#i think this was the only time they ever played One Last Time live and it fucks me up
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how about a gavi fic where they’ve been dating for a long time but long distance so the whole relationship is basically a secret and the public finds out and the internet sort of breaks and keeps commenting on how gavi is so different with her. if you do end up liking this and writing this please tag me <33
sant jordi - pablo gavi
summary: you visit your long-distance boyfriend Gavi and he accidentally hard launches your relationship.
genre: fluff!
a/n: @weekendlusting that request was so cute, thank you for your patience!🫶🏼 Also, i was listening to this song while writing, check it out for the full experience;)
———
Exhausted, you placed your school bag onto the floor of your hallway, walking towards the darkly lit living room. Just as you sat down, your phone buzzed and Pablo appeared on the screen.
With an immediate smile, you pressed the green button, accepting his call.
„Hello my love.“ He chimed, already laying in bed with his hood up.
„Hey amor.“ You tiredly answered, now also kicking your feet upon the couch.
„How was your day?“
„Exhausing but I wrote my last exam today.“ A feeling of relief washed over your body when you realized you‘d have now two weeks of pure relaxation, without having to do any schoolwork. But this feeling of relief was over quickly. Being in another country, several hours away from your boyfriend was hard. Especially if you had now so much freetime, you would love to spend it with Pablo.
„I‘m proud of you. Any plans for the upcoming days?“ Your boyfriend asked while playing with his hair.
„Not much. I wish I could spend them with you, I miss you.“ You pouted, feeling sad for only seeing him through the screen.
„Fly to Barcelona. I‘m having a few days off and I wanna see my gorgeous girl again.“
That’s how you ended up on a plane on a Tuesday, flying two hours to visit your long distance boyfriend for the next week.
The reunion was more than sweet. Pablo surprised you with flowers as he waited in his Audi for you. You two were over four months together, but still kept the relationship from the public. You wouldn’t actively try to keep it a secret, but also didn’t have the need to show everyone you two were together. After all, Pablo was Spain‘s teenage heartthrob and you were just a normal girl going to university.
He drove to his house first, giving you time to freshen up and put down your luggage. As it was the 23rd of April, also known as Diada de Sant Jordi, a catalan holiday, the city was decorated in red roses and Catalan flags.
As you two strolled aimlessly around a more quiet part of the city, Pablo never let go of your hand. To be not recognized too often, he wore his sunglasses and a cap, looking as handsome as ever.
The touch of his hand made you blush and the smile never left your face.
Suddenly, Pablo walked towards a little shop at the end of the street. It was so small you wouldn’t have noticed it if it weren’t for your boyfriend. Outside, there was a shelf filled with second-hand books and roses. Like the tradition says, Pablo grabbed a book with the most romantic title and went inside to pay. He stood in front of you, his signature smile plastered across his face as he gave you the book and the red rose.
„Feliz dia de Sant Jordi mi amor.“ You couldn’t help but blush, your face turning red from the charm of your boyfriend.
„Muchas gracias Pablito.“ You mused and stepped closer to press a gentle but yet passionate kiss onto his lips.
After you two enjoyed a fun day in Barcelona, you headed back home to cook dinner and have a relaxing night together.
During cooking and occasionally dancing to the music playing in the background, your phone started buzzing almost every two seconds. At first you dismissed it, thinking it was your friend filling you in on one of her hookup stories, but even Pablo turned his head in curiosity after the buzzing wouldn’t stop several minutes later.
„Don’t you think it’s important? It won’t stop.“ He asked with furrowed eyebrows, just as confused as you were. Your phone screen was flooded with people you barely knew asking about Gavi. Gavi here Gavi there, things like „you’re really together?“ or „could you ask him to sign me something?.“
It was so confusing until one of your family members told you to check Pablo‘s instagram.
You opened the app, seeing your boyfriend posted a story. Clicking on it, you saw a picture of you, holding the rose and book in your hands. Written was next to it „Feliz dia de sant jordi mi amor💞“
The blood froze in your veins. Did Pablo realize he just hard launched you?
„PABLO! why did you post me on your instagram account?“ You asked, eyes wide while he just shrugged his shoulders.
„I always do that. I thought you were okay with me posting you on my private account. You know only my family and close friends follow that account.“
Now it dawned on you. Pablo mistakenly posted the picture on his official account, the one with sixteen million followers instead of his private one with only twenty-seven.
„Baby… Of course I‘m okay with that, but you posted it on your main one. The one with sixteen million followers.“ You started laughing in despair, finding the situation oddly funny, even though whole Spain now knew about your relationship with the famous footballer.
Pablo grew red, standing in front of you in horror as he took a look himself.
„Fuck… I‘m so sorry. I swear I didn’t want to post that on there.“
„It‘s fine. I bet there are picture of us anyway from today.“ You said and assured him it was alright. He embraced you in a hug, kissing your head softly.
„At least I don’t have to hide you anymore.“
———
footy.gossip: teenage heartthrob Pablo Gavi is not on the love market anymore ladies!💔
He was seen spending the romantic holiday Sant Jordi with a mysterious girl by his side, buying her roses and a book. What a true gentleman!
view all comments:
user1: she’s really living the Y/N lifestyle…
user2: Gavi is for sure such a sucker for his girlfriend
->user3: I mean you can even see the heart eyes behind the sunglasses😭
pedri: yn finally you came to visit… he wouldn’t shut his mouth
->pablogavi: how could I not
->user4: HE‘S NOT EVEN DENYING IT??
user5: not pedri exposing gavi😭😭
user6: WE WANT A GF REVEAL!!
user7: I just know she dresses him
->user8: fr, the change from skinny jeans to this is a blessing
->user9: pedri step up your game
user10: don’t know who the girl is but… mamá y papá.
author: wish that was you huh?🫵🏻🤨
———
pablogavi: whoops accidental hard launch… anyway yn te amoo🫶🏼
comments are turned off
#pablo gavi#pablo gavi x reader#gavi x reader#gavi#football x reader#gavi one shot#football one shot#fc barcelona#football imagine#football fanfic#barça
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AITA for refusing to do anything to help my roommate's baby?
More of a "was I an asshole" rather than "am I an asshole?"
I (21F) am a college student living in an apartment with two roommates, Anna (22F) and Mica (23NB). I've lived with Anna for two years now and Mica for one, and we've all always gotten along great with no major issues apart from the fact that Anna's boyfriend of several years is emotionally manipulative and incredibly insecure and jealous, but that's an issue for another time, except that I don't like him and make no secret of it. I also don't like children, never want children, and crying babies is one of the biggest overload/meltdown triggers I have because it stresses me out and also triggers some violent intrusive thoughts (I have autism and OCD, which both of my roommates know about, but never cause any significant issues and I don't act on those thoughts.) That is to say, I should not and do not want to be around children.
Anna and I live far enough apart over the summer that we only see each other during the school year, and this year I'm a junior and she's a senior. I showed up at the beginning of this school year and lo and behold, Anna is about five months pregnant. Turns out it happened toward the end of last school year, she didn't tell anyone at first, and didn't bother to mention it over the summer (which I'm pissed about). I was NOT expecting one of my closest college friends to be about to have a baby, let alone one that I'm living with.
For the next few months, I helped her out, drove her to doctor appointments, etc, because of course the shitbag boyfriend lives like three hours away (where Anna lives when she's not at college) and refuses to drive over to help her out himself. However, I made it clear that I wanted nothing to do with the baby once it's born. I wouldn't be helping her with diapers, wouldn't babysit, don't want her to put formula bottles on my shelf in the fridge, won't play with the baby or anything. I don't have the patience for that, I don't want the baby in my shit, I work 20 hours a week on top of my classes and homework and do not have time or desire to deal with a tiny human.
Fast forward to when the baby is born, Anna keeps saying she's looking for somewhere else to move, wants to move back full time to live with her shitbag boyfriend, have him help with the baby. Our other roommate Mica helps occasionally with the baby and is willing to do basic stuff and occasionally rocks him to sleep when they're sitting on the couch and stuff, but I refuse. Several months later Anna still hasn't moved out and has barely made the effort she says she will, she talks about the boyfriend a lot but I have literally NEVER seen him in person since the baby was born (he was there for the birth and that's it, drove her to our apartment afterwards since I didn't want to be there, then left again).
If there's ever a time when I'd be the only one home at the apartment and Anna asks me to babysit for a little while, I change plans and always leave so I'm not there even if it just means doing homework at the campus library instead of my room. Anna is exhausted and literally does nothing around the house anymore, never comes grocery shopping with Mica and I because she refuses to leave the baby home alone but doesn't want to take him to the store, I'm doing all of her dishes cause apparently she can't do that either, she asks us to do her laundry and cook dinner and everything for her now and I feel like we're being treated/put into the role of the baby's father.
I cannot stand children, I don't think Anna has any excuse for trying to make us care for her child, she seems to expect us to take care of him while she's in class and she can barely even afford her own share of rent and groceries and stuff let alone a baby (or hiring childcare), and I made it clear even before the baby was born that I wanted nothing to do with him and will not engage with him or do anything for him, and I think my "it's your fault you had a baby, sucks for you, now deal with the consequences" attitude is what might make me an asshole here but I'm so exhausted and my mental energy is always drained from the damn kid screaming and crying and making a mess of the house.
Mica talked to me privately recently and mentioned that they understand that I don't like children and that they're also upset with the fact that Anna can't take care of a child herself when she's a full time college student without a job and a shitty boyfriend who's barely in the picture, but they want me to try to engage more and have a bit of sympathy for Anna and not leave her completely stranded with an infant. I don't want children, I don't want to live with one, and don't want to have to care for one.
It's now April as of writing this and I have since moved out of the apartment (Anna and Mica still live together), I left in January at the start of spring semester when on-campus dorm housing was available and live with another friend whose roommate transferred the prior semester. I still see Anna around campus but I feel like the baby completely ruined our friendship but I still hang out with Mica a lot and occasionally get updates that way. I'm much happier, my mental health is better, and I'm not living constantly stressed and on edge because of the baby, and Anna still hasn't moved in with her boyfriend despite saying she's trying to for months now.
Was I an asshole for refusing to support my roommate and her baby, and essentially giving the ultimatum of "either the baby goes or I do?"
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AFFECTION'S EDGE: PART I
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|| alpha!suguru getou x omega!afab reader || E/18+ || wc: 6.5k || ao3 || Part II -> coming soon! || masterlist ||
minors and ageless blogs do not interact, 18+ only
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“You’ve got it all wrong,” he murmurs, “but what am I to expect from a stray like you? You’ve lived off scraps and abuse your whole life; of course you don’t know what to do now that I’ve given you food and shelter.” Suguru’s fingers ease up towards your neck as he continues, “a warm bed to lie in. Toys to play with. A collar—so you’ll never be lost again. No one’s ever given you this before, hm?”
***
Suguru tries to tame you.
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✧ SPRING FEVER collab masterlist ✧
cw: omegaverse, brat taming, mind games, toxic behavior, yandere suguru getou, yandere reader if you squint, biting, blood, marking, eventual forced bathing in later parts, eventual forced feeding in later parts, eventual smut in later parts; masturbation, voyeurism, a blurring of boundaries, consent as punishment?
a/n: this is for @lorelune 's SPRING FEVER collab!! i have been working on this for awhile now and i am excited to share it! this should be about 3 parts...i am very close to finishing the whole thing so i should be releasing a part a week for the next two weeks!
thank you for reading!! i would love to hear your thoughts <333
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“I think you’d be perfect.”
Suguru’s voice is a caress, low and soft, as he sits across from you.
Somehow, he always makes you feel like he is just beneath the surface of your skin, even if there is a respectable distance between you. He always makes you feel as if he is lurking somewhere in the lowest parts of you, pulling at strings you once thought hidden to yourself.
You’ve kept your distance for this reason.
You swallow hard.
And then you manage to get your voice to unstick, to find it somewhere inside of you and bring it to life. It’s firmer than you’re anticipating and you’re proud;
“I don’t think I would be.”
Suguru looks at you in a way that makes you feel as if he’s seeing through you, pulling you open slowly to gaze at all the inner workings of you. His dark eyes are keen, so sharp, even if they’re shaded by half-lidded lashes.
He smiles pleasantly and indulges you, but you know he believes very firmly that he is, in fact, right, “why not?”
“I told you when I agreed to join you—all I wanted in exchange for helping you, was to be an unbound Omega.” You force yourself to meet his eyes and to not get sucked into the dark tide of them.
“You asked for my protection.” He reminds you.
Your eyes flash this time, heated, a little spark that skitters to life inside of you.
“I didn’t—“
“Is that not what you’d call it?” Suguru asks, “when I interfered, every time, to be sure no other Alpha got to you? Or when I scented you to keep them away?”
Prickling warmth dots your cheeks, can feel at the back of your neck, too, the tips of your ears. You try a different tactic.
“I’m not a homemaker.”
His smile is soft, “I don’t want a homemaker.”
“I’m not obedient.” You counter again, as if you could dissuade Suguru Getou once he’s made up his mind.
“You’ve been quite good for me.” Suguru says smugly and this time, a little noise of embarrassment or frustration eeks out of you. A short, sharp little growl from your throat, almost a groan of irritation.
“I—I’m doing your dirty work. That’s our agreement! You give me assignments that I complete and in return, I get my freedom.”
“I don’t know why you’re so opposed to this. Is it not similar already to what we have now?” He asks simply, “I’d still let you roam, if that’s what you’re so scared of.”
“No it’s that—that power and mentality that I don’t want you to have over me.” You snap.
“I already have it,” he says and it isn’t intended to be cruel, but certainly is, “how long do you think you’d last, without the protection of an Alpha?”
“I didn’t have any before you.”
“You were starving, injured, and constantly on the run before me.” You open your mouth to protest, but he cuts you off, “it would still give you what you want.”
“I don’t want to be yours.” You say frankly, perhaps to be cruel yourself. And then you show teeth a little, flash them in warning, “I don’t want your mark.”
Suguru looks amused, if anything, by your display.
His smile is knowing and insufferable. It makes your anger ratchet up inside of you, hackles rising. You feel a little growl working its way out of your throat. It tears out of you in annoyance, when he says, “I don’t believe you.”
You slam the door so hard on its hinges that it rattles the entire wall. You wish it would rattle all the world.
***
Your cursed technique rips to life like a star exploding outwards.
Beast that you are, it overtakes you, transforms you until you are all claws and dripping, little fangs. Your body elongates, elegant, and built for speed, viciousness. The horns atop your head are sharp, too, curled the slightest into a crescent shape. The beast in you stretches and pulls at your bones, fits your skin to it in a way that you have come to know well.
(“Cursed technique: Cursed Creature,” Suguru hums, “allows you to turn into a cursed version of yourself, a sort of,” he pauses, looking you over, “monster?”
“That’s right.” You tell him, body trembling all over, in dire need of food. Care. Sleep.
He places a large hand on top of your head, strokes gently, until his hand nudges your cheek, beneath your chin so you are forced to look up into his eyes. Depthless violet.
“You have a deal.”)
The sorcerer is cast backward with the force of your transformation. In this form, everything heightens, sharpening into brilliance. So much brighter, clearer. So much more overwhelming.
You are a flash of darkness when you move, a mass of lethality.
The sorcerer doesn’t stand a chance, the moment you dash past him with a deep swipe of your claws, you know this will be an easy match. You chitter in this form, excited, warbly little sound erupting from you before you careen towards him again.
This time, he is warped away.
But you are fast, changing your trajectory mid-step to catch up to where he was warped.
Except, this time, a white haired sorcerer takes his place.
Your claws meet air.
A growling hiss erupts from your throat.
Satoru Gojo.
Suguru told you to stay away from him. At all costs.
And speak of the devil, your name is called, whistled almost. Your head turns to find Suguru appearing, too.
Faintly, the more human part of you wonders what the occasion is.
For a moment, all you can see is threat. Your hackles rise as your growling gets lower, more sinister, your form moving behind Gojo as if you might circle him, unable to let down your guard.
“Call off your pet,” Gojo says.
Suguru calls your name again and there’s something else in his tone now, a little sharper.
(Fear, you wonder faintly, in some far away part of your mind. Is he worried Gojo would hurt you?)
You come to heel at Suguru’s side, remaining in this form, making a low, threatening sound still. Warning. Your claws still drip with the blood of that sorcerer.
“Go,” Suguru says to you.
Your head snaps to look at him, eyes narrowing. “I’m not leaving,” you snap and the words have a bite to it, around the curves of your fangs. You look back at Gojo. If this comes to blows, you don’t want Suguru facing Gojo alone–you don’t want to leave his back suddenly unguarded.
It’s counterintuitive to you, goes against all of your instincts. You don’t leave him, you don’t leave his side, his back.
“Go,” Suguru says, harsher this time and the command seeps into you. You waver. And then, “I won’t tell you again.”
When you hiss at him in that warbling way of curses, he smiles faintly, almost fondly, as your teeth drip with venom. But you do listen to him this time.
And with your heightened hearing, you hear Gojo underneath his breath as you slink away;
“How interesting.”
***
When Suguru returns to you, he is unharmed.
You’d paced the length of the hallway outside of his room in the compound until you could have worn a hole into it.
Few would be brave enough to wait for Suguru outside his door.
When he arrives, he is mildly surprised to see you, before his expression melts into a sort of—smugness. A knowing glint to his eyes.
“Why would you send me away?” You snap.
“You could’ve gone in, you know, if it would’ve soothed you.” Suguru says instead, head nodding towards the door to his suite. “Would you like a key?”
You blanche, taking a half step back, “I don’t—“
It allows him to get to his door and open it. You’ve been here before, in the privacy of his suite, but now it feels strange. A little different. He holds the door open for you.
You glance at the threshold and feel as if you’re making an important decision.
“Come on,” he says smoothly and before you can think twice about it, you are being led inside, his hand drifting somewhere near your lower back. He never touches you, the feeling is a phantom one, the impression of it. You shiver a little.
But you round on him again, “why would you send me away?”
He doesn’t acknowledge you, instead he goes rifling in a drawer, digging around a little.
His suite is larger than others. The living room is open and attached is the kitchen. It’s all light wood, with tall windows that overlook the courtyard. You know, despite never being inside, that his bedroom is down the hall and to the left. The bathroom is across from it. You’ve sat many times on the floor of his living room with him, going over assignments, plans that he has, and what he’d like you to do.
When he finds what he’s looking for, he makes a soft noise, before turning to you with a small, gold key.
“I don’t want a key!” You snap.
“It’s a spare, take it just in case.” He replies and when you don’t move to grab it from him, he takes your hand in his much larger one, and opens your palm to him.
He places the key in your hand.
And then his eyes catch yours, “you were worried.”
“No-!” you get out, “I don’t like being—I’m supposed to protect you.”
Suguru smiles, hand still swallowing yours, “isn’t that sweet?” he remarks, “an Omega attempting to protect an Alpha.”
Immediately, you jerk away from him.
The key is still in your shaking fist.
“Don’t start,” you snarl, low and vicious and hurt, “I’ve always been the one at your side.”
“Yes,” he agrees, hand falling back down to his side listlessly. “I already told you that.”
You’ve always been at my side, he’d said, when he was trying to convince you to–
“That’s not what I meant!” Your voice rises without your consent and you feel an embarrassed, angry flush through your face for being so worked up. The room is thick with your worry and anger and frustration, all of your pent up energy like a knot in your chest, in your voice. It’s in your heart and the way you look at him.
“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” Suguru says easily, “it’s still the truth.”
When you slam the door this time, you hear something fall from the wall.
But the key is still in your trembling hand, digging indents into your palm, and your heart is still a beast in your chest.
And behind the closed door, Suguru Getou smiles fondly, and retrieves the fallen, shattered frame from the floor.
***
For a while, you avoid Suguru.
You stuff the key he gave you in your nightstand drawer, far in the back, in an attempt to keep it out of sight and out of your mind.
And at first, you think he is respecting your boundaries; you receive assignments through others from him. You see him only in passing and he never speaks directly to you. He hardly acknowledges you.
But after a week and a half, it begins to feel like punishment.
And the key is starting to burn and itch in your mind. You think about it at night, tossing over in your bed; you think about unlocking his door at this hour. What would you find? Would he be asleep? Awake? Alone? Fully dressed?
You think of him half bare and lounging, hair slipping over his shoulders, and the scent of sandalwood and fig. Tonka or something woodsy, maybe. You know it well and it lingers long after he leaves you.
You suddenly miss it, crave it.
Him.
You twist beneath your sheets.
Why did he have to–
You make a soft noise of frustration, turning over again.
You’re restless.
Something beneath your skin begins to itch and squirm.
Previously, Suguru had hardly mentioned your status as an Omega. He rarely acknowledged it; you were too brilliant of a sorcerer for him to care, you thought. You were too powerful. The only instance he brought it up was to scent you, a form of caution in a particular instance, for a particular mission. The memory still simmers in your mind, the way he’d rubbed the gland on your wrist with a careful thumb. He’d given you clothes of his to wear. He’d had you sit in his quarters for long hours, until it seemed as if you were his, in some way.
But now that he’s actually brought it up, offered you his bite, to be his, it paints him in an entirely different light.
Had he always…wanted you?
Was he always planning this?
The naive, desperate parts of you want to believe this is a recent thought of his. Previous to this, he only ever saw you as another sorcerer, a powerful one that aided him. You had always been one of the closer ones to him, at his heel, his beck and call.
You’d be lying if you said you’d never thought of Suguru this way; as an Alpha. An unmated one, who kept your company.
And he does, no matter how badly it burns to admit it, protect you.
You know he wards off Alphas.
You know he perhaps does more than even that.
But you don’t want—
You don’t want to be mated.
You don’t want to suddenly be coddled by him, held back, don’t want to be the little thing that keeps his bed warm.
Your face heats with the thought.
Images flash through your mind, flickering, melting together like film that bleeds and runs, of him overtop you. Shrouding you. His hair on your shoulders and back. You think of his mouth on your throat, teeth in your neck.
You rub at your eyes suddenly as if to clear them.
You know he leaves on a mission for a week in two days.
You assume, at some point, he’ll speak to you. And break this strange silence.
You’ll both return to normal then.
And then perhaps you won’t lose any more sleep over him.
***
Suguru never says goodbye to you.
It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does—you just figured he’d finally drop this silly little silence game.
You suppose he must’ve thought the same of you.
Besides, what were you expecting from him? An apology? It’s foolish to even entertain. You knew you weren’t going to apologize either. The least you’ll do, when he returns, is act as if all is normal again. Perhaps it’s better that way, not to address what he’s put in his head recently.
The more you speak of it, or think of it, the worse it unravels in your mind.
On the second day that he is gone, you realize you miss his scent.
You realize it has become such a staple in your everyday life that its sudden disappearance is almost alarming. It makes you more irritable, more vicious. You snap at the others faster, bite out insults and brutalities.
You—
Well, you miss it.
Him, maybe.
The admittance is a hard one to swallow around. It burns going down.
On the third day, you’re genuinely craving his scent in a way that makes your teeth ache. You had no idea you could even miss a scent like this, need it so bad that your body would betray you with a physical pain in your chest. Somewhere in your mouth, under your tongue.
You try to ignore it.
You go on with your life.
But by the fifth day, you are agitated and aggressive. Everyone knows something is wrong with you. You know something is wrong with you. You can feel it beneath your skin, crawling, squirming. It makes you want to tear out your hair, rip at your nails, or sink your teeth into something. You’re restless.
You can’t sleep.
You can hardly eat or think.
And as you lay awake in your bed, kicking at sheets, sweating and twisting, you know what it is you need.
You’ve known the whole week.
You throw back the covers and wrench open your bedside drawer.
The key rattles, hot, like it knows it’s finally about to be used. It’s musical sound a siren song, it’s been burning away in there the whole week.
You swipe it and turn sharply from your bedroom. From your own apartment.
It’s the middle of the night; not a soul sees you in the compound.
Like a person possessed, you walk. Your back is straight. Your steps are quick. Your mind is set, on fire.
Suguru’s door has haunted you the whole week.
The key in your hand digs into the flesh, carving it’s divots there like your hand might be the lock itself.
You try not to think about it–you unlock the door. You throw it open.
You shut it behind you, slide the lock back into place.
Darkness greets you.
You wander in like you know the place (you do, you do–)
You wander in like it’s yours to wander in.
Instantly, something loosens inside of you.
You exhale hard.
Inhale sharp.
The smell of him, fainter because he’s been gone, assaults your senses, sweeps over them. You take in a lungful like gasping for air, you smell faint traces of fig and sandalwood. Notes of tonka that you long for, that urge you to move deeper into his space.
In the dark, you make your way down the hall, towards his bedroom.
You haunt the arch for a moment.
Guilt or regret or embarrassment almost seize you. They make you pause.
Some sane part of you is clawing at your insides, wailing to turn around and leave. Leave now.
But he gave you a key.
He gave you a key, you think in circles, again and again. He gave me a key.
You cross the threshold.
You sink down into his bed and his scent is strongest here, even still, after several days it’s his.
You turn over the covers to get beneath them, cool sheets against your legs, sliding and smooth. You turn your face into his pillow and inhale.
A soft little groan works it’s way out of you.
Instantly, your muscles slacken.
Everything leeches from you; your anger and irritation and restlessness.
It soothes you so deeply and so swiftly it makes your head spin.
You curl beneath his blankets and take deep pulls of breath, squirming a moment if only to bring his scent tighter around you. You envelope yourself in it.You shroud yourself in it.
And finally, after five days of restless nights, you fall asleep almost instantly.
Not a single dream. Not one moment where you wake or stir.
You sleep deeply.
In the morning, the sun warms you through the broad windows like a content cat.
You stretch lazily like one, too.
Suguru will be home tomorrow.
You know you need to leave his bed, hope that your scent dissipates by the time he returns.
You didn’t do anything wrong, you know—he gave you a key.
He gave you a key.
But rather, you know he would never let you live it down. He would use it instantly, as ammunition for his argument, the debate that the two of you keep circling.
You don’t quite leave as quickly as you should still, though:
You linger.
You’re comfortable.
Calmed for the first time all week.
And when you do slip out, it’s silently, locking the door behind you.
Like maybe you won’t ever let yourself back in there, trying to shut it like it was a one time indulgence and gone now from your mind and body.
But his scent clings to you.
And little do you know, your scent clings to his sheets—and to Suguru, it’s sweet as can be and unmistakable—irreplaceable.
He collapses in his own bed when he returns and knows you’ve been all over it. He can smell the crush of dark berries, jasmine, the soothing note of vanilla that clings to you, that he’s come to adore.
He grins to himself and knows then, he’s got you right where he wants you.
***
For a moment, you think Suguru is going to make you be the bigger person and apologize upon his return.
Instead, he finds you.
And he doesn’t say he’s sorry for his recent behavior, but he does say;
“I’d prefer if you didn’t avoid me in the future.”
It feels like sorry enough.
And for some time, things return to a state of normal.
A version of it.
It isn’t quite like it was before—in fact, you seem to spend more time around him than previously. He calls on you more. He brings you into his space more frequently, often urging you to eat with him, beside him, at his table.
This is ideal for you. Close but not too close.
Although, he begins to ask, don’t you have your key? Can’t you let yourself in?
You say you haven’t used it.
He hums like he knows differently, but doesn’t press you.
Until finally he asks you to retrieve a notebook in his study and bring it to him.
Fetch, he says.
“It’s locked, isn’t it?”
“You have your key.” He answers simply, not looking up from the book he is reading.
For a moment, you almost protest, but something stops you. Maybe the twitch in his brow.
It’s a useless argument to pick, anyways.
You do have a key.
It would be fastest, easiest, to just use it.
So you do.
And you hand him the notebook he asked for, fingers brushing against his as he takes it from you with gentle hands.
“Thank you,” he adds, voice so smooth and low, almost tempting.
You swallow a little.
Then you quickly avert your gaze.
“Whatever,” you grouse, but he smiles fondly, amused.
And it opens another door, more than just the one to his suite.
***
Tentatively, you begin to come and go.
The first (second) time you use your key to enter without his order, he is careful not to react to you any differently than how he usually does.
His eyes brighten a little, though, like a leopard that’s caught something interesting in its sights and is waiting to see what it’ll do.
Still, you grow more comfortable entering his space on your own.
You claim portions of it; a corner of the couch. A particular cushion around his low table. All of the sunny patches in his suite become yours, scented with you, indented with you. More than that, some horrible, hidden part of you adores that your scent is all over his space.
It’s comforting to find it beside his scent.
It soothes a part of you that you don’t wish to admit to.
His hands grow bolder.
Now they’re always hovering at the small of your back, the nape of your neck. He tucks strands of your hair away from your face and though you jerk away from him, it’s often half-hearted. You snip at him and he only smiles.
Pleased. Smug. Knowing.
His hands guide you as you walk beside him.
You grow accustomed to his touch in some way—he makes sure of it.
Then, as if to prove something—
Another cult member begins to cause trouble with you; he is another Omega. He begins with snide comments and remarks that test your patience. He doesn’t stop until you are growling and bristled and ready for a fight.
And all it takes to stop you is Suguru’s large hand coming down on the nape of your neck.
His thumb rests atop one scent gland at your throat, fingertips pressing delicately into the one on the other side. Hand wrapped around the back of your neck.
“Easy,” he murmurs and just like that, you can feel some of your aggression slip from you, deflate like a balloon.
It’s involuntary, the energy and anger unspooling from your body in an instant. In the back of your mind, you’re alarmed; how easily it was for him to effect you. It’s terrifying.
You swat his hand away, lurching from him, another little growl in your throat.
But you don’t fight him or the look in his eyes, the way he tilts his chin up in the barest hint of dominance.
You storm off.
Instances as such continue to happen, though, where he’s able to sooth or quell your temperament with a touch. A word. A look.
It comes to a head while you’re eating dinner with him.
“You’re so wound up,” Suguru comments lightly, “your scent is so sharp with it. What’s bothering you?”
Reflexively, you snap, “you are.”
And it’s meant to be some sort of insult but Suguru’s lips twist into this hitched little smile. “It’s my fault you’re wound up?” He asks lightly.
“Don’t twist my words.” You respond, fixing him with a glare, “you bother me.”
He’s still deeply amused by this, you can tell by the twinkle in his eyes. The smug way he holds himself.
“Would you like me to help you?” He asks.
“No,” you say reflexively.
A beat of silence before he says, “come here. I’ll help you.”
There’s a command in his voice, laced there, and doing something strange to your head.
You hesitate.
He pounces, “just a massage.” He soothes, “I can tell your shoulders are knotted up and tense. I can see it.”
His voice has dropped into that soothing lull.
Warily, “away from my glands?”
He smiles, “of course.” And then, “come here.”
Your body moves easily now and he murmurs, “sit in front of me. Back to me—there, that’s it.”
It feels more vulnerable than it should to show your back to him, to sit in front of him like a child to their mother. You try to keep your posture straight and careful.
But then he sets large, warm hands to your shoulders. His fingers dig into the meat of them gently, pressing into your muscles which spasm and twitch in pain. You yelp, jerking away.
Suguru tsks, “see how tense you are? You’re in pain.” He scolds softly and you feel heat smart across your face, “sit still for me. I’ll be gentler.”
True to his word, he eases up, fingers careful as they run into your tense muscles.
He finds bundles of twisted up tension in your back and shoulders, pressing into them until a noise springs from you—a groan, a whimper, a little growl. He works the sounds out of you. You swear he’s doing it deliberately and you wouldn’t be surprised if it was all just to humiliate you a little.
But you finally loosen and slacken for him.
When you finally sink into his hands, he murmurs, “I don’t know why you fight this so badly.”
You let go of a heavy sigh, “you do know why. Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you.”
“Because you’re stubborn?” Suguru asks lightly and you snort, despite yourself, “because you don’t know what’s good for you?”
“You’re no good for me.” You respond.
Suguru’s turn to sigh and if he digs his fingers in to make you yip in pain, he’d never say it was purposeful.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” he murmurs, “but what am I to expect from a stray like you? You’ve lived off scraps and abuse your whole life; of course you don’t know what to do now that I’ve given you food and shelter.” Suguru’s fingers ease up towards your neck as he continues, “a warm bed to lie in. Toys to play with. A collar—so you’ll never be lost again. No one’s ever given you this before, hm?”
Reflexively, you jerk away from his touch, you turn to look at him over your shoulder with a sneer.
“I’m not a pet.”
Suguru does not heed your warning and instead gently pulls you back towards him by your waist.
“No?” He asks lightly, fingers resuming their steady massage. You go completely still like prey, unsure, wary. Angry. Humiliated. “It’s not a bad thing to be a pet. You’re thinking about it all wrong.”
His fingers ease up towards your neck and you stiffen again.
“Suguru,” you say in warning as he nears your scent glands. Perhaps to what he’s said.
“You’re my pet now,” he continues, “though you don’t like to admit it. It’s not so bad, is it?”
Stubbornly, you don’t answer him.
But after a moment, you say, “if I’m already yours, why do you need this last bit of me? If you already see me as your pet, why do you want me so terribly, in this way—“
Suguru suddenly pulls you back deeper, into his lap, against his chest.
You squirm, but he holds you tight, hooks his chin over your shoulder.
Alarm bells ring frantically in your head now that he’s so close to the glands in your throat.
“Don’t play dumb,” Suguru muses, half-mocking, “it doesn’t suit you.”
“Let me go,” you snarl low and hot.
“What are you scared of?” Suguru responds, “that I’d trap you? If you’d take my Bite, I’d let you roam further than I do now. You’d be safe.”
“Liar,” you hiss, “I’m not dumb.”
“I’m not trying to stifle you, I’m trying to set you free.” Suguru almost purrs and his voice is warm and low and creeping up over your spine and trying to find its way inside you.
You begin to squirm this time, thrashing in his hold until you manage to wriggle free, falling forward onto your hands and knees.
Instinctively, you turn to keep your back protected, scrambling away from him. You bare your teeth at him.
“I don’t believe you.”
He watches this show of aggression with amusement, tilting his head slightly. And then he sighs, “I don’t think anything I say will convince you at this point.”
You narrow your eyes at the tone. Your hackles rise.
In an instant, he has grabbed you by the ankle and pulled you back to him.
Underneath him.
You shove hard at him, twisting and fighting as he settles himself over you.
You realize how solid he is, how strong, and large. He doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Suguru,” you hiss at him, pushing as hard as you can on his chest.
“See how easy it was for me to subdue you?” He says then, voice smooth and low. “If I wanted to take you, I simply would’ve already. You’re no challenge to me; if I wanted to trap you, I would’ve.”
“Get off me!”
You thrash hard beneath him and in an instant, he has your hands uselessly pinned above your head, stretching you out beneath him.
His nose dips, near the scent gland at your throat. You squirm.
He squeezes your wrists, “stop squirming.” He murmurs low, “or my instinct will be to bite.”
Your stomach does a horrible flip, a flutter of—fear, excitement.
“Just—get off—leave me alone!” You get out, voice high and tight. You try not to arch away from the way he lets his face fall to the crook of your neck.
“Hush,” Suguru hisses, nudging his nose beneath your ear.
He’s scenting you.
He’s done this before and despite everything in you, you finally go slack. You force yourself not to tilt your head or offer up more, rather let him urge you into the way that he prefers.
He nudges his cheek and nose against your jaw. He lets out a relieved breath, fitting more of his body to you and you feel the push of chest into yours, his hips.
You squirm a little and a growl erupts from his throat.
You fight back the sound that almost works its way out of you now, swallow around it.
When he’s finished, he asks, “would you like to scent me?” And instinctively, you want to say yes, but you temper yourself. Then he adds, “I’m sending you away on a mission alone. I’ll be scenting you until the day you leave now.”
You catch his eyes, glinting.
“So, I thought it only fair if you’d like to scent me, too.”
You don’t know why, but something squirms inside of you, something a little hurt.
“You’re sending me away?”
Suguru hums softly, “I need you to take care of something for me. I only trust you to do it.”
You flex your hands a little in his hold, but he doesn’t budge.
He nudges at your jaw again, gentle, and murmurs, “this would be easier if you’d take my mark.”
You turn your head then to shield your throat, and face him. His nose nearly brushes yours and you look up at him through your lashes. You bite your tongue from any further complaints, dipping down to the crux of his throat now.
Easily, perhaps eagerly, he bares his throat for you.
Satisfaction erupts beneath your skin as his scent washes over you, dark fig and oud, sandalwood and musk. Carefully, your nose runs along the column of his throat.
“I’m not even—“ you huff, retry, “I haven’t had a Heat in—it wouldn’t take, anyways.”
“Ah,” Suguru says and you wish you hadn’t told him at all. Realization dawns over his features the way a cat might realize it’s caught its mouse beneath its paws. “Is this what you’re so scared of?”
“No—I prefer it this way. It’s another reason that you can’t. It wouldn’t work.” You say stubbornly and perhaps in your irritation, you burrow further down into the crook of his neck, tuck your cheek to his skin to nudge.
“I could give you a temporary one,” he murmurs, “I’d let you do the same in return, of course.”
You go quiet, brushing your lips against his skin, hesitating.
“I don’t need it.” You finally decide, even as you let the blunt side of a tooth nick gently against his neck. “I can protect myself.” You pull away to look at him again, “am I not one of your strongest?”
“You are my strongest.” He agrees, he praises. “But am I not also strong?” He asks, “and yet you still insist on protecting me.”
You open your mouth to protest, but he takes your chin in hand suddenly, words dying before they can escape.
“You are my strongest.” He says, “I would like the world to be aware of it.”
“I told you, I don’t want to be yours–”
“Then stop protecting me. Flee. Run away and never return.” Suddenly, his touch, his body, all of him is gone. He rolls off of you and onto his back beside you. Cold air sweeps in. You can feel his touch like burning imprints on your skin.
You turn your head to the side to look at him.
“You would hunt me down if I ran.”
A flicker of a smile ghosts his face.
“And if I ran from you?” He asks, “if I discarded you?”
Something twists so viciously and sharply in your chest that your eyes sting with it. You lock your jaw tight. You stare up at the ceiling.
“You refuse to speak but your scent is spiced with distress, sour with despair.” He turns to look at you, “not so easy to hear, is it?”
“I can’t stand you or your games.” You get out.
“There are no games.” He says evenly, “only the one you’re playing with yourself.”
You scoff, “which is?”
He sits up slightly, over you, looking down at you, the inky silk of his dark hair sliding over one shoulder.
“Seeing how long you can outrun what you want.”
You exhale roughly, in exasperation, and then you ask dryly, “and what do I want, Suguru?”
“To be taken care of.”
“I don’t need–”
He cuts off your growl before it can start, taking your chin in hand to turn your head towards him once more. “You never have, but it doesn’t mean you can’t want it.”
“I don’t want it either.” You snap. “You have some grand delusion of me in your mind that I am some weak, submissive creature in need of your care.”
“I’ve said none of that, have I?” He hums. “Now you’re twisting my words, being purposefully churlish–in hopes of, what? To scare me off?”
His palm opens up against your jaw, your cheek. His thumb touches your bottom lip.
“You snap and you snarl and posture as some ferocious, independent creature to scare everyone off. I don’t blame you–I am certain you protected yourself many times this way from lesser people.” His voice is soft, almost a lull, you allow his palm to open against your lips, to turn your face into the cup of his hands. “You don’t believe anyone can handle you and you hope if you bite hard enough, tear into them, they’ll run off. And then you’ll feel vindicated; you were right, you are too much to handle. You were right, you are a monster. You’re unworthy of care or companionship or protection.”
His hand moves upward, baring his wrist to your mouth now, “go on,” he encourages, “bite me. As hard as you like. Scream and cry and tear into me. Loathe me and scorn me.” He leans closer, over you, as he hushes like a mother to their child, “I’ll still be here, with the rings of your teeth marks littered in my skin. I’ll be the only one, bruised and bloody, still taking care of you–no matter how badly you fight me.”
Out of anger or frustration or something else entirely, tears prick your eyes. As if to hide them, you open your mouth against his wrist, gentle first–warm and soft lips and tongue. He looks enraptured. He looks starving.
You sink your teeth into his skin viciously.
He hisses in pain, sharp, but doesn’t pull away. “There,” he coos, leaning over you, sinking into the pain, “is that what you wanted?”
Blood bursts into your mouth in a way that is almost startling, sharp and metallic. It should be gross and horrible and–you whine a little, somewhere in the back of your throat and bear down harder.
If that’s what he promises, you’ll make him prove it.
If he wants to be the one beside you, you’ll make him pay.
He leans down to kiss at your cheeks, gentle, humming. You realize there are tears. Your jaw aches.
But you don’t let go and he doesn’t even flinch.
“Does that feel better? To get your teeth into someone who isn’t scared of you?” He murmurs, nudging at your tense jaw, kissing there. “Shall I do the same to you?”
You release his wrist and shove him off, hard enough that he gives and he goes.
You stand up and storm out of his chambers, slamming the door on its hinges as hard as you can. You hope it knocks over every painting on his walls. You hope the entire compound somehow hears it. You hope it breaks something in the same way that something has been broken open inside of you.
You wipe his blood from your mouth with the back of your hand.
Suguru doesn’t even bandage the wound. And he wears his sleeves high, so that all the world might see it.
#suguru getou x reader#suguru geto x reader#getou suguru x reader#geto suguru x reader#suguru getou x you#getou suguru x you#suguru geto x you#jjk x reader#jjk x you#cw: omegaverse#cw: yandere#cielo writes!#cielo's writing!
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Heaven and Hell (Or: Eddie and Evil Woman Do… Prom?!)
Pairing: Eddie Munson x You
Summary: Eddie and Evil Woman are *checks notes* going to prom? Like normies?!
Contains: A high school prom, two nervous freaks, an ill-fitting wardrobe, an unfortunate zit, dancing, references to other E/EW fics nobody will remember, relentless teasing, a happy ending.
Words: 4.5k
"Prom's next month."
You stop playing with Eddie's hair and look down at the head lying in your lap in surprise.
He keeps his eyes on the TV. A blush creeps into his cheeks. Is Eddie Munson seriously thinking about going to prom? You fight a smile and start working your fingers through his hair again.
"Yup… that's what they said on the morning announcements."
Silence. No way he's that interested in the orange juice commercial you've seen ten times today. Eddie Munson is thinking about prom, and he's in the process of chickening out.
"You ever been?" you ask.
"Nah," he says, eyes still on the TV. "You?"
"Nah."
He bites his lip. You can't take it anymore.
"You thinkin' about going?"
He shrugs.
If you were a more patient person, you could poke and prod at him until he finally asked you. However…
"Well, if you were planning on asking me, you're too late."
He finally looks up at you, confusion on his face.
"I've rekindled my romance with Chief Hopper."
A smile spreads across Eddie's face.
"I'm sorry, Eddie," you sigh. "What we had was fun, but you just don't have the stamina. Sometimes a girl just NEEDS full night of porking."
You both snort at the same time, which leads to a fit of giggles.
When you recover, you brush his bangs out of his face. He sighs.
"So, uh…" He licks his lips while he tries to find his words. "If the bacon falls through, would you maybe think about going with me?"
You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off. "Because it's kinda my last chance, and I know it's stupid, and it goes against everything I stand for, and it'll probably be miserable, and the music's gonna suck, and you probably have a way better idea of what we could do that night, but… ugh, never mind."
Eddie turns back toward the TV, shaking his head so some of his hair hides his burning face. You gently brush it back behind his ear, looking down at him with all the love in your heart.
"Eddie?"
"Hm."
"You're the only person I'd think about going to prom with."
"Really?" He looks up at you with an uneasy smile.
"Yeah," you answer, tracing the shell of his ear.
"We don't have to."
"I know," you smile. "I want to go with you." He smiles back sleepily. "But if I get Carrie'd, I can't promise I'll spare you."
"Kay," he chuckles.
"Mother?" you ask, hovering in the living room doorway.
"Daughter?" she responds from the couch, without looking up from her book.
You take a deep breath and stare at the floor.
"Ineedapromdress."
"What?"
You sigh and raise your head. "I need a prom dress."
Her book drops to her lap, revealing wide eyes behind her glasses.
"What did you just say to me?"
"I need a prom dress," you repeat with a roll of your eyes.
"Oh my god! I have a child who's voluntarily attending a school function!"
"What's up?" Gareth asks from behind you.
"They're going to the prom!"
You slowly turn and see him looking at you in amusement.
"Shut up," you order before he can even say anything.
"She's even gonna wear a dress!" your mother shrieks.
"Shut up," you repeat, glaring at Gareth's stupid smirky face. "Kay, I'm going to bed, open to shopping suggestions and financial contributions, good night."
You squeeze past him and make a mad dash for your room.
"They're all gonna laugh at you!" Gareth warbles in his best Piper Laurie impression.
"Shut up!" you repeat one last time, then slam your bedroom door.
"He's heeeere," Gareth announces as he passes by your bedroom door.
"You look perfect," your mom assures you.
She's been working on your makeup for fifteen minutes, and it's finally the way she wants it. And you have to admit… you look pretty damn good.
She'd taken you to the city for a day of shopping, and after several hours of hunting, you'd actually found a dress without puffed sleeves, ruffles, or tulle.
"Give me a minute, I want the camera on his face when he sees you," your mom says excitedly.
"Mother, it's a high school prom, it's not our wedding."
"Let me have this!" she whisper-yells. She grabs her camera and leaves the room.
You take one last look at yourself, stand, and slip on your shoes. Heels. You're even wearing fucking heels.
You walk down the hall and turn into the kitchen…
Eddie Munson is wearing a suit.
You'd offered to help him look for one, or find him something in the city, but he said he had it covered. And he did. He's even wearing a tie, and he's tamed his hair somehow. He looks freakishly presentable (for Eddie) and is holding what you imagine is a corsage in a box.
"Hi."
"Hey."
You stand there and stare at each other. Awkward. It's awkward.
"Eddie! Give her the corsage!" Your mom stage-whispers.
He tries to hold it out to you, but fumbles it and drops it on the floor. You both reach down to get it, and you hear a RIIIP tear through the kitchen. You both stand immediately, looking and feeling your outfits.
"Was that you or me?" you ask, trying to feel the back of your dress. You knew this fucker was too tight. But your question is answered when all the blood drains out of Eddie's panicked face.
"Let me see, honey," your mom says gently, putting a hand on his shoulder to turn him. The seam in the back of his jacket has ripped.
"Dude! You Hulked out on prom night," Gareth laughs from his seat at the kitchen table.
You give him a warning shush, and for once, he obeys.
"Slip that off, I'll have it as good as new in no time." Your mom helps Eddie out of his jacket and takes it in the direction of her sewing machine. You carefully retrieve the corsage from the floor and put it on the table.
"Uh… that's for you," he mumbles, the color returning to his face.
"Thank you," you smile, leaving the box closed until your mother can return and witness this sacred and not-at-all stupid prom ritual.
You turn to Eddie and lift a hand to run through his suspiciously tame hair.
"Don't look at it," Eddie mumbles.
"Don't look at what?" you ask.
"His third eye," Gareth supplies helpfully. That's when you notice the zit between his eyes. Eddie's face reddens so much that it almost blends in. Gareth snickers. You pick up a damp kitchen towel, ball it up, and throw it at him. It hits him in the ear.
"Don't you have some place to be?" you ask pointedly.
"Nope," he grins, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. "Mom's taking me to Jeff's after you leave."
You roll your eyes, reach for Eddie's hand, and pull him to your bedroom.
"Sit," you instruct, pointing at your desk. He drops into the chair with a defeated sigh. You start digging through your extremely elegant shoebox full of makeup, then realize what you need. "I'll be right back," you whisper with a kiss to the top of his head.
You return with a cotton ball.
"What's that?"
"Wite-Out. My make-up's too dark for you," you joke.
Eddie's brow furrows, and you apply a dab of peroxide to his unfortunate growth. When it dries, you reach for the concealer.
"What are you doing?" he asks nervously.
"Covering that up."
He sits silently and watches you reach for this and that to cover his bump, and when you stand back and smile, he frowns.
"What's wrong?" you ask. "I can wipe it off if you want, I thought you wanted it gone."
"I feel like a clown," he grumbles.
"You are a clown."
He pouts. You point at the mirror, and he leans over to see his camouflage… and his jaw drops. You lean down until your head is next to his, so you can see what he sees.
"Witchcraft," he whispers.
"You know it, babe," you wink.
"One freshly tailored suit jacket for the young lad," your mom announces as she steps into the room. Eddie stands, and she helps him into it. She brushes her hand along the seam. "Good as new!" she declares. "But no break-dancing tonight." Eddie laughs.
After the official corsage and boutonniere exchange in the kitchen, you're marched into the living room for pictures. Each pose is goofier than the last, but you aren't allowed to leave until your mom finishes off a roll of film.
You both breathe a sigh of relief when the van doors slam shut.
"You still wanna do this, or do you wanna go get blazed and hide out at my place?" Eddie asks, probably about 40% joking.
"What time is it?" you ask. Eddie consults his watch and reads the time back to you. You pretend to consider it for a second, then shake your head. "Chief Hopper is expecting me in 15 minutes, and my little piggy does not like to be kept waiting."
Eddie snorts and starts the engine. Hawkins High Prom 1986 it is.
"Where'd you get your suit?" you ask a few minutes into the surprisingly awkward drive.
"George. The thrift shop guy. Told him I needed something prom-worthy. This was his grandson's. 'He's a lanky thing, just like you,' he said."
"It's nice," you admire.
"It's a little small, but… y'know." Eddie shrugs. "Price was right."
"Is it uncomfortable?"
"It's… a little tight," he admits.
"Baby, you don't have to wear stuff if it makes you uncomfortable."
"It's fine… as long as I don't have to move my arms much."
"Is it the shirt too, or just the jacket?"
"Mostly the jacket, the shirt's got some stretch to it."
"Ditch it."
"Ticket says jacket and tie required."
"Ditch it as soon as they let us in."
"This is why you're the brains of this operation," he mumbles as he pulls into a parking spot.
"Correct," you grin.
"Stay," Eddie orders, hopping down and scrambling around the front of the van to open your door. You're suddenly reminded of your first official date; he'd tried so hard to be someone else, but you didn't want someone else. You wanted Eddie Munson, and you wanted him just the way he was. You take his hand and slide to the ground, wincing as your heels hit the pavement.
"Is your battle armor in here?" you ask, nodding toward the back.
"Of course."
"Fetch."
Eddie smirks and walks toward the back, and you shut your door and follow him. He grabs his leather jacket and patch-filled vest, and hugs the pair to his chest.
You reach for them, and he hands them over. You separate the pair while he watches nervously, like you're separating conjoined twins that he personally gave birth to.
"Lose the child-sized suit jacket," you instruct. He tries, but gets stuck almost immediately. You muffle a laugh and step behind him to help him out of it, then slide his plain leather jacket on.
He looks more comfortable already. And considerably more Eddie-like. You go to transfer his boutonniere to his jacket pocket… but he doesn't have one. A bit of quick thinking and one rip later, his dumb little flower is attached with a strip of duct tape. You step back to admire him.
"There he is," you smile.
"Now he's gotta find his girl," Eddie says, "and then they can go do this damn prom thing."
You look down at your outfit and back at him, but he's already digging… through your overnight bag?
"Eddie, what--"
He cuts you off by slapping the soles of your favorite sneakers on the floor of his van.
"You've been wincing with every damn step since you walked into the kitchen. Lose the shoes."
You grin and sit down to swap your heels for sneakers. Sneakers that Eddie vandalized during a particularly boring assembly. It was one of the reasons why they were your favorites; the boy's a ballpoint artist. The other was--oh, that's nice. You stand comfortably and breathe a sigh of relief.
"You want a little liquid courage?" Eddie asks, shaking a bottle of liquor at you.
"Sure," you answer. You each take a swig in hopes of making your night a little more bearable. Eddie stashes the bottle in the van and slams the back doors shut.
"M'lady," he says, offering an arm. You take it, and walk toward the Hawkins High gym doors. Any time now, alcohol.
A cheerleader-in-training eyes you warily, but takes your tickets and lets you pass by her table into the gym… decked out in streamers and balloons. Wicked classy, Hawkins High.
"And you say I never take you anywhere nice," Eddie grins.
"I have literally, not once, ever said that."
Eddie laughs and takes your hand.
"Munson?!" a voice shrieks.
"Yeah?" he asks uneasily, turning to see Mrs. O'Donnell.
"What are you doing here?"
You look at each other, and back at her.
"Whatever people usually do at prom, I guess?"
"I'll have no shenanigans from you tonight, Munson."
"Wouldn't dream of it, O'Donnell."
"Don't even think about going near that punch bowl," she warns.
"Why, what's in the punch bowl?" he asks. You try to keep a straight face.
"Just punch, and that's the way it's going to stay. Isn't that right, Mr. Munson?"
"Yes, ma'am," he says innocently.
Mrs. O'Donnell looks you both up and down, sucks her teeth in disapproval, and walks away without another word.
"Like I'd waste good liquor on these ungrateful assholes," he mumbles. "Do have an emergency flask in my pocket, by the way."
"Aww, and I thought you were just happy to see me."
"That's in the other pocket," he winks.
"C'mon," you laugh, pulling him to the other side of the gym. Once you're in a quiet spot, you scan the room for familiar faces. You knew you were pretty much on your own - all of the other Hellfire boys were having a movie marathon and sleepover at Jeff's - but you thought you'd look for potential allies anyway.
"There's Nancy Wheeler," you notice.
"And the Elder Byers," Eddie points out.
"I think we're on our own, babe."
"Just how I like it," he grins.
"You gonna dance with me, or just stand here lookin' pretty all night?" you ask.
Eddie responds by flipping his hair over his shoulder dramatically.
"C'mon," you smile, nodding toward the dance floor. He balks.
"This song sucks."
"Every song's gonna suck," you remind him.
"This one sucks more than average."
"Then how 'bout we visit the snack table and lay a curse on the punch while we wait for something that sucks slightly less?"
"This way, m'lady," he says nerdily, holding out his arm. You roll your eyes and take it anyway, working together to assemble a plate full of cheap snacks and two cups of unspiked punch. You retreat to the bleachers and pick at your bounty.
"So… this is a high school dance," he remarks.
"Yup… imagine, some people's entire high school careers revolve around this thing."
"I'd kinda rather be at home," he confesses.
"In our pajamas," you add.
"Watching shitty movies," he continues.
"Eating shittier pizza."
"Maybe fooling around a little?" He waggles his eyebrows and tilts his head toward the door.
"We went through a lot of trouble to get here, Edward. I went shopping. With my mother. You put on a suit. And a tie. And grew a stress zit."
"Shut up," he grumbles, hand instinctively touching the bump between his eyes. You lean in to kiss his cheek.
"Let's give it an hour. You've gotta dance with me at least once."
"Fine," he pouts. You feed him crackers, and he starts to relax a little.
When the opening chords of "Footloose" blare through the speakers, Eddie cringes. The people on the dance floor go wild.
"C'mon," you order, standing up and reaching for his hand.
"No."
"Yes."
"Absolutely not."
"Eddie Munson, you get your spastic ass on this dance floor with your dumb-ass classmates right now."
He whines, and looks… nervous? You sit back down, face full of concern. He scans the crowd, and you look too. Eyes keep darting to you. Not outright staring. Just keeping an eye on you. Like your whereabouts are a matter of public safety. You've been so focused on Eddie, you haven't bothered to pay attention to everyone else.
"It's just…" he starts, and then stops.
"Eddie?" you ask quietly, turning your head back to him. "This is our prom, too." You slide a little closer to him and hold his hand. "And I'm glad I'm here with you."
Eddie leans his forehead against yours and squeezes your hand.
"You think they're upset that we had the nerve to show up?" you smirk.
"Probably ruined their whole night," he grins. "Dear Diary, the freaks crashed prom."
"And ate all the fucking snacks," you laugh.
A flash makes you both jump.
"Sorry," Jonathan Byers smiles apologetically from behind his camera. "You guys were being cute, and Nancy demanded a photo for the yearbook."
"It's cool, man," Eddie grins. "Can we get a copy of that?"
"Sure," Jonathan nods. "They hired a professional photographer for portraits, by the way. Over in the corner. It's included in the ticket price."
"Cool," Eddie says.
"Anddd Nancy's waving me back," Jonathan groans. "You guys have fun tonight. At least some of the freaks should."
You and Eddie both chuckle as Jonathan goes back to Nancy for his next assignment, hearts in his eyes completely undermining his complaints.
"Well…" Eddie puffs his cheeks and blows out a breath of air. He's experienced all that prom has to offer, and is clearly not impressed.
"One picture, one dance, and we're the fuck outta here," you propose.
"Deal," he agrees.
You walk, hand-in-hand, over to the photographer's corner and get in line behind three other couples. Well, two. Kimmy Little sees you standing in line behind her, and drags her date off in the other direction. You and Eddie share a knowing look, but say nothing.
When the time comes, the photographer instructs you to assume the traditional prom photo position, and you do. You let Eddie hold you around the waist and smile like a total fucking jackass for several seconds while you wait for the flash. You and Eddie stumble away with spotty vision and hands tightly clasped. He's your lifeline, and you're not letting him go.
When your vision returns, you look from the bleachers to the exit. Is it really worth walking all the way back over there to sit and be bored, when you could just leave and have this lame night be over with?
Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" starts playing through the gym's shitty speakers, and you smile. You're a sucker for this one. Eddie looks at you with dread. He knows what's coming.
Silently, you slip backward into the crowd and pull him with you. He doesn't protest this time. He follows, eyes not leaving yours. The crowd must have parted for you. Perhaps there are advantages to loving the resident freak. You stand close and put his hands where they belong, and then yours. You stare into Eddie Munson's eyes and sway slowly to a song he tolerates, only for you.
You're glad you came. You're glad you're with him. You're glad this is the song you got to dance to. You're glad he made you swap your heels for sneakers.
But mostly, you're glad when the song is over, because you come together for a quick kiss and make a mad dash toward the exit.
"You son of a bitch," Eddie growls, trying to force his suit onto a hanger.
"Leave it, gremlin, I'll do it."
"Thank you," Eddie grins, throwing his suit on the bed and kissing your freshly scrubbed cheek. You'd washed off all your makeup and hair products together, had a little fun in the shower, put on pajamas, and smoked a joint to wind down. You were thrilled to look and feel like yourselves again. "I'm gonna go pop a pizza in the oven. Put something good on, I need to cleanse my poor ears of the top 40 garbage they were subjected to tonight."
"Yes, dear," you deadpan, hanging up your dress as he exits the room.
"Music!" he whines from the hallway.
"FINE!" you yell back. You pop in the first mix tape you find and turn up the volume. You force Eddie's suit on a hanger, put the formal-wear in the hall closet, and join him in the kitchen.
He's sitting on the counter, watching the clock and drinking directly out of a nearly empty two-liter pop bottle.
"You really know how to treat a girl," you smirk.
He burps in response.
You feel like you should roll your eyes or pretend to be annoyed, but you're so in love with this fucker, you find every dumb thing he does to be charming. You lean on the counter next to him, and he hands you the bottle. You take a swig, then pretend it's a microphone.
"I'm here with Eddie Munson of Corroded Coffin, who has just been to his first and last school dance! Tell us, Eddie, how was the Hawkins High prom?" you ask, placing the open bottle by his mouth.
"Sucked dick, thanks for asking!"
"It did not suck dick!" you protest, slamming the bottle on the counter with a slosh.
"It sucked some pretty major dick," he argues.
"You got to spend time with the woman you love! In a formal setting! She wore a damn dress for you!"
"I like her better in pajamas."
"Only because I'm not wearing a bra," you scoff.
"Well… I mean, yeah," he says, hopping off the counter and taking your hands in his. "Don't get me wrong, the dress was great. Have deposited the cleavage situation in the spank bank, so thanks for that. But this is just… better. 'Cause this is us."
When you're right, you're right.
The opening chords of Black Sabbath's "Heaven and Hell" play through Eddie's bedroom speakers, and a wave of appreciation for where you are and who you're with washes over you.
"No bowtie-wearing jocks or frilly little bitches staring at us," you smile, sliding your hands to his shoulders and pulling him close.
"No restrictive clothing," he smirks, letting his eyes linger on your chest as he settles his hands on your waist.
"Eyes are up here, Munson," you remind him as you begin to sway subtly.
He looks up and grins. "Those are pretty okay, too, I guess."
You smack him in the chest, and he laughs.. and then his face falls.
"You tricked me," he accuses.
"How did I trick you?"
"This is our second dance!"
"Yes, but its to our music, so it's counteracting the pop-adjacent one at the actual dance."
"Ugh, fine," he pretends to cave with a roll of his eyes.
You keep dancing until the song starts to pick up, and Eddie looks at you with his eyes full of mischief. He starts moving just a little faster from side to side, swaying with the music as it builds. Before you know it, those spastic moves you tried to coax out of him at prom were coming out in his kitchen. You would have been perfectly satisfied to just watch him dance like a dweeb, but he grabs both of your hands and forces you to join him. You do so happily.
You dance, you spin, and you laugh together in the Munson's kitchen to a mixtape of Eddie's own making. It's the most fun you've had in weeks. Why did you spend so long stressing over prom? Prom was nothing. Prom was a bunch of rich kids in tacky, overpriced clothes that you'd be laughing at in twenty years. This is real. This is what you should be living for.
When the song begins to wind down, you and Eddie are nearly out of breath from all the head-banging and jumping around. The slow dancing resumes without complaint.
"I think this is the Heaven part," you observe.
"Huh?"
"Heaven and Hell," you say, looking up into his beautiful red face. His bangs are stuck to his sweaty forehead. His zit has lessened in intensity after a post-shower application of peroxide. His eyes are big and round and curious. This boy is perfect, and he's all yours. "Prom was Hell. Other people are Hell. This, right here? Me and you? This is the Heaven part."
Eddie's eyes crinkle as he smiles. He pulls you in close and crushes you in a hug. You squeeze him back and breathe in the calming, familiar scent of him. You love this boy more than anything.
"I love you," you mumble into his shoulder.
"I love you too," he responds. "Even if you did make me go to prom."
"This was your idea, fool," you laugh, giving him a backwards shove.
"Not how I remember it," he grins. He laces his fingers and holds them under his chin, bats his eyelashes, and continues in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like you: "'Oh Eddie my love, please, won't you take me to prom? It would be the highlight of my life!' Pretty sure you begged. Groveled, even."
"You are insufferable," you laugh, pushing him away from you.
"You're the one who made me go to prom!"
"You know, Munson, according to the pamphlets that everyone's been throwing at me all week, most teenagers have sex on prom night. But I think you're gonna have to get your ass kicked instead. C'mere."
"No!" he yelps, backing into a corner. "Please! I have children!"
"We don't have to share our pizza with them, do we?" you laugh, too lazy to engage in a play-fight with him.
"Pfft. No." He relaxes. "I wouldn't even share with you if I didn't have to."
Your jaw drops.
"I'm kidding!" he insists, coming forward to envelop you in a hug. You go rigid and refuse to hug him back. "I'm kidding. You know I'd save my last Fudge Round for you."
"Oh, really?" you smile, looking up at him.
"Eh… Nutty Buddy, maybe?" He screws up his face in concentration. "Nah. Oatmeal Creme Pie?"
"You are unbelievable," you scoff with a shake of your head.
"You love me anyway."
"Yeah, I guess," you sigh in defeat. "But please don't tell Chief Hopper. It would break his heart."
"Oh my God," Eddie groans, pushing you away and rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
You cackle, and the oven timer dings.
This is definitely Heaven, but you've still gotta give him a little Hell.
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•°♤°• Any Zosan Fic Recommendeds?
Here's some! (And one ZoLuSan because i'm me) Some are unfinished, some are classics. Either way these are the ones I always go back to!
Learning to Listen by three_days_late
Teen and Up
No Archive Warnings Apply
For as long as Zoro's felt his soulmate echoes he's hated them. He doesn't know why Sanji, or the rest of his crew mates, care so damn much.
Broke the Yolk by 3oClockSnacc (TobiSterling)
Teen and Up
No Archive Warnings Apply
Sanji has a nasty habit of denying himself little luxuries. Sleeping in, hot food, the unconditional love of his crew. He's used to it though; used to getting up at the crack of dawn to prepare breakfast, used to working on an empty stomach to ensure everyone else is fed, used to serving up pieces of himself and getting nothing in return.
He can't afford those luxuries. Not even on his birthday.
Digital Footprint 100 Miles Wide by yellowrubberboots
Teen and Up
No Archive Warnings Apply
[Profile Picture Description: A MS Paint drawing of a cartoon skull. The skull is wearing a yellow straw hat with a red band around the base.]
TheStrawhats
Last live 2 days ago
video games and other random shit // we stream when we stream.
6.2M followers
Unwritten Recipes by aririnas
Teen and Up
No Archive Warnings Apply
Ingredients
2 fat garlic cloves, crushed
2 red chillies, deseeded and finely chopped
150ml white wine (not optional)
175g dried spaghetti
140g mussels, washed and beards removed
140g clams, washed
chilli oil or olive oil, for drizzling
½ small pack parsley, roughly chopped
(..)
or
Sanji writes everyone's favourite food in a recipe book
You'll Whisper Lies to Me (and One of Them Will be True) by Veto_power_over_clocks
Teen and Up
No Archive Warnings Apply
Sanji introduces Zoro to Two Truths and a Lie. He only ever plays with Zoro, and all his lies are shit.
(Alternatively: Sanji subjects himself to the mortifying ordeal of being known by Zoro. He does everything in his power to ensure Zoro doesn't realize that's what's happening.)
Green with Envy Blues by adietxt
General Audiences
No Archive Warnings Apply
Zoro thinks he’s a pretty loyal person. All things considered, he’s a faithful crewmember and swordsman of the Strawhat Pirates.
Zoro looks up just in time to see Luffy launching himself at Sanji, wrapping his stretched limbs all over Sanji���s body. Sanji has just walked out of the galley carrying a plate full of fancy-looking drinks and he’s extending his arm as far away as possible from Luffy’s grasp, and Luffy leans over his shoulder, their cheeks pressed against each other’s, their lips almost touching —
Zoro is seriously considering mutiny.
Switching Places by TranqilChaos
Mature
Graphic Depictions of Violence
All it takes is one desperate battle in the jungle for Zoro to finally be on the other side. For him to be the one worrying at a bedside. For him to be the one waiting hours for the slightest sign of anything. For him to be the one missing meals and skipping showers and sleeping in the infirmary chair.
Or
Luffy, Zoro, and Sanji fight a tough battle in the forest that leaves all, but Zoro, horribly injured.
Your Eyes are Liquor, Your Body is Gold by Astauria
Not Rated
Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings
It was a stupid idea, Zoro had known it all along and now he was really wondering why he had accepted such a proposal.
No amount of alcohol in the world could ever be worth the decomposition he would see in Sanji's eyes when he learned the truth.
Zoro had bet on him, for one fucking drink.
Rewind (Be Kind) by donutsandcoffee
Teen and Up
No Archive Warnings Apply
What should be a run-of-the-mill skirmish with a devil fruit user turned Sanji into an eight-year-old, and the Strawhats are suddenly faced with a version of Sanji they have never met before: a Sanji before the Strawhats, before the floating restaurant, but after—something.
Zoro observes, learns, and relearns.
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it’s well past two in the morning when all your guests have left, and it’s just you and jeonghan and some cardboard boxes.
the two of you are taping the last of his boxes shut, a movie you’ve seen a million times playing on the television, both of you talking and laughing over it. the party has just died down — yours and jeonghan’s farewell party.
he’d said it sounded too dramatic, when you first brought it up. because neither of you were going far. you to your new studio apartment and jeonghan moving in with seungkwan, now that the lease was up and the owner wasn’t planning to renew it. jeonghan had dubbed it the “house-cooling” party instead, the opposite of housewarming — the kind of stupid joke he only makes to you.
still, though, as you sit among the boxes and leftover pizza, you feel kind of — wistful. when you say as much, jeonghan laughs, reaching over to tap under your chin fondly.
“wistful?” he repeats, smiling.
you huff at him. “i’m going to miss you, that’s what i’m saying, you ass.”
“i’m not going far,” he reminds you. “we’re literally within twenty minutes of each other. fifteen on a good day.”
“still!”
“i’ll visit you all the time. i’ll get tired of seungkwan doing karaoke. and then we’ll basically be roommates again, because he doesn’t stop doing karaoke.”
jeonghan’s tone is light and easy, but you can’t help wondering why the two of you aren’t going to be roommates again. why you hadn’t looked for an apartment together. neither of you had brought it up, things just fell this way, and all of a sudden you’re thinking about how jeonghan always moves your washing to the dryer for you and how much you’re going to miss him.
because you really are — not just because of laundry. you guys were roommates before you became actually close, brought together by mutual friends; you’ve never known a jeonghan that wasn’t jeonghan, my roommate, and suddenly it feels a little like losing him. because suddenly you love him, and not in a jeonghan, my roommate way. not in a jeonghan, my friend way either — in a way that puts aches in your chest, has your ribs living up to their name, acting a cage for your heart. you’re not sure how long it’s been, but it’s been long enough.
you’d been clinging to the hope that it would pass; everyone knows you don’t date your roommate. but now — now he’s not your roommate, and it hasn’t passed, and you don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing anymore.
on one hand: you could tell him. bare it all out, in the open, raw and bloody and unfettered. on the other hand: there are so many things you would rather do than experience rejection. you’d be able to take just being his roommate if you needed to. could’ve held out until it passed.
“maybe we should’ve moved in together again,” you voice, forcing your voice light and airy and casual, playing it like a random off-hand suggestion.
jeonghan’s vehement shake of the head is surprising, and it stings. more than you expected. “no.”
you can quite literally feel your face fall, staring at him without pretence. “what?”
he looks up from the box he’s packing, an uncharacteristic seriousness in his brown eyes. “ask me why,” he instructs softly.
you swallow thickly. it’s hard not to, when he’s looking at you like that — warm and familiar and intense and scary, all at once. your eyes follow the strand of dark hair that falls over his forehead, suddenly realising just how close he is. “why?”
jeonghan sets down the tape, tilting his head to the side, choosing his words slowly, carefully. “because if i ever ask you to move in with me again, it’ll be very different to this. can you pass me the scissors?”
you barely even hear the last part. “different? different how?”
“just… different.” he shrugs, reaching over you for the scissors himself. “you’ll be dating me, for one thing.”
time seems to come to a halt when he says those words, and you barely manage a whisper — “what?”
jeonghan rolls his eyes and pokes your forehead. “i’m trying to say i’m in love with you, dipshit. can you please take a hint?”
you malfunction. it’s late and your brain is already fried enough from finals and he’s staring at you, and this isn’t a dream, this is real.
and so you launch your roll of tape in his direction.
“what the fuck is wrong with you?”
jeonghan doesn’t even need to dodge the tape, but still gapes at you. “what?”
“you can’t— just drop a love confession like a — like a hot potato, and then expect me to catch it!”
“a hot potato?” he repeats, and then he’s biting down on a laugh, shoulders shaking. “did you just call my love confession a fucking hot potato?”
“no! yes, well — ” you flounder, confused in your embarrassment. “oh my god. you’re so mean. i wasn’t ready.”
jeonghan’s still laughing. “if i’d warned you in advance, what would you have answered?”
and now it’s your turn to stare him down: “you didn’t ask anything yet. what am i supposed to answer?”
that only tilts jeonghan’s smile further upward, and he scoots closer, leaning on one arm. you can smell him, soft and fresh and so incredibly near, as he speaks — “you’re smart. i think you can work it out.”
you kiss him first. quick and sweet, over and over. you think it’s probably answer enough.
also in my head this is the same couple from this drabble but they can be read separately
an / hana comeback era ⁉️ this is just something i wrote super quick but HIII it’s been almost 2 months since i posted some writing 😭 i’m so sorry this awful piece is the first thing u guys get, hopefully will write something better soon!
perm taglist: @n4mj00nvq @eoieopda @som1ig @wondering-out-loud @graybaeismytae @hannyoontify @sahazzy @dokyeomin @icyminghao @smilehui @nicholasluvbot @lvlystars @immabecreepin @hanniehaee @kokoiinuts @astrozuya @doublasting @yepimthatonequirkyteenager @qaramu @weird-bookworm @phenomenalgirl9 @lightnjng @strnsvt @onlyyjeonghan @athanasiasakura @dokyeomkyeom
#jeonghan fluff#jeonghan x reader#seventeen x reader#seventeen fic#seventeen fluff#seventeen imagines#seventeen fanfic#jeonghan imagines#jeonghan comfort#jeonghan fic#jeonghan fanfic#jeonghan x y/n#jeonghan scenarios
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Change the Narrative
If people knew the truth, they would call her a selfish monster.
But Katara had sacrificed anything for the world, for an ungrateful husband!
This time she would always choose herself first!
Here is a little one-shot of my anger about what happened to Katara in canon.
I want to give her the end she deserves, so I hope you enjoy it!
Katara knew it was time for her to die.
She felt it in her old bones.
Alone she lay in her bed at the South Pole and watched how the snow was falling.
At least she would die seeing the beauty of her homeland.
It was a good death.
The old woman blinked tears away and tried to be positive about her nearing death.
She would see Sokka, her father, her mother and Gran-Gran again.
It was good.
She had lived a long happy life.
Something burning and unsettling spread through her chest as she thought this.
Was it a happy life?
How often did she and Aang argue over simple things?
How often did she beg him not to play favourites with Tenzin? Yes, their youngest was an airbender, but what about Bumi and Kya? They were his children too.
But no!
The Air Nomad legacy was more important than their two oldest children and their pain.
Once upon a time when she was a young girl and fantasized about the man and family one day she would have, she never would have guessed how she became the kind of mother, who didn't fight for her children.
Who didn't call out her husband for his wrongdoings?
However, she had so with Aang. Since she had met him, she always had mothered him, shielded him from things which didn't fit his narrative.
He was the Avatar, the only hope to end the war, with a track record of running away.
They couldn't lose him, so she had protected him the best she could.
And she did so to her children.
No wonder Bumi and Kya didn't even visit her and Tenzin didn't have much of a relationship with her.
Where did she go wrong in her life?
When did she become a shadow of herself in the name of love?
Why did she even choose Aang?
Was it because of Aunt Wu's prediction, she would marry a powerful bender or because she had a feeling Aang...deserved her?
He loved her and had ended the war.
Was it so bad to give him a chance?
Sadly after sacrificing her best years for him and being rewarded to die alone without her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren around her, it may have been the most stupid decision she ever made.
Spirits, was she a bad person to think that?
She loved her family, really she did, but deep down she had to admit...she wouldn't do it a second time.
Katara wouldn't sacrifice herself, her ideals, and her dreams for Aang's dream.
She had her whole life given and given and was now at the end of it rewarded with nothing.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, as she slowly closed her eyes.
Soon she would join her loved ones...
Just...
If she could...
If the spirits were so kind...
If dear Yue heard her...
She wanted a second chance.
She wanted to live a life for herself and herself alone.
Katara had given in this life all and more...was it so bad that she wished for a second chance to get it this time right?
Was she selfish?
Maybe.
Surely.
But anyone had a point in their life where they had to put themselves first.
Her only regret was that she did not realise it sooner.
Katara closed her eyes and felt the last beats of her heart.
Never noting how the moon was shining brightly down at her...
***
She felt pain in her head.
Katara hissed and touched her forehead.
Why did she get a headache?
Where was she?
She blinked to banish the shadows before her eyes.
Slowly she could see.
Ah yes.
She was outside General Iroh's tea shop in Ba Sing Se.
The waterbender had seen Aang walk out and wanted to join him.
It was high time that she gave Aang her answer about them being a couple.
She had been unsure a few days ago, but now with the war over...why shouldn't she give him a chance?
He was standing at the balustrade watching the setting sun, it was the perfect moment.
As the waterbender made her first step towards him, an avalanche of emotions and vision filled her whole being.
Katara gasped quietly, trying to make sense of this.
It was too fast and also too slow...however, she felt it in her bones...whatever she had planned kissing Aang and getting together with him...it would be the worst decision of her life!
No, she didn't want what she had seen.
How could she sell herself, her principals, and her honour for a guy?!
How could she be together with someone who would play favourites with their children?!
No, absolutely not!
Whether this was a vision from the future to save her from this faith Katara didn't know, but what she knew she wouldn't make the same mistakes twice!
So angry she walked up to Aang and tapped his shoulder.
The Avatar turned smiling towards her. He seemed so happy and hopeful and looked at her like she had hung the stars and the moon.
For a second she flatter, which only made the vision come forth again and made her anger tenfold.
Oh no!
Not with her!
"Aang.", she began. "I don't love you and I never will! Stop pestering me about us being a couple! If you don't accept my feelings I will waterwhip you do your next incarnation, do you understand me?!"
To say he was shocked was the understatement of the century. She could formally see the heartbreak in his eyes and how he tried to speak up, maybe to guilt trip her, however, she wasn't having anything of it.
"Nothing you will say and do will ever change my mind! So don't even try. I will go back with Sokka to the South Pole and rebuild my home. That's where I belong!"
Dramatically she turned around and entered the tea shop again.
The others tried their hardest to seem like they hadn't listened in, yet Katara saw through them.
She sends them all an annoyed look.
"What?!"
No one said anything for a few seconds before Toph snickered: "Oh sugar queen, I hoped you had it in you."
This makes Katara smile.
***
The next months of her life Katara rebuilt with her father and Sokka their home.
The Nothern Watertribe had tried to turn the South into a second North, except Katara was having none of it.
As a war hero, master waterbender and daughter of the chief she used all her power to stop this chances.
She was a force of nature!
No one had a chance against her.
Her family was so proud of her and she was satisfied with herself.
Yes, this was where she belonged.
Helping people and not being the soulless, passionless arm candy of Aang!
Katara was happy.
A voice inside her told her how she deserved it.
***
A year later found Katara as ambassador for her people at the first peace summit.
She was happy seeing Zuko again, they had written to each other, yet seeing each other in person was much better.
He had become her best friend.
And her wall against Aang.
As Avatar he was at the peace summit too. Of course, he tried to talk with her. Tried to sway her, saying he missed her and wanted to be friends again.
She saw right through him. Aang still wanted her.
Thank the spirits for Zuko having her back and distracting Aang.
When they enjoyed together a cup of tea in General Iroh's tea shop she thanked him for his help.
Awkwardly he waved it away.
It was nothing.
He and Mai had broken up and the black-haired girl wasn't happy about it.
Even if she and Aang weren't exes, Zuko knew how frustrating it was to have a person follow you like a shadow and demand to be together again.
In comfort, she petted Zuko's hand and told him he did the right thing to end things with Mai.
If she couldn't accept a no was she a good girlfriend?
A little crooked smile formed on Zuko's lips, and her heart stopped for a second, as he thanked her for her words and friendships.
Then he asked her to join him in the search for his mother.
***
Being with Zuko on a life-changing field trip again was... exciting.
They still worked flawlessly together, like when they had hunted down the murder of her mother, but now they were friends.
It changed a lot of interactions.
They were playful with each other.
Zuko was the only one who ever laughed at her jokes.
They were there for each other.
In the long days when they hunted down one clue after another and Zuko seemed to lose hope, Katara reminded him to never give up.
They shared the workload.
It was amazing not mothering someone and having someone help her around camp.
They were getting closer to each other.
They shared things they never told anyone.
Zuko told her how he got his scar and Katara hugged him, wishing Aang had killed Ozai.
Wishing Ozai was before her and making him pay for hurting her best friend!
Sometimes they just stared at the stars, inventing constellations, their hands inching closer.
Something new was born between them.
Katara didn't know what it was, but she would enjoy it.
It made her feel good.
After weeks on the road, they finally found Ursa.
And also a society of hiding airbenders.
Katara couldn't help but laugh in utter glee.
***
Was it really that surprising that Katara and Zuko fell in love with each other after their journey?
When she kissed Zuko for the first time, it was like coming home.
Warm, welcome, familair, intim.
It was the best sensation in the world.
Something inside her told her this was how it was supposed to be.
After two years of dating and being the ambassador of the Southern Water Tribe in the Fire Nation, they married.
All their friends and half of the world were invited.
Yes, even Aang.
Aang was so grateful to Katara and Zuko for having found his people and was busy with the air nomads to rebuild their society, and seemed to finally let go of Katara.
Now they really could be friends.
***
Katara of the Southern Water Tribe, master bender, war hero and Fire Lady became a living legend.
Not only the people in the Fire Nation adored her, but she used the power she wielded to make the whole world a better place.
She was the one who came up with the idea of Republic City, a place where all nations could live in harmony.
She revolutionized the art of healing with her bloodbending.
She installed fountains and aqueducts everywhere she could, so people had clean water.
Statues were built and universities, streets even neighbourhoods were named in her honour.
Katara taught new generations of waterbenders like her daughter Kya and people formally fought over to learn from the Fire Lady.
When their oldest daughter Izumi became Fire Lady, Katara and Zuko retired to Ember Island to live out their twilight years in peace.
They often had visits from their friends and families.
Their son Lu Ten, a nonbender, had married a waterbender named Mizuki and had with her five children.
So the proud grandparents helped their son and daughter-in-law raise the rascals.
It was fulfilling.
As Aang then died and was reborn as Korra from the Southern Water Tribe Katara and Zuko moved to the South to teach the new Avatar.
Korra loved Katara and Zuko like grandparents and loved hearing about their adventures.
After Korra goes to Republic City to learn airbending from one of Aang's sons he had with one of the hiding airbenders, the pair returns to Ember Island.
Zuko died a few months before her.
Katara followed him after the birth of their third great-grandchild.
Both died surrounded by their big and bustling family.
As Katara died, her oldest great-granddaughter, who was named after her held her hand, she couldn't help but feel happy.
She had lived a long and wonderful life.
Soon she would be together again with her beloved husband and her family.
And so the greatest and most beloved Fire Lady died in peace with no regrets in her heart, her story being told for thousands of years to come.
***
The Legend of Katara became a tale which young girls loved.
From a simple waterbender to a master, war hero and ruler over a nation, who changed the world only a few ever could.
It showed all girls, that they could do anything they wanted.
They could reach their goals and go even beyond.
This was Katara's legacy.
As it should have been.
If you liked this one-shot and want more Zutara, a badass OC, personal growth for Aang and the Gaang being amazing check out Yin and Yang!
Click on my profile and leave a comment.
I hope you liked this little One-Shot!
Let’s now scream together in the comment section how Katara deserved better and if it’s not canon we will give it to her in fanon! :D
#katara#atla katara#avatar the last airbender#atla#zuko#atla zuko#prince zuko#atla zutara#zutara#zutarian#katara deserved better#zuko x katara#katara x zuko#zutara fanfiction#zutara fic#zutara forever#anti bryke#anti kataang#anti maiko#bryke critical
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The Games We Play - Chapter 4
She’d survived the very worst a person could, lived through things that still kept her up at night, the screams of other innocent people ringing in her head as sleep evaded her.
She’d survived so much, but she didn’t think she’d survive leading him to his death.
A Hunger Games AU
-x-
Hi friends,
Well, here we are - the final chapter of the most insane fic idea I've had yet. Thanks for all the love on this silly little AU it really means the world.
Please let me know what you think, your comments mean the world <3
-x-
Words: 3.6k
A full list of warnings can be found on the series master list
Read over on Ao3, or below the cut
He grunts as the knife enters his chest again, the pain barely there, not matching up with what he thinks it should feel like. He looks up at George, at the crazed look in his eyes, and he knows this is it, that he’d got so close to surviving, so close to fulfilling his promise to Emily, and he’d fallen at the last hurdle.
Emily.
He thinks of her smile, of the way she’d laugh just when he needed to hear it. He thinks of her beauty, not diminished by what she’d survived but enhanced, her endless strength making her impossibly more gorgeous.
He had to make it back to her.
He growls, an animalistic sound escaping him as he surges forward, taking George by surprise as he flips them, the knife scattering out of the other man's hand as he gets the advantage. He hits him, his fists aching and splitting open as he carries on, not stopping as he feels bones crack beneath his knuckles.
He carries on, all the anger he’d ever felt surging through him. Anger at his father. At himself. At the world he found himself living in.
He only stops when he physically can’t do it anymore, his arms giving out from under him as he collapses off of George, who was eerily still, his eyes, one of the only recognisable parts of his face left, staring straight ahead.
Aaron collapses, his head swimming as blood loss catches up with him, his eyes drifting shut as he hears a canon crack in the air around him.
___
He sucks in a panicked breath, his eyes flying open as he looks around him, his body heavy as he tries and fails to sit up.
“Aaron.”
His head snaps to his left, his eyes wide and wild as he looks at Emily, a mix of relief and disbelief painted across her face, “Emily?”
“It’s okay,” she says, still in her seat, seemingly glued to it as she looks him over, her shoulders tight, “You’re okay. You’re in the private wing of the hospital,” she says, looking around them, “I shouldn’t even be here,” she flashes him a quick smile, “Dave can talk anyone into anything.”
He nods, taking in his surroundings a little more now the panic has passed. Everything looked opulent, expensive in a way he never would have been able to imagine before he came to the Capitol. He looks past the open door to his room and sees the nurse sitting at a computer and typing, the clack of the keys clear even from where he is lying in his bed.
“My hearing,” he says, placing his hand over his right ear, “It’s back. After the explosion with Kate…I could barely hear.”
“They restored it for you,” she explains, her smile tight as she sits up straighter in the chair next to his bed, “Nothing but the best for their victor.”
He nods, blinking heavily a few times before shaking his head, trying to dispel the sleepiness that threatened to overtake him, “What else?”
“You have a fair number of scars on your chest,” she says, her eyes fixed on his gown as if she could see his damaged skin through it, “And on your knuckles from where you…” she presses her lips together, the memory of the sound of George’s face giving way under his fists sending a shiver down her spine, “They can get rid of the scars too if you want to. Some people keep them.”
“Did you keep yours?”
His question takes her by surprise, and for a moment she forgot he didn’t know, that in all the nights they shared a bed he’d never seen her without her clothes on, had never seen the constellation of scar tissue that spread across her abdomen. Pink lines and creases that had faded to white, skin that was still numb to the touch and likely always would be.
“Yes,” she says, subconsciously placing her hand over the scar through her shirt, “I kept it.”
He stores the information away for later, not wanting to pry now, but he thinks he’ll make the same decision, not wanting to lose the evidence of what he’d survived.
“What else happened?” He asks, and she frowns, her eyebrows knitting together as she tilts her head and he smiles softly, “You looked like you saw a ghost when I woke up.”
She wonders how she should feel about the fact he can read her so easily, that, despite everything, they’d seemingly picked back up right where they left off when she’d been reaped for her own games and her life had changed forever. She thinks she should hate it, but she doesn’t. She likes that he knows her like that, that he understands her.
It had been so long since she’d felt known.
“Your…” she clears her throat, her teeth clenched as she tries to breathe through the emotion threatening to overwhelm her, “Your heart stopped when they got you out,” her voice shakes a little, “You were dead for almost a minute until they brought you back.”
He frowns and places his hand against his chest, his ribs aching, his entire body on fire from pain that the medication in his system barely dulled, “They brought me back?”
She chokes out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob and she nods, “Yeah, they brought you back.”
“Why?”
His question surprises her, makes her breath catch in her chest as she looks down at her hands, her torn up cuticles something she can focus on instead of him, “Because they need a winner,” she whispers, “None of this works if they don’t have a winner and George died in the arena. So you’re their winner.”
He stares at her, his focus on the way she absolutely avoids looking at him. He can’t help but wonder how she felt when she was in his place. When she was laying in a bed, stitched back together after barely surviving the unthinkable, alone and wondering what came next. He feels selfishly grateful that he has her, that she can guide him through this next part.
“So,” he says, offering her a half smile when she looks at him, “Looks like I’ll be able to take you on a date after all,” he jokes, wanting nothing more than to lighten the mood, to feel anything other than despair for the first time since his brother’s name was called during the reaping.
She scoffs, shaking her head as she crosses her arms over her chest, Dave’s words from just a few days ago weighing heavily on her chest, “I wish it was that simple.”
He frowns at her, lifting his hand from his bed and offering it out to her, grateful when she stands and takes it without any further prompting, as if she was magnetised to him, moving against her will, “What do you mean?”
She isn’t sure how to put it into words. She wanted him, wanted whatever sense of happiness was possible in the reality they lived in, but she knew there would be a cost. She’d always known that, it’s why she’d cut him out of her life until he volunteered for his brother, fate intervening and putting them back firmly in each other's paths. She sighs as she sits on the edge of his bed, his warmth even with the small amount of distance between them intoxicating.
“There will be expectations of us,” she says, her chest hollowed out, aching and empty, ready for the heartbreak she can already feel, the heartbreak she’d endure for the rest of her life if it was what he chooses. She reaches out to push some of his hair out of his face, the strands longer than they usually would be, unkempt from his time in the arena, her fingers ghosting across his forehead. “If we do this. Our life won’t necessarily be our own.”
He catches her hand as she pulls it away from his face, linking their fingers together and squeezing, desperate to keep her close, “What do you mean?”
She looks over her shoulder to make sure they are alone, to check the nurse who was assigned to him wasn’t in earshot. She’d learnt a long time ago that no one could be trusted, that even those who seemed to be her friends here would give away her secrets for free. The only person she did trust, other than Aaron, was Dave. He’d never lied to her, never been anything other than almost painfully honest, their shared burden of what they did year after year something that had bonded them in a way she’s sure she’d collapse without. She leans in and makes sure she talks quietly, her voice low so only he hears her.
“We’ll get married,” she says, a smile flitting across her face at the treacherous hope that flashes in his eyes, something that even what he’d just been through couldn’t kill. She liked to think that would one day be the country’s downfall - the hope that existed between them all no matter what they had done to them. Hope that planted seeds and bloomed even in the darkest of circumstances, its flowers too bright and beautiful to be ignored, “And we won’t…there won’t be a lot of choice,” she says, hoping he’d understand, that he wouldn’t make her say it, “We would be expected to do our duty as victors.”
It’s the desperate look in her eyes that makes it click for him. He thinks of their conversation on the train, the way they’d casually agreed children weren’t on the cards for either of them as they drank liquor he’s sure cost more than his parent’s house. It was a moment in time, something that had led him back to her, his volunteering for his brother a crossroads in his life that had changed everything. A decision that, in the grand scheme of things, hadn’t been that long ago but may as well have happened to a different person.
“Oh,” he says, feeling her hand go slack in his, her expression tight as she starts to pull away, taking his silence and lack of a reaction as confirmation he would change his mind. He holds her hand even tighter, and feels her bones pop against each other, “Well, if there was anyone I’d want to do any of that with, it would be you.”
She scoffs, disbelief catching on every rib as it forces its way out, “Aaron, it’s not that simple,” she says, looking down at their joint hands, his tanned skin from the artificial sun in the arena making hers look even paler than usual, “We’d have to have children. If we didn’t Barnes would punish us, our families.”
“Em-”
She carries on as if he hasn’t spoken, as if she can’t hear him. All of the fears she’d pushed down for years finally burst to the surface, escaping from the box she’d hidden them in because he’d knocked it over, his love and kindness tearing her defences to pieces.
“And as much as I always said I don’t want children, I’d love them. I’d love them so much and then having to send them off to the arena when they turn 12-” she’s cut off as he sits up, groaning at the pain that spreads through his chest, his entire body burning from the points where Foyet had stabbed him, “What are you doing? You’re hurt.”
“I’m trying to hug you,” he says through gritted teeth as she lowers him back down to the bed, her hands firm on his shoulders as she raises an eyebrow at him in disbelief. He breathes through the pain for a moment and then rests his hands on her hips, “Em, I understand what you’re saying,” he says, encouraging her closer, her face close enough that he can feel her breath skipping across his skin, “I know it won’t be easy, but even if we had a kid tomorrow, 12 years is a long time. You never know what could happen.”
She huffs out a laugh and presses her forehead against his, “You think the world is going to change enough between now and then to mean we’d be safe.”
“I think you haven’t even kissed me yet,” he says, his hand on her back, his palm splayed so his fingers sneak under the hem of her shirt, smiling softly as she shivers as his heated skin touches hers, “Everything else will happen as it happens.”
She thinks she should hate him for being so sure, for the hint of optimism she knew time would kill over the next few years, but she can’t bring herself to. Instead, she allows herself to feel the relief that she’d been holding off since she’d arrived at the hospital. It fills her lungs, her chest fully expanding for the first time since she’d last seen him before he went into the arena, and she shakes her head, pressing her forehead against his for a moment before she pulls back, her smile fond as their eyes meet.
She leans in and presses her lips against his, her hand on his cheek to hold him in place, as if he’d rather be anywhere else even if he had the strength to move. It’s everything she’d ever imagined it to be and more as he pulls her closer, his hand insistent on her back as his other one finds its way into her hair, anchoring her to him. He tastes of the sugary medicinal drink she’d been made to have when she first woke up when she won the games, a boost she’d never known the name of, a hint of something she knew must just be him lingering underneath.
He sighs contentedly as she sinks into him, her tongue running across the seam of his lips before he opens his mouth. He’d thought about this moment for so long that it didn’t feel real, almost too good to be true. For a moment he wonders if he really did die in the arena, if this was the last thing his subconscious was doing for him, a moment of heaven before he slipped into darkness.
He knows it’s real the moment she pulls back, a concerned look on her face as he groans in pain, the two of them having got carried away as he pulls her tight to his chest, the pain reverberating throughout his body.
“Sorry,” she says, her hand slipping from his cheek to his throat, the reassuring thump of his pulse against her skin calming her down.
“Never apologise for kissing me,” he replies, encouraging her back in for another kiss, a quick thing stamped against her lips, “But we might have to wait a little while for our date.”
She smiles and nods, resting her forehead against his, taking a moment to breathe him in, “I should get going anyway. Let you rest.”
He shakes his head, “No, stay.”
“Aaron-”
“Please,” he says, wincing as he tries to shift in the bed, making room for her to slide in next to him, “I want you to stay.”
She hesitates, not sure what people would say or think if they found her in his bed, but she realises she doesn’t care. For the first time in years, she doesn’t think about anyone other than herself and she nods, slipping off her shoes before she carefully slips into bed with him, her head on his shoulder as she snuggles into his side. A sense of peace she hadn’t felt since they’d last slept next to each other washes over her and she tilts her head to look up at him.
“I love you,” she says, the words not seeming as heavy as they had on the rooftop the night before the games started. It was no longer something she’d only get to say to him once, no longer a rushed confession borne out of a misunderstanding. It was softer, impossibly more real.
Something she would say to him every day for the rest of her life.
“I love you too,” he replies, kissing the top of her head, tightening his hold on her the best he can with his injuries, “And I’ll spend the rest of my life doing that the best way that I can.”
___
At first, she’s not sure what wakes her up.
She’d never slept well on the train, not from the very first time she’d boarded it. It was eerily quiet given the speed they were travelling and it left her feeling uneasy, a stillness to it all that felt unnatural.
She rolls onto her back and groans, rubbing her hands over her eyes as she considers going to watch the sunrise in the back carriage, and then she hears a moan next to her, drawing her attention to Aaron as he sleeps fitfully. As he thrashes in the bed, his fists clenched at his sides, she knows what woke her up and she sighs sadly. She sits up and turns on the light, folding her legs against her chest and wrapping her arms around them as she watches him, waiting for him to wake up.
The first night he’d been back from the hospital, the same day he’d had his interview with Gideon, she’d tried to wake him up. She’d put her hands on his face and tried to pull him out of it, her words soft and reassuring as she eased him back to her. He’d grabbed her wrist, his grip tight around it, as he woke up, leaving a bruise that hadn’t quite faded yet. He hadn’t forgiven himself, had refused to sleep next to her again until she promised she wouldn’t try to wake him up again, and she hated how he sometimes looked at her.
As if she had something to be afraid of when she was with him.
It feels like an age passes before he wakes up, his chest filling quickly with a breath that’s clearly painful as he sits up, his eyes wild as he yells, his fists clenched so tightly she’s sure he could break the skin on his palms.
“Aaron,” she says quietly, not wanting to startle him. He looks at her so quickly it must pull at his neck, his eyes still wide as they meet hers. She knows that look, she’s seen it on her own face in the small hours of the night as she splashed water on herself in the bathroom after a nightmare. He was in the arena, his mind playing tricks on him even though he was now as safe as he ever would be. “You’re okay. It’s a dream. We’re on the train home.”
“Emily?”
She smiles and nods, shifting closer to him as the fog in his eyes starts to lift. She reaches out and places her hand on his cheek, her heart twisting in her chest as he leans into it, seeking out the affection she always had waiting for him.
“It’s me. I’m right here,” she assures him, shifting closer again until she’s in his lap, something in her stomach easing when he wraps his arms around her and holds her close, “I’m right here.”
He sighs, his eyes drifting closed as he rests his forehead on her temple, taking the chance to breathe her in, to replace the blood he could still smell with the scent of her, “I’m sorry.”
She pulls back and cups his cheek again, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
His eyes drift to her bruised wrist and guilt churns in his gut just like it had every day since he’d woken up to find his first wrapped tightly around it. He clenches his teeth and shakes his head, familiar anger he hadn’t been able to shift since the arena burning through him.
“I don’t know how you can even look at me.”
She frowns as he looks down, avoiding her eye contact. He barely lets go of her though, as if she was the only thing keeping him grounded, so she wraps her arms around his shoulders to hold him close.
“What do you mean, sweetheart?” She asks, the moniker slipping free without her meaning it to, her focus on playing with the short hairs at the back of his head, providing comfort in any way she can.
“I hurt you,” he says, his tone flat as he continues to stare at the wall, “I killed people, Em,” he finally pulls away to look at her, “I killed a guy with my bare hands.”
“If you hadn’t, he would have killed you,” she reasons, an edge of desperation to her voice that she ignores, “And I’ve killed people too. It’s the only reason we’re both still here,” she smiles sadly, her hand on his cheek as she holds him in place, “Does that make it hard for you to look at me?”
He shakes his head immediately, his eyebrows furrowing as if the mere idea was ridiculous, “Of course not,” he says emphatically, “Never.”
“Then it’s not going to make it hard for me to look at you,” she says, making a point of reaching for his hand, of smoothing her fingers over the still healing cuts on his knuckles, “We survived,” she looks up at him, making eye contact as she kisses his hand, soothes away the damage both physical and mental, the scars she couldn’t see but knew were there, “We survived, and now we’ve got to try and live. As best as we can,” she kisses him, her lips firm against his, and she barely pulls back, her breath skipping across his face as she speaks, “Together.”
He nods, pulling her closer, his grip on her fierce. She holds him back just as tightly, seeking comfort as easily as she gives it.
“Together.”
-x-
Me to me: you will not write a sequel…you will not write a sequel…
-x-
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7:15
author's note: hello hello hello ! the jolly fic i promised last month. on a roll :-) i have a few trips coming up and i wanted to get this sweet lil fic out before i was away from home. i haven't wrote much for jolly and i just really like how this came out. short and sweet, domestic as fuck. as always, i hope you enjoy and feedback is always appreciated !
pairing: joakim karlsson x reader
cross-posted on ao3
word count: 1.9k
cw/tags: fluff, sweet domestic tooth-rotting fluff, established relationship, maybe some angst but it lasts 2 seconds, kissing, ~suggestive~ content, 18+ minors do not interact
Jolly wakes up slowly, a groan slipping from his lips as he stretches his limbs out across the bed. He pauses, realizing the spot beside him was unoccupied and cold, and a frown settles on his lips. Blinking, he sits up and stretches out his limbs again with another groan, looking beside him to confirm that yes, the other side of the bed is definitely empty.
He doesn't panic, no, because he sees the bedroom door has been left ajar only slightly, but enough to let him hear you downstairs. It's a distant sound, muffled, but he can hear the clambering and chattering of pans in the kitchen and the faint hum of music. The frown on his lips slips away and a smile replaces it soon after, heart twisting.
He loves mornings like this with you. With their more than hectic schedule now, mornings like this are few and far in-between, so he tries to never take it for granted. Even though he'd much rather drag you back into bed with him and sleep a few more hours, (he flinches at the time on the clock, 7:15), he throws his legs over the side of the bed and pushes himself up. He hisses as his feet meet the cold floor but braves it, shuffling out of your shared bedroom and down the stairs.
The music gets louder the closer he gets to the kitchen and he's not sure what it is, something easy to listen to early in the morning. Some morning indie playlist you found on Spotify, he's sure. He smiles again when he finds you in sweatpants and an old shirt of his, hair pulled back out of your face. Your back is facing him, humming along to whatever song is playing, and he leans against the wall beside him. Jolly doesn't remember the last time he was able to just... admire you from afar. He's always in your space whenever he's home, the both of you wanting to spend as much time with each other as you can, never leaving each other's side.
He likes seeing you like this. As corny as it sounds, this is the most beautiful he thinks you are. Still sleepy he’s sure, still in your pajamas, hair thrown in a messy ponytail, cooking breakfast for the both of you. It's something he'll never get tired of.
After a solid two minutes of silently watching you, he shuffles over to where you stand and doesn't waste time in wrapping his arms around your middle, lips meeting your shoulder.
"Good morning."
"Was waiting for you to come over here." You hum and instantly melt back into his chest. "Were you just watching me in silence?"
"Maybe."
"Creep."
But he can hear the smile in your voice, which makes him smile, and he presses a kiss to the side of your head before untangling himself from you, leaning against the counter to your right.
"What's on the menu this morning?" He questions, eyeing the eggs in the pan.
"Eggs and waffles. Wanted some turkey bacon with it too, but was deeply disappointed to find out that we were out." You send him a pout before focusing back on cooking.
"Oh, you poor thing. How will you ever survive?" He teases before reaching out to poke your side gently, causing you to squeak. "I’ll make sure to add it to our ever growing list. You still want to do that today, right?"
"At some point." You nod before reaching over to turn the stove off and then reaching for one of the waffle filled plates that were placed behind him - two for you, three for him. "We also need to clean this place up before you leave. The living room makes me want to peel my skin off... and don't even get me started on your studio."
He hums, almost in an afterthought, and watches you plate the eggs. "We have time, love."
"I know, I just..." You trail off, continuing to plate the food and he watches as your brows begin to furrow like they always did when you were in thought.
He reaches up and rubs his thumb in between your brows. "Your face will get stuck like that."
"Shut up." You grumble, but your face relaxes for just a moment. "I just like having the place clean before you leave. Makes it feel better when you're gone."
It's his turn to frown, brows furrowing as he stares at you. He knows it rough when he leaves. Leaving you here all alone while he's off traveling with the band isn’t an easy thing to do. If it was his choice, he'd bring you with him every time, but he can't. You have responsibilities here... and unfortunately, his responsibilities are elsewhere most of the time.
He doesn't leave for another three weeks, though, and usually you're asking him to help clean up around the house the week prior. Something is obviously bothering you.
"What's on your mind?"
You sigh, sitting the spatula down on the counter after you finally finished plating. "I just... this time feels different. Don’t you think?”
Jolly cocks and eyebrow up at you. "How so?"
"I don't know." You shrug and come to stand before him, leaning into him and resting your forehead against his shoulder. His arms wrap around you instantly, pulling you closer to him. "You guys are getting bigger, which is amazing. Don't ever think I hate that because I don't, but... the bigger you get means the more tours you get. The more tours you get means..."
You don't say it, voice trailing off, but he knows what your next words will be. The more tours you get means the less time at home. With you. His frown deepens at that.
"Baby..."
"And I don't want to sound selfish. Seriously, I don't! I'm so fucking proud of you, Joakim. All of you. Some of the most deserving people I've ever met, but I..." You sigh again, almost in defeat, and he feels you press closer to him, voice muffled. "I miss you. More than I usually do. It used to be easier, and it still is because I know you'll always come back, but..."
The silence that follows breaks his heart.
He does remember this last time being away in Europe was a little rougher than normal, constantly thinking about you, wishing you were there with him. It might be because last time they were there you were with him, taking leave from work to join him on their European headliner for this new album. The only thing that really got him through was the fact he knew that when he got home, you'd be right there waiting for him.
"But?"
"But... it just sucks." You pull back just enough to look up at him, a sad smile settling on your lips. "Wish I could just go with you and not worry about anything else.”
"You could," He's quick to respond. "You've always had that option."
"I know." You mumble, face pressing back against his shoulder. "I feel bad, though. Making you support the both of us. Plus, you know how much I hate flying. I couldn't stand it."
Jolly laughs at the tiny groan you let out, probably remembering your flight last year to the UK with him and the rest of the band. You had begged Matt to switch seats with you, so he could be by the window and you in the aisle with Jolly squished between you two. One look out the window - while you were still on the ground - had sent you in a spiral. He remembers having to hold your hand the entire flight, and when it was allowed, lifting up the armrest so you could press yourself into his side. He hadn't minded it one bit, finding it endearing that you put all your trust in him to keep you safe.
"You and flying don't mix well." He teases, hands now rubbing up and down your arms. "But... you know I don't mind providing for you."
"I know you don't."
"And I love taking care of you."
"I know you do." You whine, pulling back again to pout up at him. "But you know I can't let you do that. My brain tells me no."
"Tell your brain to get over it and let your boyfriend take care of you." He leans forward, planting a kiss to the center of your forehead. He feels your arms circle around his middle and he smiles against your skin.
"If only it were that easy." He pulls back to find you still staring at him, but a smile has since replaced the pout on your lips. "This'll only suck for a little bit, then it'll become our new norm and it'll get easier. I'm just cranky about it now, but I know we'll figure it out."
"We always figure it out." He hums. "Just tell me what you need from me to make it easier on you while I'm away, and I'll do it."
"There's nothing you can do.” You pause. “Except, maybe, right now… a kiss could possibly fix my cranky mood."
He watches your gaze drop from his down to his lips, and then back up, your own lips puckering dramatically. Jolly huffs out a laugh before happily obliging and leans down, lips pressing against yours gently. Nothing too crazy, a sweet peck, because he still hasn't brushed his teeth, and he pulls back seconds later.
"I love you." You say happily, eyes fluttering shut briefly.
"I love you, too, baby."
"Alright, I’m not allowed to complain for the rest of the day. Let's eat before all my hardwork gets cold." You step on your tip-toes to press a kiss to his cheek before pulling away entirely, reaching around him for both of your plates. "And maybe after, shower? Then go grocery shopping? The fridge is running on fumes... I think I used the last of the eggs and we have maybe half a glass of milk left."
He perks up at that, following you over to the chairs that sit at the island in the middle of the kitchen, plucking his plate from your hands before settling down in his chair. "A shower, you say?"
"Of course that's the only thing you heard." You deadpan, but he doesn't miss the smirk on your lips.
"Sorry. You know my brain likes to focus on the important stuff."
"Perv." You tease, but the smirk has finally settled on your lips fully. "Does that sound good, though?"
"Mhm. Sounds good to me, love."
"Oh! And maybe later we could go to the thrift store we wanted to check out last week? Hit up some other shops, too."
"Oooh, yes. That sounds like a perfect plan.”
It's almost as if the worry from earlier is forgotten as your conversation continues through breakfast, and when you're finished putting your dirty dishes away and dragging him up the stairs to go shower (among other things), Jolly knows that the two of you will eventually figure it out. He knows you two can weather any storm, just like you have for the last few years, and that these worries won't mean much to the two of you in the future. He knows wherever he goes, you’ll be right there waiting for him, and he hopes you know he’d do the same for you.
#bad omens fanfiction#bad omens fanfic#bad omens fic#joakim karlsson fic#joakim karlsson fanfiction#joakim karlsson x reader#mine
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cherry wine stains 8.0
playing it a little differently and rewinding back to their school years but with an Aegon POV this time.
all previous parts in pinned.
"I like your knee-high socks."
"I like the chain you wear like a crucifix."
"Strange way to describe it."
"I don't know. It just - it hangs around your neck like the absence of something."
Her words dissolve like sugar into the cup of his mind.
Clever people don't realise the riptide of their soul is not being fed until they meet another clever person. Aegon's currents slow to a whispered crawl as his eyes trace Amara's profile, creating images in the tangle of her windswept curls.
She's left a lipstick print on his mother's favourite mug. When he sees it, his soul unhooks from where he keeps it folded away, right there at the base of his neck where the silver chain fastens.
Later, he'll kiss that print, see if the measure of his mouth is enough.
Helaena told him in private: You can't! You can't, you can't, you can't! You ruin everything!
The frantic protests of a younger sister who thinks - knows - that her older brother getting involved with one of her friends is going to end up in a loss for her. He's dated one of Helaena's friends before (it ended in the kind of operatic disaster you only ever see on Eastenders).
He does not want to date Amara as much as he wants to pry her open like a game of cat's cradle and weave apart the strings that keep her mobile. Half the time, Aegon suspects she isn't truly awake. Some part of her is drowning in slumber, deep as Briar Rose. He catches that moment sometimes, as she blinks at him with those sleepy eyes.
The texture of her thoughts - when she gives them up - slips like satin over his fingers.
"Do you want a smoke?" He flips the mint-green box in his palm and grins.
Her gaze is longing. "I told my mother I'd quit. Besides, aren't menthol cigarettes banned here?"
He shrugs, slipping one between his pinched lips to hold it steady. "Nothing's banned if you squint."
"Flawed logic," she laughs.
"She said to a drug dealer."
That makes her laugh harder. He likes making her laugh. Feels worthwhile somehow. Not much in his life feels that way these days.
The younger siblings are all growing up, leaving school, moving onto greener pastures, where the chaotic drudgery of the council estate turns into a crystalline vision in the rearview, something to put into personal statements and add what rich tossers would call flavour.
They don't need him like they used to. He and his mother have raised them to become self-sufficient and now Aegon has to figure out what he wants to do with himself because where the kids are going, they won't want to admit what their brother does - has done - for a living to ensure their survival. He predicts he'll be the family embarrassment every Christmas, the uncle that shows up drunk, with a sliver of something in his eyes that suggests he could have been something once.
He knows he won't end up that way. His need to be someone, get somewhere, is far too aggressive. But he does fear no longer being needed by the people who have relied on him so long he can no longer extricate himself from the identity of protector.
Maybe it's why he likes making Amara laugh.
She doesn't have siblings. Her eyes still dart around, nervous, as if aware her protection in this world is lacking compared to that of others. Her parents won't always be around. When they are gone, there won't be siblings to divide her grief up with. It'll just be her.
If his subconscious is turning her into his new surrogate sister, it doesn't reconcile well with the instinct that stirs when her skirt rides up an inch.
Alicent's stained glass lamp flickers, bulb on the brink of permanent death. Aegon reaches over to ensure it is screwed on properly and it affords them a last burst of weak light. Amara reaches out her hand under the dappled glow of its illumination, slipping her fingers under the violets, yellows and greens, as the crook of her elbow turns rose pink.
"I've always liked your mother's taste in furniture."
"Yeah? Take it. She wants to throw it out."
"No. If she's decided it's dead, it should go. I'll just be keeping the corpse if I took it."
Aegon's eyes wrinkle at the corners, smile disguised by the inhale of the cigarette. "It's not organic material. There's no corpse."
She glances at him, as if aware of his mockery despite the affection he delivers it with. "I think some inanimate objects come alive if they are loved enough. Alicent's had this lamp since I've known her. It's lived with her, and now it'll die. We shouldn't interrupt the process."
No wonder Helaena adores her.
They are both odd creatures, his little sister, and this intense, doll-eyed mirage that turned up at their doorstep one day, hungry for oven chips and love. She reached out her cold hands to Alicent, and found herself overwhelmed with the warmth and affection given in return.
He's known her so long, she should feel like a sibling.
What does it say about him if he can't stop wondering what it must feel like to graze his lips over her stomach and tongue that bellybutton ring she got in a short-lived fit of rebellion?
Aegon flicks aside the cigarette, mouth acidic with guilt.
He isn't the kind of person who wants. Other people want. Aegon goes out and gets. There isn't enough time to submerge in the feeling of want and understand the true depth of craving the human soul can achieve.
But he sees the whorl of soft hair at the nape of her neck and the feeling crawls up the rungs of his ribcage like a creature possessed. He pictures being small enough to curl up in the soft folds of her clothing, to soak in the scent of her until he passes out from exhaustion.
That feels like enough wanting for today.
"I'll see you downstairs, yeah?"
If she looks disappointed, it's just wishful thinking on his part. She knows he's not going anywhere. He'll be in the living room with the rest of the family who've put on Shrek and are split into two groups - the half that sings along, and the half that won't.
"I'll be down in a bit."
"Cool."
A sudden gust of wind lifts her hair, and the flimsy ribbon comes loose. He catches it before it finds freedom. She turns, expectant, waiting for the inevitable return of her almost-lost property. He pulls it between his fingers, wonders if it also carries life inside the woven thread, the way she claimed his mother's lamp does.
The weight of her hair rivals Isolde's.
Irish myths were a rooted part of his childhood, laced into Alicent's quiet voice every bed time. She swears the Hightowers are mostly, if not fully, Irish. But she could never be sure of how far back, or of the intricacies of any bloodlines. Rich people have the luxury of unfurling a family tree across the polished mahogany of their dining room table. They get to find their eyes, noses and mouths in the faces of people who lived too long ago to care what has become of their DNA.
Poor people make do with maybes and perhaps because most of the time, the lives of their ancestors are of no interest to anyone but themselves. Unless a mining forefather was crushed in a collapse and the resulting riots tore down a political establishment.
So, his mother pulled them back to times so ancient, the ancestors became common for all, their bloodlines too distant to maintain individuality.
If Tristan and Isolde are in Aegon's ancestry, that past life becomes tangible when he runs his fingers through Amara's hair and tames it into a braid he's practiced on Helaena a hundred times.
"There's something mythical about your hair," he says, and then cuts himself short because he deals drugs for a living, and whatever fancy thought this was about to be would make more sense from someone more booksmart.
She cranes her neck back and gives him the brightest upside-down smile. "That's the best compliment anyone's ever given me."
Aegon bites the inner corner of his lip and nudges her to look straight so he can keep braiding.
Once her eyes are off his face, it splits into a smile. Warmth drains down his spine like gold egg yolk poured from its shell. Once the braid is done, he rests his chin on the top of her head, and passes it off as brotherly with a goldfish-squeeze of her cheeks.
He lingers, inhales deep, smells her, turns her scent into binary code that he will decipher in isolation later.
"Don't be too long. You'll catch your death out here."
#aegon ii targaryen#modern aegon#aegon ii x oc#aegon x oc#aegon ii fanfic#aegon ii fic#aegon x amara#scalyfreakswrites#house of the dragon#aegon targaryen#cherry wine stains part eight#modern hotd au#Spotify#alicent hightower#hotd oc#helaena targaryen
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"the underworld" thoughts
i love every. single. song. in this saga. here's a play by play of me being stabbed by a dagger of sorrow with the first song.
"i no longer dream; only nightmares of those who died"
remember the last time he dreamt? there was penelope and telemachus? and then they opened the bag and everyone DIED? istg even the happy dreams have resulted in overwhelming sadness.
"558 men who died under your command"
the horror. all of his guilt and crimes and mistakes placed in front of him, surrounding him. he's forced to acknowledge the thoughts that have been consuming him, that he has buried deep inside as he compartmentalized throughout the circe saga.
"why would you let the cyclops live?"
my heart. (also the way they said that was so satisfying LOL.)
"when ruthlessness is mercy"
oh- that makes it so much worse. they quoted poseidon. the reason they're dead. no wait- odysseus caused this. the god out to kill him is not wrong. what is right anymore? (okay but i love odysseus going through an existential crisis)
"i keep thinking of the infant from the night, i keep thinking of the infant from the night"
jorge sounds so DISTRESSED. i love it. he's trying to grasp onto something, anything, to absolve his guilt.
"this life is amazing, when you greet it with open arms"
i love polites. so. much. thank you for him being here. Steven has such a hopeful voice. Open Arms is how i want to live my life. there is good in this world. even if it is dead. SOB.
"that voice? it can't be."
let me go cry in a corner for a sec. can i just say i love the lyrics here? he recognizes her voice IMMEDIATELY. he's surprised, then refuses to believe it for a while, then realises he doesn't have the time, then he's gutted.
"mom?"
this was such a good choice of words. or word. no way ancient greeks said "mom". but it captures so much the way it's said? the innocence of a child, the fear of the world --he's seeking protection and love in his mother, who has died. died before he came home.
"odysseus when you come home, i'll be waiting."
but she's NOT. he hasn't come home. also i love how it's "when" not "if". she has faith in her son. she trusts him to come home. like penelope, she doesn't think he's dead. they've waited so long, and they'll keep waiting, for this man they love.
"even if you're the last thing i see, i'll be waiting"
and she knows she's going to die soon, but she wants to see her son one final time. i love awesome portrayals of moms. she's there for you in whatever way she can be. let me go shower my mom with love rn.
"i'm right here, mom. can't you see?"
AHH. EVERY SINGLE LYRIC HERE IS SO GOOD. i love concise lyrics SO MUCH. every word packs a punch. this is why even if an album is only three songs, i will never, NEVER be angry or disappointed or SAD. because everything here is gorgeous.
also this is SO SAD. because he can see her but she can't. and that was her dying wish. so near, yet so far. he can't ever embrace her again. he let down someone he loves. again.
"i took too long."
aksdfhdaksdjss. that had NO RIGHT to be so devastating.
"i'll always love you"
AWW. let me go grab some onions. i also love how jorge's mom is singing. it's beautiful.
*swallows* "bye mom"
the voice crack. he swallows down a sob. JORGE YOU'RE SO GOOD AT THIS.
"the past is always close behind."
the underworld: a summary
#epic#epic the musical#epic: the musical#epic: the underworld saga#the underworld saga#jorge rivera herrans#odysseus#anticlea#my heart#sobbing#crying#also gleeful because i really really love this album#polites#the underworld#epic the underworld saga
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real talk in the tags for a second because i have a crush on a girl and i. a hehe. ahehehe.
will be burying this in reblogs and never touching on it again
#so random disclaimer this girl is like a year older than me and in high school it’s like a nono for older and younger batch to like be#a thing so i know i generally have no chance but i like to live in my own insanity and the progression of my crush on her has been absolute#ly cuckoo bananas. so like it started out as ‘i wanna be your friend’ and progressed into ‘shit they’re really pretty’ to ‘wow ur so??’ to#‘fuck i like them’ and then it died down and then by all golly it came back but more of a hallway crush now which is bearable bc i’m#not really a part of their life?? like we know each other but we don’t wave and shit and we don’t like ever interact that much so i was lik#ok this is fine bc they literally never think of me so i’m just admiring from afar. and the FIRST inciting incident was i request them onig#and i expect to not get accepted because according to their friends they onyl accept close friends and i’m like k this is a bad idea probs#but the worst that could happen is i get left in their follow requests right?? RIGHT?? but then within like two hours of reqing. lord.#i got. ACCEPTED. and they requested back. and suddenly it’s +1 tangibility like ok?? maybe we’re not as strangers as i thought we were#i later discovered i was not that special for this but also?? cool?? anyways for a while it kind of laid dead and we never spoke at all eve#tho i was in their acc now (at this time they barely posted but whenever they did it was so?? funny like they would slap the randomest shit#on that acc) and it was still a hallway crush altho my friends r awful (/pos) people who would always make me pass their hallway and i#would run into them so often but at this point we only ever like exchanged glances and they would walk right past me like i wasnt even ther#but THEN the second incident happened which was basically we had to play instruments for this christmas event thing and bc they’re literall#y amazing they played for it and i was roped into it and. i was so gay the whole time. bc who wears a leather jacket to school and gets the#prettiest haircut ever right on the last day before a long break?? and the worst part is whenevr something confusing happened they would#turn to me and this one other person and we’d b laughing together. like we r friends. and they’re so fucking nice they were checking up on#us the whole time i was literally dying i kept dropping my pick and stealing looks AURURUGH and they’re so gen funny and interesting i just#and the first few days of holiday break i just couldn’t stop thinking abt them it was so bad? like that was the moment where i was genuinel#like is this more than a hallway crush… eventually it died back down until the next event we had to play together where they were being SO#SO much more comf w me? like exchanging knowing looks when smt funny happens and that stuff.. at this point i didnt even know what to like#think of my crush on them so i just let it be yk. atp they’re not even waving at me in the hallways at all still so maybe they’re just bein#nice! BUT NO. THAT IS UNTIL I AUDITIONED FOR A BAND (theyr in charge of accepting) AND THEY ACCEPTED ME WHICH COOL BUT LIKE A DAY LATER I#HEARD FROM OUR MUTUAL FRIEND THAT THEY SAID ‘yeaa im so happy i got (my name)’ AS IN IN THE BAND. LIKE. HELLO?? HI U THIUGHT ABT ME?? and#during the first band mtg where everyone’s all awk they kept making eye contact w me and asking if i was good and making sure i got to say#smt before anyone made a decision and it. murdered. me. i’m sorry maybe it’s the fanfic writer in me or this shit is literally nothing and#think they’re just nice to everyone but who cares bc it means they’re nice to ME too. and then last week happened. which was like the nail#in the coffin. INTERACTION ACTIVITY. I IMPULSIVELY ASK IF THEY WANNA B GROUPMATES AND THEY SAY YES. THEY ONLY TALK TO ME AND THEIR FRIENDS.#I ACT STUPID. THEY ALUGH AND TOUCH MY SHOULDER. I ASK ABT THEIR CAMERA AND THEY GO ON A LONG-ISH (cute) RANT ABT SMTH. THEY ASK WHY I HAVE#BIG ASS STACK OF POST ITS. WE TALK. THEY LAUGH AT MY JOKES. SUDDENLY. THEY SAY A FULL HELLO IN THE HALLS. THEY WAVE AT ME A DAY LATER. FUCK
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the boys' first commentary on keating's lessons being cameron and neil saying 'that was weird' / 'but different' is getting to me like the entire film is a narrative on the suffocation of heavy academia and how it prioritises certain subjects (medicine, law, business, engineering) while condemning creativity and passion and how institutions are promoting conformity and grades-over-wellbeing teaching methods more and more as you both move up the elitism scale and as time goes on, and how that was okay for these kids and like so many generations before them they were going to let it happen to them, but one teacher was different. one single teacher told them to seize the day and make their lives extraordinary and he made them look directly at the state of things, and for a little while it was beautiful but they're just kids; how could they ever change things? and sure enough it catches up to them and the institution wins because it always does and suddenly the suffocating thought of what neil is so sure his life is going to be is so daunting and terrifying that he cant even face it
#he's just like me fr just without the gun#like yeah the world is actually a harrowing monotonous place and my generation is the last one to play outside as children#and if you dont chase a certain career path or excel in certain subjects then you're deemed inherently lesser#and your success is measured by your bank account and there is no warmth#like damn this film realeased in the 80s and set in the 50s had no business capturing the terror of being young in our society so perfectly#the ONLY saving grace is the 'o captain my captain' scene at the end#it's proof that the beautiful passion-filled independent lives the boys dreamed about#dont just become food for worms and we dont just go right back to the beginning#there's hope at least even if half the time im too busy BAWLING MY FUCKING EYES OUT to even see the screen at that point#godddd girl watching this doing an 'academic subject' that you despise and on bad days think might be the thing to beat you#but you do it anyway bc you're stuck now and besides your parents kinda made you do it when all you ever wanted to do was write#but that cant happen bc writing isnt 'good' the way economics is 'good' and maybe#maybe all that'll happen is i'll lose and start a career in business and work an office job for two decades#in a world that's melting and owned by corporations that want to bleed me dry#maybe that's all there is#i need a fucking cigarette#dps
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i am in mourning
#just found out that the best restaurant i have ever been to CLOSED#and i only got to eat there one time!#it was so good... the last bites of my sister's salad alone had me enraptured...#like that scene in lala land where she hears the jazz music over the speaker and nothing else in that room exists to her#and that's not even talking about ky main course!#coincidentally it was also a jazz bar place and i went there to see a live performance#which was lost on me because of that most delicious food#it shall haunt my dreams and memories#even the drinks were good! do you know how hard it is to get me to actually like alcohol?#alas and alack‚ our connection was not meant to be rekindled#i think i understand how edmund felt with the turkish delight#anyway turns out they were shut down because they were embezzling money#but like. have the authorities considered they should be allowed to?#try the asparagus and the at last cocktail and you will see the light#*veggie tales cheeseburger love song plays while i cry myself to sleep knowing i'll never have another of theirs*
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✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ speak of the devil
synopsis. satoru and his father don’t quite get along—you don’t think it would help that case if his father walked in on you fucking on his desk right now, but satoru doesn’t seem to care at all
FIVE PLACES RB! GOJO SHOULDN’T FUCK YOU SERIES
length. 3.4k words (why did it take all day sobs)
contents. fem! reader, minors do not interact, college au, rich boy! gojo, as always it’s shameless satoru, you sit on satoru’s lap, brief fingering, dry humping, desk sex <3, clothed sex, unprotected sex, creampie, pet names (baby, sweetheart, princess, perfect girl)
notes. to everyone who kept asking when i was gonna update this series: here it is. now don’t ask again <3
the one time you decide to surprise satoru with a visit is the one time he’s nowhere to be found—it takes you ten minutes and the help of two maids to finally find satoru in his house. as it turns out, he’s in his father’s office—the only room you’ve never been in yet.
“hey,” you murmur, “been looking for you everywhere. way to ruin my surprise.”
“baby!” he grins, perking up from his spot at the chair, setting the pen in his hand down. “you came all the way here to surprise me? you must love me so much. and think i’m hot too, right? and funny? and smart? and—”
“i’m leaving,” you tease, rolling your eyes. and then you notice the papers in front of him, peeking over his shoulder as you read over them. you understand nothing. “what’s this?”
“paperwork,” he grumbles, “old man says i have to start being more responsible for stuff if i’m gonna take over someday. what a geezer.”
you snort—satoru never runs out of insults for his father. normally, you wouldn’t encourage his comments, but….well, his father deserves them. quite a bit, in fact.
“my poor businessman,” you say sympathetically, smoothing back hair from his forehead as you cup his face. he pouts, leaning into your touch as you rub over the swell of his cheek with your thumb. “you deserve a break.”
“i know,” he whines, “i’ve been doing these for like an hour. i could’ve been playing video games with suguru. or fucking you.”
“satoru!” you gasp, pressing a hand over his lips as you eye the door and listen for any signs of anyone nearby. you turn to him and hiss, “you have too many people wandering your house for you to say that so loud.”
“not like they’ve never heard us before,” he shrugs.
well, that’s satoru for you—as shameless as ever. not only has he probably traumatized the poor maids with his insatiable horniness, but he’s not even got the tact to at least seem embarrassed. not even slightly ashamed. you scoff, shaking your head as he grins up at you cheekily.
“you’re a real case, you know that?” you say in disbelief, “i think the only surface you haven’t fucked me on is your parent’s bed. and that’s only because you love your mom enough not to do that.”
“if it was just the old man’s, i’d have fucked you on that too,” he snickers. and then he hums thoughtfully, “actually, i think i have fucked you everywhere. it’s like a bucket list.”
“satoru, you’re sick in the head.”
“the showers, the guest rooms, the kitchen, the living room, the movie room, my room, of course—oh, the game room too. and we can’t forget the backyard and the pool either. i think we got it all—wait.”
he sounds serious. you look at him with furrowed brows as you tilt your head. “what?”
“we didn’t get this room.”
oh god. he’s absolutely ridiculous—and not only that but a complete idiot, too. not only do satoru and his father not get along, but his father couldn’t disapprove of you any more than he already does. the last thing you both need is for him to walk in on his son fucking the girl he probably wants to hire a hitman to assassinate.
“oh my god,” you say exasperatedly, “toru, have you not one ounce of shame? you can’t possibly think—”
“why didn’t i think of this sooner?” he wonders out loud—and oh no. satoru has that look in his eyes, the one that’s locked in on something he wants. the spoiled side of him isn’t going to let this go. the weak part of you is probably going to have a hard time fighting him.
the unwise part of both of you will probably get you both into a whole lot of trouble.
“because it’s a bad idea. you’re a smart guy, toru,” you try to butter him up—it doesn’t seem to do much, though. “the smartest. so, so genius and intelligent, so you know this is a terrible idea, so let’s just drop it—”
“i should’ve done this way sooner,” he chuckles, looking at you in awe, “bend you right over this desk and fuck you over that fossil’s papers.”
his words are so shameless and so, so wrong. but for some odd reason, your clit aches a little at that.
“no, absolutely not—”
“can you imagine? he’s signing papers right where i had you drooling for me? he’d be so mad if he knew,” satoru cackles.
god—this should not be as appealing as it sounds. you try to throw on your best stern look, but satoru is as smart as he is sly. he can see the way you shift on your feet as he smirks up at you, and he’s already got that determined look in his eye that you know well enough.
it’s the same look he has when he decides he’s hungry—for you, that is. the same look that paints his face as he eyes you like you’re his next meal. the same look that tells you he wants you—and he’ll stop at nothing to have you.
and….well, you’ve never been good at saying no to satoru. it’s your fatal flaw.
“satoru, we should definitely not be doing any of that in here, and we definitely should not be risking making your dad—who hates that we’re dating, by the way—any more angry with us than he already is—”
“sweetheart,” he chuckles, pulling you by the wrist to fall onto his lap, “you worry too much, y’know that? i should fix that. fuck you dumb over this desk so you don’t overthink in that pretty little head you have.”
you glare at him, but he’s already got you straddling his hips, arms looped around your waist as he kisses your jaw with a hum. he’s already hard from what you can feel—the bulge pressing against your heat is hard to miss.
“satoru—”
“save the part where you say my name for later. i haven’t even done anything yet,” he winks—and then he’s kissing you. he’s clever, you think, because kissing you is the fastest way to get you to melt against him, arms wrapping around his neck as he pulls you closer.
so close, in fact, that you can feel his cock practically twitch in his pants as you shift on top of him, dragging your clothed cunt over his aching bulge.
“this is such a bad idea, toru,” you whisper in between kisses—but not one part of you fights his touch or even attempts to pull away. he hums, pressing wet kisses along your jaw as his hands dig into your hips, moving you to grind along his hardened length.
“yeah? you sure? let’s check, shall we?” he raises a brow, hand slipping past the waistband of your pants and brushing past your folds—wet. dripping and messy and needy, just how your pussy always seems to be when you’re with him. he grins in satisfaction and throws you that knowing look as he mumbles, “sorry, baby. this pretty little pussy of yours disagrees.”
“toru,” you gasp as he toys with your clit, rubbing slow enough circles that you whine and roll your hips, trying to get more. but satoru is a brat—always has been, right from the day he was born. he pulls his fingers away and looks at you smugly as he kisses your curled lips while you frown at him.
“want more, don’t ya?” he asks—he’s too cocky for his own good sometimes. too ridiculous and annoying and troublesome, but you’re aching to feel something, anything. preferably him, so you nod.
“just hurry up,” you huff. your hips push against him, dragging your cunt over his cock—it’s throbbing in his pants, confined under the fabric and needy for the tightness of your walls. you gasp when he rubs against your clit, and he groans, guiding your movements with a tight grip on your hips.
“fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps, “c-could cum jus’ like this. see what you do to me?”
“‘s not me,” you tilt your head as he nips at your neck, hand trailing to cup the back of his head and keep him in place as he nibbles at the skin and pecks along the marks he leaves, “this is all your fault.”
“all my fault, huh?” he chuckles, “you make it sound like this is a bad thing.”
his hips buck up, rolling against yours and building the friction up until your both panting messes, his lips against yours as you drink in each other’s moans—your clit rubs along his length with every stutter of your hips, and his tip leaks with more pre cum every time you press harder against his cock. it’s desperate—the way he chokes on your name and the way you cling around his neck. it feels good, and the way this is all so wrong only makes it feel better.
“‘m close, toru,” you mewl, whining as his hand slides under your shirt to massage your tit, his eyes trained on you as he hums.
“good,” he grins, eyes dark and glinting with a sick satisfaction you don’t think you’ve ever seen on him before, “cum for me, sweetheart. right here—right on this chair,” he says lowly.
so you do—head falling back with a sharp gasp and your nails digging into his shoulder as you come undone with a loud whine. the gojo estate is big—very big. you’re sure your voice isn’t carrying through even a fraction of the place, but still, you can’t help but clamp a hand over your mouth in case anyone is nearby.
satoru doesn’t like that, though—his hand rips yours off as he ruts his hips upwards faster, harder, pressing against you closer. “no, baby,” he chuckles, cutting himself off with a breathy moan when you press harder against his cock, “make sure you let me hear how good you feel. feels good, huh?”
“yes,” you whimper, “yes, feels so good—need more, toru. please,” you pout, looking up at him with lust-blown eyes.
“here?” he mocks, raising a brow, “you want me to fuck you right here? in my father’s office? where he does his work? right on his desk?”
“yes, here,” you sob, “right here—please. want you so bad. need it.”
“see?” he laughs, “now you’re getting it—not so much of a bad idea, is it?”
that’s the thing about satoru—he’s too used to hearing what he wants. being told what he likes to hear. getting what he asks for. you say no, and he’s determined to change it to a yes. but yes is never enough—it’s more. always more, more, more. it’s like all rich people, you suppose.
they just always want more.
there’s a small, reasonable voice in your head that tells you this is a bad idea. a disrespectful one, even. sure, satoru’s father has never been kind to you, let alone polite. he looks at you like you’re an eyesore, and he’s certainly said less than appropriate things about your upbringing. but that doesn’t mean you have to stoop to his level of low and do something equally as spiteful, if not more…but you’re only human. and satoru always just fucks you so well, and cumming around nothing just isn’t enough, and…well, you think it’s just karma.
the way the world works.
the way you and satoru work.
so you grin, huff out a little snort before pulling him into a kiss and reaching to free his hard, leaky cock from its confinements. he whines a little into your mouth as you smear the arousal coating his tip along his length, stroking down and squeezing at the base.
“okay,” you whisper against his lips, “fuck me toru. right here—right on his desk.”
that, evidently, is all it takes—one second you’re comfortably sitting on his legs, pants soaked with his bulge pressed against your core, and the next second you hear his hand swipe papers off the surface to fall to the floor as your back is pressed against the cool wood. he doesn’t even bother with your clothes, just tugs both of your pants down your thighs that it’s enough. satoru has always been impatient too—doesn’t like to wait for anything when he can take it when he wants.
you can feel him close, hovering over you. he’s warm—where his cock presses against your thigh, where his breath fans over your lips, where his hands grab your wrists and pin them over your head. he’s warm, and your head spins, and you need him filling you to the brim right now.
“anything you want, you get, sweetheart,” he murmurs, grinning sickeningly sweet, “can’t say no to my baby. what kind of boyfriend would i be?” you feel him bump his tip against your clit, making you gasp before he drags the head of his cock along your folds—they’re wet and slick from your arousal, coating his tip before he’s slowly pushing in. you gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck as he groans lowly. “can never get used to this,” he breathes, “never get used to this pussy. just takes me so well. fit in like i was made just to fuck you.”
“toru, t-toru—oh,” you squeal when he slides the rest of his length to fill you, buried to the hilt as your walls flutter around him. it’s nothing new, but it’s never something you’re prepared for all the same. how thick he is, how perfectly he hits that spot in the back of your walls, how full he makes you feel. it makes your legs wrap around his waist and pull him forward, closer, deeper. “more, toru—move, please.”
“nuh uh,” he drawls, kissing your cheeks, “first you gotta tell me how much you love me.”
“satoru,” you hiss in disbelief, “are you kidding—”
“c’mon, say it,” he giggles, “love you, toru. love how you fuck me so good everywhere in your house and make me feel like a princess. you’re the best boyfriend ever and i’ll die without your cock—”
“i love you toru,” you smile sweetly, “you know what i love more, though? when you’re too busy making pretty sounds for me instead of talking so much.”
that makes him shudder—makes him curse under his breath as your walls flutter impatiently around him. he’s aching—hot and swollen in your dripping cunt, balls heavy with cum that he needs to empty into your pussy because it was made to take him. every inch of him.
“you’re gonna be the death of me,” he breathes out shakily, “know that? gonna kill me one of these days.”
“good,” you hum before rolling your hips and making his breath hitch, “now move, baby. wanna feel you.”
he does—pulls his hips back so that he’s just almost pulled out completely before he slams back into you, pressing against your sweet spot with his tip in the way only satoru knows how. only he knows you this well, only he knows your body so well. he knows where to kiss and hold and touch to make your eyes flutter shut, and your mouth fall open, wanton moans falling past your lips without a care in the world who can hear.
“so tight, baby,” he whines, “god you’re so perfect—my perfect girl.”
“so full,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders, pulling at his hair, pulling him closer and closer and closer until not even air can fill the space between you. “feel so good, toru—fuck.”
“look at you,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, “‘s a shame you can’t see what i see. then you’d know why i can’t keep my hands off’a you—’s impossible.”
you can’t speak—all you can offer him as he’s bullying his thick girth into you is a pathetic whine as his veins drag along your walls, as his navel bumps along your clit and has your head thrown back against the table. there’s slick smeared along your inner thigh, the wet sound of his cock fucking into you ringing in your ears along with his deep groans as he pants harshly against your ear. you can feel his breath against your skin, can feel the goosebumps and the flutter of your walls every time he makes a pretty little sound for you as you squeeze around him.
“love you, toru,” you mewl—you can’t help but say it, can’t help but remind him when he pushes into you like he was always meant to fit right there, like he was always meant to feel you as you feel him too. and if his rotten, greedy, stuck-up father with a receding hairline can’t see that you love satoru, maybe you’ll just have to fuck him right where he can find you just to drill the image into his mind.
“love you too,” he says between moans, face digging into your neck as your hand cradles the back of his head, keeping him right there, keeping him close against you like he should never be anywhere else, “love my perfect, perfect girl. feel me? feel what you do to me?”
you nod between sharp gasps and soft cries of his name—he looks down at you in wonder, at the way your lips look when they murmur that sweet little cry of toru!, at the way your pussy sucks him in and hugs too tightly around him, at the way you look so good with the slight sheen of sweat on your face.
his hips roll, a little sloppy in rhythm now, but still just as hard and deep as before. he can sense it—the way you’re just about to fall apart on his cock, just like you always do. so he presses a thumb to your clit, rubbing harsh circles that make you cling to him tighter as you cry out another sweet string of toru, toru—more!
“you close, sweetheart? gonna cum for me? ‘m close—gonna fill you up. want that, don’t you?”
“yeah,” you breathe, kissing him with hot, open-mouthed kisses that he returns, “yeah i wan’ you to fill me up, toru—gonna cum. ‘m so close—f-fuck, so close, baby.”
you know he is too, the way his cock twitches and the way his hips are desperate in the way they roll into you tells you he’s just as close to falling apart as you are. you push your hips up to meet his thrusts, pushing him impossibly deeper into your cunt before you feel the coil snap as you cum—hard. your walls flutter around him, spasming and squeezing around him that his bottom lip is tugged between his teeth as he inhales sharply.
“f-fuck, baby—’m gonna…” he doesn’t get to finish before you feel his cock twitch and the first drop of cum fills you. it’s hot and thick, every rope he fucks into you, leaking past his tip and painting your walls white. you can feel the mess he makes—can feel the drops leak and smear along your inner thighs as he slams into you with choked whines of your name. “g-good—’s so good, you feel so good,” he says breathlessly, face digging deeper into the crook of your neck as his arms tremble over you.
the wood is hard against you, makes your back ache slightly—but it’s not nearly as bad as satoru is good. you can’t think of anything else but the way he fucks you both through your highs until your legs are begging to press shut from the oversensitivity.
it’s silent for a bit once you’ve finished—save for the harsh, labored panting as you both calm down and catch your breaths. satoru is still buried with his nose pressed against your neck, your hand rubbing over his back slowly.
“your maids must hate us,” you mumble, “and if your mother hears? we can never show her our faces again.”
“she’s probably dead to the world and watching her reality shows,” he snorts, “we’ll be fine.”
“well, we should clean up and leave before your dad—”
“oh look, speak of the devil. he’s just in time,” satoru snickers as he cuts you off, looking over at the window as an expensive car drives up to the house, “think we can get these papers organized before he comes up here? maybe we should just leave ‘em to make him mad.”
“you’re crazy,” you say in disbelief. and then— “i think we should leave them there. make them his problem.”
you think you’ve just watched satoru fall in love with you all over again at that.
i hate this fic but hopefully i come back one week later and reread it and think wow i ate w this. sometimes i do that. but if i don’t: if all of you donate one dollar to my family they can afford my funeral for when i drink bleach
#teepods.writings#fics.#thirstee!#rich boy! au#gojo x reader#gojo x you#gojo smut#jjk x reader#jjk x you#jjk smut#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru x you#gojo satoru smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen x you
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𝐂 𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐘 ˚◞♡ ⃗ satoru gojo
𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙬 ┊ your husband is unbearably clingy.
𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 ┊0.9k words. no pronouns used or specified gender for the reader. intended lowercase. established relationship (#married).
a/n. — i’m warning u guys right now that this is not proofread 😭 .. i literally just typed this up rq and posted it bc it’s been too long since i’ve last posted something on here
p.s. the prompt was in my notes from a longgg time ago, but i believe it’s from @/creativepromptsforwriting .. if not please lmk !!
"c'mere, hold my hand," satoru pleads for what has to be the third time. he pouts at you, who’s sitting on the countertop.
your brows furrow as you look up from your phone, "but, you're washing the dishes?”
he twists the faucet handle, and a steady stream of water flows down. after a brief glance at you, he places the plate beneath the water and says, "i know how to multitask, baby."
clinginess is defined as “the tendency to stay near someone for emotional support, protection, ect.” but there has to be another term for what satoru is, because you can't give any of those things while holding his hand right now.
you let out a deep breath and turn off your phone, watching as the screen fades to black. "satoru, there's no way i'm sticking my hand in that dirty dishwater," you say, sliding your phone into your pocket.
he practically shoves the plate into the drying rack. "i can't believe this," he huffs. "we literally had vows."
“what are y—“
“we had vows that said you’d love me in sickness and in health.”
"well…are you sick?" you ask, crossing your arms across your chest.
he pauses his task of washing dishes, leaving them untouched. leaning over the sink, he rests his arms against its edge. he steals a furtive glance at you, only to find your gaze locked onto him. with a hint of hesitation, he softly mumbles, "no..." before you can respond, he interrupts, "but i’m in health, and the vows said that you have to love and cherish me in this state too."
you lean back, searching your mind for what the alternative of holding his hand would be. because in no world would you hold his hand in dishwasher. then, it hits you. "for now, would a hug make you feel better?"
he answers your question with a hum, and you can't believe he's debating whether or not to accept your offer after all that drama over holding hands in dishwater. even so, he adds, "i'll have to give it some thought."
two can play that game.
“it’s okay,” you say, gracefully hopping down from the counter. a smirk spreads across your face. “i could just go—sit on the couch?” slowly, you start to walk in his direction and make your way over to the living room.
he doesn’t say anything, letting you do as you please. it’s not until you start to pass by him, that you get the reaction you wanted.
or atleast, somewhat similar to what you wanted.
"on second thought—" he exclaims, and the dishwater swirls around him as he turns around, his hands still wet and dripping.
you cringe as small puddles gather on the tiles. "hey—" but he interrupts you as he reaches out to grab your wrist. “ew—I—what the hell?”
you instinctively try to pull back, but he slips his wet hand in yours; sealing your fate.
“satoru—”
“what happened to nicknames?”
“satoru.”
"’m not sure who that is. i go by a lot of names, but not that one. lets go down the list, yeah?” he clears his throat. “i go by "babe, baby, swe—"
"you should consider adding "gojo" to that list."
"now, when have you ever called me gojo?”
"right now, in exactly ten seconds.” your husband gasps, hanging his mouth open. “satoru go—"
“woah woah woah—what’d i do to deserve this treatment?”
“you put your dirty dishwater hand in mine.” you jerk your hand back, struggling to escape free of his grip.
his grip tightens on your hand, “if you’re feeling like not loving me today then just say that.”
“hey—don’t discredit me. i offered you a hug and you said you had to “think” about it.”
“cause holding your hand ‘s better.”
you sigh, “after you’re done with the dishes, you can hold my hand as long as you want.“
he lets out a soft, thoughtful hum—the same hum that got you both into this situation in the first place. at the same time you shake your head, a mischievous twinkle appears in his eyes, and a smile twists onto the edges of his lips. "deal" he says, shaking your hand. “but before-“
you tsk, making him drop his excuse.
“wh—“
"the quicker these dishes get done, the quicker you’ll be able to hold my hand. so get on with it—go," you playfully command, and his grip loosens in response. seizing the opportunity, you slide your hand out of his grasp. you look down at it, seeing bits of food that’ve stuck to your palm. gross.
you walk over to the sink, feeling the cool water flow over your hand, washing away the food and dirt that clung to your skin. as you stand there, you hear satoru's voice grumbling from behind, "i hate doing dishes,” and you can’t help but snort.
before you know it, you feel his presence close behind you, his body pressing against yours. his arms encircle you, creating a cozy pocket of space between the counter and his body. satoru leans over your shoulder, gets a sponge from the soapy water, and starts washing a bowl. you simply lean back and look at his features.
the sight almost makes you want to stay in his arms forever. that is, until you realize the predicament you're in.
“you did not,” you whine. you desperately try to break free from the cage he’s trapped you in, but your attempts prove more and more pointless.
"oh, yes, i did," he declares with a smile. “what did you say earlier?" he clears his throat before proceeding. "the faster these dishes are done, the sooner you'll be able to hold my hand," he says, mockingly imitating your tone. "so, the faster these dishes are done, the sooner you can leave and do anything you want."
you sulk and moan while you reluctantly grab a dish and a spare sponge from the sink. “i hate you.”
“i love you more.”
#(っˆ ³(ˊ ᵕ ˋก ) ⇢ ˗ˏˋ 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐀 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 ࿐ྂ#i have a essay due in a couple hours and i’m over here writing fics .. 😣#gojo x reader#gojo x reader fluff#gojo angst#gojo x you#gojo headcanons#gojo scenarios#satoru gojo#satoru gojo x reader#jjk x reader#jjk gojo#jjk x you#jjk fluff#jujustu kaisen#jujustu kaisen x reader#jujustu kaisen headcanons
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