lunarstarfire

[lunarstarfire]

ash I had to drop by to thank you for your sweet tags! it means the world to me that you like my characterization of oliver, I just really never manage to see him as an inherently bad man and it brings me so much joy that my interpretation resonates with you! thank you for reading my stories and for your kind words, I appreciate you <3

No, thank YOU V!!!! Your stories are beautiful works of art and they bring me much joy to read!! I so so agree; I cannot see him as an outright bad person. You capture all of the intricacies of why he is the way he is so perfectly. I look forward to continuing to read your writing (even if it isn’t for Oliver!) much love ❤️❤️

[lunarstarfire]

is it over now?

cw: 3k wc, female reader, some guy won't leave you alone at the club and your ex a-little-more-than-a-situationship punches him in the face, most abused trope of all time but in my defense. he's hot. tw harassment, injuries & you kinda lick blood off his face (sorry)

This is honestly your fucking nightmare.

“You don’t understand, I’m telling you I know him!”, you shout again, loud enough to hopefully be heard over the banging music of the club. The bouncer doesn’t even meet your irritated gaze anymore, he’s simply pretending you’re not there screaming in his face that he needs to let you proceed past the velvet rope behind him. For what surely feels like the millionth time.

“Please”, you stomp your heel on the sticky floor, blinded by both frustration and fury, “this guy won’t leave me alone, I can’t get rid of him-”

“Tell the bouncers downstairs”, the colossus in front of you folds his arms, massive biceps covered in tattoos swelling threateningly. His patience is clearly running thin.

“I did, they don’t give a flying fuck!”, you raise your voice again, “can you just tell Oliver to come here for a goddamn second?”.

“Who?”.

Exasperated, you groan.

“Aiku! See? I know his name, you don’t, doesn’t that tell you everything?”.

He takes a step forward, which makes you take a step back.

“Aiku Oliver? Nice try. Half the country knows his name, now fuck off before I stop being nice”.

“Thanks for nothing, asshole”, you mumble under your breath, whipping around to make your way downstairs again. Your friend disappeared with a man long enough for you to find an idiot to dance with, one that apparently doesn’t quite grasp the meaning of consent and the ways in which it may be connected to a woman enjoying or not enjoying a stranger suddenly sticking his hands underneath the waistband of her skirt.

“The fuck did you just say to me?”, you hear the bouncer’s heavy steps behind you before you have the chance to turn around but, frankly, you’re beyond the point of giving a shit.

“I said thanks for nothing, assho-”

“What’s going on? We can’t hear each other with all the screaming here”, loud, sudden, unfairly deep, a second man speaks and you finally get to meet a gaze you haven’t seen in months. When he sees you, he fails to hide his surprise. You can’t hear what he utters next but by the way his lips move, you can only guess it’s a murmur of your name.

“I apologize for the disturbance”, the good for nothing idiot bows to him, “I was just telling this lady she can get all the help she needs downstairs”.

“That’s not entirely accurate, you told me to fuck off”, you give him the middle finger and despite the semi darkness, can discern the vein that throbs on his forehead.

“Help? Is something wrong?”, Oliver not so kindly shoves the glass of champagne he’s holding in the hands of the girl, well, one of the girls impatiently waiting right behind him, and makes a show of swinging one leg and then the other over the velvet rope to get to you. You’re already regretting this.

“You know what? Actually, I’m fine. Nevermind, have a great night!”, you flash him a big smile and pretend to not notice the bouncer’s outraged expression in your peripheral.

He doesn’t have the chance to say anything back as you turn around and attempt to quickly make your way downstairs again, silently cursing yourself because why would you run to him like an idiot? Him, of all people. Your pride pathetically drowned in all the shots of liquor you took ever since stepping foot in the club.

It takes a second for Oliver’s stunned brain to send the command to his legs but when it does, he has no problem catching up with you and gently grabbing you by the arm in the middle of the stairs. His lips are almost pressed to your ear when he attempts to shout above the deafening music everyone else is still dancing to.

“Please tell me”.

He’s not going to let it go, not as he impatiently turns his head to now offer his ear for you to scream into.

Oliver feels your breath, hot on his skin, before you reluctantly give in.

“I don’t know where my friend is. Some guy I danced with won’t leave me alone, I-”, your words are cut off by the way he suddenly straightens up, eyes attentively scanning the dark dancefloor below. 

“Who?”, he asks, and you don’t have to question whether he’s inquiring about your friend or the stranger. You know that gaze and you remember what it feels like, having his arm gently, perhaps reflexively being put out to protect you. It surprises you that he still does it but it’s who Oliver is, it’s what he does, it would be silly to believe you were the only one he’s ever done this for.

You scan the dancefloor too and relief makes its way into your chest. He’s nowhere to be found, maybe he finally gave up and left.

Right as you’re on the verge of apologizing and telling Oliver to go back to his girls, his friends, whoever the crowded group he entered the venue with consists of, you see him. Unfortunately, he sees you too.

Oliver feels it before he can notice the silhouette making its way up the stairs: you tense up and take half a step back and suddenly his protective instinct is the strongest it’s been in a while.

“Aw, already found a taller, better looking dude? Is that why you won’t let me buy you a drink?”, the guy gets close, too close, seemingly unbothered by his chest being basically pressed to Oliver’s forearm. He’s completely ignoring him.

“Hey, man”, Oliver’s deep voice is fairly easier to hear above the loud music, “she doesn’t want to talk to you. Let’s just drop it, yeah?”.

He blinks, seemingly skeptical.

“Why are you speaking for her?”.

You scoff, impatient.

“He’s not. I already asked you to leave me alone, I’m not interested!”.

“You seemed pretty interested while you were grinding on me”.

“Fuck you”, you snarl, “did I give you permission to slip your hands under my skirt?”.

“Again”, he laughs, evidently incredulous, “you were grinding on me”.

“What if she was?”, Oliver tilts his head to the side a little, “she changed her mind, just let it go”.

“This doesn’t concern you, man”.

“It concerns me, man”, Oliver places his hands on the guy’s shoulders and gently guides him to take a step back, “let’s just make sure everyone here has a good time, alright? No need to cause trouble”.

He doesn’t wait for the guy to reply: he just takes you by the hand and proceeds to drag you past him and down the stairs. You quietly sigh, relieved. All you have to do now is check on your friend and then take a cab home to call it a night. Except you’re snatched backwards, someone roughly grabbing you by the arm as your hand slips from Oliver’s. He whips around, eyes flaring as his fingers close around the guy’s hand to free you from the hold you’re trying to get away from.

“Can’t you take a fucking hint?”, Oliver pushes him the second he lets go of your arm and you just know from his tone that his patience has run up. Instinctively, you grab his hand once more, thumb skimming across his knuckles as you pull him back.

“Leave it”, you say. He slips his fingers in between yours by muscle memory, gaze raging with irritation still directed towards the idiot. His palm against yours feels so familiar it makes you sick. Finally, you feel him relax enough to turn around and follow you but then he stops in his tracks when the guy suddenly speaks again.

“Whatever. Thought your slut could spread her legs for more than one man”.

You don’t hear him as clearly and for a moment you have a hard time grasping the shitty words he just uttered. All you can feel is Oliver’s hand slipping from yours and when you turn to look at him, his face is already contorted in a derisory smirk.

“Aw, man”, he rolls his eyes with a smile. For a moment you mistake that grin for something lenient, amused. You think he’ll deem that guy a pathetic idiot and move on but then, as nimbly as a pro athlete can move, his fist suddenly collides with the stranger’s jaw.

You let out a surprised sound that turns into a squeal when he displays shocking, exceptional foolishness and headbutts Oliver right in the face. The commotion draws the attention of those who are nearby and, as you clumsily try to separate the two (or rather, try to keep Oliver back by pulling on his shirt), you hear someone call the security.

It ends exactly as one could predict. An ice pack is unceremoniously shoved into your hand and you’re all kicked out of the club, the guy dragged away from one of his friends who happens to be an Aiku enthusiast, which is probably the only thing that is going to save Oliver from a lawsuit.

“Careful with that, it hurts”, he grimaces. You press the ice harder against his cheek and he hisses.

“Why would you do that? Are you an idiot?”.

“He said-”

“I don’t care what he said. What if he broke your nose?”.

His eyes soften, which makes you groan.

“I’m fine. Are you fine?”.

“I’m fine”.

“I mean it”, he gently grabs your chin and tilts your head up, “are you fine?”.

You swallow the lump in your throat. This time he doesn’t falter when you press the ice harder, which makes you sigh.

“Yeah”, you say, “maybe I shouldn’t have danced-”

“No”, he sternly interrupts you, “he should’ve backed off”.

You gently move the ice pack down his cheek and press it to the corner of his busted lip.

“I’m sorry. I ruined your night”.

Oliver huffs out a chuckle. “I was bored anyway”.

“Yeah, I’m sure you were”, you roll your eyes. As bored as a man in a vip lounge, with champagne, his friends and several girls all over him can be.

He observes your worried gaze as you tend to his bruised face, back pressed against the brick wall of the alley right behind the club. He knows you’re still blaming yourself but something flutters against his ribs, after so long, at the thought that he was able to be there for you. At the chance that was given him to make things… not right, but perhaps less dreadful.

“Why did you look for me?”, the question is almost a whisper in the quiet of the empty alley. You know Oliver is not asking that to hold you responsible, you know what he wants to hear. Given how bad his face looks at the moment, you decide to give it to him.

“You’re the person I feel the safest with”.

He exhales through his nose and you feel him relax further under your touch. It’s true, you’d trust him to protect you from anything. The one thing he failed to protect you from was himself.

It’s unfair, the way one of his hands rises to cradle your cheek, thumb gently stroking your skin with the softest of touches. Something in his chest melts when you lean into him, yet another evidence of a trust he doesn’t deserve and is still selfish enough to crave.

He hums as his hand gently guides your face closer to his. You let him.

“Does it hurt?”, you ask, ice pack pressed gently against his lower lip.

“A little. Maybe you should kiss it better”.

You roll your eyes because of course he would take advantage of the situation. Oliver offers a playful, little smile and then theatrically hisses at the supposed pain it causes him.

It surprises him a little that you actually go for it, move the ice pack up to the apple of his cheek as you lean forward to softly press your lips to the corner of his mouth. He pulls back ever so slightly, enough to turn his head and make sure you’re kissing him square on the lips when he leans over once more.

“You’re an idiot”, you click your tongue and he’s already chuckling, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw.

“Now that I think of it, something else hurts too”.

“Want me to cut it off?”.

“Cold”, he fakes a pout and you scoff.

“Stop talking”.

“But I remember you liking my voice?”.

Oliver’s breath almost, almost catches in his throat when you lean forward again and he feels your tongue trace part of his bottom lip with intent.

“You’re bleeding”, you say, matter-of-factly. Then, as if nothing happened, you move the ice pack to his lips again. It takes everything in him to keep a cool facade when you lick your lips, the pink flash of your tongue with the slightest bit of crimson smeared over it damn nearly making him lose his mind.

Fuck, he missed you. You’re the only one who’s seen nearly every part of him and still wished there was a place for you to stay. The same place he denied you so sorely.

“Nemo misses you”, is the only thing he can bring himself to say, the knuckles of his non bruised hand softly brushing along the side of your neck. You hum.

“He’s a fish”.

“Yeah, well, you were the only one who’d talk to him”.

He manages to conjure a little smile. It’s true, you talked to Nemo a lot. Full on conversations would take place while Oliver was either cooking, taking a shower or simply not home yet. You’d always greet him upon entering the living room, take a second to gently tap on the glass of his aquarium and ask how he was, if he was hungry or felt like having a chat. Oliver would hear the steady murmur of your voice and your chuckles from the bathroom or the kitchen and he’d just smile to himself.

“Right. I liked doing that”, you say.

“He told me he thinks I’ve been an asshole”.

“You mean when I told you I liked you and you asked me to leave?”, you tilt your head to the side a little and Oliver heaves a quiet sigh. You’ve never been one to beat around the bush.

“Yes”, his fingertips ghost along your exposed collarbone now, “it was shitty. I’m sorry”. He’s slightly distracted by the way the orange light of the street lamp pools into the curve of your clavicle.

“Don’t be. I wish you could’ve just told me you were not interested”.

“You know that’s not true”.

“I don’t know anything you don’t tell me, Oliver. I can only take note of what you do”.

He hates how good you are at cornering him, words always so sharp and clever. You know him, actually know him, he’s laid bare too much of himself for you and now he can’t take those parts back. He wishes he could deceive you as well as he deceives himself but there’s also some weird relief that comes with having a person he can no longer fool. With a perception that is not under his control alone anymore.

Part of him still wants to try. He wants to tell you he’s a shitty person who does shitty things but your knowing, lenient gaze would be too much for him to bear.

“I like you”, Oliver breathes, “more than I should be allowed to”.

You sigh.

“Don’t just say-”

“I’m telling the truth”, he presses, “I like you and I fucked up”.

“Who gets to decide that?”.

He blinks.

“That I fucked up? I’m pretty sure-”

“No”, you chuckle softly, “how much you’re allowed to like someone. Stop making this horrible, shitty person out of you. That version only exists in your head”.

Oliver’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest. You’re the only person who’d say something like that and actually mean it, despite never having been in a real relationship with him. Despite only knowing him for a few months. Which says a lot, if not about you necessarily, at least about who he is and what he feels when he’s with you.

“Hey”, you playfully press the ice pack to his temple and gently tap on the skin two times, “get out of there”.

His eyes soften.

“Nemo really knows his shit”.

Your chuckle is a balm, soothing and familiar. His shoulders relax.

“Remember when you gave that interview about your ideal type being someone who wouldn’t be a pain in the ass to end things with?”.

Oliver groans. “Don’t even”.

You grin. “Aw, come on. Didn’t I leave right away?”.

He pinches your side and you muffle a squeal into his shirt, soon shaking with laughter as he fails to fight off a smile himself.

“Stop bringing that up. I was young and stupid”.

“You’re still fairly stupid”.

“Yeah, I am”, Oliver moves his hand up your back, to pull you further in, “I hope you’ll still let me take you home, though”.

He hears your quiet sigh and feels the way you tense up. His hold tightens, to keep you from taking a step back and still feel you almost pressed to his chest instead. When he meets your gaze, Oliver can barely contain the urge to kiss you again.

“We’ll take the same cab, I’ll walk you to your door, then thank the driver for waiting for me and hope you’ll pick up when I call tomorrow”.

He can sense it, the hesitation. He knows there is no actual reason for you to trust him, not with your heart, not with your feelings or vulnerability. He knows he lost that right long time ago and that’s why your silent acceptance, when you allow him to keep his arms around you, means more than you can imagine. You trust him when you have nothing to lose and you trust him when you have everything to lose, again.

“Was it really over then?”, you ask.

“Well, is it over now?”.

You huff out an exasperated sigh. He smiles.

Oliver remembers how he often found himself thinking you were made for him but was always too scared to find out if he could’ve been made for you as well.

Now, as he carefully brushes some of your hair away from your face, seems like a good time to be brave.

[lunarstarfire]

on fierce, affirming sight

cw: 6.6k wc, female reader, hurt/comfort, mentions of past abuse, after he becomes your boyfriend oliver starts acting weird and you soon realize that whenever he decides he trusts you with it there might be a hard, uncomfortable conversation to have. i really poured a lot of feelings into this one and i can only hope you enjoy reading it!

Oliver: I already have plans to get dinner with the team tonight

Oliver: I’m sorry

Oliver: I can cancel on them if you want

You pout a little but then shrug about it.

>>: no worries, we’ll hang out another time! have fun!! :)

Oliver: are you sure you don’t want me to cancel? I can do that

>>: of course not! Enjoy your dinner!

You chalk it up to him being sweet, really. You didn’t have any real plans for the day and thought of asking if he wanted to watch a movie at your place, or do anything else. While each day you spend unable to see him is always less bright than the ones when you get to, it’s really no big deal and you can pretty easily adapt to the glorious perspective of a night spent cooking and watching one of your favorite shows, perhaps with a face mask on.

What you don’t, can’t know, is how intently Oliver is staring at his screen, trying his hardest to understand what you mean. He’s clutching his phone, thumb hovering above the keyboard, unsure. Does he just ask if you mean that, again? But what if you’re pissed? He sucks at detecting sarcasm over text.

He decides against sending another message, convinced it will only annoy you more. Oliver also manages to convince himself that, despite there not being any indication of it, you are definitely being passive-aggressive and he has to make it up to you somehow. Preferably by the end of the night. He likes you and doesn’t want to fuck up the first exclusive relationship he’s had in years, he has to do this right. You’re good to him, you’re his girlfriend, it’s only normal to be upset about him preferring to go out with his teammates rather than spending time with you.

You smile when Oliver sends you the first picture, the table of an exlusive restaurant crammed with turbulent athletes, Aryu promptly offering a V sign. You react with a red heart and put your phone aside, engrossed in the show you’re watching sprawled on your couch.

The second picture he sends is a selfie of him and Sendo but you only see it at the end of the episode, almost an hour later. You react with another heart, or so you think: you end up tapping on the thumbs up emoji instead but there is no real way for you to notice because Oliver just keeps texting and sending pictures for the entire evening.

Oliver: still with the boys [IMG_76439]

Oliver: we’re still here

Oliver: they want to go for drinks now

Oliver: this place is nice, nothing special

Oliver: it’s just us [IMG_29364]

Oliver: will leave in a bit!

Oliver: niko got pretty wasted, had to drag him home first [IMG_28165]

Oliver: I’m home now :) goodnight ♡

When you see the texts, a weird feeling settles in your gut for a moment. Something feels off but you can’t quite place your finger on it. Oliver texts you during the day or when he’s travelling, sometimes he’s very detailed about what he’s doing too. That is not unusual. But it’s very unlike him to send you so many updates, with so many pictures.

You find it a little odd but, again, your relationship is still quite new and maybe there are sides of him you have yet to uncover. Perhaps he was excited about dinner, maybe a little tipsy too, which makes you smile.

The next morning, Oliver is at your door right as you’re brewing yourself coffee. He’s holding two paper bags and is grinning so wide, proud of the surprised smile you’re greeting him with.

“What are you doing here?”, you ask as he gets inside, kicks his shoes off by the doorstep.

“Thought we could have breakfast together”, he pecks your lips once, one hand gently cradling your cheek, “so I can apologize for last night”.

You’re too distracted for a second, his lips moving on yours and your arms around his neck. When you pull away, your thoughts are still floating in that sweet haze he evokes so you are unable to immediately grasp the meaning of such sentence.

Oliver doesn’t waste any time: in a moment he’s in your kitchen setting the table, hands moving on their own accord as he fishes out plates and cups and glasses from your cupboard. He’s already memorized where everything is, which makes you want to kiss him again, right by the coffee machine.

“I have coffee, blueberry waffles and-”

“Wait”, you finally snap out of your daze and let out an airy chuckle, “you’re apologizing? What for?”.

Oliver continues with his ministrations, the bags on your table being emptied with steady precision.

“For going out with the boys”, he shrugs, “I should’ve cancelled”.

You tilt your head to the side.

“Why, did something happen?”.

“I wasn’t with you”, he meets your confused gaze for a second.

“Yeah, but”, you offer an uncertain smile, “you were with your friends. Why are you apologizing?”.

The table is set so Oliver doesn’t have any more tasks to keep himself busy at hand. He looks at you, attentively searches for something across your features. Relief floods his chest when he realizes you’re being serious.

“You’re not upset”, he says and it’s not a question. You truly aren’t. Chances are you weren’t being sarcastic either.

“I’m not upset”, you repeat carefully, “did I say something-”

“No”, he’s quick to interrupt, “no, you didn’t. I’m sorry, I’m an idiot”.

In fact, he feels like the biggest idiot on earth. Even as you chuckle, he can see it, the wariness he prompted. Oliver kisses you again, reminds himself that there’s a reason why he wanted to be in an exclusive relationship after so much time. You’re not a ghost from his past, you’re you. He doesn’t want to ruin the one good thing he’s had going on in years and, most importantly, he doesn’t want you to notice. Inquire. You’re too caring for your own good and he’s too embarrassed to let you take care of him the way he knows you’d want to.  

You gently brush his bangs away from his forehead as you sit next to him and share breakfast. He relishes in how oblivious you are to his thoughts, hopes he’ll be able to shield this one relationship from them.

“I really like you, Aiku Oliver”, you say, quiet, adoring, and his heart melts like liquid gold in his chest. He wants to enjoy this feeling completely, he wants to deserve it.

“I think I like you more”, Oliver grins, pinches one of your cheeks and you slap his hand away with a groan. Your kitchen is nothing special and yet he’s never felt such warmth in his own apartment. He wonders how you can make any place feel like home, how you manage to summon that dangerous spark that lights up every room you step foot into and if it’s not too early for him to be already falling so hard.

If he ends up hitting the ground, it may hurt worse than the last time.

The first, actual evidence that something you can’t quite understand has indeed been simmering beneath the surface, comes with a phone call.

Oliver has been quite observant of the ‘no need to update me when you’re out’ suggestion. It has been a constant and it was beginning to drive you insane: whenever he was somewhere you were not, he kept sending you texts and pictures the entire time, something that quite soon stopped being cute and started feeling off instead.

You politely explained that you didn’t need that: not when he was with his family, not when he was with his friends, not when he was working. Of course you still want to text him during the day but you want texts, not constant proof of where he is and who he is with.

You think his reputation might have something to do with it. It’s no secret that the name Aiku has been associated with the very worst playboy scandals all over trashy magazines and social media, for years. The media has never been kind to him: heartbreaker Aiku, playboliver, bad boy Aiku who’s constantly at it again. The soccer player who plays them all. One is never enough for Aiku.

He knows, as you know, they have not been entirely wrong. But the minute you started dating him, the day you decided to be in a relationship with each other, all that should’ve stopped being important. Oliver doesn’t have to prove he’s not all that, you don’t need him to. That’s what you hope he’d understand: you simply wouldn’t be his girlfriend if you didn’t trust him.

The argument seemed to convince him, although at times he still slips, especially when he isn’t home by the time he told you he would be or something unexpected he feels the need to update you on happens. The main problem is that he occasionally gets upset if you don’t update him the same: why didn’t you tell him you’re not home yet? Why didn’t he know other friends, who happen to be all guys, would be joining your brunch? You have been too quiet, is something wrong? Maybe he should come with you. Maybe you should’ve told him.

It starts irritating you. Which irritates him. You really like Oliver a lot and you desperately want to make things work but so long as there’s something you don’t comprehend fully, it’s just not going to be easy. You needed an excuse that would give you the chance to start the conversation in the first place for quite some time and the call you receive late at night on a Saturday might just be it.

“Hey?”.

“Something happened”, Oliver’s voice comes out uncharacteristically high pitched, urgent, “I want you to hear it from me first”.

You straighten up on the couch, suddenly alert.

“What happened? Are you okay?”.

“I’m fine. It’s just”, you hear him take a deep breath, the distant banging of the music in the background, “just promise you’ll believe me”.

You can’t relax your shoulders, anxiety threatening to clutch your chest in a cold grip. You have a feeling about where this is going but you remind yourself of the faith you place in him.

“Okay”, you murmur.

“We were at the club, doing our own thing in the vip lounge, and then the guys let in a group of girls. This one girl… I told her I wasn’t interested, I told her I have a girlfriend but she was just all over me, you know? And then she tried to kiss me and of course I didn’t let her, I gently pushed her away and left to call you, but…”.

“But?”.

“But if someone took pictures or a video and leaked them online, I just know it’s going to look fucking bad. She was laughing, her arms were around my neck and my hands on her shoulders-”

“Okay”, you say, sternly, “I believe you”.

“I’m sorry. I swear this is all there is to it, nothing happened, you can ask any of the boys”.

“Oliver, I said I believe you”.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t feel relieved. He feels incredulous, almost like you’re making fun of him.

“What, you’re not pissed? Not even this pisses you off?”.

“What do you mean?”.

“Are you the perfect girl or something? How are you so unbothered all the fucking time?”.

You almost laugh, in utter disbelief.

“What do you want from me, Oliver?”.

“I want you to have a normal reaction for once!”.

“Well, I am pissed! Is that what you want to hear? I hate all these strangers that make you uncomfortable, get in your personal space and think they own you just because you play for a soccer team, I hate how you always somehow end up being the bad guy and yeah, maybe I am pissed that a woman tried to make out with my boyfriend while I wasn’t there! I’m jealous and I’m pissed, alright? I’d kick her in the face if I could. Are you happy now? Is my reaction normal enough?”.

The line is silent for a while but you know he’s still there. Frankly, this is what upsets you the most: the claim he wants to have over your emotions, your reactions. You can always tell when he’s surprised and you wouldn’t let it get to you if it wasn’t for the way Oliver then looks at you. Dubious, not entirely convinced, always expecting something different to follow. It hurts, it leaves a sour taste in your mouth that you always swallow down because it’s clear by now that he doesn’t know how to be in a proper relationship. You’re just going to have to find out if you are simply not compatible or whether the problem lies in something else, something different he never wants to openly talk about.

“I don’t want to be unfair to you”, you speak quietly once more, “but you are being unfair to me”.

It’s late, you’re upset and you can’t really bring yourself to say what you really want to. Maybe you should start a relationship with someone who doesn’t trust you, since this is clearly what you’re chasing. 

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry”, he whispers more to himself than to you, “can I come over?”.

“I don’t think-”

“Please, I’ll apologize and leave. I just want to see you”.

You exhale slowly, the exhaustion that comes with not knowing how to fix whatever is broken within the man you’re falling in love with makes your limbs feel heavy. He whispers your name again and you don’t have it in your heart to deny him, because it’s Oliver and because you want to understand. If he’ll allow you, you want to help. And if he won’t, it will mean that you’re not the right choice for him. A pity, because by now you’re pretty confident he is your person.

The night is a whirlwind of apologies, sincere eyes and broken voices. He’s not drunk but definitely tipsy, confused by what he said and why he said it, the moment you open the door you find yourself in his arms and he whispers his apology into your shoulder over and over and over. He says he doesn’t know what came over him and while you don’t quite believe that, you decide it’s a conversation for the morning.

You don’t let him leave, instead you hug him back and hope your hushed reassurances will be enough to soothe his perturbation. Oliver lets you drag him into the bathroom, where the spare toothbrush you were hoping to whip out for a happier occasion is. He lets you undress him and drinks the water you bring him and crawls into your bed, where he keeps you pressed against his chest. You card your fingers through his hair as he breathes you in and keeps whispering his apology, lips brushing against your collarbone. You slip into a restless slumber, agitated by dreams that wake you multiple times.

Oliver wakes up as the sun rises, body controlled by habits that are years old and whose familiarity he welcomes. The ceiling of your bedroom stares back at him and he takes a few minutes to let the comfort of the steady murmur of your soft snores trickle down his spine. He’s scared more than he is worried. You’re resolute, way more than he is: if you already decided you want to end things, Oliver knows he won’t be able to change your mind. Why would you change your mind? He’s been an asshole. His phone has already been blowing up with texts from his friends, sisters, PR team, so he doesn’t really need to guess whether something regarding the previous night has been leaked or not. He really is the worst possible choice for a boyfriend, he thinks with a sour smile as he tiredly rubs his eyes.   

“Hi”, you whisper as you hug him from the back an hour later, right as he is brewing coffee in your kitchen.

“Hi”, he says back, leaning into your embrace. You press a kiss to his shoulder blade and he can feel the way his heart kicks at his ribs.

“You’re a kicker, you know?”.

Oliver allows himself a dry chuckle.

“I’m a soccer player”.

You hum and he turns around to find that familiar, sarcastic glint in your eyes he’s learned to love so much.

“Maybe leave my legs alone and stick to the ball?”.

“I only do it when I’m nervous”.

With a sigh, you accept the cup of coffee he hands you.

“Right. Well, let’s just get this over with, shall we?”, when you meet his gaze, Oliver’s expression is almost carved in stone, “please tell me what’s wrong”.

He blinks, surprised.

“What do you mean?”.

“I want to know what’s wrong”, you articulate the words slowly but confidently, “talk to me”.

Oliver puts his own mug back on the counter, runs a hand through his hair to conceal the way it’s quivering.

“I don’t understand. Talk to you about what?”.

“Oliver…”.

“What?”.

You frown.

“About why you think I’m always assuming the worst. About why you justify yourself over and over again, why you spend a night out with your friends updating me. About why I’m apparently at fault for not thinking you would cheat on me. Who made you do all this and why are you still doing it with me?”.

Oliver doesn’t appreciate the feeling of being seen so clearly because it is unbearably similar to the feeling of being cornered. It makes him vulnerable and shifts his role from someone who is perfectly capable of taking care of those around him to someone who needs to be taken care of. You are too good at seeing him and if he was a good boyfriend, a normal one, he’d be happy about it. He’d feel comforted by the feeling.

But he’s not a good boyfriend.

“Jesus”, he lets out a bitter laugh, “what’s this, an interrogation? Didn’t notice you were so goddamn bothered by everything I did”.

“I just want to understand”, you push, “to help”.

“There’s nothing to understand and I don’t need your help”.

“So you’d just rather keep hurting me instead?”.

He smiles.

“I’m hurting you? I spend all my fucking time doting on you. I tell you everything. I give you everything”.

You try to not let his words sting but it’s difficult to feel in control of your emotions when the man standing in front of you suddenly feels like a stranger.

“You hurt me by not talking to me. You hurt me last night, Oliver”.

“Oh, fuck off”, he groans, “I apologized a million times. I’m the one being ripped to shreds online, you’re safe”.

“I don’t want that!”, you raise your voice, “shit, I don’t want your apologies and I don’t care about the fucking gossip! I want to know why you can’t handle that I trust you, I want to know what-”, when you take a step forward with the intention of taking his face in your hands, the sudden movement prompts something that stops you dead in your tracks. Oliver is gripping your kitchen counter, knuckles white.

In disbelief, you try your best to soften your tone as you take a step back.

“Did you just flinch?”.

“What? No”, he says, a deep crimson hue spreading slowly over his cheeks and neck.

“You did”, you murmur, “did you think I was going to-”

“Enough”, Oliver speaks in a way he’s never spoken to you. It’s imperative, final, a booming tone that doesn’t allow objections. “This is bullshit, I’m done”.

Petrified, you watch him storm out of your kitchen, the quiet of the early morning stained by how loudly he slams the front door on his way out of your apartment. Of your life too, probably.

Ironically, the detail you remember most clearly about that morning is his cold cup of coffee abandoned on the counter. You didn’t touch that mug until two days later, comforted by the one thing that still proved that Oliver had been there at all. You aren’t left with much else.

Days pass, then a week does, almost two. He doesn’t text, doesn’t call, and you don’t either because somehow you decide it’s best to give him space if that’s what he needs. By day 10 you realize that if he’s truly done, you’re gonna have to be too. And the very least such hurt deserves is a clear, respectful, mature breakup. You can’t fight for someone who doesn’t want to be seen.

You would’ve held his hand and walked with him on a difficult but shared path that could heal whatever wound is still infected. You were willing to ache as much as necessary in the process, well prepared to face bared teeth and brandished claws, but if Oliver doesn’t want you to, if he isn’t prepared to maim himself by exposing the rot and then sever it with your help, there is no reason for your relationship to exist in the first place. Not if he likes you, not if you may already be in love with him. You will face this hurt on your own and always hope he will heal from his own, perhaps with someone better than you by his side.

You politely ask your friends and family to stop bringing him up, you’re not sure how final the breakup is yet (quite final, it’s just that they don’t need to know so soon) and wish to clarify things before initiating a sob fest over it. They’ve been more subtle with their care. You have so much homemade food in your fridge despite not having cooked a single thing in ten days, your best friend brought you a million face masks and a basket filled with snacks, your mom sent you pretty, colorful flowers just because you love them. You can’t wait for your apartment to feel less dull, for the ghost who lives there to come alive again.

On day 10, you almost get kicked out of the training facility on the other side of town. Niko doesn’t hear you when you call for him and security definitely doesn’t believe you when you swear you’ve been there before. To watch your boyfriend train.

You have to pretend the knot in your stomach doesn’t damn nearly make you throw up when Oliver suddenly shows up right at the entrance, seemingly surprised to see you.

“It’s fine, she’s with me”, he dismisses the security guy with no particular inflection in his voice, but you know him too well. He’s not happy you’re there. Becoming an inconvenience sure has been easy.

“What are you doing here?”, he hates himself for sounding like a father scolding his unruly child and you try your best to keep your unbothered facade up.

“Wanted to talk”.

“I’m kinda busy”.

“I’ll wait”.

“I just got here”.

“I’ll wait”, you say again, adjusting the bag on your shoulder.

Oliver looks at you with something difficult to interpret in his expression. You don’t really care that he’s bothered by your presence, soon enough it’s not going to be a problem at all.

“As you wish”, he shrugs before jogging back to where his teammates are, on the pitch. Sendo waves at you and you offer a smile, waving back.

You sit there for so much time your legs start cramping, tired eyes concealed by the biggest pair of sunglasses you own. Your back hurts and you can’t remember the last time you had a full, restful night’s sleep, yet your heart still races as you watch him do what he does best.

“Glad you’re here”, the low, sudden voice makes you jump as you take notice that someone is now sitting next to you, “he’s been playing like shit”.

You’re still quite startled but welcome his comment with a light, nervous chuckle.

“Yeah?”.

His keen, crimson eyes never spare his opponents and they certainly don’t spare you. He’s far too intelligent to fall for your dumb act.

“It’s none of my business”, he clarifies, “but I hope you two can sort it out”.

For some reason, his unexpected kindness brings tears to your already puffy eyes. You take a moment to collect yourself, clear your throat, and miss the way his gaze further softens.

“Thank you, Shoei”, you say and it’s the most sincere you’ve sounded in over a week. He gives you a dry nod and you smile.

“How come you’re benched?”.

“Sprained my ankle. Told those fuckers I can still play but they won’t let me”.

You click your tongue.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You need to rest”.

“I need to play”.

“Do you have someone who can help you cook proper meals? We live pretty close to each other, I can-”

He raises a hand and the words die in your throat right away.

“I’m fine. Take care of yourself first”.

You huff out an exasperated sigh.

“I’m fine too”.

“Sure you are”, he grunts, “and your man didn’t just miss his fourth chance to score in a row”.

“Be nice to him”, you warn, eyes following the players running on the pitch once more. He scoffs pretty loudly but decides against saying anything.

You’re still thinking about Baro’s quiet care, unexpected but not really surprising, when Oliver finds you at the end of his training. You’re outside the facility, leaning against the wall and looking up to take in the delicate violet, orange hues the sun has painted the sky in.

“Hey”, he sounds softer now but there’s still a sharp edge to his voice, “sorry, that took a while”.

“It’s okay, this won’t take long”, your sunglasses are perched on your head now and you’re sure he can see how much of a wreck your face is as you meet his gaze. But the thing is, you can see the exact same devastation blinking back at you. It looks like he’s been getting the same amount of sleep as you the past few days, more or less. You resist the impulse to take his face in your hands and stroke the tired skin under his eyes.

He waits for you to go on and you force yourself to snap out of your stupor.

“If you’re really done, I think I at least deserve a proper breakup. So please, do it right”, you bravely tilt your head further up, gaze focused on the tip of his nose to avoid his eyes. 

Oliver suddenly feels as if the sidewalk is dropping beneath him, it leaves him feeling dizzy and disorientated. One hand rises to idly touch his chest, to double check that you did not just physically kick the wind out of his lungs.

“No”, he says, genuinely surprised, “no, that’s what you think? That I broke up with you?”.

You blink once, twice.

“You said you were done and stormed out of my apartment”.

“Done with the conversation, not you. I was just-”, he struggles to find the right words, “I was really mad, okay? I couldn’t-”

“I haven’t heard from you in ten days, Oliver. You said you were done, slammed my door and disappeared. If this is what you call a relationship, I can’t be the one to be in such a relationship with”. 

You look up at the sky, to conceal the tears clouding your vision once more. He closes the distance between your bodies and gently takes your face in his hands, the movement prompts one traitorous tear to escape your stubborn confinement but his thumb instantly wipes it away.

“No, you’re right”, he murmurs, “you can’t and you shouldn’t”.

“So won’t you please just do it right?”, a broken sob cuts you off and you tremble slightly in his hold, “tell me that it’s over and I’ll leave you be”.

Oliver clicks his tongue before cradling the back of your head and pulling you into the tightest hug he’s ever given, hating himself more than he’s ever done. He only now realizes how his own hurt can end up damaging others and you’re quite literally the one person he wanted to always protect from that. You deserve so much better than him and yet he’s egotistical enough to not want to let you go. If love is selfless, Oliver’s is stubborn.

“I’m sorry”, he whispers into your neck, “I’m so sorry. It’s not over for me, how could it be? But if that’s what you want, I won’t stop you”.

You weakly clutch his shoulders, further pressing his body against yours.

“If I can’t be what you need”, you murmur, “it’s the right thing to do”.

He wants to kick himself in the face. How could he let you think such nonsense? He’s the one who’s been wrong the entire time. He’s been unfair to you and, most importantly, to himself. He always thought the shame embedded in feelings experienced so far back in time would weigh more on any scale, that the choice between letting someone truly see every facet of him and letting them go would be easy. But he’s horrified to find out just how unaware he has been, so engrossed in his denial he completely failed to notice the way you’ve been slipping between his fingers like powdery sand. You, the one person who could still see him for who he really is. The person who has been too busy trying to protect him to protect herself.

“I’ll tell you”, Oliver pulls back but one of his hands is still cradling your cheek. It’s like he’s afraid you’ll somehow disappear into a cloud of dust if he stops touching you. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, if you still want to hear it”, there’s still hurt in his eyes but it’s the hopeful lilt to his voice that breaks your heart.

You part your lips to say something but he beats you to it.

“No, it’s not just because I don’t want to end this relationship. It’s because I want to tell you”.

It just so happens that Oliver sees you too, just as clearly.

His apartment is conveniently close to the training facility. The penthouse occupies the highest floor of the building: it grants him privacy and unobstructed views of the city below, it’s practical, luxurious, lonely. You haven’t been there in a while and knowing the place does rarely look like he’s living in it at all, the environment tidy and void of any real personalizations, you’re surprised to be met with a slight, foreign mess when you step inside.

It’s nothing major but it’s heavily unlike Oliver. Two empty beer bottles left on the coffee table, the rolled up corner of the carpet, dirty dishes left in sink instead of being moved to the dishwasher, shutters only being half open.

He drops his gym bag to the floor, asks you to sit. You curl up on one of his armchairs, in the same position he once told you it reminded him of a jungle cat. Seemingly comfortable and at ease but also deeply alert.

Oliver, still standing and leaning against a console table, takes a moment to observe you and take in the feeling swarming in his chest. He’s nervous but he’s also so relieved. He didn’t think it would be possible for him to miss someone so much.

“I was in a relationship for a very long time”, he clears his throat, one nail absentmindedly scraping the surface of the table behind him, “it was one of my first real relationships, actually”.

You observe his clear discomfort and can hardly keep yourself from rising from your seat, taking his hand.

“I was deeply in love with her, I think it was the first time I felt anything like that at all. She was my first in more than one way. She set the standard for what was normal and I complied. I thought that’s what relationships must be like, you know?”.

“Like what?”, you ask, quietly. He offers a small, sad smile.

“She’d call it intense. When it was good, it was great, but when it wasn’t…”, he sighs, “we’d fight a lot. She was very jealous, obsessed with the idea that I was going to cheat on her with other women  and men. I was at the beginning of my career so I justified her, told myself maybe I’d feel the same way. I tried really hard to give her what she needed to feel at ease but it was never enough. She didn’t want me to go out if she wasn’t there and if I did, I had to facetime her multiple times despite having my location on”.

You hum, a gentle encouragement for him to go on.

“It didn’t matter if I was with my friends, team or family. She needed to be there too somehow. The craziest thing is she’d get really upset if I didn’t do the same. She said she didn’t feel wanted, cared for, she said she could fuck some guy at the club and I wouldn’t ever even know”.

“What happened if you refused to do what she asked?”.

Oliver pauses for a moment, eyes focused on nothing. 

“She’d cause a scene. We ruined quite a lot of dinners, parties, vacations”, he laughs dryly, “we’d get into these big, explosive fights and she’d yell the worse things. But then she’d apologize and we’d always find our way back to each other. I was in love and thought that was what love was supposed to be like. I didn’t believe anyone who told me I was getting sucked into something harmful”.

When he looks at you and sees the sorrow embedded in your features, he steps closer and offers a hand. You take it right away, interlace your fingers with his and squeeze gently.

“Well, it was shitty. We’d break up, then get back together, then break up again. I did everything I could to make her happy but it was never enough. Took me years to properly cut her off but I guess I still associate being someone’s boyfriend to… all that. I fucked up a few other relationships along the way, I just decided it wasn’t really worth it. Until you”, he crouches down by your feet and brings your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles. You’re frowning, swallowing hard as if trying to get down some bad medicine.

“Do I remind you of her?”, the question breaks his heart.

“No”, Oliver replies immediately and squeezes your hand harder, “no, not at all”.

You hesitate briefly before asking the next question, the pang in your heart concealed by the calmness of your tone.

“Did she ever hit you?”.

He tenses up again, a boyish smile already tugging at his lips in an attempt at playing off the whole thing as insignificant.

“Nah. Just one or two slaps here and there but she never really hit me, no”.

You shut your eyes for a moment.

“Oliver…”.

“I know it sounds bad but it wasn’t really important. She’d do it out of frustration, when I wouldn’t listen during an argument. Men get slapped, it happens”.

“It shouldn’t happen”, you state vehemently, “and I’m sorry it happened to you. I’m sorry she put you through all that”.

“It’s fine. It’s been years, I should get over it-”

“There’s no set time to get over something like that”, you say because it’s true. It’s hard and it’s shitty and it requires so much emotional work. He has to do it on his own terms.

“Thank you for telling me. For trusting me with this”, you inch forward to wipe some wetness from under his eyes, something that surprises him as he blinks and a few more tears fall down his cheeks. Oliver doesn’t remember the last time he cried in front of someone.

“Wow, it feels really weird”, he chokes out a chuckle, “I haven’t talked about this in so long. I feel ridiculous”.

You let yourself slip from the armchair to the floor and wrap him up in a tight hug, one he melts into immediately. He rubs your back and you nuzzle further into the crook of his neck. You both stay like that for a while, nestled in each other’s familiar hold. If the thought of how unfairly the world treats him crossed your mind several times, you realize you’ve never properly reflected on how unfair Oliver can be to himself. How self-destructive. It doesn’t hold any importance, the degree to which he managed to numb himself: he’s still been carrying all this inside him all these years. An ache harbored deep within him, protected by high walls, thick with shame. You hate her for what he did to him, even if it’s not your place. You hate her and you hate that he couldn’t meet someone better, someone he could love and be loved by the right way.

At least a few minutes pass before he timidly speaks again.

“I know you’re not her. I’m sorry”.

You pull back to look at him and Oliver offers a tiny, awkward smile.

“Don’t apologize”, you try to smile too, but it probably comes off a little broken still.

“Don’t tell me what to do”, with a chuckle he gets up from the floor and helps you up too. As he sits in his armchair you’re immediately pulled into his lap, where you try to adjust yourself better in his arms. Oliver only gives you so much room to move, arms secured tightly around you. He lets you take his face in your hands and kiss his forehead, then his eyelids, his cheeks. He feels like there are still shattered pieces of him on the floor where he just crumbled but for the first time, he’s not in any rush to pick them up. If you’re with him, he doesn’t need to be intact. He can hope to be loved exactly for what he is.

“Are you still my boyfriend?”, you ask after a few minutes of silence. He softly bites into your shoulder, where he was resting his chin until a second ago. Your little ow! makes him smile.

“I am”, Oliver says. He wouldn’t know how to be anything else by now, really. “I might not be a perfect one, though”.

You scoff.

“I’m hardly a perfect girlfriend. So, how about we make an agreement?”.

“Like a blood pact?”.

You flick the tip of his nose. He sticks his tongue out but you can feel his hand gently rubbing circles on your back once more.

“Fine, sorry. Go on”.

“Let’s just always talk to each other, yeah?”, you card your fingers through his hair, gently brush some of the strands away from his face, “you can ask me things instead of assuming. I promise to be honest. And if I’m upset about anything, I’ll talk to you too. How does that sound?”.

Oliver turns his head slightly, enough for his lips to press to your forearm.

“It sounds really good”, he murmurs. It sounds like he can almost see what the rest of his life is going to look like already. If love is prudent, Oliver’s is impetuous.

“Thank you”, he breathes and you curl up on his chest, in an armchair that is not meant to accommodate two people at all.

“Don’t”, you whisper, “I’ll be there for you if you’ll want me to. I’m sorry if I pressured-”

“Don’t”, Oliver says back and tilts your head up with the softest grasp of your chin, “I want you there. I want you everywhere really, all the time”.

A mischievous smile tugs at your lips.

“Wow, this took a corny turn”.

He rolls his eyes.

“Sure, go ahead. Ruin the moment. It’s not like I was about to say I really missed you, or anything”.

You laugh into his chest and the sound seeps through the fabric of his shirt, mends another crack he carries in his bones by filling the crevice like honey so sweet.

“I think I’m falling in love with you, Aiku Oliver”, you say, head resting right where you can hear the staccato of his heartbeat.

Lungs expand further in his chest cavity as he takes the next breath.

“I think I’m already in love with you”, he softly admits in the stillness of his apartment, where something he’s been waiting to welcome for a while suddenly permeates each room and gap between tiles.

[lunarstarfire]

Hey yall if you’re going to lltbp in any capacity, during ‘Sleep’ there will be very intense flashing/strobing lights. Like I’m not even sensitive to flashing lights usually but it was so intense I had to hide behind my YEA/NAY sign and squeeze my eyes shut and I STILL was disorientated by it! Be safe!

[lunarstarfire]

hi!! this isn’t a req, at least i don’t think it is? if it is pls just delete this!! i just wanted ur opinion on who (bllk boys) would just like nuzzle their face on the readers face? idk if that makes sense but i find it so cute T_T

isagi does it without thinking, especially when he’s sleepy, like a puppy making sure you’re still there.

bachira rubs his nose against your cheek with a little giggle and calls it bee kisses.

rin only does it when his guard is completely down. late at night, arm slung around you, he buries his face against your cheek like he’s scared you might disappear if he lets go.

kurona is quiet but so tender about it, presses his forehead to yours like he’s memorizing your face.

hiori is shy but secretly obsessed with how you smell, so he’ll nuzzle you just to hide his blush.

ness does it dramatically, like “oh nooo i can’t stop snuggling you!” just to make you laugh.

chigiri is all gentle, hair falling everywhere, he lingers just to feel you breathe against him.

yukimiya is smooth about it, but it’s really just his excuse to kiss every inch of your face.

raichi acts like he’s being annoying on purpose, but he’s actually just soft and doesn’t know how to ask for cuddles.

gagamaru is big and clumsy but sooo careful, nuzzles like a bear trying not to crush a flower.

niko absolutely melts into you, presses his nose to your temple like it’s the safest place in the world.

[lunarstarfire]

TENDERNESS CANCELLED IS CRAZY PLEASLKHREJDLFH

that said ..... do u Perchance have any more thoughts to share regarding ghost!reader x oliver ... little crumbs 2 feed me .... inquiring kitties would like 2 know ... ฅ^¬⩊¬^ฅ

omg… sorakitty… come here come here let me feed you :3

referring to this post; cw for voyeurism and dubcon!

ghost!reader… you were indignant when oliver first moved in and started changing things (after all, you had worked so hard on developing the place’s haunted reputation!) sure, the sink always leaked, and the floors were all scratched, and there was the incident with the ironing board and the mirror… but this was your home, dammit! no matter how good he looked swinging a hammer all sweaty, he was still an intruder, and you treated him as such.

he was just. so damn persistent. it’s not like you wanted to kill him or anything - okay, well, maybe a bit - but him falling off the ladder was a genuine accident! the shower being permanently cold afterwards might have been your doing, sure. but his hair dye was staining your bathroom tiles, so who was the real victim here? nevermind that your house looked better than it had in years; he still hadn’t asked permission, or even addressed any of the weird shit happening around him.

the worst part about this oliver aiku guy, though, was how much he fucking pulled. the same guy you had to watch buy eggs every other day because of how many he ate for breakfast, sometimes raw, was fucking people the same way. it was disgusting. it was horrible. it was obscene. hell, you only knew his name because of how much you heard it moaned.

“ah-ah-ah-ah, oliver, oh, oh, oliver!”

night after night after night. at first you’d left him alone during these hookups, but there’s only so many different ways you can hear a guy cum without getting… curious.

the first night you watch oliver aiku fuck someone else, you’re a bit shy. you know you’re a ghost, but this feels… wrong somehow. like you’re the pervert.

but it’s your house, isn’t it? he’s been fucking dozens of people under your roof. besides, it’s not like either of them know you’re here now. still, when you gather the courage to peek your head through the locked door, you catch a glimpse of a girl’s ass bouncing up and down, her head thrown back in ecstasy. you step back immediately, nervous that you’ll- you don’t know. get caught? exorcised, even? you doubt oliver would be thrilled if he knew he was performing for more than one.

(you don’t see how his brow furrows when you leave, how the girl tries to get him to focus back on her. she leaves only a bit later, screaming about how he’s a two-timing son of an ass, while you relax and giggle to yourself - if only she knew.)

you get bolder after the first; you watch with keen interest as oliver brings more people home. you learn he likes to make the ones who wear lots of makeup cry face first into a pillow, that he gets cocky when the brats he brings home finally melt into his arms. infuriatingly, you learn that he’s consistently good at giving head - you guess that’s part of why you see so many fall into his bed over and over again, even when he’s proven how much of a scumbag he can be.

(if you were alive, you’d never let him live down getting rejected by three girls at once, who proceeded to say to his face they were going to go fuck each other without him. you howled with laughter for a good hour at that one.)

there’s a strange familiarity you have with him now. it’s hard to watch a man live his life in your home without forming some kind of attachment, especially when you watch him fuck people in positions you didn’t know the human body could take.

which is why it’s such a surprise when his newest “partner” walks in.

it’s not- they’re not plain, by any means, but they seem… shier than the types oliver goes for. if nothing else, you’ve never seen them before - which isn’t new, necessarily but this person is also… clingier, than you would expect oliver to entertain based on the grip they have around his arm, the way they lean into his side.

the pair walk through the doorway, and you take your position at the end of the hall, right next to the bedroom door. when you turn though, your gut and the home goes cold.

because oliver’s dancing. with them in his arms.

and you think:

it’s not fair

it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair

why should they get to dance

why should they get to go out and have fun

why do they get to live with him-

and almost on instinct, you hurl yourself down the hall, pushing shoulder first into their body. you don’t know what you’re trying to do- maybe push them out of your home, or maybe just away from oliver, your oliver.

“wait, what? who are y-”

they go down easy, falling silent and away, and you gasp, taking your first breath in years.

the chill of new air is contrasted by a warmth that surrounds you, and you realize that oliver has curled his body around the one you’re in, now, framing you with his thighs and burying his face in the crook of their neck. and he laughs. he laughs and laughs, and you can feel it. the scratch of his stubble, the width and warmth of his palms, the rumble of his voice through his whole chest - you can feel it all in this body.

you gasp as he stops laughing and bites down, the sensation halting any further coherent thoughts; he bites hard enough that you feel the indentations left behind as he starts to lap at them with his tongue.

two-toned eyes glimmer in the low light of the hall as oliver whispers into the gloom,

“there you are, angel.”

and you know he’s talking to you.

[lunarstarfire]

new jersey new jersey

2001 2025

first concert most recent concert

[lunarstarfire]

forever and ever and ever

[lunarstarfire]

If you survive Gerard’s game for the first hour, you get the reward of playing Frank’s game which is arguably the scarier one

[lunarstarfire]

And what if I start regressing to middle school me and unironically post mcr lyrics

[lunarstarfire]

Kids from yesterday…give em hell….foundations…bury me in black…destroya….

[lunarstarfire]

normal fans when their band plays a song they like: oh yay theyre playing my favorite song!!!

mcr fans: FUCK YOU IM HUNTING FRANK IERO FOR SPORT I CANT TAKE THIS HES TRYING TO KILL ME THAT BITCH

[lunarstarfire]

Frank iero must pay for his sins (having the most banger fucking set list be for PHILLY AND NOT NEW JERSEY)

[lunarstarfire]

gimme, gimme, gimme a man (2)

calling bllk boys your husband while you're still dating ft. bachira meguru, alexis ness, karasu tabito, otoya eita, shidou ryusei

notes: part 2 to this, fluff, banter, down bad loverboys, use of "wife" in alexis and karasu's, suggestive in shidou's (he's his own warning)

༄ bachira:

“megs, please stop moving - yeah, hi. my husband lost his id and we just need a replacement.”

✣ the second those words leave your mouth the cogs in his head are sent into hyperdrive. he’s barely ever thought of himself as boyfriend material, nevermind husband. for you to proclaim it so boldly in front of others makes him incredibly giddy with joy - to the point where his uncontrollable giggles begin to make the rest of the patrons and government workers a bit paranoid.

⁀➷ bachira’s latched onto you like koala as the two of you exit the office after getting the new id and a handful of concerned looks from the other people inside. his grin is so bright it almost hurts your eyes, and all he can say over and over is “husband? i’m your husband, right? when are we getting married? what kind of dress do you want? what’s the color scheme? i have to ask isagi if he’ll be my best man, and -!” you try to shut him up with a kiss, but the second your lips part he goes right back to babbling about your ‘upcoming’ wedding. you made your bed, so guess now you have to lay in it.

༄ alexis: “can me and my husband just get a slice of sachertorte and a mini quiche?”

✣ so, so, in love with you. you’re already his wife, soulmate, reason for living, so hearing you reciprocate his fantasies has him on cloud nine. he’s staring at you like you hung the stars in the sky, and his grip on your hand only tightens at your words. it doesn’t matter if people think he’s moving too fast, if he’s too dedicated to you - because you feel the same way. how could he ever even fathom letting you slip from his grasp?

⁀➷ “what season do you want our wedding to be in?” he asks softly as the two of you sit by the cafe window. despite his favorite dessert being right in front of him, he can’t be bothered to eat it. not when you’re across from him, your divinity blessing his meager existence. the question surprises you a bit as he takes your hand, lightly kissing across your knuckles. your expression is so adorable, he can’t help the small laugh that leaves him when he continues, “we’re getting married soon, aren’t we? i’ve already planned the ring i want for you, and i really don’t want to wait that much longer to make you mine.”

༄ karasu:

“hmm, i think they’re too small… oh, excuse me? do you mind getting a bigger size for my husband?”

✣ amused by how blatant you are about it. sure, he knows he wants to marry you someday, but he didn’t expect you to take these jumps so early. he doesn't mind it at all, though. domesticity has always been in the back of his mind when it comes to relationships, preferring to invest in long term romances than lust-filled flings like a certain friend of his. there’s been roughly a billion fantasies involving married life with you, and there’s about to be ten billion more now that you’ve called him that.

⁀➷ “husband, hm?” he says with a smirk as the store employee goes to grab the other pair of shoes. you turn to him with a raised eyebrow and unamused look, asking if he has a problem with it. raising his arms in defense, he simply chuckles and tells you, “not at all, babe. just wondering how i bagged a cute wife when i haven’t even proposed yet.” you just roll your eyes and turn back to the shelves to compare the other cleats. unable to resist, he stands and rests his hands on your waist to whisper into your ear, “your husband didn’t bother getting you a ring? seems like a scumbag. i’ll buy you one right after this,” before placing a gentle kiss on your lips - and rest assured, he’s true to his word.

༄ otoya:

“if you’re gonna keep flirting with my husband, you can fuck off.”

✣ scared out of his mind. he never planned to have any sort of long term relationship with you yet it happened to naturally. for the first time in his life, he found himself being the yearner instead of having his lovers chasing him down. hearing you call him your husband confirms to himself he’s totally smitten. it’s pathetic and frankly terrifying, but he thinks he’d die if he let you go. so of course, you’re with him the one time he really isn’t flirting with someone else and they won’t leave him alone. just his luck.

⁀➷ as the two of you walk back from the coffee shop, he’s convinced he’s about to see all nine of his ninjutsu lives be cut down with the way you’re steaming. the silence is killing him though, and he simply lets out a shaky “babe?” to test the waters. when you turn towards him with rage burning in your eyes, he knows he’s fucked ; except you take his cheeks between your hands and pull him down, telling him he belongs to you and you only. he’s shaking with how passionate you are, realizing you did believe him and it’s everyone else you don’t trust. heart pounding out of his chest, he feels a bit of relief begin to come back. yeah, he doesn’t mind being your husband one bit.

༄ shidou:

“i’m so sorry about my husband's behavior. he didn’t mean to offend you like that.”

✣ first of all, yes he did. second of all, this is probably the worst mistake you’ve ever made. shidou already has you-induced psychosis, so anything you do to feed his ego and remind him that you also like him back just creates an even bigger monster. he tries to steal a kiss in the middle of you speaking, but you know him too well and drag him down by the ear into an apologetic bow. consider him whipped, cause you putting him in his place is so painfully attractive to him he’s about to get down on that one knee now.

⁀➷ “is that any way to be treating your husband?” he says with a shit eating grin while you tug him by the collar down the sidewalk. the restriction around his neck should be painful, but he loves seeing you annoyed so much that he certainly can’t feel it. when you mutter something about already getting a divorce, his smile drops and he digs his teeth into your neck, making you yelp in pain and elbow him in the stomach. he laughs maniacally before brushing his lips against your ear and telling you, “see? we’re made for each other, babe. hurt me a little more, will ya?”

[lunarstarfire]

and when our heartbeats sync, i know im not alone

he's never played a game without you watching before. and it's been a long time since he could remember you not being there. but it's okay, he's been alone for far longer than he's known you, so what's one game?

tags/warnings: Bachira Meguru x fem!reader, established relationship, tw childhood trauma (implied), tw bullying (implied), (mild) angst

word count: 2.1k

authors notes: i know there's two trigger warnings tagged but PLS DONT BE ALARMED!!! i promise they're not that bad and this isn't gonna make you cry or anything asdgsgfdgjfdfj its just a little sad. thank you Cora for helping me decide on a title <333 (it was either this or dance of the lonely butterfly :3)

The locker room bustle moves around him as he ties his shoes. The chattering of voices discussing the opposing team, strategies, and the like. He doesn’t join in like usual, doesn’t raise his eyes, nor his voice. Instead, he sits at the bench, waiting for the deep-rooted thorn spearing his heart to stop aching, knowing it wouldn’t. 

“You ready Bachira?” Isagi comes up behind him and sits down, body tensed in excitement for the upcoming match. He’d been talking to Chigiri when he noticed the lack of a certain blonde-streaked boy messing with him. 

Looking at him now, he furrowed his brows, noticing the uncharacteristic curve of his shoulders. “Everything okay?” 

For a second, he sees a glimpse of something in his friend's eyes. Something hollow and deep. Scratched like bloody knees and scraped elbows. But then it's gone—Bachiras usual smile stamped back on his face as he drapes himself over him, weighing him down with his whole body. 

“My girlfriend’s not coming today Isagi, how do you think I feel,” he whines, purposefully leaning over him until Isagi’s bent forward and letting out a choked oof. 

“Oh come on man, the game’ll be over before you know it”

“Ya can go ninety minutes without her Bachira”

“He’d be setting a world record that's for sure”

The others laugh, everyone already used to how clingy Bachira was with you. Never leaving your side and vice versa. Hands clasped, elbows linked—wherever the two of you went. They hardly ever saw him without you in tow anymore, and on the rare occasion he was seen without you, he made sure to let everyone know his grief. 

Laughing, they don’t notice the dull lack of shine in his eyes. They don’t feel the weight in his stomach reaching his knees, making them wobble like he's five again. 

Five again—like when he was finally able to grab his soccer ball from the highest shelf (he'd placed it in his cubby that morning) and racing to the field. Only to watch all the other kids rush to grab their things and leave. 

Again. 

He smiles and laughs along with the rest of them, fingers worrying the back of his jersey like an old habit clawing its way up from a pool of cruel laughter and empty grass and quiet walks home. 

The timer hits zero and shuffling starts again, buzzing with the excitement that trails every match, as they all start heading out to line up. 

He grabs his phone again, hoping to find some semblance of the real thing in your cheerful words of luck, and coming up empty—the anxious ache only pacified. 

bachira: GAMES ABT TO START BABY!!!! I LOVE YOU <333  cant wait to eat those gummy worms after we win tonight >:3

A voice calls him from beyond the doors of the empty locker room, tugging his reluctant thoughts back to the present—and away from you. 

He clicks his phone off, puts it back into his locker, and shuts the door. 

Taking a breath, he walks out alone.

The sound of the street blares in your ears, loud and hectic but not enough to drown the rapid beating of your heart, racing against the clock. 

You swerve left and ignore the loud honk behind you, the blinking of the yellow light closer than the angry yelling of the now-distant driver.

Your gaze fixed on the road ahead, you worry your lip and press down on the accelerator. 

I can make it to the second half at least

I just need to take the left after this light and then–

You slam on the brakes as the light turns red. Thunk your head on the steering wheel as the rows of cars in front of you start crossing. 

You close your eyes with a sigh and think back to when you told him you couldn’t come. 

Shuffling into the room, you’d bitten your lip as you eyed him curled up on the bed. Watching reruns of old matches probably. He’s clutching the bunny plush you’d won him back when you’d first started dating. 

His gaze flickered over and something in your stomach dropped a little more when he beamed at you.

He throws the plush aside, his body already twisting open for you, yet your feet had stayed planted at the door. He paused and tilted his head, arms feeling empty. 

“Baby?” he asked as he started to get up.

And that's what did you in you think—that little lilt in his voice, coating the nickname with unbearable affection. 

Your body moved on its own and you felt yourself being tugged into his arms. Hiding your face in his chest, you’d sighed.

“I can't come to your game this weekend. My boss gave me an extra shift and no one else's schedule works with it,” you whispered as your fingers curled into his shirt, one of your favorites on him. 

A moment of silence passed and you peeked up at him, lips already moving around the apologetic words.

You were surprised with a peck and a giggle on your lips.

“Awww, is that why you looked so down today?” he laughed, tugging you impossibly closer, burying you further into him, wrapping you in a cocoon.

“It's alright angel, you just owe me that bucket of gummy worms we saw at the store the other day,” he grinned impishly as he squeezed you off the ground.

You’d sputtered a little, because of course he’d pick the one thing you’d been trying to curb him from for forever now, but end up giggling in relief—the heavy rock in your stomach dissipating with flaps of contentment.

His grin impossibly wider, he’d spun you around in his arms and you’d laughed, basking in the moment of blanketed ease.

The memory clings to the back of your head in belated remorse as you finally turn into the parking lot and frantically look for an open spot. You park into the first one you see (right by the entrance, far away from the doors of the stadium) and leap out.

Your blouse sticks to your chest and your slacks to your thighs, itchy and irritating, reminders of your haphazardous rush to finish your shift and get to your car as soon as you’d clocked out. 

You move to lock the car and spot something in the backseat, yanking the door open you snatch the bundle into your arms and slam the door shut. Locking it behind you, you start to sprint up the lot, heels a dull forgotten ache on the soles of your feet—praying that you make it in time before the game ends. 

The score reads 2-2 and the game is on its last additional time, the clock reading fifty-six seconds.

Heavy puffs of breath fill the air across the field, the players all feeling the pull in their muscles and the strain in their lungs. The surge of adrenaline seeping through them—the only thing keeping them all going. 

Bachira pants as he runs up the side and waits for the throw-in, his eyes on the field, his heart thundering in his chest. And yet—his head continues to cloud with wisps of things he’d long forgotten since coming to Blue Lock. 

Since meeting you.

The hands of whispered rumors tug at his ankles. The crickets buzzing hooking onto his ears. The suffocating silence clawing his chest and fisting his shirt. 

The whistle blows and cleats start pounding into the ground as the ball arcs its way into the field. A rush of bodies, vibrating along with the roars of the crowd, fills his spotted vision. 

His feet place themselves around the ball like a broken promise. And the world halts as he breaks his way up the field, crashing through the pitch and shattering the air and twisting his body between with ease. Number eleven appears before him, blocking his path onward. 

He twists again and is blocked by another body a few feet away. Casts a frantic gaze around the pitch for openings—any openings. Anyone. 

He comes up empty and is cornered into a too-small box, squeezing in something that wasn't meant to be kept under lock and key in the first place. 

His view narrows with his breathing, short and frenzied, the knot in his chest tightening. 

Pulling and pulling until he felt like he couldn’t breathe—like he wanted to die. 

A flicker in the corner of his vision. A bat of butterfly wings. The rumble of the crowd falls away as his ears zone in on a single voice—your voice. 

Rising, soaring even. Above the stadium—over all the shouts and chants and distorted voices of his past, to him—only him. 

He doesn't turn his head, no, the ball still in his hold and still the jewel of the field, the timer still ticking. But his heart clutches your voice like a lifeline anyway—the words not needed. Tucks it quickly into his chest. And lets its warmth bloom and glow and banish the smoke surrounding his eyes. Eyes that light up with hunger once more, vision swirling with new inspiration. 

And just like that, he feels his chest loosen. He breathes the air of cleats and sweat and grass once more and grins, renewed hunger spreading from his eyes to his grin. The players on the field—both friend and foe alike—shiver, as Bachira starts moving again. 

His feet fly through the air and his body spins past and he dances. Dances like he's free, chasing something forever ahead of him. But this time, without loneliness as his companion. 

The ball crashes through the net. The whistle blows and the crowd is on their feet. The roaring of victory flows into the blood of everyone present. 

Voices surround him, teammates and fans, and not a single ghostly whisper of the past brushes his ears. But he doesn't care—he's only listening for one voice now anyway. 

His eyes shift from the ball still spinning in the net, searching and looking, longing to catch the face that matches the voice beating in place of his heart. 

Seeking and seeking and—there you are. 

There you are, at the edge of the railing, jumping up and down with the rest of the crowd—your hair tied up in a messy bun, whisps of hair curling around the skin of your face. Still wearing your work heels, face stained with tiredness but glowing with joy, your cheeks wide and eyes shining and—he freezes. 

Because you’ve dawned on his jersey—his jersey—the wrinkled hem reaching your hips. The number eight and his name printed on your back like a stamp. Like a beacon. Letting the world know who you’re here for—letting them all know who paints your heart with the color of the sun and the buzz of the afternoon and the warmth of candy stuck in your teeth—letting them all know who cradles your heart. 

Bachira breaks free from the arms of his teammates and runs. All the sounds around him dwindle out of his world the closer his feet take him to the edge of the field.

He clears the railing and you beam wider, your face aching with pride. 

“Meguru. Oh my gosh, that was amazing! You–”

You don't get to finish. 

As soon as his hands touch you, your praise ends in a sudden gasp as the ground disappears from underneath your feet and the world spins and spins—and you let out laughter that reaches for the sky. 

You clutch his shoulders tight and meet his breathless smile with your own in the dizzying twirls before he brings your heads close, his other arm still holding you in the air, and smashes his lips into yours, honey seeping into your mouth. 

Your smiles melt into one—giggles are taken in turns as your lips meet again and again; in the little bubble the two of you have carved out for yourselves on the stairs—two butterflies, dancing with each other above the flowers. 

You break away for air while he pants into your mouth—the ground still far from your feet. Leaning in close, his damp curls stick to your forehead. You can smell the sweat of the match on him, along with the thrill of victory. 

“You came…..,” he whispers, with wonder and awe and joy—and something else in the back of his throat. 

“Of course I did,” you breathe. Like you’re answering his echo, his call for you. Like the one you should have noticed and answered back in your room. When you’d been silly enough to assume that candy could replace—could make up—for this moment; this moment right now. 

The cameras keep flashing in muted tones around you. The voices keep rising and falling. 

But all the two of you care about is this. The feeling of being here, sharing this speck of time, of being whole—together, you and him. And nothing else. 

[lunarstarfire]

“tattoos are going out of style” they’ve been around for a thousand years im sorry you’re conservative now get well soon ig

[lunarstarfire]

Guys I found 2 (TWO) blue lock related merch items at the mall