," ed asks. "driving the long drives?"
"no," stede says. "i found what i was looking for."
*
@ kninjaknitter also podficced this one!
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'Ex' husband Gojo - You and I
Part 1
Tags- Gojo x fem reader, angst, self depreciation/suicidal stuff, miscarriage centered chapter
Synopsis- a look at both of their POVs, the aftermath a month later.
Satoru is devastated but so are you but worse...
22nd October, 2016...
22nd October of 2016 was when it happened. The Legal Separation between you and Satoru Gojo.
Fortunately or not but the whole fiasco never went outside the borders of The Gojo Estate, despite it involving a few 'third parties'.
Luckily, the servants of the house were on a week off or else by now you and Satoru would have become the new gossip of the town no doubt.
Mr Ijichi, an assistant director at the Jujutsu High and a very close and trusted accomplice of your husband... or ex husband, you can't decide.
He is probably the only person who knows about it, not in detail of course since Satoru is very specific on who he wants to be close with but yes, you suspect Mr Ijichi is a bit aware of what went down because he was the one driving the car on that day.
You also suspected at first that maybe Ms Shoko is also in light of the events because she is definitely someone who gets her information one way or the other and the fact Satoru might have... no! He has infact told Shoko about all of it.
When Satoru introduced you to the World of Jujutsu Society, Ms Shoko was the first he got you to meet with and since you have had good relationship with her.
Since your legal separation happened, Shoko and Ijichi have been a mediator, set up by Gojo, for communication since, you know it and so does everybody who knows Gojo Satoru, he's too prideful to go back wagging his tail where he's not needed. Or so he thinks.
Satoru thinks because of his work schedules, he is not able to spend time with you as your husband and not able give you the life you hoped for which definitely affected your mental health (as predicted by his six eyes) and thus you decided for a divorce.
But the new information that he got on that day from you made him realize maybe he was indeed wrong thinking that you are perhaps different from other women who only fell for the looks but mostly for the money and the status of the Gojo family in general.
He never had plans to marry in the Jujutsu Society or The human World (haha as if!) be it arranged or love. He did not care. He had plans to become the wise Sage or a Monk of wisdom, a teacher/mentor like in video games. But all of it changed when he met you, a simple average human.
You were the one who taught Satoru so much. You were the one made him realize that even the strongest sorcerer has a soft heart that has the capability of falling in love.
But what made him solidify his love, making him realize that yes he has fallen in love and he is glad it is you was when you (unknowing about his past with the incident with Riko and Toji) made him realize the fact that all humans are not same.
This was the last and final straw that made the fall for you really bad and sick. He wanted to marry you. But he never said it out loud because of the repercussions you would have to go through and that is why he protested as well when you brought up the topic of marriage.
But none of it matters
None of it
Not anymore
He is done
All humans are the same.
Greed
Lust
Money
Fame
Power
All humans are indeed the same...
Satoru has no interest in any sort of relationships anymore. Everything feels sour and bitter. All he knows now is his role. His role as the strongest sorcerer, a responsible mentor, as the Head of his Clan, Face of the Jujutsu Society altogether. These are his priorities.
Gojo would very much prefer a permanent sort of freedom from you now knowing your true face.
'Ugh awful, so disgusting. A whore? Really? Is that all you thought of yourself y/n when you voluntarily got physical with me before marriage?', he said to himself in his head.
The only reason Gojo sent Separation papers instead of divorce was because it would startle both of yours and his families. The society isn't kind to divorced women and that too the ex wife of the six eyes sorcerer. Oh what a wonderful way to make him vulnerable for the curses and curse users!
He can say whatever he want against you but somewhere, inside that beautiful big and kind heart of his, he wants to talk to you, talk things out, talk about your feelings and wants to listen. But his mind refuses to let down his walls, ever gain!
Days following the 22nd October, you mostly stayed locked up in your room while Mr Ijichi packed all of your husband's clothing and accessories.
Mr Ijichi isn't stupid, he knew it must be really hard for you that is why he tried his best to enter, collect the things and exit as quietly as he could.
'A whore? Why did you even say that you bitch. You really don't deserve ANYTHING in this world!', your days began with endless self loathing.
5th December, 2016
A lot happened in the month following the incident.
Most of your days were spent in self loathing because after your miscarriage at just 3 months, the doctor had declared that you're (uterus) not strong enough to carry a child.
These words are something a woman is most scared to ever hear in her life. And you were one of the unfortunates.
You had stopped taking your post miscarriage medications. You're mental health got worse as well due to continuous thoughts on how you acted up on impulses and ruined the only good thing you had. Days followed you couldn't even get the strength to get up from the bed every morning. Fading appetite lead to refusing food which further resulted to visible sunken cheeks.
The house staff didn't knew anything that took place during their week off and they had noticed changes around the household. From your behavior to the absence of the Head of the house. They were also worried for your health and didn't knew what to do.
The head of staff, Mr Kawaguchi, decided to make a call to the Master of the house since it is normal for him to be absent from the house due to his work.
Kawaguchi- Good morning Satoru sama. This is Kawaguchi from the house.
Gojo (a little annoyed)- I'm busy, call me later.
Kawaguchi- Sir actually there's a grave problem at the house.
Gojo (mockingly)- what? Did someone die or something? This better be important-
Kawaguchi- sir its Y/n sama. Y/n sama is not in good health.
Gojo (worried)- w- what?! What're you stupids doing? What happened to y/n? Is she okay? What did the doctors say?
Kawaguchi- uh about that sir... y/n sama didn't let us into her room and actually we had to... (nervously looks back at the the other staff, everyone nods)
Gojo- huh?
Kawaguchi- sir, we had to break into y/n sama's room. We have called the doctors and they'll-
Gojo- break into the room!? What is hap- Nevermind, I'm sending someone. You lot stay there and look after y/n till the docs arrive!
Kawaguchi- y- yes sir!
Gojo was now left worried at what the hell did he just hear on the call. 'What are you upto now y/n'. Is this some trick to bring him back out of pity and pretend nothing happened? That you, a month ago, didn't just randomly demand for a Divorce.
He was really annoyed and even if he wanted to go to the house he couldn't due to being out abroad for missions. He has been busy with overseas missions mostly after the separation.
He decided to send Shoko for a look and to inform him 'EVERY SINGLE DETAIL', verbatim.
Shoko was sitting at the morgue, smoking, when she received a call from Gojo.
'Ha? Gojo? At this hour?', she wondered.
"Yea?", Shoko said with her usual nonchalant voice.
"I need a favor"
Gojo explained her the situation to which she agreed without hesitant, knowing what has been going on between you two and now this.
When she arrived at the Gojo Estate, she was welcomed by the worried faces of the staff that guided her to your room.
She started observing every detail. She saw the entrance door, broken. The inside of the master bedroom, dim, even with long sliding doors facing the beautiful and bright gardens. There were half eaten bowls of food. A trolley with clothes overflowing.
Shoko turned to looked at you and felt her heart wrench a little at the sight of you. She was horrified and worried. She is usually a very calm and relaxed person but you, you really made her loose her calm.
She knows you and has seen you in your good days. In light yellow summer dress beside Gojo, all smiles to now? Like this. Dark circles umder eyes and slight sunken cheeks, chipped lips and several medications.... wait what medications?
There were already a doctor present in the room who declared that its just dehydration and that it'll be okay with a few medicines.
The servants thanked the doctor and ordered the medicines.
Meanwhile, Shoko was already in a shock. The medicines piled up beside you on the bed and the bedside table were... post miscarriage pills. She enquired the whole situation from the staff.
All while, the two women staff got you up in the bed and gave you water.
Eyes half open, you recognised what was happening. You passed out of dehydration and couldn't hear the knocks of the servants outside for breakfast. They were worried and tried the other doors, through the garden, but they were locked. So they broke the entrance and found still in the bed with pills surrounding you. They all got worried and one called the doctor and the head called Gojo.
Shoko noticed you were up and ordered the ladies to open the curtains and windows and leave her for a while. Afterall she's got some questioning to do in Gojo's behalf.
She extended her hand to hold your left hand. It seemed cold to touch. "Hello y/n. Remember me?"
You struggled to open your eyes and look.
"Don't worry i won't ask you how you're doing", she joked.
"But i will ask about the medications y/n. Do not lie. I'm a doctor too", Shoko knew now is not the time but she also knew that if you were pregnant then why didn't you tell Gojo because he obviously didn't know.
Your ears started ringing. And eyes welled up. You were reminded of it again. You wanted to just lay back down and bury yourself in the warmth of the blankets.
But the cat was out of the bag. Shoko is a doctor. She knows medicines. You cannot lie. You cannot hide. You have to be strong, you have to show her that everything is okay and Satoru needn't be worried, not like as if he is anyway.
"Please.", you mumbled, she had leaned in and caressed your knuckles. "Shoko, do not let anyone know of this, i beg of you."
"Shhh", she shushed you, "Don't say that. I won't. I promise"
She continued, "... but what about Satoru? You can't hide it from him. The child was his as much as it was yours-"
You cut her in, "Shoko i wanted to tell him! I wanted him and only HIM to be the first to get the news of the...", you struggled but continued, "...of the pregnancy. I got to know myself in the 2nd month and he was coming back home just next month, it was all perfectly going... until it wasn't".
Shoko was visibly upset. She didn't knew what to say. All she was aware of was the things Gojo told her...
He went home with gifts and souvenirs for you, you gave him divorce papers, he tried convince you not to, you weren't ready to listen, you said some hurtful things, he realised his place and agreed for separation over divorce.
Looking at you she can tell you would breakdown any moment.
And she was right.
You did.
You broke down in tears.
Hyperventilating you mumbled, "Shoko they said i can't have children! Can you believe that! I can't have kids! And I'm so stupid i brought out a f-fucking Divorce paper when Satoru came home."
"He was so angry with me i could feel it even if he wasn't! I'm stuck Shoko! I-i just - just want to go hide under a rock or maybe i should just kill mys-"
Shoko pulled you in for a hug. "Ah! Thats enough. That's enough. Shush now. Its okay."
"I won't tell Satoru, don't worry"
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@autumn-slaves @wondermilka @hh0pe @chayunwoo @Enaaneaen @sweet-almonds @sindela @dazai-gojo-kinnie @whats-humanity-lol @thewickedofrizz @phantasmia @ghostllyyz @yihona-san06 @aesonsgirl @direwolf-5 @fairyyxsp @puroganggang @altyx @dianagracesworld @hermitkerm @leonesimp @minnerra @whitelittlebunny @letharue
#gojo satoru#jjk#gojo x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk x reader#gojou satoru x reader#jjk fluff#gojo satoru fluff#gojo x reader fluff#jjk x reader fluff#gojou fluff#gojo fluff#gojo x reader smut#gojo smut#gojo satoru smut#jujutsu kaisen smut#gojo satoru angst#gojo x reader angst#jjk angst#jjk x reader angst#gojou angst#satoru gojo angst#gojo angst#gojou x reader#satoru gojo smut#gojou#gojo satoru x reader#gojou x reader fluff#gojou x reader smut#gojo headcanons
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You don't know me 29
P1 P3 P4 P5 P6 P7 P8 P9 P10 P11 P12 P13 P14 P15 P16 P17 P18 P19 P20 P21 P22 P23 P24 P25 P26 P27 P28 P29 P30 P31
pairing: y/n and chris sturniolo
summary: you and chris came from two different sides of the spectrum when it came to the social scale. You had the perfect life, the perfect boyfriend, the perfect parents, but when you start to peal back that layers things got messy. Your life was set and stone, your future was set and stone. That was until he comes and changes everything.
warnings:
I'll call you later tonight.
Chris's words through the phone rang in my head as I stared up at my ceiling.
"Six, seven, eight....." I counted the stars across my ceiling since they weren't actual constellations. It was easier to count them over and over than to stare at my phone and wait for a call that didn't seem like it was coming.
"Twelve" I finished.
I glanced down at my phone.
11:59 pm
One minute until 'tonight' was offically over. I swallowed as I put the phone down and looked back up at my ceiling. There’s probably a reason he’s not calling you. He didn’t forget. Maybe he was busy right now. He still loves you.
"One, two..." I trailed off and sighed closing my eyes. This was ridiculous. Pathetic.
I took in a breath, my eyes still closed. The breeze from the door of my balcony being open almost felt like the one outside from Chris and I's last date. I swallowed.
He laid against the blanket and opened his arms. I smiled before I laid against his chest and his arms closed around me. I blinked up towards the sky, before seeing the stars laid out before me.
I opened my eyes. There wasn't a breeze. Chris's arms weren't around me and I wasn't looking at the stars. The sky outside was cloudy, you couldn't see them. I already checked.
I took in a breath.
"Three, four....."
My phone buzz. I sat up and grabbed my phone
from: syd
how'd brunch with your dad go? Is he mentally stable? A serect serial killer? Criminal mastermind?
I sighed as my eyes trailed up to the time.
12:01 am
I looked off to the balcony before pushing off my bed and pushing the door closed and locking it and turning back to my phone.
to: syd
it was one brunch, how would i be able to tell if he was a serial killer?
I laid back down against my pillows.
Why did he forget to call?
Chris pov
It was quiet. It was dark here. I didn't like it. It was eerie this time of night, but the last time I came during the day and stayed for hours, a groundskeeper kicked me out. Not so gracefully after I cussed him out.
I stared down at tombstone.
Amelia Rose Smith
4-23-03 -- 7-03-19
a beloved daughter, a soul too sweet for this world gone too soon.
I swallowed. I placed new flowers beside it, but they would die soon. I didn't know if it was the first time flowers were left here since I left, or if the flowers were only empty for a few days.
Her parents moved to Flordia after her death to be closer to the rest of their family, so I don't know if anyone kept up in replenishing her flowers.
I didn't blame them for moving. In times of greif, you cling to your loved ones. The only problem was when she passed, and my greif came, the only 'loved one' I wanted to cling too was the one buried six feet in the ground.
When she first passed, I didn't leave her side. Even after the funeral, her parents left before I did. I didn't say anything. I just sat there and stared at the freshly grounded dirt, until the sun came up the next morning. That freshly grounded dirt was now overgrown with grass.
My parents didn't question me, they didn't even try to pull me away when I didn't leave the funeral.
They just let me sit here.
Like I am now.
"Chris"
"Chris." My dad shook my arm. I blinked. It was real. This was really happening. I swallowed as I glanced around the room and saw everyone staring at me. All eyes on me.
"They called your name, it's time to give your dedication" My father whispered down at me. I looked up at him. I felt like a child again. Like my dad was dropping me off at kindergarten for the first time.
I wanted to shake my head and cling to his side. But this wasn't kindergarten. This was a funeral filled with people, relatives, friends, all staring at me and they knew exactly who I was.
The boy who lost his girlfriend.
I stood up from the pew and it was silent. The only sound was the clicking of my feet as the preacher moved aside so I could stand in front of the podem.
I swallowed as my eyes glanced over the casket. The closed casket. I'm glad it was closed, I didn't know how I would have reacted if I had seen her laying there, lifeless. My gut clenched and I forced my eyes to tear away from the casket.
I turned and my eyes scanned over the filled church. Some people crying. Some not. Some looked sad, some didn't.
"Um" I cleared my throat as I stared down at my piece of paper, my hands shaking so much I couldn't even read the words. I swallowed and looked up meeting the eyes of Rose's mom.
I wanted to apologize, but I didn't know what to say. I wanted to say something along the lines of "I'm sorry I couldn't save her" but I couldn't even get the words out. I looked back down.
A tear rolled down the bridge of my nose. I quickly wiped it.
"Thank you for coming today. I know it would have meant a lot to--" My voice broke. I paused closing my eyes. I was strong. I could do this. I forced the paper still.
"Amelia was---" I paused. "Rose-" I corrected myself. It didn't feel right calling her by something I never called her before today. "She was the kindest soul in the world" I whispered, but it projected anyway. I swallowed the lump in my throat.
"She was the light in my day." I said. I glanced up meeting the eyes of my parents who nodded me forward. I stifened. I set the paper down and looked up at the faces of everyone.
"I've been trying to figure out how to deal with this" I said honestly. I shook my head. "I don't know how---" I swallowed. Don't cry Chris, everyone is looking at you. I stopped taking in a breath.
"The only conclusion i've been able to come to, was that she was too good for this world, so she just went on to the next" I nodded. "She went somewhere better than this place. To a place where she wasn't struggling--where she wasn't in pain and wasn't sad" The lump in my throat kept coming back up no matter how much I kept it down.
"Selfishly, I didn't want her to go. I--I wanted her to stay here with me. I've battled with myself for days over--" I closed my eyes. I couldn’t do this.
"I'm sorry" I shook my head, I hated the way everyone was looking at me. I hated the pressure. I hated the pity looks. I hated all of it.
I didn't know how to talk about this in front of a group of people that I didn't even know or Rose never even mentioned.
I grabbed the side of the podium to keep myself standing. I looked over to her parents.
"I don't know what to say" I shook my head. Rose's mother's eyes watered and she shook her head. "If I could replace myself with your daughter in that casket, I would" I said looking at her. Her eyes closed as she took in a breath.
I hung my head as tears ran down my face. "Trust me, I would" I cried. I looked up. Everyone was staring at me, this was too much.
"I'm sorry that I couldn't---That I didn't--"
Everyone was staring at me.
I pushed off the podium before walking down the aisle and rapidly wiped my face as I pushed out of the church doors.
I felt a rain drop on my face. I looked up. It wasn't raining. I pressed my hand to my face. "Fuck" I whispered. I wiped my eyes that had produced the water. I glanced down to the dirt.
"Sorry, I know you don't like when I curse" I whispered. No response. But there was one inside me, as if she were still sitting next to me now.
It's okay Chris. It's okay to feel things, sometimes it necessary.
I took in a breath.
"I don't understand why you left me. You ruined my life. I'm mad at you, I'm mad at the---dead" I whispered the last part. Was it disrespectful to be angry with the dead? I didn't know. I was. I've been angry for a while, it's just be clouded by sadness. I just hadn't noticed.
"I got a tattoo for you" I whispered. No response. I stared at the grave. "I don't know if you would have like it. You never really liked tattoos....but I just thought---" I paused. I closed my eyes. "I thought that you might have like it if it was mine" I swallowed the lump in my throat.
This was a lot harder than I thought it was going to be. I hung my head in between my legs. "God Rose. I just......" I swallowed.
"I miss you." I whispered. I wiped my nose and looked up at her gravestone. "I feel guilty" I stated. The only sounds between me and the gravestone were the sounds of crickets chirping.
"I've battled back and forth with myself over falling in love again" I whispered. I placed my head against my knee. "I'm so scared she's going to leave me like you did. You messed me up----so bad" I swallowed.
"I heard there were stages to grief" I played with the grass inbetween my fingers. "First, Sadness. Then anger" I breathed. I looked at the stone.
"It wasn't fair for the anger to hit right as I made it to Michigan. It was suppose to be a new beginning, but I did some things I’m not proud of. I was mean. You hated mean people, Rose. You wouldn't have been proud of me" I shook my head.
I wiped my eyes and let out a long breath. I turned away from the stone.
I heard the cracking of sticks behind me. I turned quickly, getting ready to stand up and fight off another groundskeeper, but I met a pair of blue eyes that looked like mine.
I sighed and relaxed.
"I thought I'd find you out here" My dad's voice rang. I didn't say anything and stared at the stone. He groaned as he went to sit down next to me. I didn't say anything, I just kept my arms around my legs and stared down.
"You know" My dad said looking over at me. "Your mother doesn't like it when she finds your bed empty at 2 am, especially after the blow up at dinner" He spoke softly. I didn't react.
It's because I hate being here. I hate being in Boston without Rose it didn't feel right, it didn't feel like Boston.
"I didn't meant to scare her" I mumbled. He shook his head. "She's just on edge about you being home. She forgets you would do this weekly" He sighed. I furrowed my eyebrows. Why is he making me feel guilty about coming to see Rose? I shouldn't have to feel guilty.
"I like it out here better. Out here someone actually listens to me" I grumped under my breath. My dad let out a sigh.
"I don't mean to come across like I don't listen to you Chris" He turned his head to look at me. I looked up at him. "Come across? You shipped me out to Michigan when it got hard for you" I spat staring at him. He closed his eyes.
"You needed a fresh start"
"I needed parents who could comfort me"
"You didn't let us" He snapped. I glared at him. He shook his head, bringing down his tone. Silence came between us. I felt a verge of guilt come up my throat.
"I didn't mean it" I whispered. He looked over at me. I felt the guilt of my own words wash over me. I shook my head. "I was angry, I was hurting--I still am-but" I swallowed. I didn't want to cry in front of him. I never wanted to.
I usually waited until everyone was out of sight before I allowed my emotions to hit me. I was not going to cry in front of him. I took in a breath trying to contain myself.
"I love you and mom, I never wanted you think that I didn't" I whispered. I felt the power of my father's gaze.
"We never thought that, even when you said it" His arm came over my shoulders. I looked up at him with furrowed eyebrows. "We're you're parents. Parents take everything their child says with a grain of salt" He breathed. I sighed. That didn't make me feel any better for what I said.
"Why did you come home Chris?" He asked softly. I blinked down. "You wanted me to" I stated softly. He shook his head. "That's not why you came" He breathed. I took in a breath as I looked at the grave.
He knew me too well, it hurt.
"I have to move on" I stated blankly not looking up at my dad. He just watched and listened. "For years I’ve held Rose's death with me" I shook my head looking at her name engraved in the stone.
"And I don't want to forget about it--I never want to forget about it--her." I shook my head afraid of the misconception. I swallowed. "I just want to move on from it. I want to start breathing again" I whispered.
It's true. It's why I came home. Not for my parents, not because my father wanted me to, not because I wanted to move back here---I didn't. I guess I just didn't know that until I stepped onto Boston ground. It hit me like a load of bricks, the realization.
"You're allowed to want to move on Chris, it doesn't mean you have to forget" He breathed. I didn't move as my eyes glanced over the stone.
"I met someone" I whispered. At this point I didn't know If I was talking to Rose or to my father. Neither replied.
"I think meeting her, made every emotions I've pushed down the last 3 years come up to the surface" I whispered. My father let out a breath.
"It sounds like this girl did you a favor" He stated. I swallowed, right now it didn't feel like it.
"I'm in love with her" I stated blankly before looking up at my father. Suprise crossed his face and he blinked at me. He opened his mouth and closed it. I turned away from him. I'm not crying in front of him.
"And she's nothing like Rose" I whispered. My father shifted.
"You have to stop blaming yourself for what happened to Rose and how you process it. Chris you're allowed to move on, you're allowed to fall in love, you're allowed to live" He shook his head at me.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and closed my eyes finally reeling in my emotions.
I looked up at my dad. His eyes were tired. I feel like that's what I did to people. Sucked the life out of them. I saw it in his eyes, my mother's eyes, Dan's eyes, Nate's eyes. I would die If i ever saw that look in Y/n's eyes.
"What's her name?" My father spoke and I blinked almost swearing it was Rose's voice I was hearing, not my father's. I looked down at the grave.
"Y/n" I stated. He smiled. "That's a pretty name" He whispered making me smile. "Yeah" I whispered. My father shifted before he picked up the flowers set beside the grave.
"Lilies" He smiled running his hands over the flowers. "They were her favorite flowers" I explained smiling slightly as I looked at them.
"It's funny because I would always joke that her favorite flowers were lilies, because it doesn't make sense because you know her name---" My voice tore at the last word, as I stared at the stone.
And I broke.
My body tensed at the unfinished sentence and a sob came out of my throat as uncontrollable tears came pouring out of my eyes as I cried. My body curled as I cried into my hands.
"It's okay. You're gonna be okay Chris" My dad grabbed my arms and pulled me into him. I couldn't fight him. I had no strength left in my body. I shook against his arms as I cried into his chest.
#nick sturniolo#sturniolo fanfic#sturniolo smut#nicolas sturniolo#matt sturniolo#sturniolo x reader#sturniolo triplets#christopher sturniolo#chris sturniolo
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DRIVE. - l.c
DRIVE -- or, the night you realise it's actually very hard to stay mad at the guy who shows up at your house, throwing stones at your window on a Thursday night, to try and fix something that was your mistake in the first place.
pairing : chan x fem reader.
content : fwb > lovers. angst, smut (MINORS DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT TO INTERACT), fluff. more or less in that order.
they’re both dumb as hell. not explicitly put in any detail but this was written with a more 70s vibe in mind so feel free to bear that in mind when thinking of the car/tech/styles etc if u like.
w/c : 7.8k
warnings : lots of swearing. it’s all a big fuckin misunderstanding because i am a whore for that. weed & alcohol mentioned (neither party is drunk or high at the time of this taking place). mentions of past cheating (neither mc or chan are the cheater). some pov switching because i said so. let me know if i've forgotten anything. proofread exactly once so if there's a typo, no there isn't.
SMUT TAGS UTC.
notes : dino. get the fuck off my ass. i’m so serious i am not strong enough to handle the very real feelings i have for you. go away.
notes 2.0 : i listened to halsey’s drive for some inspo for this & took that as the title, so feel free to give it a listen if you want!
SMUT TAGS : dom!chan. car fuckin', making out, hair pulling, grinding/dry humping, fingering, finger sucking, dick riding, marking/scratching, unprotected sex (make good choices), overstimulation, multiple orgasms. praise. chan calls reader ‘baby’ & ‘sweetheart’. he’s a BIG talker during sex (sorry).
You’re not stupid. You heard his car pull up outside your house almost an hour ago.
Since then, at random intervals ranging anywhere between thirty seconds and five minutes, there have been clinks of a thrown stone at your bedroom window, a piece of the gravel that lines your driveway. Each time, it makes your jaw tense, makes your fingers tighten in the bedsheets you pulled all the way up to your chin in a foul mood at 8pm. It’s been the same now for almost two weeks — you’ve been getting home from work, showering the day away, eating your dinner and retiring to your room as early as you possibly can. Your roommate tried to find out what was wrong around day three but you very promptly shut her down — she’s since learned that the best she’s getting out of you currently is a dismissive wave of your hand or some kind of a grunt. She joked one evening that it was like she’d adopted a teenager; you scowled so violently that she went to her room.
Hardly any of your other friends have seen anything of you, either, despite the fact that several have come knocking to check if you’re all right.
You’re very much not all right, as it happens. This is perhaps the most upset you’ve ever felt, and that’s going quite some way. The angriest, too. It’s worse than when that middle aged woman threw her entire bucket of popcorn at your head when you gave her salty instead of sweet, and you were picking kernels out of your hair for the rest of your six hour shift. It’s worse than when your nasty supervisor ‘forgot’ you were in the bathroom and ended up locking you inside the cinema overnight, because you didn’t have your own set of keys to get out and the people whose numbers you remembered weren’t answering their phones.
It’s somehow even worse than when a summer crush from a few years ago broke things off by telling you that he already had a girlfriend back home and that you were basically just a means to pass the time and get his dick wet. God, and you thought that was the lowest you could possibly be.
Here you are, though, so far beyond all those things it would be comical, if it didn’t hurt. Chan has really done a number on you, and you’re not sure how you ended up getting so emotionally involved in your situationship with him that this is what you’ve been reduced to. For days now, you’ve been swallowing back tears of frustration (both with yourself and with Chan), rolling around in your bed night on night, unable to get to sleep because all you can think about is him.
Him, and the way he sounded genuinely horrified when his friends asked about the ‘movie girl’, and he laughed, ‘God, no – we’re just friends. That’s never gonna happen’. It was impressive, how quickly your face fell, in no way aided by the squealing giggles that rang through the house as a very, very drunk girl came running out of the living room and shut herself in the toilet, drowning out a chunk of the conversation you were listening in on. Somehow, it hurt even more when he went on to say ‘besides, there’s… someone else’.
And when you have managed to drift off after hours of staring at the walls and the ceiling, hearing those words on a loop on your fed up brain? Of course he’s been in your fucking dreams, too.
In your defence, all you were trying to do was use the mirror in the hallway outside the kitchen he and his friends were standing in, readjusting your top to cover the hickey that he had so kindly left on your collarbone just the night before. It wasn’t as though you sought him out to listen in; it was a coincidence. And okay, fine, maybe you should have walked away when the conversation turned to the topic of Chan’s love life. Maybe you should have not crept closer and held your breath to be able to hear them all better. Maybe, even, you should have stayed around long enough to ask what he meant by it then and there instead of hopping in a taxi and going home without saying goodbye to anyone.
Hindsight really is a beautiful thing.
Never gonna happen. Well, Chan seemed quite happy to ignore the fact that it already had happened. Several times. At least four of those being in the very car currently on the street outside your home. The car he’s used on countless occasions to drive you up to lovers’ lookouts in the dead of night, letting one of his many mixtapes play through the tinny speakers, where he’d kiss you breathless and cradle your face between his palms, as his fingers would delicately explore beneath your clothes, as his broad shoulders would slot between your thighs, as his hips rol–
And maybe you aren’t stupid, but Chan seems determined to prove that he sure as hell is. He came to pick you up from work the day after the party like nothing had happened, and couldn’t figure out why you said you would rather walk home in the rain than get in with him and stormed away without any further explanation. Then, he showed up on your doorstep on the morning of your day off with your favourite coffee and a breakfast bagel, asking if you could talk. He still didn’t realise what he’d done to upset you, so you slammed the door in his face. Finally, just earlier today, he ran after you in the mall, persistent as you’ve ever known him to be, and laid a hand on your shoulder when you didn’t turn around to just the sound of his voice calling your name.
You pushed him off so hard he almost fell over.
“Why can’t you just leave me alone?!” You had barked, shrugging your shoulders to try and realign your jacket. “I don’t want to talk to you. What’s not clicking?”
His face resembled that of a scolded pet when he took a step back and frowned at you. “I just wanted to–”
“I don’t care what you want, Chan,” you spat. “Give it up. I’m done.”
You could see the desperation swimming in his eyes as he scrambled for what to say and your heart felt like it was being weighed down all the way into your stomach. You supposed that was the part of you that was causing all this ache in the first place, and further that it was to blame for your current state of misery. But you steeled yourself and stood your ground nonetheless. He wasn’t going to win you over with puppy eyes and a pout. Not this time.
In his silence, you only then noticed how hard your breaths were coming, each slow and long but still dangerously unsteady. You lowered your voice, top lip curling at him as you muttered, “You’re embarrassed of me enough to lie to your friends? Fine. I don’t give a–… but shit, next time, tell a girl that to her face instead of behind her fucking back.”
It’s been seven hours, and you keep replaying the last thing he said to you as you stormed away (how his voice got quieter when he realised you weren’t turning back; how he sounded so hoarse, so sorry).
‘I’m sorry if I hurt you - I— I never meant to.’
If. If. If. Were you not making it completely fucking obvious that he had, most definitely, hurt you? Part of your brain is even now starting to go down the route that he’s doing this on purpose, that it’s some twisted sort of damage control, that he hopes maybe if he plays dumb for long enough, you’ll forget what you were mad about or maybe start to second guess what you heard. But if that’s what he thinks, he obviously doesn’t know you very well at all. That’s never going to happen.
Hell, for someone you were being so careful to keep in the appropriate lane in your head, Chan really has you thinking yourself in circles. You’re sick to your back teeth of him, and his stupid voice and his stupid smile and his stupid –
Clink.
Stupid. Fucking. Stones.
A groan loud enough to definitely catch the attention of your roommate sounds from deep within your chest at this interruption to your spiral and you finally, finally concede. Whatever argument he’s so clearly longing to have at 11 o’clock on a Thursday night? Fine. He can have it. If it means he backs off for good, you’ll give him his one last ruck.
You pull the window open none too gently and lean enough through it that Chan comes into view. He isn’t even looking up, you realise, too busy sifting through the driveway trying to find his next little projectile, and you hiss his name to get his attention. It startles him so much that he drops the indiscernible bundle in his right hand. He blindly scrambles to pick it up, those big, earnest eyes gazing at you as if you’re floating in midair before him.
“What the hell are you doing?!” You ask him, trying not to raise your voice too loud but at the same time, needing to generate enough volume for him to hear. He holds the bundle in both hands, now, and they catch the light of the lamp by your front door. Flowers, you register, squinting to try and make them out, your brows furrowing so much that your forehead hurts.
Black dahlias.
You choke back a laugh. Ah, the joys of fooling around with the son of a florist. Are they all so damn dramatic? (Or does he just know that they’re your favourites?)
Whichever it is, you tell yourself that’s not going to work. You won’t let it. Through gritted teeth, you say, “go away. I’m serious. I’ll call the cops on you.”
He shakes his head, begging as he steps just a little closer so his face is more visible in the amber light too. “Please–” he hurries, biting his bottom lip. “Please, don’t– just… tell me what I did. I want to make it right. Please.”
He never begs like this. In all the time you’ve known him, you swear Chan has said ‘please’ to you fewer times than you could count on your fingers. Which is by no means a bad thing — that’s just always been the very comfortable nature of your friendship, and later, the -with-benefits tag that you ended up sticking on the end.
“Why are you doing this?” You ask, pinching the bridge of your nose and fighting not to shiver in the cold nighttime air. Note to self: don’t do a Romeo and Juliet in the middle of the fucking winter without layering up, first. “What does it even matter?”
“What do you mean, what does it matter?” He asks, looking down at the bunch of flowers in his hands, then back at you. “I-... you know I’d never hurt you. Not on purpose. Please, just… if I did something–”
“There’s someone else,” you echo, fed up with his pretending. He’s a fair actor, you’ll give him that – he might even have been able to convince you, if you hadn’t already heard the other half of this tale he’s doing his best to spin in his favour.
His face screws up, thinking he’s misheard. It’s his turn not to understand now. If you’re telling him you’ve met someone else, he’s got questions, because you’d promised to be open and honest with each other if that ever happened, so that you could call things off and go back to being just friends without it becoming a big deal. That was always supposed to be a calm conversation, not… whatever this is. You talked about it, right at the start. But… those are the words you’re saying, aren’t they? And why would you be mad at him if you were the one whose circumstances had changed?
“What?” he asks, finally. “What do you mean?”
“God, no – we’re just friends. That’s never gonna happen. Besides, there’s… someone else!” You raise your voice without really meaning to, before swallowing hard and glancing back inside your room. “You said that, Chan. Don’t piss me off by coming here and pretending like you didn’t.”
Chan starts to look like he’s trying to figure out an algebraic equation in his head while only having half the required information; his eyes fall down to the gravel, his lips move without any sound coming out of them, his features tighten until there are definite lines between his eyebrows. Then, it clicks. The lightbulb moment. He slaps one hand to his face and shakes his head furiously, and you just know he’s going to wake up with an ache in his neck tomorrow because of it.
“Oh fuck,” he curses. “No, no, no, no, no – that’s not–”
“What did I just say?” You spit down at him. “Don’t piss me off–”
“Listen!” He shouts, and you gesture with your hand for him to lower his voice, interrupting his flow of thought and rendering him silent for a moment. “Fuck, please. Come down here and talk to me. That’s not what you think it is.”
You’re in every mind to slam your window shut and leave him out there in the cold. It would work if you got out your headphones to drown out the sounds of him trying to get your attention, which you have absolutely no doubt in your mind that he would do. And maybe then he’d get the hint; maybe then he would understand that you’re not just some pushover who he can just pick up and play with when it suits him.
But he’s still holding those fucking flowers like they’re a lifeline, still looking up at you without a single lick of anger on his face. Not stress at having been discovered, which you would have expected him to be swimming in right about now. He looks… kind of beside himself, as if nothing could possibly be worse than what you’re threatening to do.
All this, for you? It just doesn’t make sense.
“Please,” he says again, quieter, weaker. For the first time, you pick up on the hint of a shiver in his voice, and you swallow. Whether you’re gulping back your pride, or your resolve, or the last remnants of your sensibility, you don’t know.
Does he deserve for you to hear him out? You’re not sure.
But does he deserve to be stuck out in the cold in just his stupid leather jacket and a pair of jeans?
With regret, you think, no. He doesn’t.
All you give him is a scowl before you disappear from view entirely, pulling the window closed and drawing your curtains again. Faster than you think you ever have before, you throw on a sweatshirt over your pyjamas, grab your keys, and hurry down the stairs as silently as you possibly can.
He’s stood in exactly the same place when you edge outside and pull the door closed behind you. Up-close, you can see the tiredness on his face: this is a man who has exhausted himself in worry, you think, and yet he still smiles a little when he sees you in full. He still holds the flowers out for you to take. He still purses his lips and blows out a stuttered cloud of air. Nervous, and not in the way you think he ought to be. So when you walk straight past him and don’t take the dahlias out of his hands, instead standing by his car and waiting for him to unlock it for you, you start to feel overwhelmingly guilty.
Chan is many, many… many things. But he really isn’t this good of a performer, no matter what you’ve been telling yourself all week. For God’s sake, why is it so much easier to be angry at him when he’s not standing right in front you?
You slip into his passenger side as he fumbles to set the flowers down on his backseat again, and he joins you up front just a few moments later. His hands are shaking when he sets the keys into the ignition. His whole body is. When you cast a real look over at him, the tips of his fingers are pale and his lips are lacking their usual rosy, pink hue. Your own teeth are chattering despite only having been truly exposed to the cold air for a matter of seconds; you dread to think how frozen he must be.
“Are we driving?” You ask to break the silence. Since he got into the car and fiddled with the heating settings to try and warm things up a little, he hasn’t said a word. It’s awkward. It’s horrible. You already miss the comfortable way you’ve been able to sit for hours together, barely talking, just watching the lights of the city and the cars travelling through it.
You already miss him. Which is a strange thought, seeing as he’s only about ten inches away.
“If– if you want,” he says, stuttering through the frost in his lungs. “We can go—...”
“Drive, Chan,” you say. It’s not just because you want him to stop falling over his words – which, to be fair, you do. Chan has always been very confident, carrying himself with the air of someone who knows exactly their worth. It’s one of the things you treasure about him. So this? Is fucking weird. But a big part of it is that you know his car will heat up faster if it’s in motion, and right now, you think maybe he’s at risk of losing a finger or two if he doesn’t get some circulation back.
He steps on the gas and the car pulls away from your home. It’s the first time you’ve ever been in his car without there being some sort of music playing, whether that’s historically just been the radio or a tape he put together with the help of one of his older friends. (The tapes that always had your first initial on them. The tapes that he never failed to ask your opinions on when he dropped you home – as if he’d compiled them with only you in mind.) The silence feels jarring and you can hear every rumble of the engine, every squeal of the brakes he definitely needs to get serviced.
But the car does warm through, and you sigh out relief as the bones in your hands move a little easier, as your fingers curl and uncurl to less resistance from your taut muscles. Chan feels it, too; his body relaxes, his breaths stop coming out in fractions, his face gets some colour back. The timing feels a little less awful when you finally say, “go on, then.”
Chan glances over at you as he drives down an unlit street. Only for a second, like he’s checking you’re still there, before his eyes train back on the road. He’s going to one of your favourite spots. It isn’t a lookout – it’s somewhere completely shut off from the rest of town, hidden by the trees near the railway tracks, somewhere you’ve never had to worry about being seen or heard. Maybe he’s anticipating a screaming match. Maybe he’s expecting something else. Maybe, even, he just cares about how much you love it there.
“I didn’t know you heard that conversation,” he starts, sheepishly. You want to roll your eyes, reach over and thump him, ask if that makes what he said okay, but you don’t. You stay looking out the front windscreen too. Waiting. “I… all right. I was out of my ass drunk.”
You click your tongue, pressing it afterwards against the inside of your cheek, but again, you stay quiet.
“I don’t think you heard what you thought you heard, though,” he goes on to say. “‘Cause– ‘cause it wasn’t…”
But you can only be quiet for so long in the face of this mess. Especially when he’s apparently working towards a doctorate in beating around the fucking bush. “I heard you tell your friends that it was never gonna happen with ‘movie girl’.”
Chan’s face brightens, and you can’t help but wonder what on Earth is wrong with this man. Why does he find that funny? Why is his chest moving like he’s trying not to laugh?
“And you… thought you were movie girl,” he says, nodding. “Okay. Okay – shit. I’m sorry.”
You look at him properly, now, as he indicates to the right and takes the turn that leads him down the lane to your spot. “What are you talking about?”
“I get it,” he says. “You work at the–... but you’re not movie girl. Not that movie girl.”
“Stop talking in riddles before I get out of this car, Chan. It’s too late for this shit.”
He holds a hand up as if to apologise and settles back against the head cushion, suddenly looking far more comfortable than he did thirty seconds ago. He clears his throat, running his tongue over his lips, before sucking in a breath and letting himself go on.
“You’re not movie girl,” he says again, successfully clarifying nothing. “There’s this chick I used to dance with — years back, before… God, when we were in school, like, forever ago. She moved away when we were sixteen.” As he talks, he reaches your destination and sets the car into park, before he unfastens his seatbelt and turns to face you. You do the same, shifting your weight to tuck one leg up beneath you, and with your undivided attention, he goes on. “I ran into her recently. She’s back in town now, I guess. It was like, two weeks—?”
“I’m gonna be all-over grey by the time you finish telling this story,” you interrupt, raising an eyebrow. “Can you please give me the short version?”
“Not if you want it to make sense,” Chan shrugs. Begrudgingly, you let him keep talking. “She said it would be cool to hang out, maybe catch a movie or do lunch or something — and look, I didn’t know she was asking me on a date, I thought she was just being nice, y’know? Trying to be friends, but… you weren’t working that day, it was when you had that… that stomach thing going on? And I brought you the soup my mom made, remember?”
You nod; of course you remember. At the time, you wondered why on Earth this grown man’s mother was making you food — you asked yourself whether he’d told her about you, or if she thought it was for someone else. In the end you decided he must have just been bringing you leftovers. But you’d been too worn out to start asking questions; instead, after you’d eaten, you let yourself fall asleep with your head in his lap as he patted your hair and hummed his favourite songs. You hadn’t let yourself think too deeply about it since.
“Anyway. We were sat watching the movie and she, uh,” he glances down at his lap, tips of his ears burning pink. “She put her hand, sorta, on my thigh? And then I was like, shit, I didn’t read this right, like… at all. So I moved it off and she took the hint — and after it ended I said to her, you know, I was flattered, right? But I wasn’t interested. And then I went home and got that soup and—… yeah.”
He came straight to see you. To look after you. Hell, you didn’t even fool around that night; in retrospect, it was all uncharacteristically domestic. And slowly, the pieces you’ve spent days struggling to fit together start to fall into place. It makes sense. The only question that remains is do you believe him?
Well, tell a lie.
There is one more.
“You said there was someone else,” you add quietly.
You’ll die before you admit it, but this is secretly the part that was hurting you the most.
You can’t even look him in the eye, right now; your cheeks are burning with the embarrassment of even caring. As much as you want to tell yourself that the only reason you’re pissed is just because of the dishonesty, you can only stare at yourself in the mirror and point-blank lie so many times. Someone else. You hate it.
Just the thought of him seeing somebody else, taking them out on dates, smiling at them, laughing with them, kissing them the way he kisses you, touching —
A shiver runs the length of you and you cross your arms, thrusting your sleeve-covered hands under your armpits.
Chan takes a deep breath in and exhales it slowly, like he’s blowing smoke out of his lungs. “There is,” he admits, nodding slowly, avoiding your eyes, too. “There is someone else.”
“When were you going to tell me?” You ask.
Chan doesn’t respond straight away. You don’t notice, but eventually his eyes do land back at you; it’s only when he clears his throat to get your attention that you look at him long enough to realise he’s quite deliberately staring. His lips are lifted on the right in a lopsided smile, his eyes soft as he reaches across the seats towards you. You stare blankly down at his hand until he wiggles his fingers, and you think briefly that this is the most fucked up ending to a situationship you’ve ever been through.
You drop one of your hands down and let him hold it, though, staring at his face as his thumb brushes over your knuckles and you wait for him to finally say it out loud. For him to announce that he’s fallen for somebody and that he can’t see you anymore. To put the nail in the coffin. Don’t tell me their name, you think. I don’t want to know anything about them. Please, just don’t.
“For someone so frustratingly smart, you’re really fucking dumb,” Chan says, finally, swallowing around his words and squeezing your fingers. Whatever stoic expression you had forced onto your face at the start of this conversation dissolves into irritation and you snatch your hand away from him again, letting his own fall and collide with a thunk against the handbrake.
“Oh, sorry that I didn’t realise you were sneaking around behind my back when that’s the one thing we promised we wouldn’t do,” you snap. “God. The only stupid thing I’ve done here is get involved with you in the f—”
“You’re the someone else.”
Oh.
Oh.
“I’m—?”
“You.”
The admission hangs heavily between you, as does your nonsense, unfinished insult. Neither of you really know what to do with yourselves except sit perfectly still and try to somehow deal with your increasingly dry throats. When Chan moves, it’s only to turn down the heating dial when his cheeks burn a bit too hot; you appreciate it, in part due to the bead of sweat currently running down your back, but you don’t say so.
“You could have started with that,” you say weakly, wrestling with all your strength to keep even some of your cards close to your chest. It’s not working though. Your attempt to conceal your elation is a bit like throwing a single leaf on top of a bison and calling it camouflage.
Chan commits to laughing, finally, your sentiment breaking him too. Now, you do crack that smile, albeit mostly just at the sound that comes from him. It’s bright and airy, lighting his whole face up as he drops all the way back and leans against his car door, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I was trying to build to a moment! It’s not my fault you hit every branch of the anti-romantic tree on your way down.”
“I am not anti-romantic,” you scoff in protest.
“Yes — you are.”
“Am not!”
“Are too.”
“No, you’re just an idiot.”
“Says she who didn’t realise her fuck-buddy had feelings for about six months, Jesus.”
“Chan—” You start, your voice laced with a playful warning.
“Here I was thinking I was making it completely obvious,” he rambles on.
“— oh my God, just shut up and kiss me.”
“Dropping hints left and r—” … “Huh?”
He stops short a fraction of a second after you finish, stumped and silent, frozen with everything but a little buffering symbol above his forehead. Kiss me, you said. Chan, […] just shut up and kiss me. All right, you’ve asked him to do that before, but not like this. Not as if you’ll wither away should you not get a taste of his lips this instant. It takes him some time to process it, but he does move in first, eventually. The way he always does, closing the distance between you like he’s been shot out of a cannon, one hand either side of your face, crashing feverishly against your mouth.
Every now and again, he’ll be happy to let you take charge and set the pace: mostly just if he’s feeling lazy or especially generous. Tonight isn’t one of those times, however. He holds you and kisses you possessively, like you’re his, like this is how he finally gets to lay claim on you, licking between your gasp-parted lips after he moans straight into your mouth. He’s spearmint sweet, edged with that one cherry flavoured chapstick he stockpiles as he grins up against you, rolling his body fluidly with every separation for air, every changing angle.
He pulls your sweatshirt up over your head and throws it down into the footwell on the passenger side, straight away hurrying to kiss you hungrily again, hands cupping your neck. His tongue is in your mouth once more, there’s no way you could possibly differentiate your breaths from his: you’re one, in every way you can be with your clothes still on, but it’s not enough.
“Want you,” you whimper as he nips at your bottom lip and pleasure rushes through you from head to toe.
“You’ve got me,” he groans with his eyes still closed. “I’m all yours.”
“No,” you insist, whimpering when his cute little nose drags across your cheek until he’s pressing hot kisses to your jawline. “I— fuck—” He suckles on the sweet spot below your ear and your spine tingles, head tilting to give him better access. “Chan, I want you.”
Chan settles back from you, his usually bright, sparkling eyes now darkened with desire. All he gives you is a singular glance sideways, but you know exactly what he’s suggesting. You nod, breathing deep, biting the inside of your cheek; he turns off the headlights and it’s all systems go.
There’s a rush to scramble into the back of the car. Chan takes the keys out the ignition and climbs through the gap in the seats; you opt for the less hazardous approach of getting out of the vehicle entirely and re-entering it instead. Not that it bothers him — no sooner is the door closed behind you, Chan’s hands are on your hips and he pulls you on top of him, your leg knocking the dahlias off the leather and onto the floor in the process. You gasp and glance down but he averts your attention with two fingers under your chin, guiding you to look back at him.
“What? You think this is the last time I’ll bring you flowers?” He asks, capturing your lips as he leans up to you; at the same time, his hands drop low and he starts to slide open the buttons down the front of your pyjama shirt. “Baby, m’gonna get you so many more.”
You sigh at the affectionate name, at the change in its use; until now, Chan has only called you baby while he’s buried inside you, bruising you inside and out with sharp thrusts and rough-gripping fingers. But as much as you can feel him growing hard against the inside of your thigh while you try to get comfortable, one knee planted either side of his hips, you can’t help but feel as if this time, it means something different.
(He’s had feelings for six months: it always meant what it does, now. You know that, deep down.)
Somewhere in amongst the never-ending sloppy kisses and constantly travelling hands, you manage to strip both his jacket and T-shirt off him and you’re pressed bare-chest-to-bare-chest with Chan, feeling every little hitch of his breath in his lungs, every thump of his heartbeat, every tiny increase in the temperature of his skin. Your desperate search for friction between your legs has you rolling your hips down against his hard-on, drawing grunts and making him squeeze at your tits when you rock against him the right way. His head eventually drops to your chest and he replaces one hand with his mouth, freeing his fingers to slide down the front of your pyjama bottoms.
It’s honestly rarer for Chan to get straight to the point than it is for him to tease you a little first, so when he flattens his palm against you and brushes his fingertips over your already aching clit, you let out a squeak of surprise. He shivers, releasing your nipple from between his teeth for a moment; once he’s collected a little more arousal to ease the friction, he continues to rub at the bud, slowly building the pressure inside you.
“No panties?” He asks, struggle clear in the roughness of his voice.
“I was in bed,” you gasp, eyes rolling back. It’s for the best that it happens out of pleasure, really, because you’re not sure you’d be able to stop yourself rolling them in exasperation at his remark otherwise. You shuffle a little, lifting yourself up on your knees more, breath hitching when he uses the newly granted space to dip his hand lower and press a finger against your hole. “Please, Chan — this can’t be comfy— just…”
“S’fine” he argues, shaking his head, despite the fact that the angle of his wrist is actually kind of painful, right now. The truth is that he can’t bring himself to care: not when he can smell your fabric softener on the shirt still hanging off your shoulders, the shampoo in your freshly washed hair, all so pretty mixed with the damp scent of your desire. Not when you clench around him as he slides his finger in and out of your cunt. Not when he could get you to soak all the way through these pretty satin pants.
Your arms snake around his neck as he dips a second finger inside you to join the first. The way your thighs tighten around his hips could — should — be embarrassing, the fact his sturdy lap holds you open enough for your pussy to be toyed with even more so. You almost always do this too music, too — for what might be the first time ever, you can hear every single wet sound your body makes, every hitch of your own breath, every grunt he gives even though he’s not the one being pleasured.
You don’t even realise how you’re rocking up and down against his hand until Chan licks from the base of your neck to your jaw, smirking over your pulse point and says, “gonna ride my cock this good too, baby?”
And if it was anyone else talking to you like this, you would be embarrassed. Mortified, at being so needy you’re here doing all the work for him. At the cry you give as he splits and scissors his fingers to stretch you out. But instead? You feel another rush of arousal drool out of you as you press your nails into his shoulders and nod, bouncing harder and watching how his bicep tenses up solid with the effort of keeping his arm steady for you to use.
“Wanna,” you gasp. “Want it so bad, Chan—”
Despite your pleas for this to move further, when his hand pulls back out of the elastic of your waistband, you feel like you could throttle him. The urge ebbs away when his soaked fingers press to your lips and he quirks an eyebrow at you, though — you end up suckling them clean, licking up every trace of your own slick. You lock eyes with him as you do, slumping on your thighs so your drenched core sits right over his tweaking length, the seam of your pants giving just enough friction to your clit for it to feel good as you grind down on him again.
“Get those off,” he instructs, trying to sound hard and dominant. Which would work, perhaps, if his voice didn’t crack in the middle of the sentence. “Now.”
Even though you’re overcome with a need to tease him, the desire you have to be split open on his length outweighs it, so you do as you’re told and hold it in for later. It’s not easy, but you manage to manipulate yourself in his lap to work the satin down your thighs and past your knees. He helps you tug them the rest of the way past your ankles and feet, shoves them onto the floor — Chan’s hands settle back on your hips and yours skim down his stomach at the same time, fingers grazing over the little hairs that trail from his bellybutton down into his jeans.
“Can I?” You ask, playing already with his belt buckle.
He hums assent and you slip it all the way open, tugging as he moves his hips underneath you so you can pull it free from the loops. Between you, you manage to get his jeans unfastened, to pull both them and his boxer shorts down over his ass and to his knees; finally, fucking finally, his cock sits pretty and leaking and free between your stomach and his. It’s getting cold in the car now the heating isn’t on, but you’re already burning up in anticipation for him to ruin you; the way his abs ripple as he takes his shaft into his hand and strokes himself a couple of times to prepare tells you he’s in the same boat.
It’s like clockwork, from here. You shift into position as easily as you settle into bed after a long day. Chan rubs his tip through your folds, feels the warmth of you and hisses through his teeth with fluttering eyes. Just like always. This never changes. He can’t ever get enough of that first feeling of his cock against your pussy: it’s like the first hit of a blunt, like the first sip of a cold beer, the first full-body stretch early in the morning. He’s sure it’s what arriving at the gates of heaven must feel like.
You sink down onto him slowly, fluttering around his tip and stilling to give you both a moment to get used to the feeling. He’s thick inside you. Thicker than his pretty, dainty fingers have ever been able to stretch you enough for. Even as wet as you are, you still need to suck a deep breath into your lungs before you can relax your hips further and let your heat swallow him all the way to his base.
Chan’s head is tipped back in pleasure, he’s biting his lip at the sting of your nails pressing hard into the back of his neck. He loves it, though — loves how the pain shoots in waves down his spine, how it tingles in his brain, how he knows you need to anchor yourself this way or you’ll lose control. He kneads at your ass as you sit against his thighs, listening to you whimpering at how deep he is inside you.
“So fucking tight around me still,” Chan groans, focusing all his willpower into keeping his hips down on the leather beneath him. “Shit, baby — you feel so good…” His neck softens and his head drops forward again as you start to move, rising and falling over and over. He kisses your throat and down to your collarbones while you work up to a rhythm, sliding his palms up your back, hugging you close to him.
He isn’t even the one putting in the hard work, but within minutes of this, his soft, fluffy hair clings to his forehead. A light sheen of sweat makes him radiant under the moonlight breaking through the trees. He’s breathing heavily, the top of his toned chest painted a soft pink — you don’t think he could possibly look prettier. Not until he cups your jaw with his hands and you look upwards: you land on his smiling face, those plush, swollen lips, his devilish but sweetly glittering eyes. The sight of him, looking at you like you’re some kind of Goddess, makes your pussy tighten and your tiring hips stutter. You slip your pyjama top all the way off your arms and curl your fingers into his hair, meeting him in an open-mouthed kiss, through which you’re both just beaming.
You’ve never kissed him this much. When it all started out, you sort of had a rule against it, but now? Neither of you can stop. As he starts to fuck up into you, taking the reins and letting your burning thighs rest, he keeps your face steady with his hands and freely allows his lips to slide against yours. It’s not refined. It can’t be. Not with how hard and fast his movements quickly become, not with the onslaught of curses and moans and babbled praise coming from the both of you. One particularly sharp thrust makes you yelp out a squeak of his name and he just swallows it down, making a point to keep aiming for— and hitting— that same spot inside you. You’re a mess.
He could do this all night. When your orgasm bubbles inside you and he starts pinching at one of your nipples, sending you over the edge, he’s nowhere near finished. Even though your cunt massages at his length, throbbing and pulsing through your climax; even though your voice is so high by now that only dogs can hear you; even though you nearly collapse on top of him with almost all your weight in his lap, and he has to work twice as hard to keep this going, he barely slows. He definitely doesn’t stop.
“You can gimme one more, right sweetheart?” He asks, grunting into your neck. “Always feels so fucking good when you come.” You choke up an ‘mhm’, to which he responds by slipping a hand between your bodies and down to where you’re connected. His thumb presses against your clit again — not moving, just applying enough pressure to make you stutter when you say his name.
Your thighs are still twitching when you try to lift yourself a little, try to meet his movements as he chases his orgasm too. The “problem” with Chan is that his stamina is otherworldly. You couldn’t keep up if you wanted to.
“Relax,” he says, tensing his jaw, doing the opposite himself. “Fuck — lie down.”
It’s pretty cramped and hard to move, but you lift yourself off him and only slightly lament at the sudden emptiness between your legs. There isn’t time to get too upset, however: moments after you get comfortable on your back, Chan shoves his jeans the rest of the way down and stands with one knee planted on the seats, lifting one of your ankles up to rest it on his shoulder. He slips back inside you easily then, gripping around your calf to keep you both steady. From the word go, his pace is relentless. You scrabble around for something to hold onto but the entire car seems to melt away; you ball your hands into fists at your sides instead, your eyes squeezed tightly shut.
“Mm-mm. Look at me,” Chan hums, tightening his grip on your leg. “Wanna see those pretty eyes.”
You obey, opening your lids to look up at him while he pounds into you hard enough to make the car shake. Over, and over, and over, and over. Rougher. Faster. For how long? Who even knows. All you’re truly aware of is how good it feels. How the windows grow foggy with the steam of your laboured breaths. How his sweat mingles with your own.
When his fingers on the other hand get reacquainted with your clit, when he bites down on his bottom lip, when his thrusts start to get messier and more erratic and the veins in his arms start to bulge out, you know he’s getting close. He doesn’t need to tell you out loud. The smirk he wears speaks for itself.
“Where d’you want it, baby?” He asks you, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle.
“In— mmh, in-…side me—” you stammer, hips jolting as you near your second orgasm to match his first. “Please, Chan — want it all…”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah—”
Well, he must’ve been holding himself back something spectacular, because a few thrusts later you watch all of his muscles contract as he tips over the edge, and you go hurtling with him. It’s all so much. All your nerve endings feel like they’re on fire and your vision starts to blur at the edges; it’s not long before you have to close your eyes to shut one of your overworked senses out, completely. Your muscles are sore. Your throat hurts. Even your lungs ache.
God, he hasn’t gone that hard in so long, you don’t know what to do with yourself. You can barely speak — it’s going to take you a week to recover from this, minimum.
He stills deep inside you, feeling his cock throb with the last pumps of his release. Your leg slips off his shoulder and your foot lands down with a thud onto the car’s (thankfully clean) floor; he bends forward to kiss you, still breathing heavily against your lips. You’ve come over completely boneless and reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair again feels like running a marathon at sprint pace. You’d fall asleep right here, right now, if you could, but with sweat cooling rapidly against your skin, you know that’s probably not up there as one of your finest ideas.
“You really think getting involved with me was stupid?” Chan asks, nudging your nose with the tip of his own. He’s never been less serious than this in his entire life, which stops you feeling too bad when you lightly slap at his rock solid chest and try to push him off you.
“Yes,” you lie, attempting to reach to the ground for your pyjama shirt while he grips your chin and attacks you with tiny little pecks all over your face. “Stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”
(Chan chuckles to himself and thinks that he’s quite happy to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, really. He can stay that way, as long as you promise never to stop.)
thank you so much for reading. i hope you enjoyed it - likes, feedback, comments, reblogs are all so appreciated.<3
#dino smut#lee chan smut#dino x reader#seventeen smut#svt smut#svt x reader#kpop smut#j writes.#*#this description is ass we're gonna pretend it isnt. ok THANKS bye <3
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written in fine print | r. sukuna
moving to japan to get a breath of fresh air was supposed to be one of the best decisions you’ve ever made. it still may be, but now you’ve got a problem and you don’t know what to do about it. the problem? ryomen sukuna, one of the wealthiest men on the planet, being… enamored with you. you’ve come fairly far with him as “friends” while keeping him at bay, but after you both spend christmas together, you know that things have changed. and come the first day of the new year comes a surprise that forces you to face your bottled-up truth.
[ Ryomen Sukuna Masterlist ] | part three
w — slowburn, age gap, modern au, older man/younger woman, fluff, mild? angst, this time we get reader’s pov bc it’s time ;3, insecure! reader, self-indulgence, A KISS (but just one for now sorry y’all), reader and sukuna lay their feelings on the table (I’m sorry I couldn’t help but finally get to this part), sukuna gets kinda prose-y lmao, slightly unsatisfied with this fic but I hope y’all enjoy anyway, sprinkle of bittersweet at the end
God, have mercy upon my soul.
The dozens of text messages from your cousin have you sitting on the edge of your bed in absolute disbelief. You haven’t even had any coffee yet, or any sort of something in your stomach. It’s sheer willpower keeping you from throwing up the stomach acid in your belly.
But you do need something. You make your way into the kitchen and nab the biscuits you made yesterday from the bag they were in. You shouldn’t, but you eat all four of them anyway. Then you drink something.
You were wondering why everything was going too good, why life had been so… easy as of late. Now you understood why. It was the calm before the storm. It was the universe allowing you to have some semblance of peace before it decided to throw you into the pit of mental and emotional turmoil that you’d been so great at avoiding.
Why in the world did the universe decide to put Ryomen Sukuna into your life?
That’s the question you have been asking yourself over and over again ever since you decided to take him up on the offer of a first date six months ago. Even worse, why did you even think it was a remotely good idea to get involved with someone over ten years older than you? Universe aside, you should’ve had the good judgement to keep Sukuna away. Your good intuition was something you’d always prided yourself on, so why did you decide to even let Sukuna keep coming around?
You go back to your room and get the phone, rereading over the messages. One in particular your eyes stay on:
A benefactor has paid for nana’s care and set her up in a really fancy, upscale care and rehabilitation facility here. They came and got her this morning to transfer her. When I asked about it, someone from registration said it was a gift for you. Who the fuck did you meet in Japan?
5:16 am
And you know, deep within your soul and in your gut that Sukuna was behind this. There’s no one you know that has the money to pull off something like taking your grandmother from where she was to a facility where she’s going to get more constant help, cleaned, proper rehabilitation. No one else but him.
The coffee maker suddenly beeps, beginning to brew a fresh pot of coffee. You almost jump out of your skin from it. You wait until it’s done before digging out one of the banana nut muffins Shoko brought over two nights ago to pre-celebrate the new year.
You truly don’t know what to feel. You’re unsure about everything. Coming to Japan to get a breath of fresh air from the strain your old life was supposed to be one of the best choices you’ve ever made. But now, all it’s become is a whirlwind of even more, even deeper emotional confusion.
Meeting Yuuji was great. Meeting his older brother? The entire source of the emotional confusion.
You lean against the counter and gaze outside. The snow has finally ceased and you’re sure dozers are out clearing the roads. You can’t help but fall into your thoughts.
For awhile, you’ve had… feelings. You’re not quite sure what they are, but you know that they revolve around the older, rich man you’ve befriended. You know that whenever he’s around, you feel more… open, lighter even. You know he makes you feel flustered, to which you’ve learned to seal said fluster inside of a bottle and remain indifferent in his presence. Every time he looks at you or speaks to you, it makes you feel… giddy. Happy, dare you say it.
And it’s something you swallow down and hide every time it bubbles to the surface, fearing that it’ll be nothing more than the same story as your mother: a heart broken by the letdown of not ever being enough, not being what the man actually wanted, and not being genuinely cared for.
The mug of coffee in your hands grows hot, almost scalding against the skin of your palms. It brings you out of your own mind, just in time to hear your phone vibrate with more text messages, all still from your cousin.
Because apparently fate dropped a man in your lap that was more than ready to give you anything and everything you’ve ever wanted: unconditional love on a gold platter; fate decided that you finally deserve a break from strife and grief, that you deserved to stop eating humble pie, because lord knows you’ve done choked and damn near suffocated on that shit; that you deserved to be cherished and loved and made to be someone’s number one in their life.
You know. You fucking know what Sukuna does to you, how he makes you feel inside. You also know how he wants to treat you and the things he wants to do to you. And perhaps with you, if your gut instinct is right and he wants more than a body to warm his bed.
Who are you kidding? You know you’re right.
But it’s unfortunate for you that all you’ve learned to do is bottle up your feelings and act like they don’t exist. Because you’ve never been loved, not romantically anyway. Especially not like this, from someone like this.
How were you supposed to love? What did it really mean to be in a relationship? You’ve never been in one. Not one that ever really was going to go as far as this. Was what you were feeling all temporary? And if you did get into a relationship, what if he didn’t like you when you got comfortable? What if he didn’t like it when you laughed too hard, or any of the habits you have? What if he was just wanting to play savior and ended up leaving you a few months from now?
You toss your head back and groan. Why? Why was this happening to you?
You opt to spend the day inside, rather than go out like you had planned. You have to text Shoko and Utahime, letting them know that you’re not going to be able to participate in their plans of going out and visiting shrines for the new year. The latter is reasonably mad, but Shoko calms her down in the group chat. Although she does make an innuendo about spending the day with someone else “cozied up in bed” rather than them. You send her a side eye emoji in return on her personal thread.
You change out of your pajamas and into some casual clothes — a dark red long sleeve and some black sweatpants, switching to house socks to regular socks — despite not intending to go out for the day. You do end up on the couch for most of the day, switching your attention from the TV and the messages on your phone more than you care to admit. You hardly eat, and don’t realize it until you can feel your stomach against your spine each time.
All day is basically wasted in front of the television, trapped in your own mind. Trapped in the whirlwind that Sukuna has made of your heart and emotions.
You graze through your entire stock of sweets in less than a day, uncaring if it was unhealthy. Dusk settles on the horizon before you know it and you’re anything but tired. In fact, you’re wide awake.
“What do I do…?” you ask into the open air. You feel stupid doing it, but apparently fate has a response for you.
It’s 9:18 at night when several strong knocks rap at your door.
It’s 9:20 when you decide to finally answer the door.
It’s 9:24 when you realize you’ve got a guest at the front door, the very same man who’s been making you question yourself and your whole life ever since coming to this country.
It’s 9:30 when you question to yourself why you let him in. You didn’t think it through, that much you’re sure of. How could you be when he’s thrown your heart all topsy-turvy and mushed it into goo?
Just looking at him from his back floods your mind and makes your heart race, something you hope you’re able to hide by what you hope is a face of indifference and calmness. You can see the tattoos peek out from his turtleneck, and you have to gulp down your nervousness.
The large mug of fruity tea you’ve poured has now chilled, the ice just barely clinking in the glass. You quickly open the cookie jar on the counter and shove two snickerdoodles in your mouth to stress-eat being prepared for what was coming next.
“I…” you begin, and embarrassingly realize you have to swallow the cookies to talk. “I wasn’t expecting you to… show up.”
Sukuna’s silent for a moment, then replies stoically, “Neither was I.”
You gaze at him longer than you intend to. Your attention is mostly on his tattoos, the little bits that are peeking out from the deep crimson of his form-fitting turtleneck. You watch him readjust the watch on his wrist, partially revealing the tattoo inked onto his wrist. To your surprise, Sukuna actually doesn’t like showing off his tats. He used to in his younger years; he’s still proud of them, but he isn’t as much into flaunting them to the world nowadays.
Sukuna’s deep voice cuts through the air. “Have you… gotten my gift?”
You bite your lower lip. You nod even though he can’t see you. “Yeah… If you mean the one involving my grandmother, then yes.”
“I do apologize if I crossed any lines doing such a thing,” he says. “But I don’t regret it.”
“I can imagine you don’t,” you reply, knowing full-well that him regretting anything was a very rare occurrence. “But… Why? Why would you do that? Go through such trouble to help me… and my family? Just… Why?”
His ginormous frame turns to face you to look into your eyes and answer with nothing short of honesty, “Because I want you to be cared for. I’ve seen happiness in your eyes and I want to keep you happy. I want to be the one making you happy.”
“Buying my love will only get you so far,” you say.
“I know. I want to do more for you. I want… to be more for you. Not just… this. Whatever we have going on,” Sukuna admits casually, crossing his burly arms over his chest. But he doesn’t make eye contact. In fact, he keeps his eyes to the floor, away from your gaze. “I know what I want, although I’m not quite sure how to describe everything I feel… when I’m with you and when I think about you. It’s… I know what it is, I’m pretty sure, but at the same time… I don’t.”
“It’s new for you,” you mumble. Surprisingly, he actually hears you and nods. He doesn’t lie. Not with you.
“I’ve been with many women over the years, all for the same reason. I’ve never felt like falling in love or that it would ever matter. I know lust, I know what comes with that. With you, it’s anything but. At first, yes. But your immediate rejection, you continuing to keep your distance from me and your distaste known made me stop and think.”
You raise your brows. “All it took was a girl with some strong boundaries to make you realize you can’t live off being just horny for then rest of your life?”
Sukuna laughs. He actually laughs. A bright smile crosses his handsome face as his shoulders shake with laughter. He tries to cover it up with a hand, but all it does it muffle it into loud chuckles. It takes a good couple minutes before his chuckles finally fall into a simple smile of amusement. That’s when you admit your own truths. If you were going to be hurt, you might as well get it over with.
“In a way,” Sukuna admits. And then he admits even more, opening his heart and putting it on his sleeve. “You’ve reminded me that there is more to life, that I can be genuinely happy beyond office walls and red light districts. You have made me remember what feeling excited, what being on my toes feels like. You make the air lighter… happier, every time I see you. You… I care for you.”
Sukuna’s last words of admission are watered-down and you both know it. Then again, he says he is new to these kinds of feelings. And at this point, you believe him. You wonder if he knows that you’re just like him — exactly the same: that you’re new to the feelings of love, what it means to be in love. It’s confusing, really. You’re not sure where to begin when it comes to saying the things that Sukuna has seemingly had no problem admitting to you. You can’t just say, “Ditto” and make out with him.
Well, you could, but that’s beside the point.
You swallow the frog in your throat and look at him. He isn’t looking at you but at the ground, almost like he’s unsure of himself.
“You’ve made yourself a cozy place inside me, too,” you speak softly. Your hands don’t leave the mug as you set it on the counter. “We’ve only known each other for barely half a year, you know? You make me wonder if what I’m feeling is love, most of the time. I enjoy you; I enjoy your company. I enjoy the thrill you bring into my life. I… enjoy how weightless you make the world feel. I… I like the thought of being… prioritized. I’m just… confused on whether or not these feelings are rooted in love or something else entirely.”
“And I apologize for making you feel that way,” he replies. “That isn’t my intention.”
You’re quick to your words before he can continue. “Don’t apologize. Please. It’s not your fault. I… I’ve never been in a relationship. I don’t know what love is or what it’s supposed to feel like. I’ve never been loved, and I’m not quite sure how to reciprocate it. I’m afraid I’ll fuck up. Say the wrong thing, not do something right.”
Sukuna’s brows furrow. “There is no right or wrong way to be in a relationship — just yourself.”
“I’ve heard that, just as much as I’ve heard otherwise.”
Silence fills your apartment. You tap your nails against the glass mug, little tinks! resounding. You can’t look at Sukuna now. Not after just admitting to having never been in a romantic relationship. Now, you must seem more of your age than you ever have in his eyes.
“Any insecurity you have is not invalid. I would never disrespect them,” Sukuna finally says, sheer conviction making you shiver.
The giant man stands to take his place not even a foot from you. Magnetism draws you to his face and you cannot look away. His hand comes up and brushes his large fingers across your cheek.
And like an open book, he reads you from the front cover to the very last word, reading off your exterior cover and the interior pages you’ve hidden away. “You’ve carved yourself from early maturity, into someone that your loved ones have needed you to be. You’ve never been able to truly be yourself, be free. You’ve always had to be the rock that everyone has needed, when no one has been for you. You desire to be loved, but not at the expense of heartbreak nor sacrificing the person you’ve molded yourself into for the people you love. You desire to be free above all else, not wanting to be loved unless there’s someone who can love you and give you your freedom at the same time.”
You gape, eyes almost as wide as saucers with your eyelids lined with burning tears. You dip your head and sniffle.
“I want that. I want that for you. I want to be the one to give that to you,” Sukuna continues. “The time we spent together not even a week ago, I want more of that. I no longer want to live the way I’ve been living. I want to live with you, do those kinds of things with you. That sounds corny as fuck coming from me of all people, but that’s the truth.”
You can’t help but laugh. His tone of exasperation at himself was just too funny not to.
“And what happens when you give me those things? Will you be done with me? Move on to the next person?” you ask. “Once you’ve played the part of the savior, won’t those feelings end?”
“I’ll never be done with you,” he answers instantaneously, like it was nothing short of law. “You’ve captivated me, all of me. I’ve already tried pulling myself away a multitude of times. But then one little word of anything about you and you’re all I think about for the rest of the day.”
You sniffle again and laugh. “Did you practice this? You sound like a poet.”
“I can be one if you’d like.” You giggle at that. It’s silly, but you feel like Sukuna would oblige you if you said yes. “But I mean it, every word.”
You nod and whisper, “I know you do.” Because it’s the truth. He’ll never not mean anything he says. Brutal honesty is apart of Sukuna.
The emptiness of your apartment is deafening, it’s silence almost palpable to the point where you feel like you might being to suffocate. But large, firm hands cup your cheeks and bring oxygen into your lungs again.
His hands are warm, so warm. The feeling of being touched like this, so intimately, makes all the blood flow to your cheeks to the point where you think you’ll overheat.
“May I kiss you?” he asks, tone quiet, voice deep and baritone that makes shivers roll up your spine. “At least once?”
You can’t help but bite into your lower lip. The suffocating feeling has returned, just for a different reason. But your instinct goes first — action taking the initiative over the brain — and you nod once more, mumbling out a small “yes” that you chastise yourself for being so meek.
Sukuna’s free arm wraps around your waist and gently pulls you to your tippy-toes. You’re running on instinct, one hand resting on his chest, the other circling behind his neck, eyelids slowly closing as he dives in for the kiss you’ve allowed. And when his hand cradles the back of your head, his lips meet yours, and you swear to everything from heaven to hell that you’re about to explode and die in this man’s arms.
Everything feels like it’s on fire… until it doesn’t. That fire slowly simmers down to a gentle flame, one that brings a sense of contentment.
Sukuna tilts his head, moving your lips and deepening the kiss. You allow it, and it feels like the kiss has sunk to a new depth of desire. Dare you even think or say it be devotion. His lips are warm and sweet on yours; his kiss isn’t one of urgency, but perhaps the desperation of longing. It’s not slow and controlling, not greedy. Whatever this kiss is and all the emotions contained within, you know it makes you at peace and content.
Everything feels perfect.
You both part for air, lips slow to disconnect. You can’t help but feel slightly embarrassed being so out of breath, but hearing the slight heaviness of breath coming from the large man makes you feel less awkward.
“Thought you said you hadn’t been in a relationship before?”
Your reply is breathless, “Never have.”
“Then you must be a naturally good kisser.”
That makes you laugh. You press your head to his chest and giggle away, to which you hear what you think is a chuckle from his throat.
It’s 11:20 at night by the time you look at the clock again. It’s too late for Sukuna to go home. That’s the excuse you use anyway. He’s seemingly more than happy to use the excuse right along with you to spend a night with you.
Come morning, however, things shift back to the way they were before: confusing and lonely. The couch was just as empty as the apartment. Under you was not Sukuna’s body, but a stack of pillows from your bedroom.
The note on the counter about being called in for an important meeting doesn’t do his absence justice either, instead sending every one of your walls back up, twice as high and just as thick as they were before.
Your phone dings with new messages. Utahime and Shoko, both of which declare they’re coming over to drag your ass out of your apartment to go shopping like you should’ve yesterday.
You text them back, telling them you’ll meet them at the mall, that you’re going to get ready and this time you aren’t going to miss out.
You don’t know what to do or what to think. You don’t know if one night of vulnerability means anything more than just being open with another human being. All you know is that you need a break, from yourself, your confusion, from life, and especially from Sukuna.
You need the clarity of a shopping trip and good friends for company, because your hopes for what’s coming next are getting far too high and you’re beginning to really fall in love with Sukuna Ryomen.
taglist: (no longer adding)
@vagabond-umlaut | @poe-daydreams | @heresan @thedovahqueen | @lotus-n-l0ve | @chiyoso | @miraclecherryblossomsblog | @unbreakableblueheaven | @marscatbutler | @vanillabloo | @wo-ming-bai | @visionsofmagic | @tohsri | @yuujispinkhair | @lilacliliess | @bub-ss
#sukuna x reader#sukuna ryomen x reader#sukuna ryomen x you#sukuna x you#sukuna x y/n#modern! sukuna#modern! au#jjk sukuna#sukuna fluff
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Pretty like the sun
Previous chapter / Next chapter
a/n This is pretty like the wind series spin offs. This can be read as standalone all you need to know is that Azriel has two adoptive kids with OC - Zofie and Axel. Future stories related to them might include stories specifically decided to Azriel hence why I am taging it as Azriel story too. Don't come at me please. ✨
warning: blood, fighting, injuries, drinking.
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Nyx’s pov:
"Again", his voice sounded unfamiliar to him. He had flinched at it after the concept of time had started slipping. For a split moment, Nyx thought that it was his high lord who had spoken. That had caused him a solid punch to the jaw. The boy in front of him looked Nyx over worriedly, as his stance shifted. “You’re in or you're out? I won’t wait forever”, Nyx snarled, leaping forward. Once again, he didn’t remember when they had abandoned their swords. But he preferred it like that. Close and personal. Physical.
Another blow landed against his nose, and Nyx's head flew back. He was well aware that on his good days, the poor chap wouldn’t have landed any of the punches at all. He got close only because Nyx let him. "Enough," an annoyed voice sounded from behind him. A welcome destination for the boy in front of Nyx. It was good enough for princes’s cracked knuckles to meet the target. “Flying fuck," a rough palm gripped Nyx’s shoulder, “You are the most stupid...", a growl. Nyx tried to open his left eye, one that was now too puffed up and throbbed like a bitch. “I suggest you bugger off before I make sure that you’re eating dirt for the rest of the week," Axel’s deep growl echoed, making Nyx chuckle lightly. “Man, he asked for it", the guy lifted his palms in defiance. “And if he told you to jump from the cliff, would you do it?", the boy shrugged, only making Axel let out yet another frustrated sigh, and the other Illyrian took it as his chance to leave.
“You will make a wonderful advisor in the future," Nyx skittered. “I think I will have your ass six feet under before that could even happen," Axel grumbled, pulling at his friend’s arms and trying to help him up. “I left you for a fucking hour, Nyx," he huffed, draping Nyx’s arm over his shoulders. "Yeah, I missed you. I had to settle for a fight with an idiot”. Nyx huffed. “Do I need to remind you that you have an important high-lord party to attend soon?"—that was one of the reads Nyx had let his rails loose. He hoped that if he misbehaved badly enough and looked like a walking corpse when the day chimed, he could wiggle his ass out of it. The thought alone made him want to bend over and vomit. He wasn’t built to be a prince. He didn’t want it. It wasn’t him. Wasn’t the life he envisioned for himself.
“You’ve been acting like an absolute fool ever since we came back from Velaris; what has gotten into you?", Axel kicked the door to their cabin before guiding Nyx toward his bed. Your sister happened to me, he thought, but bit his tongue. “I just wanted to fight," Nyx growled instead. Only now did he feel how badly his body hurt. That fucker had landed more blows than Nyx had initially counted. “I know you, and this ain’t you. You can talk to me. We always talk about it”, Axel shoved Nyx’s hand away from his face before dragging a warm cloth over the swollen eye. And what would he tell him? I can't get your fucking sister out of my head. Do you know why we cannot see each other for a bit? Why is she even pulling away? Nyx grunted, pulling the cloth out of Axel’s hands.
“Why don’t you start by telling me who you’ve been running around with instead?”. It was low. Axel had a right to have a life outside of being Nyx’s right-hand man. And his love life didn’t need to be accounted for. But Nyx was so angry. Angry at everything and everyone. People constantly kept him in the dark. And then threw a bucket of news in his face while expecting him to receive it with open hands. “I ain’t running around with anybody," Axel shook his head, throwing a jar of salve Nyx’s way. But the scowl on the young prince’s face only deepened, “So, Piper doesn’t ring a bell?”. And bingo. Axel’s whole body got ridged. Did Nyx have no right to go and dig into the new arrival papers? Probably. But here they were. “Keep her name out of your fucking mouth," Axel pointed a warning finger at him, clearly not finding this one bit amusing. “And you stand here giving me lectures about sharing things," Nyx chuckled, “So why aren’t you talking, friend?" Axel shook his head, “Clean yourself up and sober up while you’re at it." He moved towards the door, and something in Nyx shifted. Axel never left. Not even when Nyx was in his shittest of moods. He had always been the only one to not leave him. Sit through his temper tantrums. "Axel," Nyx breathed, panic rising in his chest. He didn’t want to be alone right now. His head was too busy. He was too full of things he didn’t want to think of. “I’m only going to grab you some fresh water; lay down you twat," Axel grumbled back, easing the rising tide within Nyx. He nodded simply, slumping back on the mattress. His hand instantly moved beneath his pillow, where he always kept a stitched napkin that Zofie had given him. The crooked moon and stars greeted him like they always did. The stick figures holding hands. The flowers. Even the wonky sun on the far left side was perfect. Always perfect. “I’m thinking about you," Nyx muttered, brushing his fingers over the stick figure that was supposed to represent Zofie, “It’s one never-ending night over here without you, Sunny."
Zofie’s pov:
It’s only been a week, but it felt like forever. She never usually felt so desperate when they left. At least not after the first week. But she had grown restless. The cry that left Nyx’s lips as he shot up to the sky was still ringing loud and clear. Zofie heard it even through her hammering heartbeat. With her back pressed against the door, as she covered her mouth. And now it felt as if she hadn’t seen Nyx in a lifetime. It clawed at her. She knew that Axel would look after him, but... What if something happened, and that’s how they would have separated?
Zofie didn’t know what she was feeling. It all seemed too mushy and jumbled up. Now, instead of seeing a different aura around people, she simply saw black. It was impossible to distinguish between different feelings.
“Zo, do you want more pancakes?", her father’s voice made her almost drop her fork as she nodded. Azriel gave her a concerned look before plopping one of his signature breakfast goods onto her plate. “You excited to see the girls?", he asked, throwing a glance your way, only earning a slight shrug in return. “Yeah, am… It will be nice”, even if she didn’t want to see anyone. Well, maybe Piper. Axel had said that she was one of the nice girls. One Zofie could get to know if only she chose to.
“Ah, yes. You’ll be able to show them around; you can even go down to the market in the city," you chimed in, “and buy something nice or show them the good spots." But Zofie didn’t want to do that. Most spots had been hers and Nyx’s. They felt too personal to just be handed out. The same pinch in her chest made the hallow darkness spread even more. Her brows knitted as she pushed the plate further away from her. “You didn’t like it?", Azriel stopped mid-bite, almost making Zofie feel guilty. Almost. “Just not hungry," she shrugged, getting up from the table. She caught a glimpse of worry in her father’s eyes as she moved towards the stairs. The way you had reached out to squeeze his hand. And while Zofie didn’t want to keep you two in the dark, she didn’t know how to explain the emptiness inside her.
Just the fresh air and change of scenery didn’t help. It was nice to see her aunts and introduce herself to Piper, but socializing was never her thing. Nyx did most of the talking when they were out in public. He was born for that. It baffled her how quickly he managed to come up with a snarky remark as if he stored them all within his brain with special labels for just the right moment. Zofie tried to suffocate thoughts of him. Tried. But failed miserably. Everything she did or thought of was always in one way or another related to him. The thing was that she didn’t want to leave him like that. She didn't want to make him upset, but she also didn’t know how to make everyone happy. So, until she could come up with a solution, it would have to be like that.
“In my opinion, he is so much more attractive," one of the girls giggled into her palms. Attractive? How long has Zofie been out of this conversation? They were talking about the market day the last time she listened. “Well, Piper is the one who got to talk to him," the brow haired girl nudged the poor Piper, who had practically curled into herself by now, “Is he really hot up close?”.
Zofie shook her head. “Who’s hot?", she cut in, making all four sets of eyes dart up to her. And now she realized why she hated speaking in the first place. “Piper here had the prince’s second man carry her boxes”, Lina’s blond curls bobbed as she turned. But that was Axel? Why was Axel even here in the first place? He told her they could... Of course, he had met her. “Well, that’s my brother, so can we not talk weirdly about him?", Zofie scrunched up her nose, making the other two girls roll their eyes. But at least Piper’s shoulders sagged in relief. "Bore," the copycat next to Lina chirped. Zofie just couldn’t remember her name.
“We sure can talk about the prince himself," Lina smirked, and something snapped deep within Zofie, “There’s nothing to talk about." Suddenly, the prospect of having girls her age seemed like the worst idea ever. “As if... I’m determined to meet him," Lina said. The green mist rose in Zofie’s vision. “Gonna swoon him off his feet; heard he’s a proper flirt two," she elbowed her double ganger as they both chuckled.
“He will not fall for your shit," Zofie bit back, not even realizing that her hands were now firmly clenched by angry fists. “And how would you know that?", Lina fluffed her lashes. How did she know? She didn’t. Lina was pretty; you couldn’t take that from her. From the hair to her lean body. She was the embodiment of how any girl wanted to look. While Zofie… “He is my friend," she muttered, biting out the nagging thoughts. Lina chuckled, “Yeah, a friend. So, clearly, if you’re not girlfriend material, I will be."
It felt as if a bomb had exploded all around her. Vision glazing over. She saw nothing. Only Lina. She heard no one. Only Lina. And surprisingly, the girl wasn’t smiling. She looked petrified. Grasping at her throat. It felt static. As if the time had come to a halt. And then someone yanked her back. Pulling Zofie away from the neatly placed picnic blanket.
"Zofie", it sounded muffled, but her eyes did follow the sound. Only to be met with Feyre’s concerned ones. She blinked a couple of times. The fuzzy feeling cleared out. “She’s insane," a shriek sounded from behind her, making Zofie twist back. “You are dangerous, you stupid..." it was Lina, her cheeks still red, eyes wide. “Don’t finish that sentence," Cassian was gripping her shoulder, but he didn’t look too concerned with the girl. His eyes were on Zofie.
Zofie blinks a couple of times, black spots dancing in the corners of her vision. What had she done? Was it even her? Why did she... “Why don’t we go drink some tea, dear?", Feyre wrapped a hand around her shoulders. "I...", Zofie barely muttered before Feyre cut in, “Some tea with lots of honey, yes, yes." A part of Zofie wanted to run. Like she always did. Run away and hide. But Feyre pushed some of hair behind her ear, “We’ll have a nice conversation you and I”, she muttered almost ti herself, “Bake cookies even. Cookies always help”.
Nyx’s pov:
“Give me that," Axel said, snatching the glass out of Nyx’s hand, “You’ve been here for an hour." An hour too long. The hustle of the people was making Nyx sick. It was bad enough that he had to stand for the majority of that hour next to his parents, smiling as if he was thrilled to be there while he was slowly dying inside. Nyx kept dead-eye contact with Axel through it all, even if there was a sea of females who were trying to catch his eyes.
“I still think that you should cover for me so I can sneak out," Nyx grumbled. He had made at least five escape plans; he even planned to fake an allergic reaction, but Axel hadn’t been as thrilled about that. “Midnight. We had a deal”, Axel muttered, scanning the crowd. He was Nyx’s hawk, noting slipped past Axel. And as much as Nyx hated to admit it, Azriel was the one who had taught him all of it. “But you’ll dance with half of the girls in that line," Nyx nodded towards the girls who hadn’t stopped staring at him ever since the night began. “They ain’t her for me, kitten," Axel mused, making Nyx roll his eyes. “I’ll put a good word out for you," the prince said with a tap on his friend’s shoulder.
“Is your family coming?", Nyx scanned the crowd for familiar face. Well, correction. Is Zofie coming? He had tried to sneak back to Velaris before all this. He had to because his brain was going into overdrive. It had been eleven days, eighteen hours, forty-seven minutes, and 45... 46 seconds till he had laid eyes on her. And by now, he was more than okay with just catching a glimpse. He could do with that. He would settle for that. “Papa should," Axel said calmly, “Ma’ wasn’t feeling too well, so she’s back at the cottage." Translation: Zofie didn’t want to go, so Y/N stayed back with her. Nyx clenched his jaw. “Everyone’s healthy and well?", he was fishing for straws here, and he knew it. “Yeah, it’s all well; little one is growing too fast, though. Could have sworn she fit in my palm before we left," Axel muttered, and a part of Nyx was glad that he hadn’t caught onto his real intentions.
“Here you are”, a strong palm landed on Nyx’s shoulder, making the boy look to the side. His smug father stood there, way too happy with himself. “High Lord," Axel said, lowering his head in greeting, even though Nyx had specifically told him to not kiss his father with flatly. “You two are hiding in the back as if this is a funeral," Rhys shook his head with a smile, “Come up to the front tables; quite a couple of people are looking for you." Nyx’s eye twitched. If only he could scream now. He was convinced all the windows would shatter. He wanted out. Why was no one catching onto the fact that he was suffocating? He didn’t want to be a part of his father’s plans. He didn’t want to be a perfect son. A one-day-crowned prince.
Nyx was sure that Rhys could see the malice burning through his eyes, considering that his face went dead serious. Nyx knew that his father would stomp his foot, and he would have to do it. Or that pleading look on his mother’s face would claw at his heart till he gave in. He felt Axel’s hand on his shoulder blade. He was spiraling then. His magic was flaring up and Axel was warning him like he always did. Nyx was about to open his mouth when his eye caught movement behind his father. His eyes narrowed. Vision sharpening, and then it all died down.
The ringing in his ears faded. The choking feeling subsided. “Nyx, I am talking to you," Rhys said, gripping his upper hand, but Nyx shook it off as he stepped forward. Smile tugging at his lips. She was a vision. There might have been hundreds of females here tonight. Wrapped in the most expensive silks and velvet. But he hadn’t given them a second glance. And now she stood there at the top of the staircase. Looking over the hall. Nyx only hoped that she was looking for him.
And then her gaze found his. As if he had brought it right back to him. As if in a sea of bodies, she knew where he would be. And then she smiled. And Nyx was convinced that someone had spiked the wine because she shouldn’t be smiling. He moved faster, his hands gripping the railing as he jogged up the stairs. He missed every other step as he went. Was it appropriate? No. Was he making a spectacle considering that they were right above everyone and had nowhere to blend in? Yes. But did he care? No. Because even with twenty stairs separating them, she was too far away, and at the same time, she was in front of him way too quickly, leaving him no time to pick through his thoughts.
“You came?", Nyx breathed heavily. Zofie crossed her arms over her chest, looking him up and down. "I had a feeling you were struggling to get through this," she said casually, “Axel said that your sassiness has been off lately." Nyx wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry at this point as he stepped closer to her, shielding her tiny frame from any curious glances. "Sunny," he muttered, ready to watch her fade away the same way she always did in his dreams.
“Your hands are trembling," she breathed, reaching out for his palms, “Why are your hands trembling?" Her worried eyes looked up at him, and he was ready to sink to his knees in front of her. “I… I am nervous”, he muttered like a teenager, looking at his first-ever crush. “You never get nervous around me," Zofie frowned, shaking her head. And then there was one heartbeat. One. Nyx’s left hand reached behind her as he pulled her into his chest, wrapping her up in his embrace.
He was shivering all over. But all the systems in his body that had been flashing red for days now were finally running smoothly. It felt as if he could finally breathe. That lavender sugar scent that she carried drowned him in her. “We need to get out of here," Nyx breathed again, her hair neatly braided with daisies. “I didn’t spend an hour lacing this for nothing," Zofie muttered, pulling back from his embrace. Both of their eyes fall onto the deep purple and black bodice. A vision. Nyx reached for her hand. “I’ll appreciate the hell out of it for you, Zof; I will," he muttered, dragging her towards the double-sided door. He heard gasps as he moved. Pretty sure he even heard his name being called. Pret sure he heard footsteps. But the moment he was out in the cold night air, he wrapped his arms around Zofie once more. Bringing her as close as he possibly could before shooting up at the sky and winnowing halfway through the plush clouds. Now that he had gotten his sun back, not even the devil himself was strong enough to take her away.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Taglist: @sirenpearldust @historygeekqueen @hnyclover @i-am-a-lost-girl16 @naturakaashi i @stressed-reader @woodland-mist @goldenmagnolias @nocasdatsgay @lees-chaotic-brain
#nyx x oc#nyx imagine#nyx x reader#nyx acotar#nyx archeron#nyx acotar x reader#nyx acotar imagine#acotar imagine#acotar x reader#acotar x you#acotar x oc#azriel spymaster#azriel shadowsinger#azriel x reader#azriel x oc#azriel imagine#azriel acotar x reader
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meadow afterglow
pairing: bakugou katsuki x reader
cw: fluff everyone !! pro hero bakugou, gender neutral reader, reader is a florist and owns a flower shop, reader loves flowers/plants/nature, swearing ofc, brief violence (attempted assault on reader from some strangers), awkward katsuki hours incoming- he’s super whipped but helpless, i switch povs from bakugou to reader often, tiny bit of angst.. some misunderstanding—both bakugou and reader are idiots that can’t communicate
wc: 5.2k words
analysis: bakugou fucking hates flowers—they’re too fragrant, too cliché, too romantic. and yet, he finds himself always coming back to the same flower shop once his shift ends.
———
bakugou katsuki doesn’t like flowers. hates them, despises them—loathes them even! flowers just aren’t his thing.
when they came along with prizes (where he won first place of course), he’d always snort and throw them away in some trashcan once he could.
when kids back in his middle and high school days were brave enough to make a move on him, he’d send a spark from his palm and ultimately burn their flowers (and hopes) away.
he does the exact same thing to this day with his fans if they were perhaps lucky enough to encounter him during his patrols. (it looks bad when the press covers it obviously and that’s only one problem his pr team deals with.)
so yeah, in conclusion: bakugou isn’t particularly fond of flowers. it’s one of his many supposedly unpleasant traits—not that he really cares. now, he’s changed in these past years, truly, but he’s still maintained some of the roughness of his personality.
‘cause when you think of pro hero dynamight, number two on the hero charts (interchangeably with number one pro hero deku), you don’t think of flowers.
but… here he is. it’s just around thirty minutes past six in the evening, the ropes of dusk in the sky evident as the city prepares for nightlife. his shift had ended a while ago, but everyday, on the way home, he makes sure to stop by a small shop. a flower shop of all places. and bakugou katsuki hates flo- yeah, you get the point.
he doesn’t even know why he hesitates going entering the shop—he’s pretty damn sure you can spot him from outside. his visits are expected. the sound of the dainty bell ringing reaches his ears as he walks in.
“back so soon, dynamight?”
he grunts and turns his head away, sharply avoiding your gaze so you miss the squinting of his red eyes. you’re behind the counter as usual, fixing the arrangement of some daisies in their pots.
his cheeks burn but he’s lingering by the entrance, feigning his attention on the shelves decked with plants so you don’t see any blush. “yeah, yeah.. jus’ give me some damn flowers already,” he demands gruffly.
the sound of you briefly laughing has his head whipping back to you almost instantly. he catches the sight of you lightly shaking your head in amusement.
“anything like usual then, dynamight?”
fuck, he can’t help but wonder what his actual name would sound like off your tongue. it’s always been dynamight this, dynamight that—and while he certainly doesn’t mind, he just can’t help but wonder. when you tilt your head at him, he realizes he had been staring. he clears his throat. “yeah, whatever.”
finally, he walks toward the counter, moving around the small display tables topped with a pretty arrangement of succulents as you beam at him.
“alrighty then!” you clasp your head together, nodding for a bit. “i hope you don’t mind tulips then. we got a fresh new batch so they should just do fine!”
he nods in acknowledgement. “yeah, that’s fine f’me,” he huffs. and as you send him another smile and you dismiss yourself to the back to fetch said tulips, he can’t help but think about your first meeting.
it had been a week or two ago. a usual day of kicking ass was over and he was just on the way home until longtime friend kirishima eijiro called in a favor—he had practically begged bakugou to grab him some flowers for his date with mina since he was running late.
begrudgingly, katsuki had agreed, insisting only because the redhead was being so damn annoying. and so he pulled in to the first flower shop he saw—yours. he had stormed in and just demanded for a bouquet and the rest was history.
he found himself coming back even though he didn’t even need fucking flowers. (at first, he tells himself it’s because he’s got nothing better to do. and then he convinces himself it’s just to ensure the safety of another civilian, since you close nearing nighttime and walk home. and then he can’t lie to himself anymore that he finds you a tad bit.. cute.)
when you return, he breaks out of his reminiscing and looks back to you, blinking expectantly. “here you go!” you chirp, presenting the tucked tulips in some wrapper.
he’s grabbing his wallet from his pocket with a huff. “right.” he can feel your gaze on him patiently and he almost fumbles with his hands. (how embarrassing—he’s done this so many times too.)
and when you exchange the amount of money for the flowers, the briefest of touches from your hands makes him stutter in his movements just subtly. once the flowers are with him, he can smell its scent and he wants to sneeze.
he brushes it off and raises a brow at you. he wants to say something, maybe tell you how endearing it is to see how your name tag is lopsided on your shirt or how your wrinkled work apron has some clear stains of dirt from the flower pots on it. but instead, he says- “go home, dumbass.”
he knows you’re used to his rather blunt comments and words, but he swears he can feel the tips of his ears burn with a scorch as you snort and giggle in amusement. “i could tell you the same thing, dynamight,” you say back.
the flowers shift in his hold and he eyes the counter for two seconds to regain himself as he clears his throat and scoffs. “i meant- it gets dark faster nowadays, ‘kay? go home.”
you salute him playfully. “of course. you know i don’t close up the shop until you leave. you’re my last customer, dynamight.” (he knows.) “drive safe!”
“mhm.” he grunts and decides to take his leave before he makes a fool of himself. you wave him goodbye enthusiastically as he exits your shop and gets back into his car.
and when he returns to his apartment, he places his tulips with the rest of the flowers safely.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
the morning is just creeping into the starting hours of noon—it gets a bit busier around this time with people in the city. peak business hour because sometimes, there’s always that one person who’s looking for some flowers or the perfect plant.
but right now, your shop is empty. the wafting scent of roses newly perched on the side counter fills the air but you don’t mind it as you sweep some fallen leaves from the floor.
you had turned on the small tv hooked up in the corner of the ceiling for some background noise, humming to yourself to pass time, but its current broadcast catches your attention.
“pro hero dynamight is on the scene of the ongoing shionosu bank robbery with the help of some sidekicks and-”
you abandon your sweeping to watch the small, short-lived clips of the robbery the news station has to offer, but seeing the familiar red-eyed blonde on screen has you feeling all fluttery.
you fingers tighten around the broomstick and you shake your head to yourself. you had somewhat gotten attached to the explosive hero throughout his daily visits—his honest and brash presentation may be off putting to others but you don’t mind. he’s like a literal explosion in your little life. you like to think that your plants enjoy his company.
besides, it’s sort of cute knowing that such an aggressive man had the time to stop by your shop nearly every single day to buy some flowers. and then you shake your head again—he was buying flowers, most likely for someone he was seeing.
you can still remember your first meeting with him like it was yesterday. man had strutted into your shop like he owned it and ordered you to give him some flowers. something along the lines of “oi! you still open? get me some shit for a date or something!” and that’s how it happened.
you wouldn’t change whatever this.. relationship you had with the pro hero for the world but it did hurt a little, knowing he was coming to your shop for your flowers only to give them to someone else. why else did he buy them?
the sound of his voice from the tv has you perking up and you’re quite embarrassed of yourself by the the effect he has on you, even on a damn screen.
“hah? just some fuckin’ d-list criminals who chose the wrong day to rob a bank,” he barks at the reporter, “you really think i couldn’t handle those shits?” of course, his words are poorly censored and you can’t help but laugh.
yeah, you’re okay with what you have. you’re happy that you can somewhat see another side of dynamight through your little exchanges.
the bell ringing then diverts your attention away from the tv and you politely greet an elderly lady walking in. you place aside the broom and head back behind the counter, content with knowing that you’ll see him later today.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
bakugou comes in during his usual time, casual clothes only slightly rumpled since he had been in a hurry to make sure to make it before you closed up the shop.
and there you are as always, behind the counter with a sweet smile. “good evening, dynamight!”
he sighs quietly, taking in the calm and scenery of your shop. it’s a welcomed contrast after the hectic events of today—annoying criminals thinking they could take him down and even more annoying reporters with nosy questions.
“hey.” he grunts, then asks curiously, “how was your day?” he decides to ignore how pleasant surprise flicks over your face by roaming through the shelves on the side.
“it was pretty good,” you hum in reply. there’s a pause and then you add, “i saw you on tv today. a robbery, huh?”
the realization that you saw him in action on screen makes his cheeks heat up for some reason but he plays it cool, peering at you from behind one of the shelves. “oh, yeah,” he chuffs, “impressed?”
you giggle to yourself, crossing your arms as you observe him. “impressed by how they somehow managed to censor you, that’s for sure.”
katsuki winces only subtly and rolls his eyes as he comes out from behind the shelving to approach the counter. “yeah, yeah. pretty sure my pr team is gonna try ‘n whoop my ass again for that.” he barks out a rough laugh. “as if they could.”
you tilt your head back as you laugh with him, and fuck, he thinks he can watch you laugh all day. it’s music to his ears. “right,” you snort, “they can try, huh?”
he straightens his shirt somewhat, noticing the obvious wrinkles on them. “oh, yeah. you watch me the whole time?” he’s teasing.
“you wish,” you banter back, now uncrossing your arms to drum your fingers on the table absentmindedly. “this woman came in for some flowers. she was so kind- i gave her some delphiniums!”
he tilts his head, brows furrowing. “delphi-what now?” he huffs, leaning against the counter as he watches you brighten up. (damn, are you cute. but he’s not gonna say that out loud.)
“delphiniums are pretty.” you sigh and then start to ramble, “i gave her some royal larkspurs. pretty easy to take care of at the start! they usually symbolize dignity and grace, amongst some other things like sincerity, dedication- oh, i’m talking too much, aren’t i?” you rub the back of your neck sheepishly. “you’re just here for some flowers, sorry. uh, just anything like usual?”
bakugou blinks and chuckles softly. “nah, don’ worry. like hearing you talk.” shit, did he really say that? he straightens his posture and clears his throat, trying to act all nonchalant. “and uh, actually- i’ll take the larkspurs or whatever.”
you gaze is wide before you nod with a bright smile. “larkspurs it is.”
later that night, he adds those beautiful arching flowers of blue with his growing collection, another reminder of you.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
god, how bakugou hates commission meetings with a passion. what he hates even more is waiting for them to actually start. ‘cause that means he actually has to socialize with his fellow colleagues.
like fucking deku here.
most of the heroes are lingering around the long table, and here’s his childhood friend, rambling on with the familiar faces of half ‘n half bastard and round cheeks, and they’re entirely invested with his current dilemma. “i just don’t know what to get her! i’m overthinking this, right? just a simple gift or some flowers could do, right?”
ochako pats midoriya’s shoulder reassuringly, saying, “you shouldn’t worry about it too much, deku. i’m sure your mom would love anything you get her!”
deku shakes his head as he continues mumbling in thought. even after all these years, the nerd never lost some of his annoying traits, much to bakugou’s irritation. old habits die hard, he supposes. (however, when you ramble, he finds that he doesn’t want you to stop.)
some of the others are joining in on the conversation to pass time—there’s fucking both dunce face and soy sauce face and he’s pretty sure he’s one second away from blowing the shit out of all of ‘em. how the hell did he tolerate them in high school?
before icyhot can open his mouth and surely say something idiotic, bakugou groans and turns in his chair to face them, dragging a hand over his face. “oh, for the love of- can you shut your trap already? jus’ get her some larkspurs or some shit.”
fuckin’ nerd looks at him all curious and interested, and he’s got the attention of the others now as well. “larkspurs, kacchan?” deku questions.
“yeah,” he huffs, turning his gaze away. he recites their meaning he had learned from you instinctively, crossing his arms and kicking his feet up onto the table.
denki then speaks up, “woah, kacchan. since when were you a flower expert?” the electric hero grins and leans forward and the others are obviously interested too.
“fuck off!” katsuki snaps roughly, “i ain’t no expert on some damn flowers. hate those fuckin’ things.”
he grumbles when the others laugh and continue to tease him whilst deku thanks him profusely. yeah—he’s still a damn nerd.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
it’s another day of business. still midday, with the sun taking its place in the high in the sky. the afternoons aren’t as hot anymore, and you know you should start to move some of the display plants outside back inside but you’ll get to that later.
a lovely couple had left earlier with their desired flowers for their upcoming wedding and you had happily aided them. once they had left, you decided to take a small break, slouching on the counter.
you can’t help but let your thoughts drift back to a certain blonde. judging how he really didn’t care what flowers he got—other than the time he had asked for the larkspurs—you guessed his partner really didn’t mind the type of flowers they received either.
and as if your thoughts had summoned him, the bell rings and the door opens to reveal the man plaguing your mind, fully decked out in his hero costume.
“d-dynamight?” you yelp in surprise, immediately fixing your posture as you stare at him. he only comes at the end of the day, after his work is over and yours is nearly done—what the hell is he doing here? in the afternoon?
“ya busy?” bakugou grunts, making his way in without any further words.
he looks so out of place here—brandished armor and combat duty boots sounding heavy on the floor. you’re pretty sure he almost knocked over the shelves with how big his gauntlets are. he looks made for battle but here he is, standing expectantly, surrounded by dainty flowers and plants.
“um- um, no?” you then shake your head. “what’re you doing here? not that i mind! it’s just.. you’ve never come in the middle of the day before! what if someone sees you?”
he makes sure his grenadier bracers don’t actually knock down your hard work of arrangements, looking to you. “s’why i’m gonna be quick, idiot. can’t come later tonight so ‘m here now.”
“o-oh! of course.” you rush around the counter to pick something simple to offer to him, since he doesn’t seem to care again on what he’ll receive. you’re aware of his eyes following you as you grab some false indigos for a bundle.
“stay safe out there, dynamight,” you bid him, holding out the flowers for him to take. “i’ll see you some other time then?” you hate how hopeful you sound.
his red irises linger on you for a couple of seconds before he nods and pays up. “yeah, you will. you stay safe, idiot.“
his words make you feel warm—with the false indigos now with him, you simply smile. you won’t tell him that they symbolize protection; maybe he can learn that another day.
(later on, you see a media outlet that reads PRO HERO DYNAMIGHT SEEN WITH FLOWERS… HAS HE FOUND A PARTNER? and you hate how the title makes your stomach churn with jealousy—but seeing your flowers tucked delicately in his arms is worth it.)
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
bakugou actually doesn’t get to see you for a couple of days. there had been a change in his schedule and he had been assigned for some overnight shifts along with some other heroes in another district due to the rise of criminal activity there.
but he’s back now, thankfully, and he’s antsy to see you after all this time. (mind you, it’s only been three or four days. smitten, he is, for the attractive florist that supplies him with flowers even though he claims he hates them. on a side note, he hopes his assistant had taken good care of the false indigos he had placed in his office.)
so as he drives down the familiar street, katsuki can’t help but wonder if you still wait for him so you can close the shop. it has been a while since his last appearance that one early afternoon, so even though he wouldn’t be surprised that you don’t, he couldn’t lie and say that he wouldn’t be a bit disappointed.
but as he pulls in into the parking lot, he’s furious.
you had just closed the shop, not even a few feet away from the door as a gang of looming strangers crowd in towards you, all hunched and shady as you match their stares warily.
katsuki isn’t sure he’s moved faster than he has in his life—he’s scrambling out of the car to help you when you manage to land a sucker punch square into one of the asshole’s jaws. with your flank exposed, another one lunges for you and you scream.
“you fucker!” he snarls and he reaches you in record time, the one you had already knocked to the side being met with an accurately aimed kick to the gut from his boot before he sends an explosion that has the remaining three flying.
when bakugou sees that none of them are making an effort to get up, he slips out of his offensive stance and immediately turns to you in concern, eyes roaming for any injuries. “are you hurt? did they touch you?” he demands, brows furrowed. “i’m-”
he falters when you simply stare at him in awe. the silence between you two is deafening and he doesn’t know how to interpret it. he starts, worried, “hey, are you-”
you arms wrapping him around has him inhaling sharply. his arms linger, unsure of what to do but he accepts your embrace delicately. “thank you, dynamight,” you murmur after a moment, still holding him.
he breathes softly, and he’s all quiet when he speaks again. “..it’s bakugou to you,” he tells you gruffly, “got it?”
his words have caught you by surprise—he knows it by the way your eyes widen when you pull back to look at him. he meets your stare readily.
“thank you, bakugou,” you say gently, and his gaze softens. (hearing his name roll off your tongue is something he can get used to, he decides.)
he then chuckles, all fond. “remind me not to get you mad. that punch looked nasty.”
you laugh genuinely, and katsuki can’t help but think about how much he missed hearing it.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
bakugou drives you home every night from then on.
you had no problem before, as your apartment building isn’t that far off, perhaps a fifteen minute walk, pushing ten if you jogged a little, and that was something you could manage. until the incident a couple weeks ago.
you definitely feel safer with him escorting you, even when you did protest that he didn’t have to waste his time driving to your shop, waiting for you to close and then dropping you off at your apartment—but he insisted. like, almost put you in a headlock if your dumbass didn’t listen insisted. (he still buys flowers every time too.)
and as giddy as it made you to spend more time with the pro hero, the reminder that he was supposedly taken was enough for you to know your limits. he’s simply doing his job—protecting people, s’all.
but in moments like this, you think you can selfishly enjoy yourself.
he’s blasting his music—some sort of punk rock that you can’t deny is pretty catchy—with his newly acquired lilacs resting on the center console for him to take home. it’s a bit silly, hearing such vulgar lyrics in the background as the petals of the magenta flowers shake slightly.
“you’ll enjoy your new home with bakugou, won’t you?” you coo at the plant, brushing your fingers over it tenderly. “he’ll take good care of you, i’m sure.”
bakugou’s got one hand on the wheel and he casts you an amused glance. as the car approaches a red light, he turns down the music and snorts. “are you seriously talking to the fuckin’ flowers?”
you lightly glare at him, a smile quirking up on the corners of your lips. “it helps them grow when you talk to ‘em nicely!”
“oh, yeah?” he raises a brow, snorting again—but he’s got an amused smirk on his face now as he focuses back on driving. “i’ll keep that in mind then, idiot.”
you sneak subtle side glances at him the rest of the ride, admiring his beauty—so close yet so far.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
this is so fucking stupid, bakugou thinks. he should be buying flowers for you, not from you—or whatever couples do nowadays to please their partners. but here he is, back again. even if he is your drive home, this weird tradition of buying your flowers he had gotten accustomed is getting old. he just hopes you’re getting the hint that he’s not exactly here for the flowers.
katsuki doesn’t even bother announcing himself when he doesn’t see you behind the counter—you’re probably somewhere in the back tidying up some final things so you can leave, so he starts looking for something to buy already.
“hey, got anything new f’me to buy?” he calls out then, and he hears some rustling from the back room. he figures he might help you out so without much thought, he saunters around the counter, following the noise of your muffled movements.
your voice rings out, “yeah, i do! just lemme-” way closer than before and just as he enters the doorway of the backroom, you appear—walking right into him.
now, obviously he’s a wall. lean and fine muscle make up his body—and you crash into him, yelping when you stumble back in surprise.
bakugou’s reflexes are quick and he manages to catch you in time—his arm dips low and braces the small of your back before you can fall over. “fuckin’ idiot,” he huffs out, “be careful.”
“hey!” you cry out in protest, “you’re the one who was standing there! for someone so loud, you sure are stealthy.”
“ah? i can be plenty fucking stealthy!” he argues, voice booming against the walls and proving your point.
you giggle at that—and that’s when katsuki realizes you’re both so fucking close. he can see the shape of your lips and the way your eyes gleam in the lighting from above. he freezes.
you seem to realize it too, falling silent for a couple of heartbeats. bakugou clears his throat and lets you go. “alright, brat. gonna give me my flowers so we can fuckin’ leave already?”
he thinks he sees your shoulders relax and fall down before you nod and brush past him. “yeah, of course.”
he scoffs and follows you, wondering what it’d be like to kiss you.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
you twiddle with some ribbons laced around some pottery, trying to redo some decorations on them since you can spare some time.
bakugou had come in a little early for you to close up, so he’s waiting for you to finish, casually leaning on the counter as he observes the store. okay, well- you’re not exactly sure what he’s doing, since he’s probably memorized the entire layout of your small area of the building by now because of how many times he’s been here.
you’re humming idly to yourself, the tv flicked on to some music ambience channel to full in the quiet air anytime bakugou isn’t striking up a conversation. he’s been silent for a while now.
“what’s a person’s ideal date?”
you nearly drop a vase. obviously, the question surprises you. it should, you think, since this is a pro hero who’s been coming to your flower shop for over a month or two now, supposedly getting flowers for his significant other—even if he does linger around longer than he should and drives you home—and he’s asking you on what someone’s ideal date is? this.. doesn’t make any sense.
“well...” you begin reluctantly, unsure of where this is leading, and even more unsure on how to actually answer. “it depends on the person, bakugou.”
the blonde simply clicks his tongue and his eyes meet yours.
“okay then. what’s your ideal date?”
just when you think he can’t surprise you any further, he does. you’re pretty sure your eyes nearly bug out of their sockets as you set the vase aside so you don’t actually drop it. “huh?”
“you heard me, dumbass,” katsuki scoffs with a roll of his eyes and you want to disappear into the floor. “what’s your ideal date?”
your throat suddenly feels dry. “i’m, uh, not the best person to ask for romantic advice, bakugou,” you warn, trying to be all teasing as you laugh anxiously. you do not want to help him plan out a date—you’d rather throw yourself into the sun.
“‘m serious, brat,” bakugou grumbles, crossing his arms and glaring at you. you can’t read him, usually you can’t, but his eyes are warm. “tell me.”
you continue fiddling with some ribbons as you glance away to contemplate. “well.. a- a picnic date would be nice. with some of my favorite foods, maybe. it’d probably be out in some meadow. just.. a nice, open meadow where you can see flowers for miles.” you sigh dreamily.
it’s quiet again and then you glance back to him, stammering, “but- but that’s just my preference! i dunno if the person you’re seeing would like that ‘n stuff. everyone’s different, y’know?”
suddenly he’s got this confused scowl on his face, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. oh god, did you offend him in some way? say something awful? what if you-
“hah?” bakugou snaps, voice colored in disbelief, “who the hell said i was seeing someone?”
what? now it’s your turn to be utterly confused, and you stare at him with wide eyes. “you’re not- you’re not seeing someone? dating someone?” you inquire, puzzled.
“no, dumbass!” he barks out, “i’m not- where the fuck did you get that idea from?”
you blink once, twice. “you!” you cry out, saying, “when you came in here for the very first time, you asked me to get you flowers for a date!”
bakugou’s eyes widen and then he’s taking steps towards you. “not a date for me, dumbass! my friend asked me to get him flowers for his date!”
your mind spins with the new information but you’re still so confused, still in denial—you shake your head. “but- but.. why else would you come in for flowers every single day?”
“because i wanted to see you!”
oh. the confession has your cheeks heating up. so… the blonde you’ve been harboring a massive crush on is, in fact, not seeing anyone, and is coming in every day to your flower shop to buy your flowers because he wants to see you?
bakugou stares at you, eyes all wide as if he can’t believe what he had just said aloud. his words are echoing in your head and you laugh a little. “you.. aren’t here for the flowers?” you say softly.
his gaze is all warm as he relaxes, and you can see the faint pink tingeing his cheeks. “no,” he confesses in a grumble, “..‘m here for you and your stupid dumbass.”
you laugh again, and he finally reaches you. his fingers twitch and slowly, you take his hands in yours. they feel a little warm, clumsy like he doesn’t know what to do with his fingers before they tighten around yours. “we really are idiots, huh?” when he glares at you softly, you add, “i like you too. just so you know.”
his blush is visible and oh so pretty now, and he lets out a sigh of relief at your words. and then he snorts, “good, ‘cus i’m gonna need some help takin’ care of all the stupid fuckin’ flowers at my apartment. it’s practically a shop now too.”
as he pulls you into a crushing hug, you burst into a fit of giggles.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
“you forgot to water this one, you idiot!” katsuki calls from the corner of your shop, grumbling at some of the drooping crotons you brought in recently. “where the fuck did you put the watering can?”
you point to the counter, too occupied with fixing the succulents. “should be somewhere on the floor over there, suki,” you tell him. and as you watch him snatch the watering can and storm back over to the plants in need, you grin to yourself.
“thanks, katsuki,” you hum as you stand back up, “you’re a big help, y’know?”
he scoffs. “yeah, yeah.” as he tilts the watering can to spray the plants, he continues in a hushed voice. “what you would ‘lil fuckers do without me, ah?”
your heart does a flip. a month or so ago, you wouldn’t believe it if someone had told you that the pro hero dynamight would be in your shop taking care of your plants as he talks to them. but you know, you also wouldn’t have believed it if they had told you he’d be your boyfriend.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
and katsuki eventually does take you out on that ideal date once it gets warmer. a dainty picnic lunch with your favorite foods that he made from scratch in his very own kitchen in a heavenly meadow surrounded by flowers all around.
and it’s there, when he kisses you, that bakugou katsuki realizes that he doesn’t hate flowers. especially since he has the most gorgeous flower of them all—you.
#bnha bakugo katsuki#bakugou katsuki#katsuki bakugou#bakugou katuski x reader#katsuki bakugou x reader#bakugou x reader#katsuki x reader#bakugou katsuki x you#katsuki bakugou x you#bakugou katsuki fluff#katsuki bakugou fluff#bakugou fluff#bnha fanfiction#mha fanfiction#bnha fluff#mha fluff#rain’s writing#my writing
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Out of Time Nanami x f!reader
Part Two out now!
Rating: Explicit (because of part two)
Word Count: ~5.7k
Summary: Two nights before your thesis is due, you decide to take a break at your favorite bar. Meanwhile, Nanami, after a week’s worth of exhausting missions, is desperate for a drink. By chance, the two of you meet and spend an unforgettable night with each other that ends just a little too soon. cw: language, drinking, kissing, suggestive touching, switching POVs (reader is in second person, Nanami is in third), eventual smut, original female character (Gina). Author's Notes: Inspired by The Weeknd's Out of Time music video, because I think Nanami + karaoke is always a fun idea! This is part one of a two-part series. Reader is in grad school, mid-twenties, Nanami is around the same age. Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are always appreciated, thanks for reading! Divider credits to @/cafekitsune.
With your final statement typed out on page forty of your thesis, you save it, shutting your laptop closed and immediately groaning into your hands. All that’s left is to proofread, cite your sources, and you’ll be ready to submit. Finally.
It’s been a six-month long journey, and at last, you’re seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. In two days, you’ll be rid of the dreaded thesis statement, and in two weeks, you’ll be the proud recipient of a master’s degree. Two years of the most rigorous academic challenge you’ve ever faced in your life, sealed with a piece of paper that you might not even benefit from in the future. This still calls for some celebration, right?
After another minute of grumbling, you take your phone out to text your best friend Gina, who should be off her shift by now.
You: I need a fucking drink.
Gina: highballs at Kanpai?
You: YES
Gina: I’ll pick you up in 15
The Kanpai Cocktail Bar is your favorite downtown. That’s where you first met Gina, who was a bartender there at the time. After she left to work for another establishment, the two of you still frequent Kanpai, the perfect spot for tasty drinks and entertainment, mainly in the form of people-watching.
However, this past semester, your trips there have lessened significantly, too preoccupied with this goddamn thesis. You need a well-deserved break, something to fuel you for the next two days before you click submit.
You quickly get ready, throwing on a blouse and a pair of jeans. Once you receive Gina’s text, stating her arrival, you swing a tiny purse over your shoulder and head outside, greeting her with a hug.
“Did you finish your thesis?” she asks, linking arms with you, starting the walk to the train station.
“For the most part.”
“Good. We can get drunk tonight,” she says, a devious grin on her face.
“Not too drunk, I still have some work to do. I just need to take the edge off.”
“Fine. We’ll get buzzed, maybe find some cute guys to dance with, and call it a night. Deal?”
“Deal,” you agree, unsure about the cute guys part. It’s been a while since you last danced with, or even encountered, a man. With your priority being this paper, you haven’t had time to date or hook up with anyone. You predict that tonight will be no different.
Five stops and you’re downtown, strolling towards Kanpai, which is already packed. Luckily, you find a table and flag a waiter down to place your order. Minutes later, they deliver the first round of cocktails and a plate of fried chicken karaage. You and Gina cheers, feeling relaxed for the first time in months. Halfway through your drink, you notice Gina eyeing something, or someone, in the distance.
“What are you staring at?”
“There’s this really hot guy at the bar. Like, really hot. I’ve never seen anyone like him before.”
You turn to the direction she’s looking at, immediately knowing who she’s referring to. He’s tall, well-built, with strikingly white hair, almost blinding in the dim lighting of the room. The most intriguing thing about him is the black blindfold around his eyes, and a naughty smirk on his face. Leave it to Gina to spot an attractive man instantly; she’s always had excellent radar for that.
“I’m going to invite him to our table,” she announces, sliding out of her chair to stand up.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. He’s hot. And we have space.”
She’s right; there’s two empty chairs, one beside the both of you. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t invite him, so you don’t question it any further, watching from your peripheral as she heads towards the bar, leaving you momentarily alone to sip on your highball.
You’re almost completely finished with your cocktail when you hear the distinct click of Gina’s heel’s approaching. Craning your neck to face them, you’re surprised to find not two people, but three, standing next to the table. Another man, a tad shorter, similarly well-built, blonde hair, and dressed in a tan business suit. His eyes are also covered with spectacles that resemble steampunk glasses. The spotted tie he wears is interesting, adding a splash of pizazz to the otherwise normal outfit.
You greet them, introducing yourself. Gojo, the one with white hair, happily shakes your hand while his friend, Nanami, maintains a stern expression. They take their seats in the chairs next to you and Gina, Gojo on her side, Nanami on yours.
“Should we order another round of drinks?” Gina suggests, glancing around to catch the waiter.
“Sure! But I’ll have a Shirley Temple. I don’t drink alcohol.”
“You’re at a bar, but you don’t drink?”
“I don’t; he does,” he answers, pointing his thumb across at Nanami. He simply grunts in response.
“What’s your drink of choice?” you ask, tilting your head to face him.
“Sake,” he states, focused on the center of the table avoiding anyone’s gaze. He’s cold, standoffish, and stoic. The type of person you’d typically avoid.
“Should we order sake then?” Gina suggests. “And a mocktail for you, Gojo,” she adds, nudging him flirtatiously.
“I’ll have a little bit,” you say. “I have to finish my thesis, remember?”
“Are you a student?” Gojo inquires, leaning forward, elbows propped up, chin in his palms.
“Grad student. I’m almost done, thankfully.”
“Good for you! This round will be on us then, right Nanamin?”
He shrugs silently, gaze unmoving. What an odd fellow. He’s showing absolutely no interest in socializing, which you don’t entirely blame him for. Maybe he was dragged here beyond his own will. He’s opposite of Gojo, who oozes charisma from every crevice. You can’t expect him to match that type of chaotic energy.
Gojo fetches the waiter, ordering sake and his virgin drink. Him and Gina chat amongst themselves, no doubt flirting excessively. You sit next to Nanami in silence, slurping on whatever liquid remains in your glass, basically water from the melting ice. You want to pull your phone out to have something to distract you, but your neighbor continues to stare at the table, frozen in place, not speaking. Hands tucked neatly in front of him.
You attempt small talk once more, gradually losing hope that this will lead anywhere. “What do you do for work, Nanami?”
“I’m a salaryman.”
“Is Gojo a salaryman, too?”
“No.”
“How do you two know each other?”
“From high school.”
“Neat.” You glance around the room, wishing the alcohol would arrive sooner. His answers are curt, as if you’re pestering him. Even behind the steampunk glasses, you can tell he’s uncomfortable. He clearly doesn’t want to be here.
You tune out whatever Gina and Gojo are discussing, not wanting to eavesdrop on their privacy, remaining silent as you twiddle your thumbs beneath the table. The drinks arrive, which you’re ecstatic about. Gojo smiles as he sips on his mocktail. Gina does the honors and pours the cold sake into each small glass, passing it to you and Nanami. With a cheers, you each down your shots, refreshing and bitter down your throat.
“So, do you ladies have any single friends you can set Nanamin up with?” Gojo asks.
Beside you, Nanami tenses up. “Gojo, I don’t want –”
“Don’t worry, buddy! We’ll find you a nice girl! Nanamin here is so shy, poor guy needs a lot of help when it comes to the ladies – ”
“Gojo,” he warns, sterner this time, Gina unable to contain her giggling.
“He’s an attractive guy, right? If it weren’t for the stick up his ass, he’d for sure be a catch.” Gojo smirks, finishing the rest of his drink.
Gina elbows him, grinning. “Don’t be so mean to your friend. Not everyone has to be in a relationship. She’s never been in one and she’s totally fine.” She points at you, much to your dismay.
You’re reminded how loose Gina’s lips get whenever she indulges in alcohol. While it’s nothing to be ashamed about, you still feel heat rush into your cheeks from embarrassment, having a personal fact about yourself revealed so casually in front of two strangers. “I’ve never had time for a relationship,” you explain. “Been too busy with school.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with being single! I’m just trying to help this poor guy out, he’s always complaining to me how lonely he is, but he never puts himself out there!”
The table rattles suddenly and Gojo yelps. “Ouch! Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” Nanami has his arms crossed tight over his chest, foot flat on the floor after kicking his friend in the shin.
Rubbing his leg, Gojo changes the subject, talking about his latest travels somewhere, to which Gina is absolutely enthralled by. You listen passively, swirling your fingers around the ring of the glass. It’s getting late and you should head back to your apartment soon, knowing your thesis is stuck in your laptop, waiting to be submitted. You don’t want to leave until Gina is done working her magic on her new friend, so you wait, not bothering to converse with the guy next to you. He seems equally as unenthused as you do, now tapping one of his feet impatiently.
Gojo eventually calls the waiter to pay the bill. After giving him your thanks, the four of you walk out of the bar together, ready to say your farewells. Or so you think. Once outside, Gojo and Gina look at you with guilt on their faces. You’ve known your friend long enough to predict where this is going.
“So, Gojo and I are actually going to hang out a bit longer.”
He wraps his arm around her shoulders, smirking. “Yeah, Nanami and I have a room at the hotel across the street. I want to give Gina an exclusive tour. We should be done in about an hour or so.”
Nanami makes a strangled noise in his throat, clearly distraught. He can’t formulate a sentence, so you do it instead. “What are you really trying to tell us?”
“Well,” Gina starts. “We thought that since the two of us are hanging out, then the two of you can hang out somewhere else. Just until we’re done. With the tour.”
You roll your eyes, annoyed by the euphemisms, more irritated by the fact that you’re being temporarily stranded out here with someone who wants nothing to do with you.
“Please keep my dear friend company. I promise, we won’t take too long. But definitely not too short either,” he adds under his breath, him and Gina giggling like naughty schoolchildren.
Nanami is still stunned, probably shocked that his friend would dump him like this. Before he can formulate a response, Gojo and Gina turn their backs, walking in the direction of the hotel. “Have fun! I know we will! We’ll call you when we’re done!” Gojo yells out, waving. Gina blows you a kiss before holding hands with him, leaving you two dumbfounded.
You stand beside Nanami in silence, unsure where to go from here. You’re familiar with this location, and you know there is plenty to do at this hour. But you have no clue what this guy likes. Does he like anything?
Clearing your throat, you say, “Well, I guess we have to kill time somewhere.”
He does the same, coughing into his forearm. “I suppose we have no choice.”
“There’s a nearby bakery that’s always open late. Do you want to check that out?”
Focused on his shoes, he shrugs. That’s a good enough answer for you.
You start heading down the familiar street, the shop being only two blocks away from the bar. The two of you walk in silence, Nanami trailing behind you, arms swinging slightly at his sides while you have your hands placed in your pockets. When you arrive to the bakery, you notice one of the workers you’re acquainted with, Susie, waving from the counter. You return her greeting with a warm smile.
Nanami seems intrigued, browsing through the assortment of baked goods. He reads each label carefully, head moving up, down, side to side, inspecting each pastry intently. “Their bread is amazing here,” you comment. “Perfect for sandwiches.”
He hums in response, leaning closer to the loaves of sourdough on display. This is the first you’ve seen him with a more relaxed expression on his face. Without the scowl, he actually seems friendly and approachable.
“The croissants are also really good. My favorites are chocolate and almond,” you suggest, pointing through the glass.
To your surprise, Nanami ends up buying the chocolate one, per your recommendation. Susie, always a cheery smile plastered on her face, rings him up. She eyes you playfully, brow raised, but doesn’t say anything. When it’s your turn, you order two hot coffees, a spur of the moment decision. You have no idea how long you’re going to be stranded out here, so a nice pick-me-up wouldn’t hurt. You explain, “Coffee and croissants go perfectly together, don’t you think?” He looks at you, confused, then shrugs, walking away to find an empty table.
Susie passes you the coffees, as well as creamer and a few packs of sugar. “Hot date tonight?” she asks quietly, a sly smirk on her face.
“No. We’re just stuck together for the next hour or so.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind being stuck with a fine man like that,” she winks. “Have fun the rest of the night. Also, here.” She opens a small brown bag and sneaks an almond croissant inside. “On the house. You both should enjoy a tasty treat together.” She gathers all of your goods on a tray and slides it towards you, grinning.
Nanami is seated in a corner of the shop, hands placed neatly on the surface, one on top of the other. When you arrive, you set the tray down, sitting in the chair across from him. “Here’s some cream and sugar for your coffee, in case you want any.”
He nods in acknowledgment, removing the lid to pour in two creams, two sugars. You do the same. He remains silent, brows in a tight knit, concentrating on stirring his coffee. It’s almost endearing the way he’s so focused on the most mundane tasks. Grabbing a napkin, you take your croissant out, ready to bite into it. Before you do, you offer, “Would you like to try some of this?”
Behind his specs, you can see surprise in his expression. He clears his throat, muttering, “Sure.” He takes his chocolate croissant out and begins to tear it in half. “We can split both of them and share.”
You grin. “Good idea.” His lips twitch, as if he wants to smile.
You trade halves, first taking a bite into the chocolate before sipping on your coffee. You let out a satisfied, “Yum!”
This time, there’s no mistaking it; he does smile. “That’s a good sign,” he comments.
“I’ve had this plenty of times, but it’s always so good.”
He removes his glasses and folds them neatly into his breast pocket. You have a clear view of his eyes now, which are much kinder than you expect. He takes a bite, then smirks, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin.
“Well?”
“You’re right. This is definitely deserving of a yum.” The corner of his eyes crinkle. It feels like you’re finally getting through to him.
“See? I told you it’s good!” you say, moving to the almond croissant.
“If I knew you wanted one, I would have bought both of them for us.”
“Susie actually gave this to me on the house, so it all worked out.”
With a brow raised, he asks, “Do people usually give you delicious pastries for free?”
You laugh. “Ha, I wish. Just here. We’re friends.”
“That must be nice.” He nibbles on the rest of it, sips of coffee in between.
“Why are you talking to me all of a sudden?” Maybe it’s the sudden rush of caffeine surging through your body that makes you decide to be bold and ask him straight up.
He’s caught off guard by your bluntness, clearing his throat nervously. “I wasn’t really in the mood to be social earlier this evening.”
“But you are now?” You rest your elbow on the table, hand tucked under your chin, studying him.
He chuckles softly, wiping the other corner of his mouth with a new napkin. “I guess so. The croissants and coffee help.”
“So the way to your heart is through your stomach? Good to know,” you tease him, smirking.
“Is that something you’re interested in? Winning my heart?” He gives you a small grin as he meets your gaze.
There’s a flutter in your belly, a skip in your heartbeat. It’s obvious he’s an attractive man; you were focused so much on his off-putting demeanor, you didn’t really think about it until now. Cheeks warm, you respond, “I’m trying to get to know you. We’re stuck with each other for tonight, might as well be friends.”
He nods, agreeing. It’s one night. All you’re doing is killing time together while you wait for your friends to finish their little rendezvous. The chances of ever seeing each other again after this are unlikely. Might as well make the most out of it.
The two of your finish your pastries in a comfortable silence. Only half an hour passes, and still no word from either of your friends. Suddenly, you remember that on Friday nights, street food vendors set up shop down the block from your current location. “Nanami, do you like street food?”
He meets your eyes again, smiling. “Absolutely.”
~~~
Nanami was desperate for a drink tonight.
Him and Gojo are out of town, having completed a strenuous week of exorcising curses from several areas of this city. All he wanted was to consume alcohol, enough to get a good buzz going, then eat a late-night snack before heading to bed. He didn’t expect to find himself at a street food festival with a total stranger, having been rudely abandoned by Gojo. Though, he doesn’t mind his current situation. Anything involving food is something he always delights in. And the company isn’t so bad either. She’s actually quite nice.
Nanami doesn’t like opening up to people. Ever since he went back into Jujutsu Sorcery, he made a promise to himself to never date, not wanting to subject any potential spouses to the horrors of the world he lives in. He keeps himself closed off on purpose, especially to strangers. It’s easier this way. Sure, it comes off rude and cold. And maybe he does get a bit lonely at times. It’s for the best; that’s how he justifies it.
Yet, somehow, this woman is slipping through the cracks. He finds himself enjoying his time with her as they stroll through the street of food vendors, selling all types of delicacies: meat skewers, noodles, varieties of desserts. They even share a serving of Takoyaki because what kind of street food outing is it without a taste of that?
They casually exchange bits and pieces about each other: hobbies, interests, favorite foods, the standard. Nanami has to remain especially cryptic about his real profession, a complicated topic to explain to normal civilians. Besides that, their conversations feel natural. Effortless. There’s no need to be closed off, considering they’re doing this for the time-being, until their two friends finish whatever fling they’re partaking in at the hotel. Their time together will end soon, going back to being strangers, never seeing each other again. Maybe that’s why he’s loosened up; all of this will be over as soon as it began.
After having walked through the vendors once more, they rest at a table off to the side. Nanami finishes off the last piece before tossing the little tray into the trash can. He hasn’t checked his watch since they arrived, occupied with food, and chatting. It’s been about an hour and a half now, still no peep from either Gojo or Gina, though he isn’t anxiously waiting to hear from them. He tries thinking of something else they can do, besides sit here, and watch the clock.
Before he can start suggesting ideas, she beats him to it. “Nanami, do you like karaoke?”
Again, he smiles at her, similar to earlier at the bakery. Chest swelling with an odd, but pleasant sensation. “Absolutely.”
Minutes later, they’re in a small private room at a karaoke bar, ordering a round of cold sake before the singing starts. She volunteers to go first, choosing a well-known pop hit, not at all embarrassed to belt out any high notes. Her voice isn’t bad, enough to carry a tune and to make Nanami, who is as tone-deaf as they come, not feel ashamed about singing in front of her. Halfway through the song, the sake arrives, and he pours it into the two cups, waiting for her performance to be over before passing her the glass. They cheers, then throw it back. She hands him the mic, teasing, “I expect a breathtaking performance.”
“Prepare yourself for disappointment, then,” he smirks, entering the number on the remote. He picks another popular song, one that he always like to start off with whenever he’s doing karaoke with Gojo and Shoko. In fact, he can’t remember doing karaoke with anyone besides his close friends. This is definitely the first in a while; he doesn’t feel as shy as he thought he would. The strobe lights in the dim space create an atmosphere where Nanami isn’t embarrassed to put on a show. He removes his coat and loosens his tie, to which she whistles playfully at him, causing him to laugh. “Don’t encourage me.”
“Oh I absolutely will encourage you,” she responds, leaning forward for a better view. “I’m so ready for this.”
Maybe it’s the alcohol taking its effect, though it wasn’t much. Or maybe he’s genuinely having a good time. Whatever it is, as soon as the melody kicks, he swings his hips to the beat, barely bothering to read the lyrics on the screen because he already has them memorized. From behind, he hears her clapping to the rhythm, giggling and singing along quietly, hollering when he nails a particularly hard note.
The marathon continues, sake flowing into their mouths between songs until the bottle is empty and they’re both on their feet, dancing to the music. Mics in hand, they serenade each other, swaying to the upbeat tempo, smiles open wide with glee. Nanami tosses his tie to the couch, unbuttoning his shirt a quarter of the way down, sweat beading on his forehead, body hot from his buzz and merriment. Their playlist ranges from ballads, alternative rock, R&B, even a few classic Disney hits Nanami secretly likes to indulge in. At some point, Nanami offers his hand to twirl her, not letting go as he swings his arms with hers, grooving to the beat. Their fingers interlock, fitted to each other naturally. There’s no second guessing or doubts in his head that he wants to do this with her. It just feels right.
A worker comes in with a cold pitcher of water, informing them they have five more minutes left of their hour. Nanami is surprised how fast that hour flew. He swears they still had more time left. He can’t help feeling disappointed that it’s over; he still had more songs he wanted to sing before the night ended.
He notices her checking her phone, probably waiting for that text from Gina, hoping that whatever this is ends soon. There’s a tightness in Nanami’s throat, and not from all the singing. He hasn’t bothered to check his phone the entire time they were here, hoping not to see any type of message from Gojo. He realizes in this moment that he doesn’t want this night to end.
To his surprise, she sets her phone back down on the table, attention at the worker. “Can we book another hour?”
For the third time tonight, Nanami can’t contain his smile.
~~~
To say you’re surprised by this recent development is an understatement. You’re actually shocked that this is the same man you attempted small talk with just a hours earlier, only to be treated with the cold shoulder. Now, he’s spinning you around this small room, disco lights twinkling in each other’s eyes, laughing, carefree and happy. It’s contagious, and you have no choice but to join in on the fun.
It’s not until there’s five minutes left of your reservation that you remember the reason you’re here in the first place. Checking your phone for any updates from Gina, you almost audibly breathe a sigh of relief, seeing no new messages. On a whim, you request another hour, not wanting this to end yet. You wonder if he feels the same way.
Halfway through your second hour, the two of you finally take a break, letting the preloaded list of songs you selected play in the background. You sit beside each other, closer than you’ve been all night, thighs touching, body heat radiating. From your peripheral, you observe him, watching his throat bob with each gulp of ice-cold water he takes, emptying the remnants into his mouth. Before he catches you, you look away, sipping on your own drink, suddenly nervous to be so near him, despite dancing with him the past hour and a half.
He chuckles softly. “This was really fun.”
You turn to face him. “It was. You’re quite the performer.”
“I could say the same about you.” He stretches his arm behind you, setting it on the couch. The rolled-up sleeves of his polo graze your neck, making you more flustered. You remind yourself that this is totally normal, not a flirtatious response or anything. Just a guy casually resting his arm behind you, no big deal.
“I feel like I’m going to lose my voice. But it was worth it,” he mentions.
You face him again, beaming brightly. There’s an expression on his face you haven’t seen all night, as if he’s getting a proper look at you, studying you like he hasn’t seen you clearly until now.
“Totally worth it,” you reply. Before you know it, you blurt out, “I don’t want this to end yet.”
At this, he blinks a few times, startled by your statement. “Really?”
You giggle, leaning closer to nudge his arm. “Yeah. Really.”
In an instant, your lips meet, mouths still cool from the ice water. He kisses you gently, both hesitant and sure of himself. He breaks away to ask, “Is this okay?”
You nod, sliding your hands to his nape to close the distance again. His arm slips behind your waist, hand gripped loosely on your hip, pulling you in, kisses getting sloppier. Tongues pushing past lips to swirl around each other.
You can blame this hasty decision on the alcohol, but that wouldn’t be accurate. You’re tipsy at best, and you would bet money that he’s in the same state as you. This isn’t fueled by sake or by the sappy love song playing in the background. This is pure, unadulterated passion, building up the moment you shared those croissants together in that bakery.
You giggle into his mouth as you swing your leg over his lap to straddle him. He has both hands on your waist now, peering at you with a naughty expression. “What can you possibly be giggling about right now?”
“I was just thinking about how I was right earlier. The way to your heart is through your stomach. Admit it; you fell for me as soon as I split my croissant with you.”
He pulls you in closer, nuzzling his nose against yours. “Okay, I admit it. You won my heart.”
His grip is tight on you, guiding your hips back and forth on his lap, his lips scattering delicate kisses along your neck, your hands messing up his hair as you run your fingers through it. There’s not enough time to process that this is actually happening. All you want is to feel him on every inch of your skin. His palms glide underneath your blouse, reaching for your bra, squeezing at your breasts. With his mouth now hot on your ear, he whispers, “I want you.”
You’re not thinking properly when you grab the hem of your shirt to hoist it off your body. Before you strip, there’s loud knocking on the door, startling the both of you.
“We know what you’re doing in there!” a voice yells from the other side. “Cut it out before we call the police!”
Immediately, you remove yourself from him, unsuccessfully ignoring the obvious bulge in his pants. He’s reluctant to take his hands of you, giving your tits another loving fondle before relenting, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself. Quickly gathering your belongings, you head towards the door, ready to do the walk of shame. Before you turn the handle, Nanami spins you around, kissing you once more. You melt into his mouth, fists bunching his dress shirt, his heart pounding through his chest. If it weren’t for the threat of the cops being called, you’re certain the two of you would go at it right here in this karaoke room.
Another angry rap on the door snaps you both back to reality. You slowly exit the room, staring at the tile floor, avoiding eye contact with the disgruntled worker, crossing their arms at you. You pay for the room, then walk outside into the brisk night air. Nanami holds your hand, fingers entwined seamlessly, a perfect fit.
Despite having spent the last few hours with him, it feels like the beginning of the night. You lean in to kiss him once more, craving his mouth on yours. He places his coat over your shoulders, surrounding you in a snug embrace, resting his chin on the top of your head. You stay like this for what seems like forever until it’s not enough, your phone vibrating in your purse, his ringing in his pocket. Gina’s name is displayed on your screen, and Gojo’s on his. That’s your cue; the final scene of the night.
The two of you take your time walking back towards where your little adventure first started, holding hands like a couple familiar with each other. At the end of the day, you’re still strangers, one night not enough to establish a relationship. You’re certain neither of you wants this to end, not with the way he touches you, the way he gazes at you. There’s no doubt something’s there. The both of you are cowards, too afraid to admit these intense feelings to someone you hardly know. It’s easier to enjoy it in the moment, letting it fizzle out as midnight approaches, leaving it behind as a fond memory.
That’s the problem, though. In the short amount of time you’ve spent with him, you’re already sure that you want to make more memories with him.
In the distance, you spot Gina and Gojo, standing outside the bar, chatting as they await your return. You’re about to call out to them, but Nanami tugs you into the nearest alley, your cheeks between his palms, kissing you deeply. His thumb grazes your skin tenderly, sending a shiver down your spine. He pulls off, breathing staggered, forehead pressed against yours.
You don’t want to say goodbye; this is what it is, right? Back to the real world. You have a thesis due in less than forty-eight hours, one that you forgot about until now, and Nanami is from out of town, soon to be back to his own life, which doesn’t include you. That’s just the way it is.
Without a word, you shrug his coat off your shoulders, handing it to him with a gentle smile. He stares at you, wary, accepting it anyways in his hands, hanging it on his forearm neatly. He reaches for your hand, leading you back to the pathway under the streetlights, letting go as soon as you approach your friends.
Seeing you, Gojo yells out, “Hey!”
Gina waves, hair slightly disheveled, a satisfied grin on her face. Gojo asks, “So, did you two have fun tonight? I know we did.” Gina snorts, kicking him lightly at his ankle.
Nanami clears his throat. “Yes. We had fun.”
Surprised, Gojo replies, “Really? Nanamin actually had fun? I’m in awe!”
Gina looks at you. “Did you have fun?”
“Yes. I had a lot of fun,” you answer. You turn to face Nanami, giving him one last smile. He returns it, nodding slightly. This really is the end of it.
Your friend links arms with you, announcing, “Well, we should head home now! This girl still has a thesis to finish.” With that, Gina steers you in the direction of train station, waving farewell to the two men.
~~~
Nanami begrudgingly follows Gojo back to the hotel room. He gives his friend an abridged version of tonight’s festivities, to which Gojo seems thrilled about on his behalf. “You had almost as exciting of a night as I did! Almost. That Gina is a real firecracker.”
He sits at the end of his bed, only now realizing they didn’t even exchange contact info. In the heat of the moment, it didn’t cross his mind, too focused on her soft lips and gentle touch. He leans forward, burying his face in his palms, groaning. “I forgot to ask for her number.”
Gojo chuckles, patting his shoulder. “How can you forget that?”
“Everything happened so fast. We ran out of time.”
The realization of it hits him hard. This can’t be it; there’s no way it can be. He won’t accept that this is the end of them, not after what happened. He’ll do whatever it takes to see her again. Fuck the vow he made to not date; whatever this is, it’s worth it.
“I don’t know what to do,” Nanami muffles through his hands, defeated.
Gojo sits beside him, massaging his shoulders, something Nanami usually hates, too distressed to shove him away. “Well, my dear friend, lucky for you, I have Gina’s number.”
At this, Nanami turns to his friend, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
With a cocky smirk, Gojo says, “Let’s go get your girl.”
--------------------
Tagging @liliorsstuff-blog, another fic of our husband, hope you like it!
Stay tuned for part two!
#nanami kento#kento nanami#nanami fanfic#nanami smut#jjk nanami#jujutsu kaisen nanami#kento nanami smut#nanami x reader#nanami x you#nanami x y/n#nanami kento smut#nanami kento x reader#kento nanami x reader#nanami fluff#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen smut
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ultraviolence — gojo satoru and geto suguru.
wc : 3k
summary : suguru coming home was supposed to make things better. but, it's as if everything is going wrong again.
part of : the star paradox collection.
notes : pls read this and this first ty!! LORE DUMP 🤭 mostly from sugu n toru's pov dealing with their new life and the twins along with jujutsu society. reader is trying to be the mediator as always and shoko is the best ofc. just the one where everyone has an existential crisis. (part one of two hopefully)
other : I PROMISE YOU'LL GET FLUFF SOON 😭 mentions of alcohol, blood, smoking obvi, idk why i named this ultraviolence lmao (shit hits the fan in the next tsr im js trying to be kind i promise!)
comment to be added to the tsr taglist!
current cassette : pretty when you cry - lana del rey
You come home to a house colder than you left it.
There’s a small comfort in the droplets of water that splatter against the wooden floor when you hang your jacket up, having remembered the way the girls beamed up at you only an hour ago as you walked them to school.
The twins were adamant to hold your hands, Mimiko blushing the whole time and Nanako poking fun at it, promising to hold your hand everyday until they became big girls.
Big girls that would only need you to hold their hand halfway — the same way Suguru only walks you and Satoru halfway to the school before heading back.
But the sliver of a chill that reverberates through your bones doesn’t resemble the comfort of a morning’s soft rain drizzle.
“You can’t just dismiss the issue like this, Satoru!”
“Where’s my own will, huh? Can’t I just do this?”
“This isn’t about you.”
You hear everything for a moment, muffled shouts and grumbles from the bathroom.
“Yeah, you’ve made that pretty clear, haven't you?”
Then you hear nothing at all.
The investigation launched on the ninth day in December.
Suguru had all but been home for a week and then some, settling into the shoddy apartment you and Satoru called home between missions and meetings with Yaga and the higher ups.
It took half a day to move his old things out of the dormitory building, most of what really mattered was already sitting in the hall closet untouched, kept the way Suguru would’ve wanted it.
It was after he rifled through the closet in search of a fresh set of clothes did he realize, he had been mourned.
You and Satoru had mourned him like a mother would a child, like a womb stretched to make space, only to bleed.
His clothes smelled more like the both of you than it did him.
The fourth day, Suguru spent the night hunched over the balcony, smoking a silver blue parliament with Shoko while you and Satoru attended a hearing with the higher ups.
A necessary audience, they defined over the cryptic email.
Shoko described it as a means to an end, Satoru was still the strongest and you were his voice. The meeting was all but a farce to keep you two in check — but Suguru read it clearly for what it was.
A threat.
“He’ll be clan head,” Suguru murmured between plumes of smoke. “They won’t let him turn it down any longer, especially with me around.”
At this, Shoko chuckled, sucking in a sharp breath.
“You think he’ll do it this time?” She asked, somewhere between knowing and not knowing.
The higher ups want Satoru under their thumbs — not that you’d so much as let them come close — that much is evident. But it’s become a lose to win situation.
The guarantee that Suguru and the girls would remain untouched and hidden under the condition that he follows their rules, does it their way, doesn’t ask, doesn’t so much as breathe a word or commit an action using his own strength outside their command—
“Satoru as a lap dog?” Suguru laughs a little.
He just can’t picture it.
What he can picture though is the Six Eyes user backed into a corner, with no other choice but to concede. Then again, Satoru’s never been submissive to authority, no matter the setting.
A beat of silence passes over him and Shoko, and she knows what he’s thinking before he says it, yet she doesn’t caution him otherwise nor does she blame the nicotine.
“He could kill them.” Suguru says, “It wouldn’t take him long.”
The seventh day, Suguru stands in the middle of one of the many engawa corridors of Jujutsu High, dressed like a teenage dropout, teeth sinking into the inside of his cheeks until crimson stains his tongue.
You told him last night while cuddled into his side, Satoru’s head on his chest, “Walk away from it the right way, Suguru.”
And admittedly, he was going to laugh a little, kiss your cheek and maybe lull you back to sleep and ease your worries.
I don’t resent you,
for the path you chose.
As long as you swear,
yours and ours will converge.
“Geto, what is this?”
Suguru looks down at the sealed envelope he passed to Yaga seconds ago, the word resignation printed in bold atop the sealed flaps.
If he intends to kill himself, he should at least do it the way you asked him to.
He owes you that much.
Suguru never thought of himself to have been in a position where he could live past twenty ; he thought he was lucky Satoru even let him live to see the first snow, even if it was from the bittersweet solitude of the bed you three shared.
“I’ll graduate first,” Suguru says, stuffing his hands in his pants pockets.
For the sake of saving face he took a total of ten missions after his sentence was pardoned.
Five to prove he wasn't a liability to the Jujutsu world, two to hover by your side – he hadn't realized post traumatic stress could manifest in the need for more physical attachment – and three to see up close just how much Satoru had on his shoulders now.
To see just how different Satoru had become because of him.
“And then?” Yaga asks it like a cruel joke that only he and Suguru know.
People are talking. People have been talking.
Suguru Geto the defect. Suguru Geto the cancer of the strongest. Suguru Geto the curse. Suguru Geto—
“Maybe I’ll die of old age.”
I pray death finds me
under you two
in our bed.
If not,
kill me yourselves.
There’s meaning in that too.
That same afternoon, brandished with what should be newfound freedom – Suguru Geto. Not the sorcerer, not the curse, not the man – he drinks himself sick until he blacks out on the sofa.
Alcohol is cheap at Shinanoya, it’s been that way since he was sixteen and idle in the summer of ‘06, coaxed by Satoru into printing fake IDs, blacking out on the floor of your dorm room and waking up to throw up, just to blackout again.
Suguru took the train back and passed his stop two times.
Two times he thought of two different outcomes and two different destinations.
First, he’d go back to Jujutsu High and take the resignation back from Yaga before he signed it.
He’d call your cellphone, tell you how he's had a change of heart, whisper into the line : “We should celebrate. Me, you and Satoru.”
But you’d know it was a lie.
He still has twisted dreams of waking up in a gas station bathroom in a pool of blood that isn't his own.
Dreams that don't frighten him at all.
Second, it came to him the moment he considered actually getting off at his stop and going back to the apartment.
He’d let the train take him to Shibuya, stand in the middle of the crossing and scream.
People would look at him weird, others would walk by.
And the first monkey to reach out and offer him help, he’d—
“Suguru?”
He wakes with a startle, eyes bloodshot and half lidded.
“Name—” he opens his mouth, half empty vodka bottle tilted over and soaking the carpet. Satoru comes through the door a moment later, leading the twins to the kitchen to set their half eaten bentos down.
A shiver runs down his spine when he glances at the clock above the mantle. 12:53pm.
“School ended half day,” you say to him. Satoru doesn't so much as glance at Suguru when he steps back in to take the plastic bags of takeout from your hands. “They called but you didn't—”
Suguru's already sitting up, fishing through his pockets for his phone and clicking at the buttons.
Two missed calls from Mimiko and Nanako’s school.
Two missed calls from their homeroom teacher, Ms. Aiko.
Four missed calls from you.
One voicemail from Satoru.
“I'm so— shit,” Suguru sets the bottle of alcohol upright, pressing a palm to the carpet to find it damp.
His skin is hot, he feels like a mess, no doubt he looks like a mess with the way you're already kneeling beside him to screw the bottle shut. “I’m so sorry, I didn't— everything with the letter and then the train got delayed—”
“Suguru.” Satoru speaks for the first time, looks at him for the first time – behind bandaged eyes. “Sober up by tomorrow, yeah?”
Your head flits around to give Satoru a stare, as if to ask if that's all he has to say right now. But Suguru’s fingers enclose around your wrist, it’s okay, I was the one at fault.
“Satoru—”
“Just do this one thing right, please.”
The twins’ school dismissed half day due to heavy snow this early in the month. Suguru, listed as the girls’ primary guardian, gets the calls first.
He doesn't pick up.
Your work line rings next, and it goes to voicemail.
In between exorcising a special grade in Shinjuku, you don't hear it ring.
As the devil would have it made and done, Satoru’s line rings while he's at the school. Loud.
“Gojo-san!” The lady from the admin office knocks on the door twice, and is met with silence. The phone rings again, but this time it's the main line. The office extension.
The one he’s been using since he put in his teaching application.
The phone clatters against the desk in robust vibrations, Limitless almost bending the coily cord to nothingness.
The meeting room of four higher ups and two members of the Gojo clan watch him intently, scrutinizing him, waiting.
Beyond his better judgment, Satoru tells himself it's just you, calling to ask if you should bring back kikufuku or just the udon.
Or it's Suguru, who’s confused and can't find one of his things in the apartment and needs some guidance.
Satoru's not a pious person. But he wishes he’d have prayed the moment the call went to the answer machine.
“Good day, Mr. Gojo! I’m calling regarding the girls. School’s been dismissed half day today on account of the weather but Mr. Geto nor Ms. Name are picking up.”
“I’m hoping this reaches you soon so the girls can have a ride home. Thankyou! Stay warm!”
The eighth day, you wake to the smell of jasmine and hot oil. Four messages from Yaga, one email attached, forwarded to Satoru : Adoption fraud.
“—he hates me.” Suguru mumbles, shirtless and damn near cowering from your gaze, flipping the omelet in the frying pan, two steps away to avoid the oil splatter.
“Don't say that so casually,” you shake your head, shutting the fridge door, setting a carton of milk on the counter. “It's not like you believe that.”
Suguru flips the omelet with one hand on the pan handle, the other flicking the carton open and turning it to his head in a quick gulp.
He doesn't confirm it.
“Suguru—” you smack his arm and take the milk, turning away to rummage through the pantry for the pancake mix.
“I know.”
No, Suguru.
You don't know.
"I try to be patient," Suguru says quietly, shaking his head. "I know we're not sixteen and that this and then are two different things—” He turns the flame down, refusing to look over at you.
“Nobody's asking you to be perfect,” you cut him off, pancake mix forgotten on the counter. “You made a mistake, it happens—”
The higher ups are already breathing down Satoru’s neck about the twins now that they've been found out. It's an uphill battle in the Jujutsu world, your phone won't stop ringing.
Whether it's Yaga proposing damage control to have you and Satoru set apart on missions or another higher up waiting for you to slip up and beg for help, beg to be in their debt.
“I owe you better,” Suguru whispers, more to himself than to you.
He’s never been the type to ask for help or beg for forgiveness or cower at someone's heels. But you saved him — by putting your life on the line and in turn making Satoru cover it up — and he hates himself for it.
I wish
you would've
just let me stay dead.
“Because that's what I deserve? Better?”
Suguru gets the call from Shoko the next day.
December 9, 2007.
A formal investigation is announced into the involvement of [name] [name] in the case of Suguru Geto’s defection and pardon — alleged charge : fabrication of evidence.
Satoru makes his mind up the same day, sends the twins to stay at the dorms with Shoko for the weekend and brings you and Suguru with him to the Gojo estate.
“I can feel your eyes,” you whisper, seated cross legged on the tatami floor, nursing a cup of tea in your cupped palm.
You've never liked the Gojo estate. Not in winter at least, not when it's like this.
Satoru has his back turned to you, fingering the loose cloth of white bandages covering his eyes, almost hesitant. He recalls his mother's words to him from a few hours ago.
You look tired, Satoru. You're never tired.
There’s an unspoken thing residing here between both your energies and it becomes unbearably evident.
“It’s nothing,” he murmurs, slipping the baby blue haori off his shoulders, draping it over the edge of the bed. “Just the cold getting to me 's all.”
Loose and darkened strands of hair lay on the silk sheets where Suguru sat moments ago. Satoru holds his breath.
My lover’s hair is splitting at the ends, tearing apart at the seams just like me.
I pray you don’t notice.
“Is he okay?”
You set the ceramic cup down on the table, turning your head to glance over at Satoru, who despite himself, wears his emotions like a cardigan knit tight between his brows.
“Why won’t you just ask him, ‘toru?”
He thinks he hates you. He hates not being more like you.
With the way you say these things so easily.
Maybe it’s the deep rooted thrum of Suguru’s cursed energy in his veins, or the bitter taste on his tongue when he wakes in the middle of the night just to see if he’s still here—
Maybe it’s that voice in the back of his head, the instinct pounding on the walls of his heart, telling him this is only for a while, it won’t last.
“You can’t lie to me.” Satoru reasons, bending his knees and folding his body next to yours, wrapping and unwrapping the length of cloth around his fingers over and over again. “But he can.”
Or maybe it’s the way he knows even if Suguru lied to him again, said it was okay, said that he’d stay, said that he’d let you and Satoru be selfish for once and keep him here, keep him tethered to this existence he loathes so much—
“Satoru…”
—he’d believe him.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” He sighs, near breathless.
You lift your hands to cup either side of his face, hooking your thumbs under the pale cloth, unraveling and unraveling and unraveling.
How many more layers?
How many more walls?
How many—
“His energy is restless.” Satoru could find other words to describe it, the aura, the shape of Suguru’s soul, his scent, his being, his whole existence. Something only you could understand.
“It’s pouring into me, and I can’t— I pretend I don’t feel it, that I don’t know that he’s…”
Different.
Suguru is different now, he wants to say.
Suguru’s unhappy with me, unhappy with us.
I can’t give him what he needs.
I was too selfish to have asked him to stay. You were too selfish in saving him.
We were too selfish. Do you think he hates me for it? Do you think he wishes he were—
“He loves you.” You tug on the cloth, let it fall and pool in endless strands around his neck. “Isn’t that reason enough?”
Satoru’s eyes are dim, bleaky sapphire and cerulean staring back at you.
Don’t look at them, look at me, look inside me, my eyes are lying, that’s not how I feel—
“He loves you too,” he says it like a confession, a secret. Love can’t be enough, can it?
Love never stopped Suguru from leaving the first two times.
Love never stopped Satoru from waking up so many nights with tears running down his neck, from where you cried for Suguru in your dreams.
Love never stopped Satoru from not being strong enough to bend the world and stretch it to fit Suguru inside.
Why should you love him whom hates the world so?
Satoru lets his head fall into the crook of your neck, body slumped over yours and breath shaky.
Loving Suguru came as easy as breathing if not easier.
He’d spend nights curled in his bed at the dorms, clicking through photos he’d taken of you three, back then, when it wasn’t anything yet but still everything to him.
“Yaga-sensei, please pair me with someone else!”
“Hah!? We not good enough for you anymore, name?”
“Satoru, name, don’t yell so early in the morning…”
And even from the first mission, when Suguru’s hair was shorter and you hadn’t quite figured out how to control your technique.
When Satoru had to save you from plummeting to your death after you sliced a curse open just for grabbing Suguru and yanking him by his hair.
Satoru thinks, maybe, he came into this world loving you two.
Because he loves me more than all the world.
“I’ll protect you,” he whispers into your neck, full of conviction.
He’s never not the strongest, except maybe when he’s here, in these moments. “I’ll protect the both of you.”
Let me do this one thing,
just this once.
Let me be the one
who holds us together.
---------------------------------------
tsr taglist :
@wishmemel @draecys @pearlvalley @cookielovesbook-akie @astral-hydromancy @celestair @/midnightbluehorizons @plaggi @blue-blossomss
#★ DRIASWRLD#tsr ⭐️#jujutsu kaisen#satosugu x reader#gojo satoru x reader#geto suguru x reader#satoru gojo#suguru geto#gojo x geto x reader#jujutsu kaisen angst#jjk x reader#jjk fanfic#satoru x reader#suguru x reader#geto x reader#gojo x reader#gojo satoru#geto suguru#jujutsu kaisen x reader
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Stolen Angel - Part 3
Demon!Jake Seresin x reader
Summary: You thought you were having a one-night stand with some random, normal guy. Turns out he’s a winged, demon-like stalker who has been obsessed with you for years.
Warnings/Notes: Jake is a little dark. Kidnapping. Manipulation. Obsessive behavior. I’m sure there are typos. This used to be a different fic for August Walker, so if you see it, it’s fine. I wrote that one too.
Words: 1426
Part 1, Part 2, Part 4
JAKE POV - (One Year Ago)
He can’t stop watching you. Smiling, laughing, serving customers caffeinated beverages on their way to work. The sunlight streams through the front glass window of the cafe, the rays illuminating everything of you that they reach. Your hair, your eyes, your skin. You’re bright, happy, healthy, stunning, and it does unreasonable things to his heart.
He’s been sitting there for two hours now, not even pretending to occupy himself with a magazine or newspaper or anything that will make him less conspicuous. You’re the only thing that has his attention. The only thing that ever has his attention when he comes to this world. He spends this time, each second of it, observing your every move, memorizing every feature of your face, and when you leave for the day, he follows. Just so he can be a little bit closer to you.
You’ve never noticed him, and sometimes he chuckles at your lack of awareness and how well it works in his favor. You have no idea that he trails you from the cafe to your apartment. You have no idea that he stands outside your building as night cloaks the day. You have no idea that he leans against the same lamppost he always does when he comes to see you, his stare latched on to your window—third floor, second from the left—as you strip yourself of your uniform and into your pajamas. He’d watch forever if he could, but he, and those like him, do not have that luxury.
The hand that lands on Jake’s shoulder is expected and he turns his head to his friend.
“Time to go,” Javy says. “In a month you can come back and stalk her some more, but we’re cutting it close. We have to get back.”
Jake sighs, giving your bedroom window another glance. The light clicks off. “I know.”
“She’s not going anywhere. I’ve kept an eye on her in your absence and she’s had the same routine for the last six months,” Javy reminds him as he rolls his shoulders, preparing for the weight of his wings to return.
Cartilage and bone materialize as his gray feathers, one by one, seek him out from the spot he had shed them. Each one returns to their place, layering themselves together until his wings are fully reformed.
Javy gives them a testing flap, scattering the fallen leaves at their feet. When he sees Jake has yet to call for his own wings, he huffs. “Seriously, it’s eleven fifty-six. Do you really want to spend six months in The Tower because you chose to stare at your little girlfriend rather than be punctual…again? You literally just got out.”
Jake stands from his leaned position and a moment later his black feathers find him. He spreads his wings out in a stretch.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Javy says with pride. “So let’s go.” Then he’s shooting up into the night, a speck in the darkened sky.
Jake takes one last look at your window, imagining himself in that apartment, holding you, kissing you, falling asleep beside you. He doesn’t want to leave you behind. Leaving you behind is leaving a part of his heart behind. But he has to do it. For the night, you’re warm and safe tucked in your bed, and that will have to be enough for him until his return next month.
“Good night, Angel,” he mutters. “Sleep well.” Then he follows after his friend.
—
Food everywhere. Grapes smashed in between the stones of the walls; plums dotting the floor, one having rolled under the bed; juice from apple slices staining the rumpled bedsheets; the silver tray, now dented in the middle, thrown across the room. All as if some bratty tornado tore through the place. Except now the brat is missing.
He’d guessed you would struggle to stay put once you regained enough of your energy, which is exactly why he'd planned to sit by your bed while you slept. But—albeit very reluctantly—he had listened to Javy’s advice about giving you some space for the night. A mistake, clearly, because now he has to hunt his little escapee down.
Shaking his head, Jake rubs the back of his neck and gives the room one last scan in case you got the bright idea to hide until he got close enough for you to whack him in the skull with something hard. When the assault doesn’t come, he jogs to the window and peers through it the way you were when he found you standing there the other day, your pearly wings in all their grandness cascading gracefully from your back.
Glancing to the nearby field many stories below, he spots you seated in the grass with your knees tucked to your chest. His pounding heart stutters in relief.
How the fuck did you get out, Angel? he thinks as he hurries from the room, down the multiple twisting staircases, and through the maze of halls. You’re the last person who should have the ability to leave this place. New residents of The Tower have been known to roam the halls for months at a time, trying to find a way out until they surrender to exhaustion and return to their rooms, and yet you walked right out the front door?
When he reaches the main floor, he stops short at the silhouetted figure leaning against the doorframe. He knows that figure well, and realizing that someone he trusts has been keeping an eye on you from a reasonable distance permits Jake to take a calming breath before he steps closer.
“She’s…content, I think,” Javy says, tucking back his large gray wings to provide enough space for Jake to comfortably stand beside him. “Doesn’t seem to want to run off.”
“Only because she doesn’t know where to go,” Jake sighs, running his fingers through his hair. And thank fuck for that. “How long has she been out here?”
“At least since four. That's when I found her,” Javy informs him. He looks at Jake, playfully grinning. “We watched the sunrise together.”
“Has she seen you?”
“No. She hasn’t so much as turned her head in hours,” he answers, then after a pause of consideration, says, “How do you think she managed to make it out on her first try?”
Jake shakes his head. He has that very same question. Anyone would. “I don’t know, but had I known she could, I would have locked the damn door.”
“Maybe The Tower felt bad for her,” Javy suggests. “You know she always made it easy for the unfairly imprisoned.”
Unfairly imprisoned. Yes, Jake supposes that is what you are. But it’s not for forever, and it’s simply to protect you while you adjust to your new life by his side. Surely, you can understand that. And then you can start accepting the happiness and love you’re denying yourself.
“She fucking scared me,” Jake says, and Javy snickers.
“Then I imagine you're even.”
“She's not scared of me, she just has to get used to me.” Jake watches the gust of air flutter your feathers. You still haven’t moved, save for one hand's fingers which continuously weave through the blades of grass. “She's taking her damn time though.”
“Don't be unfair. She's known you for a couple of weeks—a couple of very difficult weeks—which is nothing compared to the head start you had.” Also true, to Jake’s dislike. But he’s shown you how much he cares, and that should be plenty to help you catch up. Then Javy says, “You should take her back. Just for a few hours.”
Jake’s head snaps to the right, eyes just short of bugging from his head. “Are you insane?”
Javy shrugs. “The day is coming up. It might be easier for her to be here with you if she knows she has the option to visit her world.”
“That’s not her world anymore.”
“True,” Javy agrees. “But don't you miss seeing her smile?”
Jake swallows. He’d give anything to see you smile again; smile at him again. Though he was gifted one when he was deep inside of you, praising you, telling you how beautiful you were, offering the same compliment since he brought you here has not elicited the same reaction. If anything, you frown more intensely, with more effort.
“It's too soon,” Jake says. “She's still attached, and I can't trust her.”
“It's more important that she trusts you,” Javy counters. “And this could be your olive branch, my friend.”
tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @penguin876 @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @emilyoflanternhill @wretchedmo @shanimallina87 @crowsreadsarahjmaas @mamachasesmayhem @sky2nd @jessicab1991 @rosedurin @averyhotchner @horseshoegirl @roosteraloha @b-bradshaw @fandom-life-12 @hookslove1592 @buckysteveloki-me
#jake seresin#jake seresin x reader#jake hangman seresin x reader#jake seresin x you#top gun maverick#jake seresin fic#top gun#jake hangman seresin fic#top gun hangman#jake hangman seresin x y/n#demon!jake seresin#tgm#tgm fic#jake seresin fanfic#jake seresin fanfiction#hangman x reader
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Kingdom of Fire & Blood || (Part Six)
🐉 MASTERLIST 🐉
Next Chapter
summary: modern!reader reborn as lady greenstar. it was no secret as aemond’s admiration grew.
pair: aemond x reader
warnings & disclaimer: smut, violence, p in v sex, sexual content, aemond being arrogant, modern reader doesn’t know how the world of GOT works but is a Aemond stan, praise kink, breeding kink, spitting kink, voice kink, fluff, angst—family drama, oral sex, hate sex, stalking, jealousy, virginity loss, size kink, obsession, reader being sassy and aroused, sweet moments with reader and Aemond. Reader is a huge GOT & HOTD fan. Pro-Green, Reader is a green supporter. Aemond becomes king instead of Aegon. (P.S. Alys who? I only know Aemond x Reader)
a/n: this chapter is ONLY in Aemond’s pov. ooc aemond, but still is a cold-stone, charming prince we all love. Thank you for being patient with me; i took so long to write. I used a reference from Nanami’s line from JJK—he said “Being a child isn’t a sin.” And the trailer of HOTD S2 is 😍😭🔥❤️🔥👏
Chapter Six: The Rebirth of Lady Greenstar
~Aemond’s POV~
Aemond couldn’t stop gazing at you in your sleep, no matter how often he saw your chest rise and fall with soften breath drawing past through your lips—sinful lips, droning out soft noises, he recalls the day where he undressed you. Moles engraved on your lower lips and neck, and several others spotted on the collarbone. Some at the back. The shape on your smooth legs sprawled and tucked at turns you rotated whilst in dreamland—he recalled your skin marked in red outline of a dragon on your right thigh, and a green dragon on your whole backside.
Slender arms rested beneath your head despite the ivory pillows are there, all fluffed and cleansed with new ivory sheets, aglow under a yellow sun.
Quenched as he is, Alicent’s word stung; his hands and teeth clenched. “But the truest of your heart—your love must be hidden in secret,” she told him once.
He knew what she meant.
Studying the histories of the Targaryens—of those who had children out of wedlock for an escapism in horrid and loveless marriages assigned from previous kings are often ridiculed and reigned in contempt, in curse—bastards.
He hated bastards. Lucerys and Jacaerys are one—they claimed to be as Velaryons throughout—and on a night of Laena’s passing, Aemond, at the age of three-and-ten claimed Vhagar and lost his eye, that damned good-for-nothing bastard—a Targaryen pretender who was out of Rhaenyra’s womb, bathed and born with brown locks and pug-like nose and sneering features—Velaryons tend to have delicate and soft features, but still manly in their own way like Targaryens do, but not Strong. House Strong are rugged and filthy.
But—
With your case, as a newcomer, as an outsider, he knew you don’t belong in this world, considering how you tried to avert Aemond with diversion. You’re neither a royal nor a bastard. Though punishment can be given to anyone in the royal court or outside the Red Keep. Anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms. Though of course Dorne accepted bastards.
Aemond’s intrusive thoughts overcame. A battle of restrain lashed out, when the prince approached towards the lush your sleeping figure. Your breath steadied at the rise and fall on your hilled breasts; the torn and worn out nightwear severely took a toll on the guards yanking you as if you’re a fragile doll.
If one’s act of taste that considers as a sin, then it’s a sin I shall give.
His head leaned forward, face closing to yours, tip of his tongue tingled as his left hand clasped on your head, the other rested on your waist as his tall body brought down on the bedside atop of your sleeping form. He had memorized, and counted the moles—once, as he lay himself to sleep in his quarters on the night after he first saw you. There’s a theory that moles came from a past lovers planting a kiss on empty spots. Aemond could offer you more. His tongue slithered on the soft line of your neck, and brought back to pucker with balmy smack, leaving a small trace of string silava coated on your now bruised skin.
Squirming underneath him, Aemond satisfied, humming, his right hand snaked on your waist, then fondling your left breast, pinching the taut nipple as he devoured the scent on you as he hungrily kissed your jawline and slope on your neck.
Earning a moan from you, Aemond spurred, his fingertips roamed on your breast and lowered down to your thigh, kneading. Your face—your lips—directly aligned to his, drawing a quiet sigh.
Adrenaline rushed in his veins, his body grew hot, trousers compacted with his engorged cock. He couldn’t get enough of you. The taste of you, your beauty and your fiery heart. He envisioned of what your face would be like, your voice would sound like, if you’re awake during the pleasurable intercourse or under his tantalizing fingers and mouth.
Countless footsteps skittered across the hall nearby. And so, Prince Aemond sat on the chair with his legs crossed and his elbows resting on the armrest behind the wall, spying on the maidservants passing by the opened door without batting an eye, maids chatting as always.
A hushed sigh of relief drew from his lips. By then, he looked at you one last time, spotted a love bite on your neck, before ushering himself out to go at the hall and disappeared with his lips, licking—tasted and lingered upon more ravaging thoughts of you.
~~~
Into a wide-ranged room, roofs decorated like constellations and metal works of the orrery, and the broad balconies garbed in light and ruffled curtains swaying. The council planned to use this room to divert the newcomer and persuade her to join hands and swore oath.
They have hoped that a new change of environment will appease her. Aemond couldn’t blame her; the Council room is filled with discrimination and accusations, despite his interest on becoming a sovereign—unlike Aegon who he rather be a sovereign in between someone’s legs at the brothels upon the Streets of Silk.
Regardless of Alicent’s cautionary, both Green sons lurked and eavesdropped on the members, who are more frantic and belligerent in comparison to previous meeting.
“She’ll be here,” Aegon teased. “Ser Arryk is coming to fetch her. Poor girl lost her way in the Red Keep.”
Aemond folded his hands behind his back, abiding, cold and calculating, and twice as tall, passed from Aegon’s stature.
“How long will she last, I wonder? With all the skills, beauty and remarks she has gotten,” Aegon emphasized on the word “beauty” as sarcasm, “do you think she’ll survive, even after the council? This is no easy task, of course, residing in Red Keep. The Blacks are here again. And Daemon didn’t come here alone.” His head jerked, indicating towards Rhaenyra. “I don’t suppose you’re aware, but the poor girl might risk her life again. Shocking how the Blacks and Greens weren’t showing hostility despite our shared past.”
Aemond watched within the presence of the council—Blacks and Greens united—without bloodshed. A bizarre sight to behold.
The doors creaked, and entering (y/n), following Ser Arryk.
The Blacks and Greens gaze with watchful eyes, tension rose as (y/n) proceeded closer and sat down on a vacant chair nearby the entrance door but struggled; Ser Arryk assisted her and perched down as she thanked him, returning a similar unnerving gaze back, unyielding even when appearing fragile. Her posture eased; she glimpsed at the decorated ceilings and tables with constellations.
It appears she likes it, Aemond thought.
Until her eye landed on Aegon and Aemond himself with her elbows rested on the left armchair, back slouching, eye concentrated intensely.
Aemond’s heart skipped that she faced him, in devoid of sheepish demeanor. And there, she smiled.
“Shall we get started?” Rhaenyra insisted.
(Y/n) couldn’t stop gawking at Aemond and Aegon.
“My lady,” Rhaenyra called out firmly, and (y/n) snapped back to actuality. (Y/n) eyed on everyone, then looked down onto her hands on the armrests.
Silence ensued. Then (y/n) requested to their introduction since they came to know (y/n)’s. All have introduced themselves—Hightowers and Targaryens. When Green brothers are finally introduced, Aemond spotted (y/n)’s lips curled a little; her dimple dented. But overall, she seemed happy throughout the introduction.
“First, we must address regarding to House Blackwood,” Otto drew the scrolled parchment, and distributed to (y/n) through the sentinel. “This letter is sent from a raven at this morrow.”
Sleeking her wavy strands—long curtain bangs back, she read the lines in the parchment. “Is this supposed to be a joke or something?”
“House Blackwood demands for your head, since they accused you of murdering Remon Blackwood,” Otto said. “Anything to have say in your defense?”
Tongue in cheek, (y/n) chortled, aloud for everyone to hear.
“Does killing others amuse you?” Daemon challenged. “Or would you rather a quick execution by a dragon for your childish act?”
“I’m sorry did you say dragons?”
Daemon unanswered her question, but she knew he wasn’t lying.
(Y/n) recollected herself. “It’s three knights that chased me, remember? They killed Ser Remon Blackwood long before they chased me. I used the blade he gave me, not the large swords.”
“There are other reports that the three knights are imposters,” one claimed. “That their faces aren’t quite as recognizable. And their armor and breastplates are entirely soft—a forge through cheap metal. Their blades and blunt and uncared for.”
“Must’ve been the rapers from the North.”
“Ser Criston, what was the weapon she was holding when you first found her in the woods? Was it a sword?”
“A fine blade that belongs to Remon Blackwood,” Criston replied.
(Y/n) sat there and released several guttural coughs, which got their attention.
“Are you alright?” Alicent concerned.
“I’m fine,” (y/n)’s voice croaked. Alicent ordered the servant to fetch the hot tea, to which you drank after being served.
“Has she drank the Milk of the Poppy,” Otto asked the Maester.
“Apparently she hasn’t drank any since this morning; deeply fell asleep.”
Relaxing in the chair, (Y/n) tossed her hair over to the side before she took out two objects again from the pockets on her nightwear and placed it onto her lips, and blew out smoke, but away from their direction.
“What are those objects that you possessed?” Daemon asked.
Crossing her legs, (y/n) blew out another smoke, her eyes glazed darkly, her demeanor changed as if it was an illusion. “This is the cigarette, and this is a lighter.” She demonstrated the items again, but only she’s precisely shown the golden lighter, carved in detailed dragon, and fire lit from the metal.
“Where are you really from?”
(Y/n) clicked the lighter shut. “I already told you last time,” her voice crossed.
“Are you a slave?” Rhaenyra asked.
(Y/n) is taken aback, brows scrunched, bewildered.
“Everyone saw the markings on your body,” Rhaenyra pointed out.
“No, I got these since I was young. Let’s cut to a chase. What do you want?”
The members of the council baffled at your straightforwardness.
“Since we’re here, I don’t intend on wasting anyone’s time,” she resumed, her voice hardened. “What do you want?” Her voice darkened.
“Are you aware to why you’ve been summoned in the council?” Otto questioned.
“Oh please, do enlighten me,” (y/n) said in sarcasm.
“Lady Rhaenyra has planned on you becoming a knight—you both saved the children and experienced in combat during the battle outside the Red Keep.”
(Y/n) laughed again, though not as cruel. In anger, the knight trudged towards her, but she stopped the knight with her left foot stomped on his breastplate, revealing the red dragon tattoo, your hand ran through your luscious hair; Aemond stared for so long that he ignored his surroundings. He found himself yearning to taste you again.
“At ease, good sir,” Alicent ordered. The knight backed off and your leg lifted down, crossing over to the other.
“Why refuse?” Rhaenyra challenged. “Do you wish to be executed from false charges?”
“You misinterpret me, my lady. Do you want to know what happens when you put a woman as part of the Kingsguard? People will riot. No man would accept a lady knight because they don’t want to be ashamed of not holding much power.” With her elbows propped, the upper body slouched, leaning forward, intensely gawking at their familiar mortified faces. “If anything that you should be worry about,” her index finger pointed outside behind (y/n) at the open archway; behind her is the town of King’s Landing, “it’s the people. People hold you on the highest regard; anything you do, they’ll use it against you. You have dragons,” she reasoned, counting on her fingers, “legions of army and holds the utmost reputation—everyone knows your name and your appearances distinguished from others. If laying a single mistake, people will make an excuse to take the opportunity to tarnish—even bring hell to Westeros. If you put two and two together, it’ll be difficult for people to accept as much as I want to help,” (y/n) cautioned.
Unused cigarette wafted in the crisp air—and (y/n) stomped on it with her fingers.
“As a matter of fact, I couldn’t agree more,” Jason Lannister encouraged. “Ladies are not suitable to guard for the ascendance of a potential heir. Women take longer to dress than men, after all they’re made to be dulled for a tedious hobby.”
Aemond disagreed, otherwise.
“Why save them?” Rhaenyra asked.
(Y/n) blinked.
“Being a child isn’t a sin,” (y/n) said, solemn. “They don’t deserve to what they’ve gone through.”
“Never thought you find this miserable,” Daemon said.
“I have soft spot for children and those who are broken.” She darted her eyes to Aemond once more.
Rhaenyra sighed, her hands enveloped, glancing at neutral Daemon next to her, poised. “We shall find an alternate option for you to abide here in King’s Landing—tasking the vital aspects of being part as the Red Keep’s vessel—everyone has their own role to play, knowing their place, and you’re no exception.”
Refusing, (y/n) inclined back into a relaxing position. “Figures,” (y/n) muttered, posture sank into the chair.
“I know it’s difficult to accept, but should you stay, you’ll learn a thing or two of the culture and the history, everyone around you included,” Rhaenyra suggested. “And we shall do the same to yours. Though the customary traditions in Westeros must steady. But it won’t mean you’re limited from freedom at the assets of your personal values and desires and expression.”
“It would be the wisest,” Rhaenyra added. “People won’t know and comprehend this, but us, despite you’ve given simplistic explanation of your vast side of the story.”
(Y/n) pondered; fingers tucked on her chin.
“They’ll never accept me,” (y/n) lectured, locks undulated in steady motion. “No matter how you vouch or reason for me, they won’t adapt; I’m just an outsider. It wouldn’t be as upsetting once I get hurt. They won’t understand yours or my intention if I decide to stay here. Or worse.”
“But there’s still a chance for you to prove yourself, allow your presence to be seen and heard,” Alicent coaxed.
Rhaenyra contemplated. “Or perhaps you could join us at Dragonstone,” she proclaimed, rather blithe. “Of course you’re free to choose.”
Aemond disliked the idea of you residing in Dragonstone as much as Alicent, based on displeasure etched onto their delicate and finely features, green as envy—as Hightower’s colored banner that summons war, strong gazes projected towards Rhaenyra like a serpent in the shadows.
Gritting and grinding her teeth, (y/n) tongue clicking. “No, I’m not staying in Dragonstone, either. I don’t want to overstay my welcome, consider how I “arrived”.”
Aemond’s breath unwinded. Flush smothered your cheekbones. Stared long enough until Aegon elbowed him in a single tap, as a reminder to stay focused.
“I’m afraid it’s far from possibility, since you came along way from the other vast side of your world. In the meantime, you must reside here in Westeros, in King’s Landing. We may never know your intentions, but it’s best to keep it simple and quick. Do tells us what you want.”
Refusing, (y/n)’s face turned away, sheepish.
“You want gold? Reputation?” Rhaenyra insisted, to which you answered “no”.
“Do you wish to possess a dragon?”
“First of all, dragons are hard to take care of. Two, I’m not a Targaryen! That’s your thing, not mine. I can’t even take care of my dog.”
“Then I assume you want the Iron Throne,” Daemon insisted, but the Blacks and Greens shot a piercing glare at him in unison, warning him not to give anymore ideas, but he awaited for (y/n)’s reaction.
“That chair looks uncomfortable! I’d rather sit on a cold ground rather than having an iron swords jabbed up and bleeding in my ass.”
Aegon snorted, covering his mouth when Otto noticed his grandsons, scowling.
“What can we do to convince you,” Alicent resumed, hands rest on the armchair.
“I don’t think you can help me on this one,” (y/n) said, begging them to let you go.
Rhaenyra maintained her posture. “Then what is it that you truly desire at this moment, Lady (y/n)?”
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Never.”
Shaking, deep in pensive notion after hearing their relentless offer disguised as blatant curiosity.
Silence prevailed, at first. Fireplace flickered, soft howls bypassed the constellation room. Everything stood still, as does their anticipation, weighing and resting on their fate of the house.
Rising onto her feet, and she got close and flatly pressed down to a cold stone pillar with her hand. “I want to see the ocean, the sky—the smell of salt and cloudy air. I want to feel the wind as I walk by, or draw and paint surrounded by flowers as I looked out onto the ocean as the ships sails by.”
“A very simple, mundane request,” Daemon commented, folded his arms. “Anyone could percept the instability of waves and ships passing through and the fragrant smell of blooming flowers.”
“Sometimes taking the simplest pleasures in life must cherish with joy and savor with love,” you told him, remaining your eye locked onto the waves, wobbling and crashing. “You’re a dragonlord, Prince Daemon, I think you should be grateful. As for me, I rarely get to see the ocean, because I lived somewhere far where it has no ocean, no flowers—the weather is humid and sometimes shows a little rain. On most days, hot air suffocates you to a point you want to drown in cold water.”
“There’s a chance people might conclude you’re from Dorne or Yiti. Or perhaps as Ser Criston’s sister.”
Aemond watched (y/n) shooting Daemon with a deadpan expression on her dulled hues. Criston, on the other hand, didn’t appreciate Daemon’s unnecessary commentary, but made no urging trifle.
“I’m not, and if I do, you would recognize the Dornish accent at this moment. Clearly you can’t. Sorry to disappoint you,” (y/n) replied, nonchalant.
“Anything else,” Rhaenyra asked, anticipating.
Silence occurred.
“What of other things you acquire to be more convincing,” Alicent chimed in, coaxing, sensing an alarming and animated expression hidden from you.
“Nothing,” (y/n) squeaked, though her cheeks flushed says so otherwise.
Aegon snorted as Aemond lifted the corners of his mouth into a piffling smirk—as he found your sudden expression unexpectedly chaste with shyness and charm.
“The matters settled, then,” Rhaenyra got up. “I look forward to see you and more. I expect great and admirable accomplishments from you, Lady (y/n). I think it’s that for now you must stay in the capital. If you do intend to serve the realm, I’ll reward you, anything to your heart’s desire. As long as you make contributions, we’ll make your dream as certain. In the meantime, that is.”
(Y/n) ventured in a languid motion near towards the members in the council. In the end, the favor on her side—Rhaenyra and Alicent’s request—might go smoothly if done right. But Aemond’s heart grew heavy at a thought of you leaving King’s Landing, leaving Westeros, feared you might not recall your ventures and people you encountered alongside of the journey—feared your mind and sight of seeing Westeros and its people are nothing but a figment dream.
Alicent pushed herself up from her reclining. “I shall do my part as well. You’ll do great things, I’m certain,” she assured (y/n), enfolded atop (y/n)’s cold hand.
Happiness faded from (y/n)’s lips when a cold end of the blade—Dark Sister—tipped and traced a thin line on her centered neck. Daemon’s violet eyes gleamed at hers; her hands raised an indication of surrender.
Aemond’s eye snapped in fury. The guards Rhaenyra accompanied clutched their blades, viewing like vultures standby.
“I’ll never trust a cunt like you,” Daemon proclaimed. “You may wield a blade, you may save anyone who you wish, but you’ll never be part of the court. The look in your eye—arrogant and maliciously stricken with pretense. Common whores like you—pretending to be humble and virtuous when you really are neither.”
Yet you fuck whores in the Streets of Silk on your pastime, Aemond thought.
Sighing, (y/n) said, “Then kill me. If you really think I’m dangerous to the Red Keep and to the monarchy like Ser Marrow claimed, then end me.” Then she gripped Dark Sister and pointed it at her chest daringly. “Go ahead. I dare you.”
He scoffed, despite Rhaenyra’s attempt on pushing Daemon back.
“Don’t speak to me as if you’re my equal. We are nothing alike.”
“Thank god I don’t have a cock, then,” (y/n) shot back, rolling your eyes. “I don’t have to worry whether I’m going to get gelded or not.”
Like a child, Aegon stifled his giggling.
“Fucking simpleton,” Daemon hissed, pressured the Dark Sister. “You know nothing of Westeros and its people. Might as well have your tongue remove. What say you, warrior?” he mocked.
“Seven Hells, Daemon, you’ve said enough,” Rhaenyra warned.
Aemond strode onward, never minding Alicent, who was rushing to his side, begging to not worsen an escalating quarrel. But Aemond paid no mind; his mother’s words drowned and emptied in his fueled rage.
“I saved both lives—a boy and a girl,” (y/n) protested. “I saved two young people who are separately belong from two mothers—who were at their near deaths. I saved you too, by the way. Guess it doesn’t matter, right?”
Daemon tsked. “And that’ll be the last thing you’ll ever save, considering your reputation has been nothing but meddlesome. I’m afraid your reasons on saving your neck has come to expire.”
Aemond trudged in front of (y/n), holding his long dagger and situated his honed silver on Daemon’s neck. He felt her cold hand pressed against his chest and gave a little push, but no to avail; she’s still weak under the Milk of the Poppy.
“Hold down your blade, Uncle,” Aemond warned. “You gave her quite a fright. I thought the deal has been final.”
“I never thought I’d take you as a fool, Aemond—that’s twice you’ve committed a sudden act.” Daemon’s lips curled in disgust. “Being blinded by her, I see.”
“She saved my sister’s life,” Aemond justified. “And I’m eternally grateful.”
Without shifting his eye, he saw you wandered your glance up to him before facing back to Daemon.
Aemond shifted closer, Targaryen against Targaryen.
“Take one more move, and you’ll lose another pair of your eyesight,” Daemon sneered. “What happens then, if I do cut your other eye out? So, shall we test it?”
(Y/n) managed to block herself in between Aemond and Daemon.
“Then I’ll be his other eye,” (y/n) declared, defended, one arm spread, shielding Aemond, the other hand held high against Daemon, bandage slipped from her visage.
All noise ceased.
Aemond’s heart quickened at a roaring declaration in a vibration on your tone—soft yet firm and fiery—like a dragon reborn.
“I’ll be his other eye,” she repeated, shielding Aemond. “Stay back,” she hissed at Aemond, insisting on shoving him back to lessen the tension between two factions. Aemond glimpsed at her shaken hand, yearning to hold her.
Even (y/n) knew a large cost of encountering Targaryens through fate, aside learning the history. Dragons never cower in their palace of red and gold of Red Keep, in a palace of black stoned walls of Dragonstone, their banners—sigils of red or green. Dragons come and reign in a price of fire and blood and fearsome, colossal beasts taming Westeros.
Knowing the consequences of her shared words, who knows what might occur depending on her unfickle judgement.
“You heard the maiden,” Aemond said with a smug on his face. “Release your blade, Uncle,” he commanded.
Grimaced, Daemon drew his sword back in his sheath, parting the gap, and endowed (y/n) and Aemond with imprisoned through his hues. “She’s no maiden. Perhaps I shall call her “Green’s bitch”.”
Aemond’s eye narrowed. Little by little, he stood inches near (y/n), like a proud and mighty dragon stood by its owner.
Watching close by, Rhaenyra and Alicent shared knowing glances.
Overhearing the sound behind them, the king produced an agonizing sound of his breath, (y/n)’s able to catch him from falling in brisk reflex.
“Get the maester, quick!” Alicent cried, as you are clinging onto the ailing king, who was moaning and groaning due to his severe ail.
Everyone made haste as Alicent and Rhaenyra assisted (y/n) on putting back Viserys onto his chair.
Adjusting the king’s posture, Alicent dimissed (y/n) by saying, “We shall talk later. I must tend to my husband. You go on ahead.”
And with that, the council adjourned—(y/n) ushered out, giving Aemond one last look with a slight bent on her neck.
With a final word, Aegon said to Aemond, as they trudged back to the halls. “Daemon took great pleasure in stirring commotion, especially a certain lady, who you’re so keen on.”
Aemond hasn’t utter a single word.
“Obviously, he has missed his youth involved with treachery and rebelliousness. I supposed these days have kept peace quite busy despite our father’s poor lapse of judgment.”
Aemond sauntered farther, but Aegon caught on in a same pace.
“I never knew you had it on you, dear brother. But was it really an act of good will for Helaena’s life or was it a pure instinct to an act of affection?”
“It was all for Helaena’s sake,” Aemond said.
Aegon leered. “Is it?”
From there, Aegon fled.
For once, Aegon never said something stupid or drunk.
Aemond stalked his mother on meeting (y/n) in the chambers he trudged in upon darkest shadows, carefully listening in.
Alicent came over, agitated even concealed in unsuccessful, mortified demeanor. “The Council has been reached to a verdict,” Alicent told (y/n), as if it’s a death sentence—probably the men discussed and finalized to an upcoming conclusion.
He watched as (y/n) was plopping onto the bedside, the last cigarette held between finger has thawed into ashes.
“I see,” (y/n) soften tone echoed the room, rippling against his skin.
Alicent touched (y/n)’s upper arm. “I apologize on behalf of the circumstances. I know it can’t be easy,” she said, sincere.
(Y/n)’s eyes twinkled.
“Despite Rhaenyra vouching for you for saving her son, you have declared of being Aemond’s other eye, and thus, your declaration brought an uprising of questions to the Blacks.”
(Y/n) acknowledged.
“A word of advice; should you wish to keep your wits and tongue, play your part, and keep your head down for the Blacks not to detect or test your patience,” Alicent said. “Common folk, even nobles tend to have ill intentions far from a plain gossip. Kingdoms tend to hatch a birth of vipers and stabbers every corner of the castle walls.”
“I’ll do it,” (y/n) said, without looking back at her, picking on her fingertips.
Alicent clasped her hands over (y/n)’s, and heaved. “Rhaenyra and I are in a current matters of discussion regarding of your future duties in King’s Landing. She proposed the idea of you being as the cupbearer while I proposed the idea of you being as Helaena’s handmaiden. Nothing has set in stone. We did so to ensure of your livelihood be at safest, to cease the gossip that has been spread far and wide regarding to your arrival. But first, the king must anoint you at the throne room for a private ceremony—no audience shall be present.”
You stayed silent; your right hand stroke your left wrist; the feeling the absence without your possession.
“Is something the matter?”
(Y/n) shook your head, light-headed.
“In time of fear and change, that is where you must be brave,” Alicent advised, eyes glistened.
Aemond has never heard of Alicent—his mother—spoken ever so motherly to anyone, not even Aegon.
A sudden shift glided in you when you have decided what to do as (y/n)’s role in King’s Landing. “I’ll bend the knee.”
Alicent’s dulled eyes brightened at your answer. “Then I shall inform my husband regarding to your call.” She laid her hand on (y/n)’s shoulder blade.
Once she stood up, (y/n) bid Alicent goodnight.
And Aemond stayed in the dark, and the only words replaying in his mind are the words she declared opposing the Rogue Prince.
I’ll be his other eye.
The way you shielded his body and ordered him to shift back, Aemond knew that no noble woman or commoner in any Houses would defend him and his honor as a Targaryen and Hightower. Or more than his status as a one-eyed prince. As a swordsman, he can hold off his battles, even in close quarters, but something about you, a strong-headed girl, who knew of little consequences, protected him that he find as devilishly unique.
His mind stirred in a matter of battling between whether he want to fight your battles or claim you.
Perhaps both.
Aemond had certainly come to a closure, a predetermined arrangement of taking you, but obstacles must come forth before a dragon claims the maiden as his crown, glory and a hymn that he won’t mind spend the rest of his life hearing.
Upon a daylight hour, the decision came to a close when both Greens and Blacks debated to assigning on (y/n)’s fate for the realm, despite a given answer. In the end, King Viserys has a final say, which both factions surrendered for an hesitant agreement. In the Red Keep, guest of nobles and common folk alike flocked inside to a point where it’s nearly and impossible to fit, all awaiting, all mind shared one reason.
Hours before the occurrence in the throne room, in Aemond’s quarters, two servants awoke him to bathe, and one maid provided him information regarding to (y/n)—the Maester inspected and mended on her wounds once more before withdrawing. Her eye, however, is healed, just as it was yesterday when she ripped the bandage off.
In the throne, there she was, blocked by tall members of the Kingsguard.
He imagined that a maidservant tugged the strings harder for a cinched waist, despite this, (y/n) cooperated without a fight. Knowing resistance will bring disaster. Until a thought of disaster is long gone. From there, the guards veiled for (y/n) to cross passage towards the steps of the Iron Throne, seeing upon a pristined condition—clad to an outfit befitting for a youthful and appeased maiden to soften at the hardened image of a brute fighter. Her straight long (h/c) locks with thick stands braided as headband atop of her head; strands of baby hair left untouched, and soft paint dabbed it on your chapped lips and cheekbones, tainted in reddish shade to liven your surly visage.
King Viserys proclaimed and summoned (y/n); she knelt with a hand over her chest, head inclining down that her long (h/c) locks framed on sides, reciting her vows. King Viserys crowned her with a green brooch with a four-pointed star sigil pinned on her centered chest once she stood.
“As a last hope for a darkened age within House Targaryen, in hopes to reunite both factions,” King Viserys announced, hoarse. “Salvation rests in your hands. I wish you nothing but the very best to soothe the realm with your grace, Lady Greenstar.”
Two factions appalled at his last claim underneath their vacant neutrality in their hues. Spectators gathered and exchanged in gossip, all frantic and perplexed from their King’s announcement.
A girl from a modern century has been remade through rain of fire and light, befall and rose from sky. Arise onto her feet, who peered upon audience, before the eyes of the two factions, who solely darting her eyes to Aemond, as if she wanted him to sense her heart is surged with heaviness, rebirth as Lady Greenstar.
Aemond did—but couldn’t offer the arms of comfort. His fierce and benevolent maiden. But in the eyes of Gods, Westeros won’t lay rest, as he keeps his ardor hidden.
And chaos entered.
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Stiles as a Roommate
Classic outsiders POV of Stiles in college, where his roommate, Mike, and their other friends try to figure out who all these people are that keep calling Stiles.
On AO3.
Ships: Sterek
Warnings: they think Stiles is wrapped up in some bad shit (which valid tbh)
~~~~
Mike’s roommate is profoundly disturbing and highly hilarious to have around. On the first day he comes crashing into the room, tripping over himself like an old school physical comedy, before assuring Mike that he’s fine and it doesn’t even come close to being beaten to a pulp by a grandfather.
It’s quite the introduction and for a while Mike was worries that his roommate is going to suck. Stiles isn’t the typical college student, you see.
He has amassed an entire herb garden in the windowsill, skips out on most parties, keeps a metal baseball bat by his bed and calls home every single day. On top of that, he doesn’t know how to shut up and his rants devolve into the strangest bullshit about the most random topics that make Mike wonder why the hell criminology major had looked into them.
So, Mike thought he is stuck with a weird paranoid kid, who doesn’t know how to have fun. He worries about Stiles getting mad about him getting back in late or judgmental about not studying as much. However, his worries had soon been put to rest.
Because Stiles is fun and Stiles is easy. He can become anyone’s friend in minutes and is up later than healthy most of the time, doing weird bullshit on his laptop that he calls research, though Mike never knows what for.
He might not be a party-goer himself, but he absolutely doesn’t care about what Mike does, just jeering at him to use protection when he goes out and waking him up with a smug smirk and coffee when Mike wants to disappear into his mattress with a hangover, kicking his ass to classes.
Stiles is probably what is keeping him from failing right now and Mike will go to great lengths to keep him as his friend, because, yeah, they’re friends now.
It’s impossible not to befriend Stiles, he grows on you like a very persistent mold.
His friendship with Stiles starts six weeks into rooming together. Classes are in full swing alongside parties and Mike has just started to get worried about his roommate being a stick in the mud, when he comes home at 4:00 AM piss drunk.
Naturally he tries (and fails) to quietly enter the room, trying not the be the dickbag that wakes people up every night to find the lights still on. He blinks a few times at Stiles, who is sitting on his bed with a laptop and smartly says: “Huh.”
“God, you’re so fucking drunk it’s not even funny, dude. I can smell it from here and I don’t even have a freaky nose,” Stiles comments, before he gets up from the bed.
Mike sways slightly in the doorway, mentally trying to decide if he can do a stumble and drop to his bed or if he’ll sleep on the floor when Stiles is suddenly in front of him. He startles and nearly falls over, saved from faceplanting by Stiles, who is usually the one meeting the floor.
“Oh, hey, there, hey, buddy,” Stiles says, righting him. He slips an arm around Mike and masterfully stumble-drags him to the bed, depositing him on it. He points at Mike, who is still reeling from the movement and sternly says: “Don’t move,” as if Mike had any big plans.
Moments later he returns with a glass of water and gets Mike upright, telling him to sip and not allowing him to stop until the glass is empty.
Mike isn’t sure what happens next, but the next morning he wakes up with a groan to find two painkillers, a glass of water and a glass of orange juice on his bedside table along with a note reading: go to your classes! And you’re not a very eloquent drunk
In that moment, it feels like the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him, swiftly forgetting all his parents have done under the pounding headache. He takes his painkillers, drinks his drinks and actually manages to drag himself to his lecture, deciding that Stiles might not be so bad.
When he comes back from his class, Stiles is there, typing away on his laptop again. He greets Mike when he enters and Mike returns it: “Hey, dude. Thanks for the painkillers and stuff.”
“Yeah, man, no problem,” Stiles smiles back. “It’s just instinct at this point, I’ve had to drag worse people off to bed.”
It’s a bit of an odd reply, but something Mike can work with. “You friends with many party-goers?”
A strange look flits over Stiles’ face, but it goes as fast as it comes and Stiles says: “Something like that. I was the one with a car, who wasn’t a prick about it getting dirty on the inside when in crisis. I have passed up on many party experiences except the clean up. All my friends are idiots.”
Mike chuckles at that and plops down on his own bed, as he comments: “Do you have a big friend group back home?” See, he can have conversations, mom.
“Oh, yeah,” Stiles tells him with a grin. “We’re like a family. A very weird family.” A brief pause. “But how about you?”
“Nah,” Mike shrugs. “I’m making up for it now.”
“Yeah, I can see,” Stiles grins. “Alcohol is a poison, my man. Besides, I’m not sure you’re remembering the friends you made.”
The bluntness is something Mike has encountered before and turned him away, but it doesn’t sound mean. He remembers that he is going to try with Stiles, so instead of ending the conversation there, he shrugs: “Probably, but it’s fun while it lasts.”
“Come on, man, that’s not fun,” Stiles says. “I have some friends from introduction. We get fries on Thursdays and study on Sunday. You can come sometime, it’s fun.”
Okay, so the bluntness was genuine concern and Mike honestly could use some actual friends. He likes parties, they’re fun, but the loneliness is starting to get to him. So he replies: “Sure, sounds fun.”
“Hell yeah,” Stiles does a genuine fist pump and Mike snorts. Yeah, alright, maybe Stiles isn’t so bad at all.
“Why were you awake so late anyway?” Mike asks, suddenly remembering that Stiles was just sitting there when he stumbled in.
“Oh, Jackson called me,” Stiles says. “He’s in studying in at Cambridge, because his parents are pretentious fuckers. He needed to check in about… something and I was still awake. I had to look something up, I was just emailing him the details when you came in.”
“All the way in England?” Mike whistles, a bit impressed.
“Tsk, don’t let hear him that. Dick has a big enough ego as it is,” Stiles rolls his eyes.
“I thought you were his friend?” Mike says, a bit confused, because Stiles had literally picked up the phone at 4:00 AM for this guy, couldn’t be that much bad blood, could there?
“Surprisingly enough. He had a restraining order against me in high school for a while,” Stiles informs him casually, before realizing how that sounds and quickly amending: “Obviously, he revoked it, because it was completely unnecessary and a big misunderstanding. We’re cool now, promise.”
And that’s Mike’s cue to drop the conversation, giving Stiles a tight nod, before turning to his own work. He’s giving the other a chance, not inviting crazy. Though he does allow himself to be invited for fries on Thursday with Stiles’ friends.
There is Maya a shy, but enthusiastic biology major; Aalif, a kind but serious looking pre-law student; Nikki, a hilariously insane art major; and Kai a bit of a dorky English major. How Stiles had found this ragtag group Mike doesn’t know
“Mike,” he introduces himself. “I do history. I’m Stiles’ roommate,” before he’s pulled into a discussion about whether or not fries can be classified as a salad. (Potato salad exists, Mike, and it’s a side dish).
It’s honestly a lot more fun than expected and it’s nice to see that Stiles does know how to have fun, he just has fun arguing about nothing with someone studying to argue professionally instead of getting wasted.
While Mike doesn’t think he’ll keep away from parties entirely, he might cut back to make place for this. The genuine connection is way nicer than not remembering who you talked to, or if you even did.
They’re about to start opening the famous is cereal-soup debate when Stiles’ phone starts to ring. He nearly hits his head on the table as he dives to get it out of his bag, calling out a quick: “Sorry, guys, gotta take this real quick.”
But since he is stuck in a booth, all he can do is turn away from them as he greets: “Isaac, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
It’s not the most standard greeting and Mike raises his brow at the others, who all shrug. Apparently this has happened before. Mike watches as Stiles gets a reply, fascinated by how Stiles seems to melt, worries leaving him as he grins fondly, before practically cooing: “You missing me already? I am flattered, pup.”
He grins some more at what Isaac is saying, before raising a brow, voice turning into a tease: “I feel used here. Like a cheap replacement. You knew Scott was going to be busy with Allison, I even warned you. Not my fault no one in this p- family ever listens to me.”
Another reply to which Stiles says: “Yes, you heard correctly, I’m with friends, you can make those at college. I encourage you to try.”
An eyeroll at Isaac’s answer, then a sigh: “Yes, Isaac, having your own friends will get their attention again. But try also for yourself, meeting new people is fun. Maybe you even meet someone you like.”
“Bye, Isaac,” Stiles says pointedly, it sounds faintly like Isaac is protesting his departure, but he hangs up on him.
“Sorry about that, you know how they can get,” Stiles grins, trying to play it off, while Mike tries to ignore how much it sounds like the conversation he had with his mom last week, before deciding to join the others in not commenting.
And after that it their friendship takes off until they’re at the ‘waking him up with a smug smirk and coffee when Mike wants to disappear into his mattress with a hangover, kicking his ass to classes’- stage.
Turns out that if you’re closer to Stiles, he’s even weirder. He goes home pretty often, now that he has settled in alright, nearly every other weekend, at least once a month, though he complains about his dad forcing him to stay at college to get the full experience, air quotes obvious in his voice.
Mike doesn’t say anything, since he kind of agrees with Stiles’ dad. It’s a bit unhealthy how much Stiles’ calls home. Or at least, Mike thinks he does, though it always sounds like it’s someone else on the phone, because Stiles will tell the same story a bunch of times or tell the person that another person told him to tell them etc, like they couldn't call themselves.
The conversations are also just weird. Stiles cuts himself off sometimes, sending Mike looks, or he’ll fuss over whoever is on the other side of the line like he’s their therapist, or their fucking mother. Not to mention the fact that he always – always – picks up.
Mike has tried to call Stiles a few times, a lot of the time his roommate won’t pick up, or call back apologetically, yet he’ll leave a lecture if someone from home calls.
It’s just odd.
So, brave soldier as he is (as well as the head investigator of their little friend group, who are all more curious about Stiles than Mike expected when he first met them), he asks: “Hey, man, who are you always calling?”
Stiles look up from where has just hung up with a: “You be careful okay? I love you,” looking a bit confused, before smiling and shrugging: “That depends, honestly. It’s a bit much.”
That sounds like a deflection, but Mike is curious and got better at talking to people and standing up for himself. So, he goes: “I have time. I’m smart. I think I can take it.”
“Alright,” Stiles shoots him another uncertain look, before starting, “Well, my dad and Derek are holding down the fort, so I call them just to see how life is going. Boyd and Erica are there too, so I call them too, but Boyd doesn’t talk much, so I mostly call with Erica. She is my Catwoman, you know, we chat, she spills about Boyd. He has his own carpentry shop, it’s been going well. I’m glad for him, you know. And Erica is taking a gap year, but to be honest, I think she likes being a park ranger too much to ever go back to school.”
Mike nods along to Stiles’ rambles. His dad is explainable and the fact that he added Derek in there must mean they’re a unit in his mind, maybe a brother? Or even his father’s boyfriend. Erica is someone he’s close with and knows well, called her his Catwoman, so maybe girlfriend? But he connected her to Boyd, who sounds like a far friend of sorts, so maybe not.
“Of course there is Jackson in England,” Stiles continues on happily. “I told you about him. He is a bit of a dick, but we’ve forgiven him. Well, Lydia did and we all trusted her and it worked out okay.”
And yeah, Mike remembers Jackson with the apparent restraining order and wonders who Lydia is. Luckily he doesn’t have to wait long.
“Lydia,” Stiles sighs, making Mike think he loves her, which he naturally immediately disproves by going, “I used to be in love with her, but turns out, no. She’s being an absolute genius doing mathematics at CalTech. She terrifies me in the best ways.”
That’s not concerning at all.
“And then you have Scott, my best friend,” Stiles rambles on and Mike knows that the other probably won’t even notice if he leaves. He gets like that. “Now my man Scott is at Colorado State
to become a vet alongside Allison and Isaac.”
Those two names are also familiar and Mike feels awkward staying silent, so he says: “They’re all become vets?”
“No, just Scott, but they’re all at Colorado State, because Scott will probably perish without Allison and Isaac hates being lonely and didn’t get into Stanford with me,” Stiles says, like that’s the most obvious reason to pick a school.
Mike is distracted by Stiles hitting his arm enthusiastically: “Allison is also doing history, man, I hadn’t even thought of that! I don’t know how it would be relevant either, but you know, fun fact! I love fun facts, like did you know that human teeth are the only part of the body that can’t heal themselves, because enamel is dead tissue. That was fun to find out.”
He senses that there is a story there, but Stiles is already moving on: “And Isaac, my beautiful boy, is doing social studies, which I think will really help him. He’s come so far and he’s really happy with his courses.”
Isaac was the one that called during that first Thursday fries run Mike was a part of. He recalls the nicknames and the fact that Isaac was missing Stiles, not to mention how fond Stiles sounded and the fact that Isaac wanted to go to college with him. Maybe Isaac was the boyfriend?
“Anyways,” Stiles ends his rant. “I told you it’s a bit much, but I like knowing they’re okay and getting by and if I only call one, the others will get jealous. There’s only so much Stiles to go around and everyone wants a piece,” he grins.
Mike thinks Stiles has a weird relationship with his friends from back home, but also that he doesn’t want to create any friction with his roommate and best friend on campus, so he just nods and smiles a bit.
“But how about you?” Stiles returns the question. “You never call home, at least, not that I’ve witnessed.”
Since Stiles decided to share, something he rarely does, Mike knows he should return the favor, so he shrugs. “Not really much to call.”
“Is no one there?” Stiles asks, all concern.
“My mom and dad are, but you know,” Mike shrugs. “Dad just cares about my grades and mom is always prying, like she thinks I can’t manage by myself or something. It’s fucking annoying. I’m an adult now, she doesn’t need to hover.”
Stiles frowns at his reply, then bites his lip as if he isn’t sure he should say something, before he breaks and blurts: “But isn’t that nice? To have someone who worries?”
“What?” Mike hadn’t thought Stiles would pick his mom’s side, though maybe he should have seen it coming.
“I mean, I don’t know your situation of course, but I get it,” Stiles shrugs, backing off a bit. “You’ve always been her baby, who she saw every single day and knew when you had a bad day, when you got a good grade, etc, now she has nothing and you don’t tell her, so her mind makes up all the horrible things that could have happened to you between calls, resulting in what is practically an interrogation until she is satisfied that you’re truly as okay as you claim you are… Wow, that was one hell of s sentence,” Stiles ends his keen observation with a joke to lighten it up a bit, since he got way too into that.
Mike attempts to wade through the sea of words just slung to his head, before he realizes Stiles kind of has a point. He breathes: “How do you even know that?”
Stiles scratches his nose and shrugs: “I might be a bit of the mom-friend.” And Mike is reminded of the fact that Stiles is really weird with his friends and that he probably knows that because he does the exact same thing his mother does.
Next Sunday, he reports all this to the study group, which Stiles has had to skip out on, because someone called at midnight, which obviously meant Stiles immediately packed is bags and left, something that is more common than Mike would like.
“That’s a lot of friends,” Maya comments once he is done. “But it’s sweet he cares so much about them.”
“He cares mom-levels about them,” Mike points out. “I’m telling you, he got so intense while defending my mom, like it was personal.”
“So, he’s a bit intense about is friends,” Nikki shrugs. “One girl in my class is making a shrine to her boyfriend as a final project. We’re not at that level yet, so I think we’re good.”
“He took off in the middle of the night on a three hour drive, because someone called,” Mike replies.
“I don’t think it’s really any of our concern,” Aalif interrupts, before it can get out of hand.
“But what if they’re like a creepy cult or something?” Nikki asks.
Aalif levels her a look as he says: “I don’t think Stiles would get drawn into a cult.”
“You don’t know that,” she raises a brow. “It happens, even to smart people like Stiles.”
“He has a metal baseball bat by his bed,” Mike offers, not sure why he is backing Nikki in this debate.
“He does?” Maya asks, a bit concerned.
They all now look at Mike and he suddenly realizes that they’ve never been into their room, which is why he has become Stiles source number 1. He shrugs: “Yeah, he took it with him when he left for home tonight. It’s all damaged and shit, though I think some carvings are intentional. They look a bit like runes.”
Nikki raises a brow as she looks at Aalif and says: “But you don’t think Stiles could have joined a cult.”
“I don’t think a cult would have allowed him to leave for college, not to mention do criminology,” Maya offers. “I think he’s following a seminar about cults right now actually.”
“Okay, but even without a cult, still suspicious and weird,” Nikki huffs. “And it’s still a possibility, right, Mike?”
Mike startles a bit unsure how he got on the pro-cult side and not sure he isn’t agreeing. “I mean, he does have all these herbs and some weird books, but those could be from the library.”
And now they’re giving him more looks. Great. He puts his hands up defensively: “It��s not like I know, alright. Stiles never exactly cooks, maybe he just likes the smell of the herbs. And the books could be an aesthetic thing, though he keeps him under his bed in a box if they’re his.”
“What sort of books?” Kai asks after a beat.
“They’re leather bound. Old,” Mike shrugs. “I haven’t seen him with them much. He shoves them out of sight when I get in and the only times he hasn’t was when he thought I was asleep or very drunk.”
“Creepy,” Maya shivers.
“Come on, this is Stiles,” Aalif says. “He is not in some creepy cult. Do you all even hear yourselves? Seriously. Now, the midterms are coming up and I would like to get some passing grades.”
That gets a few boos and boring’s thrown at him, but Aalif doesn’t falter and they do all giggle a bit at the ridiculousness of Stiles in a cult. Before they can truly get anything done, Nikke snorts: “Maybe he tripped into it,” sending them all into giggles again.
It isn’t a joke anymore when Stiles reappears again on their Thursday fry run his face more bruise than skin and his hands both wrapped in bandages.
“Stiles!” Kai exclaims, already out of his seat. “What happened to you?”
“Hey there, guys,” Stiles attempts a grin, wincing at the action. “I’m good, I’m good.” He eases himself into their booth, wrapped fingers taking some fries and popping them into his mouth as the rest watches him with careful eyes. Of course he notices as he chews slowly, whispering to himself: “Knew Derek was right about the liquid diet. Fucker.”
“What happened?” Aalif asks when Stiles seems like he is going to ignore the whole situation that is his face and hands. “Stiles, if someone did this to do, you have to go to the police, file a report. You can sue.”
“Of course you’d say that, lawyer-man,” Stiles grins again, falling flat once more when his already split lip, re-splits and starts to bleed. “Ah, fuck,” he hisses, grabbing a napkin to press against it as he makes a disgruntled face.
“Stiles,” Nikki snaps.
“What?” he replies as if it’s not incredibly obvious.
Mike surprises himself by jumping in: “What the hell happened to you, man?”
It dawns on Stiles that they’re not letting it go and he sags a bit in his seat. Then says: “Nothing, I promise. It was just an accident, really.”
That’s just a thousand red flags there and Maya takes the lead for them, putting a hand on Stiles shoulder and saying in a soft voice: “We’re not going to judge you, promise. But right now, not knowing is so much worse.”
“Derek told me not to come,” Stiles sighs after a moment. “I knew it was stupid, but I wanted to come. I mean, he only had Boyd and Erica with him, because all the others were too far away. That wasn’t enough.”
“What were they doing?” Nikki asks, unable to keep her mouth shut and be patient.
Luckily, Stiles isn’t silenced by it. “Derek lives on the preserve, it’s in the middle of the forest and something was killing the animals. It was a mountain lion, we have a lot of animal attacks. They wanted to take it out before it moved into the town.”
Mike remembers Stiles telling him Erica was a park ranger, but Boyd was a carpenter and he knew nothing about Derek, which is weird on its own. Stiles loved bragging about his friends, or would casually comment about them or pick up the phone with their name on his lips, but Mike had before now heard the name Derek only once.
“Of course I tripped over a few branches in the dark,” Stiles laughs self-deprecatingly. “I should have known better. I’m a klutz, you know. Though I did get a hit in, before I went down in a not so glorious blaze of branches and a curse.”
“You hit a mountain lion?” Kai whisper yells.
“Yeah, with my bat,” Stiles shrugs, like it’s a normal thing.
“Dude, are you insane?” Mike asks.
“Oh, okay, I see what’s happening here,” Stiles backs up, like they didn’t make sense before now. “I didn’t want to admit I fell, because it’s embarrassing as fuck. And like, I know I’m clumsy, but after all the running away from shit trying to kill me, one would think I’d have gotten better at it, but noooo. I am surrounded by people who can do crazy shit, while I hit my head on a fucking branch, because why not.”
“Stiles!” Nikke cuts him off. “Running away from things trying to kill you? What the hell.”
“I was getting there,” Stiles says, though it’s obvious to all of them that he was getting further and further away from the point. “When I was in high school there were all these murders in town. My friend was targeted at one point, I got caught up in it. Nothing makes a friendship like getting locked into a school and running from a crazed murderer or holding someone up in a pool for two hours. It was a whole thing. Plus my father is the sheriff.”
“What the fuck,” Nikki voices the shared sentiment after a moment to process.
“Wait, here I have proof,” Stiles taps away on his phone, before showing a news article with the tagline reading: Five teens trapped in high school with murderer still on the loose
After letting them read it, he puts his phone in his pocket and proudly says: “We’re having a project about crimes in our hometown right now and I have an advantage over the rest.”
“That’s- That’s not-” Maya stutters. “…Stiles…”
“What?” he says confused, as if what he just bragged about isn’t heartbreaking. God, no wonder he’s a bit fucked from it all. Mike would want to know if all his friends are okay if he nearly saw them all killed alongside him.
“Are you, like, okay?” Mike asks.
“Probably not, like in general,” Stiles tells him honestly, “but I am really fine. As fine as I get anyway. Derek says I have to work on that, but he’s not the boss of me and I actually am doing better. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, sorry.”
“No, it’s fine,” Maya smiles kindly. “We just want to know you’re okay. Thanks for trusting us with that. Did you get those wounds checked out?”
“I did,” he returns her smile. “Got a clean bill of health and everything. Dad wouldn’t let me drive back before that.”
“Good,” Aalif says.
They’re all quiet for a moment, before the thing that has been niggling on his mind comes out. He asks: “Who is this Derek person anyway?”
Stiles regards them all for a moment, before saying: “I don’t think we reached that level of friendship yet. Sorry. Like, you’re all my friends and stuff and I like bragging about my other friends to you, but I don’t know.”
“What?” Mike exclaims as Nikki points out: “You just told us you nearly got murdered, but telling us about a friend is a step too far?”
“You know, that is actually a good point,” Stiles says. “I must still be a bit lightheaded from everything, I normally don’t tell people that.”
“Should we take you to a hospital? Kai asks worriedly.
“No, no, I’m kidding, I think,” Stiles jokes, before quickly adding, “I am truly kidding, please don’t take me to a hospital. God, no one appreciates my humor.”
“Stiles,” Aalif sighs tiredly when Stiles deftly gets them on a different topic than Derek.
“Derek is my husband,” Stiles finally tells them, shutting them all up as they stare at them with their jaws on the floor. That explains Stiles trips home and lack of partying or otherwise getting laid, he had a whole fucking husband waiting for him at home.
None of them could know that Stiles’ reluctance to talk about Derek and his relation is that as a prominent alpha, broadcasting that they were ‘mated’ (and yes, Derek, that term is still weird to a human) isn’t really smart. Especially after everything that had already come to Beacon Hills.
“Y- Your husband?!?” Kai squeaks.
“This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you all,” Stiles groans. “You can’t imagine the rumor mill at home when it happened, like seriously, people were acting like I was signing my life away to the devil or something.”
“Why?” Maya asks and Mike has to agree. Marriage so early isn’t exactly uncommon, it just took them by surprise this time. What would make this different.
“I-” Stiles looks genuinely sheepish, “I might have gotten him arrested for a murder he didn’t commit and stuff. But that was like, what? Two, three years ago.”
Immediately their table exploded, voices overlapping, because – again – what the fuck.
“He didn’t do it!” Stiles exclaims, shutting them all up. “He was framed. Set up. Look, I know he wasn’t the killer. Derek saved my life, like a bazillion times at this point. I love him.”
Despite the bruises, the look on his face is quite clear with love oozing off of it. Like full on, ‘Disney princess, soulmate, found the one’-love. It’s a bit disgusting in Mike’s terribly single opinion.
“Well, then I want to see him,” Nikki demands. “You can’t tell us you got swept off your feet by a mysterious would be murderer and not expect us to want to see him.”
Stiles shoots them all a suspicious look, which is pretty rude all things considering, but Mike lets it slide in favor of satiating his curiosity. Then Stiles pulls out his phone, showing them a sequence of pictures that said more than words could.
It’s obviously their wedding day. They’re both in full suits, standing in a forest with the sunset hitting them, putting them in a glow of light. Derek is apparently a handsome, muscled man, who screams not bad boy as much as serial killer.
The first picture is pretty standard. They’re looking at each other, Derek’s bad boy vibe killed by the fact that he is smiling softly at Stiles, who is smiling back. Derek’s smile is toothachingly fond in a way that Mike feels in his chest.
In the second picture, the murder vibes are back in full force, with Derek glaring at Stiles, who looks like he’s saying something, his face smug like it’s an inside joke, his hands up to gesture like he always does.
Then, in the last picture, Stiles has Derek’s cheeks between his hand, face contorted in something Mike would call a coo, if Derek didn’t look like the kind of guy who would allow anything resembling a coo being directed at him. Though, Mike might have to rethink that assumption, because while Derek is raising one murderous eyebrow, the smile has returned again.
“I am his favourite annoyance,” Stiles announces proudly. “It’s wonderful how much bugging someone can do.”
And all of them would have guessed Derek was the one, who had pursued Stiles, but here Stiles is, telling them all about how he is a master at befriending people and Derek honestly needed someone to tell him how horrible he was at decorating or socializing, before fixing it for him.
Beside him, Nikki mutters: “Dear god, he has an ‘I can fix him’-mentality. We’re doomed.”
“I heard that!” Stiles exclaims indignantly, though he doesn’t deny it per se. But when Nikki’s soda arrives, it explodes in her face and Mike would almost suspect Stiles had something to do with it if he had to go off the smug look.
They drop the topic of Stiles injuries and apparent husband, for the evening, which Stiles seems grateful for at least, before catching him up on campus gossip. Still, they keep their eye on him and it’s hard to forget with his face all fucked up.
When they leave, Maya leans in and whispers to Mike: “Keep an eye on him for us, okay?”
He nods quickly, before hurrying after Stiles, who is yelling at him to hurry or he’ll drive back without him.
Mike also keeps his word, so when Stiles’ phone starts to ring, he pretends to be engrossed in his book, while secretly keeping an ear on Stiles’ conversation. He usually doesn’t listen in, unless something is so weird it breaks through his mental barriers, but he feels like this can be an exception.
“Hey there, big guy,” Stiles greets, voice much gentler than Mike ever remembered it being.
“Yeah, worrywolf, I’m fine,” Stiles tells whoever is on the other side. “Dad wouldn’t have let me drive otherwise and neither would you for that matter. You checked me yourself before letting me go, quite thoroughly I might add.”
And that last part is definitely an innuendo, dear god, Mike did not want to know that. However, it is confirmation that it’s Derek on the line, so he listens even harder.
“I know I overdid it, but no one got hurt except a few bruises on me,” Stiles argues. “And I get hurt even when I’m not in danger, you know how doors and the air are my biggest enemies. Come on, Derek. If it was bad, I would have told you. We promised remember? You made it part of our vows, because you are a complete softie.”
Okay, Mike isn’t going to lie, that’s actually pretty cute and he slightly hates that he’s becoming team Derek when all he knows is that he was (falsely) arrested for murder and married to Stiles, who comes running home when called on.
“I promise not to run into danger again,” Stiles tells Derek. “Well, I promise not to run needlessly into danger again and honestly one could argue that this time wasn’t needlessly, because you are my damsel in distress as much as you want to cast me in that roll.” A beat. “Yes, I will never let you forget the pool, we discussed this.”
“Yes, Derek, I always take care of my wounds,” Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’ll even send you picture updates and call you every day. How does that sound?”
Oh god, Derek is actually a concerned boyfriend – excuse me, husband – who needs updates and called the day Stiles left because he was worried. Mike is never going to be able to tell the others that without it turning into a riot.
“Great, because I am going to bed,” Stiles says. “Midterms are coming up and while spending time with you is a hundred times better, I actually need to pass these if I ever want to get a degree. So, goodbye, I love you.”
A bit of silence, then a very love-filled chuckle: “Of course I’m going to think of you. I always sleep better with you, you know that. Now bye. Love you, again and always.”
Fucking hell, Mike is going to die of a toothache, caused by his happily married roommate, which is honestly where his life is at right now.
Though, Mike can honestly live with a weird roommate. It’s a source of entertainment and he now can rest knowing Stiles has someone watching out for him, preventing him from going off the deep end, which was an honest concern.
Stiles is weird, but with what Mike knows, he’s allowed to be a bit strange and he honestly doesn’t want to know more than he does.
~~
A/N:
Disclaimer: I am not shitting on parties, if you like them, go nuts. I just don’t drink and hate social interaction, so I wouldn't know how to write a good party scene even if I wanted to, lmao.
Idk how well it came through, but Stiles is magic and burned his hands while overdoing it in the fight he got injured in. He also totally exploded Nikki’s drink as petty revenge, his herbs are also related to magic.
#rr writing#teen wolf#stiles stilinski#sterek#derek x stiles#teen wolf stiles#derek hale#OCs#college student stiles stillinski
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rest in the cup of my palms (part three)
pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader
chapter three: compromise
series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter
series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in?
or
you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.
chapter summary: joel helps you work through your doubts.
warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn / (for this chapter) -> sad thoughts about fatherhood, idolization!!, oral sex (f receiving), edging
word count: 5k
rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)
A/N: thank you for your patience and thank you as always for reading! and special thank you to @pascalisbaby for bearing with me as i cried my way through this i love u
read on ao3 / main masterlist
“For the first time, I could clearly perceive the nature of feelings and emotions—I physically felt their consistency… the surge of a wave, the crumbling of a cliff… I understood the necessity of comparisons and metaphors using water and fire.”
Annie Ernaux, Simple Passion
───────
Minutes go by, but sluggishly, painfully—a dull crawl that mimics the cinematic use of slow-motion. The fracturing feels pre-climactic and almost momentous, too-long strides of seconds that pave the way for something grand.
In reality, you’re just waiting; in this barely-lit, one shot hallway, aptly partnered by a life-sized amount of discomfort. You feel like a piece of something sprouted up from cement, forced into a mold not made with you in mind—love and like and candy-sweet, feverish feelings—unable to be removed now that you’ve grown in over the lip. Reaching for the sun. And he’s beautiful above you, radiant enough to burn behind closed eyelids—the image that shines there a carefully chosen snapshot that only adds height to where he hangs in the sky.
You’ve become so tired already, from the work-up and the frustration and the effort to stop it—like being outside all day with no reprieve until sunset; he’s that strong. It’s been restraint, followed by actions that negate it, followed by reinstating restraint, and still it doesn’t stop daylight from happening. Morning and high noon and six-o-clock oranges will never stop happening, so why not free yourself of the excessive rumination and the fighting? You’d much rather try to brave him—sunscreen and shade and a flat hand above your brow. Trying is good, easy, uncomplicated. Tonight, you can try. This is a good idea.
He’ll be here soon to prove it, too—on his way to come collect you, confirmed by the oblong rectangle of text on the brick clutched in your fist.
You move enough that it wakes up again, ’Fifteen minutes.’ flashing across its face, burning under the pad of your thumb. The thing is overheating now, somehow having absorbed some of the furious twisting of your excitement, and you shove it deep into your bag to let it cool—too honest of a mirror.
You will your body to restart, moving back out onto the yard in search of Ian, to warn him of your exit—the only courtesy you have enough patience to give—frantic to get to the good part.
You find him out by the flame, one foot resting on the brick-lined ledge of the pit, a still-full beer bottle tight in his grip. It’s tepid, too, if the lack of condensation is any indication. You curl your nose and he tips the top towards you, a waft of sour citrus pouring out.
“What happened? My friend came back very upset that you were gone,” he teases, cocking a smile and rolling his neck over in question, languid and unserious.
“I’m leaving, actually. Didn’t want to go without saying.” You knock the bottle with the back of your hand until it threatens to spill over in the other direction. It’s unoffending, really, a nervous reaction, but it has him visibly questioning what ten minutes out of view had done to make you so taut.
He straightens up minutely at your unrest, only enough to reel back his exaggerated demeanor without drawing looks, “Are you good to drive? I haven’t had any of this yet—I can take you home.”
“I’m not driving. I’ve got a ride.”
“With?”
“Joel’s going to come get me.”
His eyes widen, mouth spreading with what you’re sure are five too many questions, so you stop him before he can continue—afraid to mar his night with what you imagine would be too much to navigate right now, “I’ll explain tomorrow. Text me when you get home. I love you. I’m fine.”
Part of you—a part that has no say right now—feels guilty for doing this to him a second time, for putting your friend through another half-witnessed, poorly justified fit of emotional anguish. He was the one who brought you here, to get away from this very thing, but somewhere in your bag there’s a faint stir, hard vibration jostling the contents, and you fail to think Ian through, again.
He’s barely even started to nod before you turn, slipping through the side gate and out onto the lawn.
It only takes another handful of stretched-out moments—time lost completely on you now—before opaque beams cast across the curve of the street from the top of the cul-de-sac. They drop off into low-lights once the driver registers your presence and you push forward on shaky legs, knees locking—blood having gathered in your chest from anticipation, sloshing around your heart and cutting off circulation to your limbs.
The vehicle—a truck—passes you, hitting the end of the block and returning up the drive, passenger door addressing you when it stops, your reflection warped in its convex surface. The window rolls down with a whir, and Joel’s face appears in the slit, eyes tired and hair flattened unintentionally—you absolutely woke him up.
You let yourself in, hiking up a static-logged leg to settle in the seat before he pulls off back onto the street. It’s silent for too long, and you’re returning to a familiar feeling of acceptance, just like all the nights in your past where you’d admitted to yourself that you were going home with someone, driven by fuzzy feelings of instant connection and promise. It makes him easier to grasp—more human-like.
“You were asleep,” you mumble sheepishly, acknowledging his unpreparedness in an attempt to forgive your own.
“‘Wasn’t supposed to be. I was waiting up for Ellie. I—uh, I thought you were her when you called.”
He sounds just as level as he had on the phone, fingers rapping rhythmically on the steering wheel, “She texted a few hours ago to let me know she was out for the night. I fell asleep before I could see it.”
Joel tucks the corner of his elbow in the window, laying his cheek on curled knuckles, and you chance a real glance at him for the first time.
His dark blue t-shirt is wrinkled where it had been bunched at the torso, hanging limply now over a pair of rumpled jeans. Creases of sofa or pillow-case run up like tendrils on the skin of his arm, pressed in at various degrees of depth—restless enough to continue to pivot, even in repose.
He looks homey, spun out of flesh-colored wool thread and plush, unlike the fatigue you’d seen on him in the classroom, or the buzz of anxious tension on the side of the school a few days ago. Here he’s just Joel, free of the idea of him or his actions; just-awake Joel with nothing to say except the truth. Pressure sits weighted on your shoulders, lingering guilt from choosing to savor, even if within the safety of emotional distance. It’s okay to look, isn’t it? Although looking isn’t all you had in mind.
“Can we go to your house?”
“Did you drink?”
Joel peers over his shoulder at you, and he looks meek but not small, like the question itself isn’t embarrassing but the act of asking it is. Oh. You remember your last encounter, how you’d blamed your exit on the wine, and your heart constricts at the idea that he’s asking because he’s afraid you’ll leave again. In all honesty, you wish you could leave, be strong-willed enough to have him let you out a block from your front door, never to be seen again. But you’re weak, at the mercy of your need to test your limits, your brain dipping into its reserve while your body fights to feign presence, hands rolling into fists in your lap.
“No. I haven't gone out much since the break started. Decided against getting fucked up.”
He hums, satisfied, eyes falling ahead. The tires grind under you, lulling you into another tense quiet until he’s pulling up to the front of a well-kept, stone-faced home at the end of a short street. You lean forward to see more of it beyond the curve of the windshield, lined in copper trim with fender-shaped dents bruising the cover of the garage. It’s a call-back to grade school—what limited experience you had traversing the suburbs as a child—visiting friends in large, traditional houses with pretty concrete fountains and security-alarm signs forced into panels of fresh grass.
Joel steps out and comes around the car to open your door before you have the chance to do it yourself, popping open the handle and stilling for a second before just stepping out of your way, perhaps in the sake of not being overly cliche. You try to appear unaffected by the notion, climbing down with a smile and sealing the door behind you, but you inwardly relish in his considered movements—he’s taming himself for you.
He leads you into the house—as quaint as it seemed to be—smelling warm and peppery like heat-soaked wood. It’s very much lived in, riddled with evidence of use—scuff marks at the threshold and smudged fingerprints in the dark paint on the walls where boots were taken off with the assistance of a grip. A side table brackets one side of the entrance, littered with bobbles and keys and a few other store-bought treasures. At its closest foot are several pairs of little sneakers, piled tall and wide on a wedge of rug, too narrow to be Joel’s.
Ellie.
There are signs of her everywhere, this faceless extension of him, her name scribbled on a few papers on the table and in the corners of framed drawings in the hallway; gorgeous hand, she has—all of the figures looking as true to life as they could, even when confined to paper cages. She lines the edges of their domicile, a path of lovingly curated representations of her, right down to a monogrammed leather sketchbook that sits on the dining table.
And everywhere she is, he follows. Parts of him loom over her place-holders—guitar picks marked J in a dish with a box of charcoal nubs, a rolled up wad of button-up laid over a dark green backpack, a men’s watch sharing space on the counter with two tiny drops of backed silver. He watches over her within the borders of every container, open and solidly present behind her like a tough-knit net—ready to catch.
You step out of your shoes and he walks further in the house with haste, knocking around in what you assume is the kitchen when he returns with a glass of water.
“For you,” as he passes it, “Just in case.”
“Thank you.”
He curls a thumb into a belt loop at his waist, body teetering awkwardly as he watches you drink. You note the more-than-safe distance he’s put between you, the same kind he had implemented last week between his heart-wrenching confession and the point where this entanglement had escalated.
“Okay, so. I’m going to change. Do you want something too?”
You can’t help but smile, a nervous laugh held tight in your throat, “Yes, we can go to your room.”
Even in the dark, you don’t miss the flush of red along his jaw, the same shade he’d worn in the gallery, wine-soaked and unpracticed.
You flinch inwardly. How is it that you are remembering so much about him when he’s existed in your world for less time than should be notable? Only two interactions, now three, but they’ve earned their slot in your fondest of memories; nothing substantial provided still, and he casts your sunrises and warms your earth. You fear what touching him again will do to you.
Joel smiles something shy back, walking past you and motioning for you to do the same. He leads you back through the display, minding the little shoes as he climbs up the steps.
There are photos lining the staircase, less symbolic than the downstairs decorations, but just as revealing. A few of Joel and another man, similar in stature with a full smile and thick, slicked back hair, clasping shoulders or standing pin-straight side by side at different ages in mall-kiosk, christmas card style. Another of a young girl, all teeth and sparse freckles and pale cheeks. She’s wearing a cap and gown, shiny polyester catching in the flash, edges hazy with blur.
That’s her. His daughter. You’ve seen her, you realize, from a few modeling sessions you’d done when you offered to cover for the younger students. You already knew her, too, floating around more than a few hellos on the days you’d sat for her like a silent idol. It feels odd to be in her home now, the two of you connected in a way she hasn’t come to partake in quite yet. She’s been at the head of your conversations with Joel until now—in this moment when she’s here but not here—and you wonder how much he’s considered her place in all this. You should at least thank her, you suppose; nod at her picture in prayer or cross your fingers that you might actually get to meet her—see her again, rather—and get to say it to her face.
Joel walks ahead of you as you linger, unbothered by your interest. You’re glad he does when you reach the last row.
A larger frame bookends the slideshow, standing alone in its unique appearance. It’s hand-made, a thin string of painted ferns on the edges, the wings of something like a butterfly or moth wrapping over the right-hand corner, precise and niche enough to be nothing other than a gift. The picture inside is of the two of them together, happy and puffy-cheeked with their arms wrapped around each other, back-lit in front of some kind of museum display.
Pure joy. His comfort.
A swell of pain lodges in your ribs, eyes drawing wet. He’s losing her, you think, in a way he hasn’t even begun to realize. He's missed so much of her life—at no fault of their own—and will pursue her future as a bystander. You long to give him some kind of relief in that, maybe out of pity or maybe out of need. You wanted to be on your own, you wanted to be separated from everyone else out of spite for letting your family and your ex tower over you, heavy-handing their influence in false gestures of kindness. Not loving. Never loving—only present in best interests and helpful advice. Things that gave you purpose and points. Who was tallying? What have you to show for it now?
You only ever wanted acceptance from them, to be recognized as a person instead of as a student or a daughter or a girlfriend—to be able to transcend role and become an active participant.
It’s too perfect, this thing you each individually lack; what comes of someone who cares and someone who needs caring?
“Hey.” Joel calls from the end of the room, pulling you out of your dissection of his life, voice soft like he’s seeing an apparition he’s unsure is there.
“Hi.” You whisper, walking towards him, ignoring his tentative boundary, “You know, I did everything in my power to not call you.” There’s no point in keeping secrets now, from him or yourself.
He crowds you in the doorway, body slumping on the line of his spine so he can entrap you more securely, u-shaped shoulders and outward facing palms, “Why did you call?”
“I couldn’t help it,” and before he can interrupt, “Joel, I need you to know that this isn’t going to end well.”
“End? Have we started?”
“We were doing this before we both knew it, I think. That’s what you were talking about, right—like we’ve met before?”
“That’s right.” He’s breathing shallowly, unable to hide his desire for proximity now that you’ve allowed him more than he started with, chest moving back and forth like the breeze of the heater is enough to push his tide, “And I meant it.”
“So did I.”
“Then what are you so scared of? If it’s familiar?” His knee knocks into the slice of thigh above yours. He’s getting closer.
“Just because I want you now doesn’t mean I should have you.”
“What if I want you to have me?”
“Even worse.” The heat of his face leaks out onto yours and you open yourself to it—the hot sun in July, the boiling rain of mid-summer, all encompassing and working hard to bring you up to temperature so you can burn along with it. Setting you ablaze.
You lean up, the tip of your nose catching on the stubble lining his jaw, careful to not break eye contact for longer than the briefest moment, nudging him in short taps.
“I do, though, honey. I think you know I do.” His knee pushes between yours, digging into the joint of your leg to unfold you, the rough denim over his zipper dragging across the knob of your hip.
You curl a hand around the fabric covering his stomach, wrinkling it past the point of correction as it folds under the damp of your fist. He’s far from at length now, both nothing of what you intended and exactly what you wanted. He’s thrilled about it too, seemingly—the muscle under his torso fluttering when your nails drag against him.
He’s everything again, everywhere, soft tanned skin and jeans he came up here to ‘change out of’, the invisible halo around him swallowing you, coaxing you into his orbit. You want all of it, piece by piece and for all he’s worth.
“I don’t want to waste you,” you murmur, and there’s that unashamed boldness again, honesty rushing out like an unsupervised beast. Joel wraps his thick fingers around the side of your neck, thumb pushing into soft cheek, between rows of teeth and over skin, pushing them apart.
His eyes are glossy, like he’s just gotten up from a long sleep, gauzy and sloppy and sticky. His mouth hangs open to mimic yours as he speaks, “You couldn’t. I have an endless amount to give,” and then he’s licking the outline of your open lips, slipping his tongue in to press along the roof of your mouth and up up up to the back of your teeth. He’s puffing hard out of his nose, dipping in and out of your split, licking even the pad of his thumb where it pokes through the hollow, touching himself inside you.
His free hand grips the top of your ribs, leading you backwards towards the bed until you’re seated at the edge of it, his back curved harshly to continue to taste you.
You’re kissing him back, you know that, but your thoughts float up to cloud your pleasure and you’re getting ahead of yourself all over again. What does he want? Why does he want it? Would he be upset to learn you’re trying to give him less? You flip the hem of his shirt between your forefinger and thumb, toes curling against the carpet—walking that line of self-doubt.
He breaks away, so careful again even with no clear need to be, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m just nervous.”
“About now? Or about me?”
“Both.”
“Just talk to me, then. Tell me why we shouldn’t—we can work through it together. Let me take some of that worry off of you.”
Joel braces a knee on the corner of the mattress to hold himself steady, gripping you under the joints of your shoulders and pulling you towards the center of the bed. He deposits your body like nothing, kneeling at the apex of your thighs.
Your voice shakes, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
He works at the buttons on your shirt with long fingers, drawing it over the hills of your shoulders until your collar rolls in on itself from the force, falling away. Joel wraps the layer over the panel of your jacket and pulls, undressing you like he has to memorize how to be able to put you back together. He does the same with your bra, achingly slow, but you can feel tiny tremors in his wrist as it runs against your back.
You just watch for a minute, unable to link what he’s doing to reality, arms feeling weak like the dull ache of a full-body cold, akin to sickness.
“Go on, honey. Only gonna keep going as long as you do.”
“I— I feel connected to you. I don’t want to.”
He closes his eyes and bobs his head, I understand, and your body starts to feel numb at your core, pulsing so violently it prompts you to roll your ankle to make sure you haven’t left it behind.
“More,” he pants, running fully-spread hands over every piece of bare skin, your nipples pulling tight as the motions move from gentle to greedy, passing to tugging.
“I can’t do this again. I have a hard time letting go. What if you want me for the wrong reason and I can’t hate you for it?”
He pops the button of your pants, lifting you up off the bed to take the garment down and off, dipping his fingers into the rim of each of your socks on the way to remove them at the same time.
You push your forefingers into the band of your underwear, but Joel meets your hand as you start, winding a finger around the lace and pulling opposite so they catch—leave these on.
You comply, but you know you’re already wet through them, know that he can see it, and you can’t decide if you want him to know his effect on you, legs buckling in no clear direction; but he feels so good, and he’s almost where you want him, and he’s waiting for you to keep talking, so you lean into the heat. You spread.
“It’s easy to tell myself you’re different once I’m in it. But it never works out right. I get too attached.”
Joel settles in, shouldering the left side of his body under your thigh to bring you open further, wrapping his arm around it and letting a hand situate against your belly. He turns his right palm away from himself, flattening it like a warning sign before he pushes it against the crease of your cunt, rubbing in slow circles with the curve of his fingers, right under the points. You thrash, trying to force him just an inch up to where you’re throbbing, but he doesn’t budge—he’s making you earn it.
“What if you just want me because you think you need someone to take care of? What if you find out you feel better alone?”
He dips two fingers into your cunt through the film of your underwear, shallow but firm—more than just curious. You feel like you might just come from this, from just the suggestion of him.
He uses his forearm to butt against the underside of your thigh, prompting you to lift it towards your chest, and he leans down to cup your clit into his mouth, fabric and all. His mouth is searing with the aid of the material, a tight suction that insulates the heat he’s expelling.
You’re heaving now, light-headed and loose as broad strokes of his tongue soak the already tainted cloth, the extra stimulation from its drag enough to make your head spin. You’re sure that if you breathe any harder your chest will cave in.
“Hm?” He asks against you, demanding, the vibration of it setting your skin alight, and you force your nails into the dip of your hand to keep your mind in the room. You’re stuttering, but it’s not enough of a response, so he leans back—cruel and merciless.
“What did I say?” he coos, left hand pinching into the swell of flesh at your side.
It stings but you gasp, eager to take, even if the attention so so far away from where it should be, and you have to count your breaths out in groups of five to come back into focus.
“What if I’m willing to take what you give me? Does that ruin the safety I’ve built for myself?” you whisper, and finally he peels back the curtain of fabric, only enough to present your entrance, rough fingers greeting your opening with no resistance, twisting and hooking them so just the tips are fixed inside. He positions himself above his hand, spitting onto your still-covered clit, watching it slide down and gather where you join. It’s unnecessary, with how much slick you know is pooled there, trailing down onto the sheets under you, but you chalk it up to just having another piece of him inside of you—you’ll gladly accept it.
You’re so very close, and he can tell, maybe from the shake in your hoisted leg or the lack of time in between airy cries, and he just slides in, right to the first knuckle. No room to be ready.
The sound of blood rushing in your ears is so loud you don’t hear yourself when you start begging. You writhe under the hold he has on you, relieved and overwhelmed and a few inches from your soul pouring right out of your body.
And then he’s not moving again, lessening the recovery time he’s willing to allow you, and you try to dig through the fog of arousal to find real words, but your mind can only conjure up a single-syllable sentence as you beg him to relent.
He frees himself from the clutch of your leg, shimmying out so he can use his unsodden hand to cradle your head, the weight of your skull limp in his palm, “You can do it. Get it all off your chest.”
Joel presses his thumb up under your cheek, pulling at the crease of your lips like he can will you to speak with force alone.
“I can’t. Please. Just finish.”
“You have something else you want to say. I don’t take kindly to giving up. C’mon.”
He gives you a half-step, reminding you part of him is still within you, fingers curling up against the soft muscle and you skip over a hard inhale.
“How am I supposed to know what I’m up against if you won’t tell me?” He says it like it’s obvious, like this is some very common step in relationship-building—finger-fucking you as a reward for confessing your skepticism.
You’re tense, holding the whole of your body in one, tiny scrap of you and it feels like you’ve entered some kind of limbo, suspended in the place between tension and relief, so close to falling that you’re not sure you want either of them.
He angles himself again, pushing his entire heft into your hip with a wide hand so he can fit himself flat against the bed, mouth hovering over your cunt again. He exhales hard over you, the fingers still tucked in your cunt moving as he adjusts.
“Please?” He begs sweetly, high enough on the end that you know he’s mocking you, “You can do better than please.”
You huff hard, swallowing thickly—trying again, “What if you—What if—,” you manage, and the lead-up must be convincing enough because he bows again, body fully flat so he can latch on to your clit with his mouth, lips closing tight around the bud through cotton and sucking hard, the hand inside you stirring to life, his twisted positive reinforcement serving you well.
“Fuck, Joel. Fuck—What if you make me love you, just to leave me?”
Your ankle drifts down to find purchase against his waist, and you can feel him moving, working himself into the mattress. In the chaos, you’d forgotten about his want, and being reminded of his ability to take makes your sweat run cold. He could fuck you now, and instead he’s fucking the bed thinking about you—even bringing you to completion is enough to make him chase release. You lean your head back behind your shoulders, your orgasm overtaking you one harsh wave at a time, stomach filling with thick, hot syrup. You push your teeth so deep into your lip there has to be blood but you can’t taste it, all of your senses honed onto where he’s unraveling you, shrinking in on itself in preparation to violently burst.
He weighs in, now that you’re already cresting, “I won’t leave you, sweetheart. Not now that I know what you need.”
His admission, his promise, is enough to make you see white, pushing your peak into overstimulation far too soon, and you have to be crying or begging or something because he immediately slows, winding you down in an organic way—taking his time leading you past bliss.
He pulls his hand free of you, sliding his grip over the damp, half-mounted fabric and peeling it away, hand circling your calf to maneuver you gently.
You’re fully naked now, and when he rolls over to stand at the foot of the bed, you remember he’s still clothed. There he is, above you again like he brings the dawn, bent shirt and uneven waistband and shiny slip over his lips.
It looks different from your memory though, here he looks inexplicably pained, face wrinkled, and then settles another reminder—he hadn’t come.
“Wait, Joel.”
He doesn’t answer, just recedes to another part of the room you can’t see over your heap of arms and legs.
You’re still swallowing ragged mouthfuls of air, not quite normal, when he reappears, the feeling of hot cloth against your still fragile cunt makes you writhe.
“Joel.”
“Yes?”
“You didn’t get to… finish,” you mutter, and how you’re too embarrassed to address his arousal even after what just transpired is beyond you.
“No need to rush anything. I can take care of myself for now, plenty of time to get to that point.”
“What now, then?”
“Sleep with me. I can take you home if you want, or to your car, but I would much rather if you stayed.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”
#joel miller fanfiction#the last of us fanfiction#tlou fanfiction#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller smut#pedro pascal characters#joel miller fic#joel miller/reader
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apologies for inactivity here’s a vaguely ghostsoap oneshot w outsider pov from tommy. because ghost’s family is still alive because i said so. rest is below the cut. 1.2k words
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Watching his younger brother fall in love was a strange thing.
Of course, watching him do just about anything these days was strange enough, but falling in love? For a long time, it had seemed above Simon.
Not once had Tommy ever seen him take time for himself, or let anyone new into his life so long as they’ve been on better terms. It never seemed like something remotely of interest to Simon, either.
Though God only knows how much he deserves to have someone to take care of him for once. From a shitty childhood only made worse by his shitty older brother, then for Simon to have to be the one to put Tommy back on track which led to him falling in love with Beth, and who knows what other horrors Simon would never speak about, it was finally time Simon found someone of his own.
That being said, Tommy hadn’t ever really, truly expected it.
It’s a slow process, but it gradually becomes obvious—to Beth, at least, who will point out signs Tommy hadn’t at all noticed that, when looking back, were quite clear.
Like the uncharacteristic softness in which Simon spoke the name Johnny. The shift in tone when talking about his sergeant though he attempts to maintain a front as to make a show that he knows better than to fraternize with a colleague.
(Though knowing a few stories of the things Simon’s captain has allowed within his task force, neither Beth nor Tommy think it’d be an issue for him.)
But all it had ever started with was a gruff, offhand mention of a new subordinate Simon was none too happy about, because the new sergeant was (and quote), “beyond irritating and without the concept of personal space,” and, “lucky he’s skilled enough for it to be overlooked on the field.” Both Tommy and Beth had tried to argue that surely it couldn’t be that bad, but Simon had only levelled them both a stare he had long since perfected to make even his own brother and sister-in-law look away.
The sergeant isn’t brought up for a while in calls or visits after that, and Tommy is progressively convinced Simon had meant what he said about his disliking. Then Beth asks about it, whether things have gotten better, and suddenly the sergeant becomes MacTavish and he and Simon are almost something of friends. Almost. And from their end of the phone, Beth gives Tommy this knowing look that takes him far too long to decipher, but eventually understands it as her noticing a fondness in Simon’s voice in his renewed opinion of Soap.
It’s odd, figuring these things out about his younger brother. It really, really is.
Then MacTavish becomes Soap becomes Johnny over the course of the next few months, and when Simon visits on one of his rare leaves, for once Tommy doesn’t need his wife’s help in detecting the unique sentiments reserved for this mysterious sergeant. There’s a palpable shift in Simon, a sort of emotion Tommy has never seen his brother express.
It’s unfamiliar, and sure there are things he would never know about Simon, but this? Nearly incomprehensible, at first. It’s new to Tommy as a witness, and new to Simon in general, and it’s all just some confusing mess that neither of them understand in their respective ways.
Though, thankfully, Tommy has Beth for that. Mostly. Whenever she doesn’t scold him for being such a stranger to his own brother.
The worst of the whole Simon-being-in-love ordeal is when Tommy is urged to broach the subject when it started to seem like Simon didn’t realize himself that he was… feeling. Tommy asks if Simon had ever considered that maybe he likes Johnny in a not-platonic way after his younger brother complains about the sergeant being on medical leave for six weeks while he was stuck with training rookies that are (again, and quote), “so green it’s a wonder any of them have made it this far in life,” however Simon only responds with a vehement denial and a quiet not like Johnny would feel the same if I did before he hangs up without a goodbye.
It’s at that point Tommy begins to understand Beth’s frustration with the obvious.
Since Tommy’s question, the ever-present Soap this, Johnny that disappears from conversation with Simon entirely until a month before bi-annual Christmas leave when a near-groundbreaking question is meekly asked—if it’d be alright for Simon to bring someone with him to family dinner. He never specifies who, but it’s easy enough to guess.
(And get it right.)
John MacTavish is somehow exactly and nothing as expected, and it catches both Tommy and Beth by surprise.
He’s talkative, is one thing. That isn’t to say it’s a bad thing, either—they’re both more than happy to finally have someone regale them with the stories that aren’t classified, and John seems just as happy to do so—but also having known Simon for just about all his life and knowing his aversion to chatty people like John, it seems odd he’d be so infatuated.
And infatuated is definitely the right word, when Tommy glances over to see the adoration in Simon’s face watching John speak with such liveliness, an adoration he knows himself guilty of when looking at Beth. It’s the exact same, or so Beth would later say.
Another thing is the touching. It’s subconscious, surely, whenever John reaches a hand out to connect in some way to Simon, but Simon just lets it happen. Leans into it, even. It’s part of what really solidifies the conclusion that Simon has finally found his person.
What really does it, though, is John’s use of Si like the nickname was nothing—and Simon reacting all the same. Even Tommy hadn’t ever been afforded that privilege, and while at first it stings for a very brief moment, once Tommy is over it he settles back into complete disbelief like he’s been told pigs had, truly, learned to fly.
That one had even startled Beth. Had even startled Joseph, who had been told on numerous occasions that his uncle didn’t like when people called him Si. Yet here John sat at the dinner table like Simon hadn’t let him do something previously reserved for absolutely no one.
Later that night, Tommy corners Simon and asks him again about his feelings toward John, because it’s just so painfully clear now. He half-expects another denial, but Simon sighs and shrinks in on himself in a way Tommy hadn’t seen in decades before admitting that he likes John in a very not-platonic way.
That he loves John. That he plans on asking John on a proper date when they get back to Simon’s flat the next day.
Hearing the words from Simon, the word from Simon, is initially bizarre, but Tommy is more occupied with a sense of pride for his younger brother—though expressed in the quieter Riley fashion with an additional wish of luck certainly not needed after seeing how John and Simon act together.
Watching his younger brother fall in love was a strange thing, most definitely. But it also feels rewarding, in some equally strange way, to finally see Simon have something he’s always deserved after so, so very long.
#john soap mactavish#simon ghost riley#ghost x soap#ghoap#soap mw2#ghost mw2#soapghost#ghostsoap#fanfic#writing#oneshot#outsider pov#alternate timeline#drabble
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Kinktober Day 13 - Size Difference
Ghost x Soap - 1.5k (on ao3)
summary: Simon and Johnny's first time together. (Johnny POV)
cw: very very light degradation (and it's affectionate)
note: i made ghost bigger than he is in game just to have a bit more fun with the prompt hehe <3
Johnny’s never been with someone bigger than him.
He’s topped before, bottomed before, been a third for a curious couple, but the one constant is that he’s always the largest man in the room. At six feet tall and with a body (and posture) built from a decade of military experience, it’s unsurprising. Even if there's a man in the room taller than him, Johnny's confidence and poise gives him a bigger presence. Outside of work, he's used to commanding attention when he steps into a room - a sometimes annoying trait that unfortunately extends to the bedroom.
He'd like to be thrown around sometimes, so what? Maybe even manhandled a bit, have someone use him like a doll. With his form and attitude he's always expected to be the one doing the manhandling, though, and more often than not the quickest way to get himself off is to just use his partner's body how he'd like.
He isn't bigger than everyone around him. In fact, he's the shortest member of the 141. Most notably, he isn’t bigger than Ghost.
No, Johnny’s Lieutenant is a mountain of a man - 6’6 if not larger, built like a brick house with a layer of fat over his muscles making every article of clothing he wears obscenely tight.
Ghost is a big man, the biggest on base. He makes Johnny feel small in a way he's never felt before, even next to men like Price. Johnny stands next to Ghost and doesn't even come up to the man's chin, it's absurd.
Sometimes, when he's gone a little too long without heading off base to pick someone up, Johnny looks at Ghost and thinks about what it would feel like to be pinned beneath all that bulk. He can tell Ghost is the type of man who would take control in bed, and the desire to just throw himself at Simon's mercy and shout do whatever you want to me! feels like it consumes all of his thoughts sometimes.
Now, held down beneath Ghost in his bed, Johnny’s sure he’s never felt quite so dwarfed in his life. Their height difference feels multiplied like this, with Johnny existing purely in Ghost's shadow and pinned down like a bug.
There isn’t an inch of him not covered by Simon. Were he on his back, Ghost’s head would block out the light entirely. As it is he can feel every point where their bodies meet - which is every point across the back of Johnny’s body, even the bottom of his feet where they push against Simon's.
He groans aloud when Ghost wraps a hand around his waist. His fingers nearly touch his fucking belly button.
God, he’s going to fuck Johnny so good. Judging by the bulge at his back, he'll be lucky if he can walk straight tomorrow morning.
Johnny grinds himself back on Ghost’s cock, moans at the sensation of naked skin rubbing on naked skin, the hard heat of man against him.
He’ll never be able to fuck someone smaller than this again, he already knows. He'll either have to beg Ghost to fuck him again (beg him again) or spend hours looking for hyperspecific body types on dating apps.
He's mourning his future sexual prospects when Ghost uses the hand on his hip to grind him back again, pushing forward and letting Johnny's cock rub against soft sheets. He moans at the sensation, leaning his head back to rest on his Lieutenant's shoulder.
“Needy, Johnny?” Ghost asks, lips hovering beside Johnny’s right ear.
“Always, sir,” he breathes back, arching his neck and whimpering when Ghost takes his invitation to suck a hickey. “Been wantin’- fuck, been wantin’ this since the day I met you, L.t.”
“That so?” A lick, a kiss, a hard bite, another kiss. He can't wait to study the bruises in the mirror tomorrow morning.
“Mmmmm,” Johnny moans, letting himself go loose and resting his cheek back on the pillow to glance over his shoulder at Simon. “Knew you’d have a fuckin’ perfect cock.”
That gets a bark of laughter from Ghost, another bite along Johnny’s shoulder. He smiles a little dopily at the playful response, continues rolling his hips slowly so there's no lull in stimulation for either of them.
“Been this horny that long?”
“Yeah,” Johnny breathes. “Can’t hardly think around you these days, can’t do much but picture your goddamn horse cock.”
“Horse cock, huh? You think you can take it all?”
Johnny scoffs a little in offense. “‘Kinda question is that? ‘Course I can take it. I’m not a fuckin’ quitter, L.t.”
That gets another laugh. “‘Course not Johnny. My mistake.”
It takes a long time for Ghost to prep Johnny. He’s a bit of a dick about it, refuses to fuck him before he crams four fingers into Johnny’s lube-soaked hole. He licks at the drool dripping from Johnny's mouth, occasionally stuffing his fingers onto his tongue and whispering filthy things in his ear.
Get 'em wet for me, love, need you nice and soaked before you even think of takin' my cock.
Like the taste, do you? My needy thing, of course you like the taste of your own arse. I shoulda known.
Spit, Johnny. Your hole's dryin' up already, can't have that. Thought you wanted me to fuck you?
Johnny squirms at the stretch of four fingers, put-out that he’s not being properly wrecked yet and starting to get properly pouty about it. “Might as well just fuckin’ fist me,” he grumbles, hands clenching tight in the sheets.
��Some other day,” Ghost brushes off, curling his fingers right into Johnny’s prostate and giving him a few firm rubs to stop his whining. It has the intended affect, leaving Johnny incapable of speech for a few moments and just drooling onto the pillow.
Thankfully, Simon's not as slow when he finally does fuck Johnny.
He doesn’t pause when he’s sinking in, keeps a steady pressure from tip to root as he seats himself fully inside.
They both let out twin moans of pleasure when he's fully seated, Johnny’s back arched so he can throw his head onto Ghost’s collarbone. He gets a hand loose around his throat, a kiss pressed to his temple.
“Let me know when you’re ready,” Ghost whispers in his ear, still as a statue.
Johnny gives himself a few moments to adjust - he really would like to walk tomorrow - but he’s always been a bit of a masochist, always enjoyed the burn of the stretch when he fucks himself on a particularly thick dildo. So he cants his hips back a little before he’s fully acclimated to the intrusion that is Ghost, smiles into the bedsheets and braces himself for the fucking of a lifetime.
He gets it. Ghost pulls out to the tip on nearly every thrust, bullies Johnny’s prostate and keeps his angle oh so perfect. He reaches around to grab Johnny’s cock at one point, makes him cry out and come in only a few strokes.
Ghost himself lasts far longer. Johnny goes limp after his orgasm, sinks boneless into the pillows and arches his back so Ghost can finish himself off. It feels so fucking good to just lay there being used, the contentment of knowing his body only exists for Ghost's pleasure something that fills him with a bone-deep satisfaction.
He fucks Johnny for at least as long as it took Johnny to get off, panting harshly above his back as he works. He sounds almost animalistic, heaving and snarling like a rabid dog.
Johnny whimpers and whines when he hits a particularly sensitive spot, gives himself the freedom to exaggerate just a tad because Ghost gives him another hickey for every sound he makes. All Johnny has to do is rest his head on folded arms and bear Simon's fucking and he gets a pretty pattern of bruises across his throat.
Simon finally buries himself to the hilt with a harsh bite to Johnny’s shoulder blade, one that feels nearly like it breaks skin. Johnny would swear he growls into the skin between his teeth, the vibration echoing right to his spent cock.
Ghost pulls out a moment later, flops to his side back beside Johnny and catches his breath.
He’s not sure if Ghost will kick him out - his L.t. certainly doesn’t seem the type to enjoy pillow talk. But he’s not sure he could move if he wanted, so he lets his eyes flutter shut and waits for Ghost to decide what he wants. He hasn't felt so relaxed in a long, long time, and he'll be damned if he won't enjoy it for as long as he can manage.
Johnny’s scooped up a moment later, his back tucked to Ghost’s front and his head beneath Ghost’s chin.
Again, he’s reminded of the sheer size of his Lieutenant. Ghost’s legs tuck up behind Johnny’s, essentially giving him a chair to sit on even though they’re horizontal. His arms are long enough that his right hand easily rests on Johnny’s left side when he’s wrapped in them, his left arm coming up to hold Johnny's shoulder back to his chest and giving him no wiggle room at all.
“I’m guessin’ you’re not kickin’ me out?” Johnny mumbles, already halfway asleep.
“Shut up,” Ghost grumbles back, throwing a leg over Johnny’s and nearly laying on top of him. He can’t hold back a snort at that, sinks back into Ghost with a hum when he gets a little squeeze around the middle in response.
#im not meant for normal vanilla sex#ghostsoap#ghost x soap#soap x ghost#hehe#bo writes#john soap mactavish x simon ghost riley#john mactavish x simon riley#soap mactavish x ghost riley#kinktober 2023#kinktober day 13#ghoap smut#ghostsoap smut#cod fanfic#call of duty fanfic#ghoap#kinktober
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