#So I repeated myself and she asked me “…you’re wearing your glasses?”

[kristhekrispy]

I just seen two hawks

[slafkovskys]

When Luke is about to get back with angel and all that he gets into a accident and No one tells angel and she needs up being so mad and driving to the hospital

warnings: mentions of hospitals/emergency rooms, injuries, accidents, and angst

the lady behind the desk looks bored as she approaches, but her eyebrows raise when she spots her protruding bump and the worried expression on her face. she straightens up in her chair, “how can i help you, honey?”

“i’m here to visit someone,” she clears her throat, “luke hughes, if he can have visitors.”

the woman, barbara as her name tag reads, lets her face fall as she places her hand over her mouse, “i think he’s already got a visitor, honey, but let me double check for you. name?”

she repeats her name and lets her eyes drift around the waiting room. for it to be almost midnight on a saturday night, she was surprised to find the place nearly empty. a couple coughs sound and a few grunts follow, but it’s barbara tapping her nails on the glass in front of her that get her attention again. she sends an apologetic grin, “sorry.”

“that door’s gonna make a clicking noise and when you hear that, you can go on through. he’ll be in room two,” she points to a door immediately to her left and the younger girl thanks her before stepping to the side, “next!”

she hears the click and pulls on the handle, stepping into the busy emergency room. she finds room two around a few corners and timidly knocks on the wall. she swallows a lump in her throat as a raspy voice calls out, “come in.”

she lets a beat pass, then two, before she pulls the curtain to the side and for the first time in months, she’s face to face with him. he looks different. besides the shocked expression that takes over his features, his eyes are sunken in like he hadn’t slept in days. maybe even weeks.

she takes note of his leg being elevated and wrapped in some kind of gauze as she lets the curtain fall back in place behind her. now, they were alone. he opens his mouth, closes it, then it opens it again, “it’s really you.”

“yeah, luke. it’s really me,” she adjusts her bag on her shoulder and crosses her arms over her chest, staring at the boy, “what happened?”

“i- i was being stupid. duker and i were wrestling on top of a pong table and i slipped. tried to catch myself, but landed wrong on my foot.”

she nods, “you’re going to be out for a while, then?”

“four week minimum depending on healing. i’ll be on bedrest for a few days they said, but no surgery,” he sends her a soft smile and she hums, mouth still set in a hard line. he tries not to look at her midsection and the way it was protruding against the waistband of the team issued michigan sweatpants she was wearing. he could’ve sworn they were his almost as much as he could’ve sworn that there was no way that she was only five months along. he sees the two bands on her finger and she must catch him staring because she quickly hides her hand with other arm. he holds his tongue and instead of spitting something about how he already knew about what his brothers had asked, he instead utters, “did duker tell you that i was here?”

“your mom texted jack. he was taking a shower, but we had been looking at things on his computer for the new house-” she sees his mouth twitch and she truly hopes that she wasn’t one who had just informally given him an eviction notice while he was in the hospital, “and i saw the notification come through. i just wanted to make sure that you were okay and you are so-”

“you’re not staying,” his voice cracks and she shakes her head, “angel, please-”

“i saw yasmin’s car out front, luke. i don’t think you need me here.”

[smolwritingchick]

Smol Brainstorm: Jennie The Jock

Author's Note: Found a smol brainstorm based on BTS Run Episode 11. This episode is so funny lol. Can't wait to write the full episode when I get there.

----

For today’s Run episode, the members filmed inside a classroom where the skit is about a female transfer student, and the rest of the members had to make a good impression on her. Jennie was beyond excited and received the role of a Jock for this skit. Meanwhile, Suga was chosen as the female transfer student which made everyone laugh. For filming, the members wore school uniforms while Jen wore a long-sleeved BTS jersey and track pants to portray that she was into sports.

For the skit, she sat behind Suga and next to RM. Jen couldn’t keep a straight face as she had to cover her mouth and not laugh out loud during filming. Because of her, it had to take quite a few retakes, and the staff was bound to show a montage of bloopers for the episode.

As the skit went on, V grabbed a chair and sat next to Suga. His character was a nerd and the smartest student in the class.

“You know the exam is in two days, right?” V asked.

“It’s in two days?” Suga repeated.

“I’ll teach you English. I am good at it,”

“You’re good at English?” he asked with suspicion.

“I’m pretty good at it,”

“What does this mean?” he pointed out a word in V's book.

“Classification. It means to categorize,” V spoke the word fluently.

Jennie smiled softly and nodded in approval at V’s English. 

‘As expected from my bestie,’ she thought.

“To categorize?” Suga repeated.

“What do you think about a guy like me?” V randomly asked and removed his glasses. “And these…these are the glasses I’ve had for the past 19 years,”

“How old are you?” Suga called out, which made V pause.

‘Eyes wavering.’

“I’m 19 years old,” he answered.

‘He’s been wearing them since he was born.'

Slowly putting her head down, Jen muffled her laughter. This skit was ridiculous and V was effortlessly funny.

‘Jennie can’t hold it together!’

“These help you to concentrate really well,” V went on.

“Thanks,” Suga put the glasses on his head.

“But even with these, I haven’t been able to concentrate ever since you arrived. I’ll only concentrate on you from now on.”

“Go back to concentrating on your studies,” Suga rejected him and handed the book back.

V began to flip through the pages, chattering on until Jungkook stood up.

“She said to focus on your studies,” Jungkook, portraying a tsundere guy, stated and lightly pushed V. “Go back to your seat,"

‘Jeon Jungkook: Cold on the outside but sensitive inside.’

Suddenly Jungkook took off his jacket and placed it on Suga’s desk.

“It’s cold. Put this on,” he bluntly said.

“I think I like your shirt better,” Suga replied while Jennie covered her mouth to muffle her giggles.

‘The cool guy is taken aback and peeks under his shirt.’

“You can have these instead,” Jungkook began to take off his shoes and placed them on Suga’s desk. Once he was seated, Jungkook grabbed two small boxes of food and gave them to him as well. “I picked this up on the way. Have it. Oh, lastly…don’t catch a cold,”

Suga watched as Jungkook tossed a hot pack on the desk and responded, “I think you’re going to catch a cold. It’s minus two degrees Celsius outside,”

Once it was her cue, Jennie had stopped spinning her basketball and placed it down. Standing up, she picked up Jungkook’s jacket and shoes. Tossing the shoes on Jungkook’s desk and throwing his jacket on top of him, she turned to Suga.

“Anyway…” she showed no remorse for what she did to the Golden Maknae and had her full attention on Suga.

Jungkook, in character, did not take too kindly of her actions and stood back up to confront her.

“Did you just throw this at me?” he demanded with annoyance in his voice.

Turning around to look up at him, she responded, not intimidated, “I did. And your time talking with her is up so take a seat,” she gestured. “And if you don’t move, well then I have no problem moving you myself,"

They faced off while Jen crossed her arms. It appeared like neither of them was going to let up as they slowly began to glare at each other. But soon after the two lovers snickered and broke character as a series of laughs escaped them.

“You made me laugh!” She giggled as the director yelled cut.

“You made me laugh!” Jungkook responded with a huge grin.

Once getting situated again, Jennie and Jungkook refilmed their face-off and Jungkook took his seat again but made a promise that this standoff was not over. Smiling victoriously, Jennie turned back to Suga.

“You ball?” she challenged.

Suga flipped his short wig. “Better than you,”

Licking her lips, Jennie briefly struggled to keep a straight face as her body wanted to let out a laugh.

“Oh? Is that so? Want to test that theory? You. Me. One on one after school. Basketball court. Best out of 10 points. 1 point per shot, no matter what kind of pointer it is. If I win, we’re going on a date,”

[sl-newsie]

American Woman (Thomas Shelby x American OC) Ch. 16: Drinking Again

“You were very brave yesterday, love.”

“Thanks, Polly. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop them-”

“Hush,” the Romani woman cuts me off. “There was nothing more you could have done. I’m glad those bastards didn’t mistreat you like others I’ve heard of.”

Though her praising words are supposed to complement my steel nerve I must admit it did bend a little yesterday. Last night all I could think about was feeling completely helpless… Something I never want to repeat. All day I’ve been trying to busy myself with chores and other odds and ends jobs but still can’t shake away the image of that bloke’s face.

Polly sees I’m being more distant than usual and thankfully leaves me alone. She understands that unlike some girls I don’t want to talk about my problems.

“Evening, Verena.” Thomas on the other hand doesn’t get the message. “Still shaken up from last night, eh?”

I can’t put my finger on it but I swear I heard Polly whispering to him earlier. ‘A lot to take in… Only trying to help…’ The usual nonsense people whisper behind my back. If I weren’t so ladylike I would be dominating enough to confront this.

“I’d rather just move on.”

“Here.” Thomas slides me a half shot of Irish whiskey. “Helps the nerves.”

Normally I would decline but a tad bit of alcohol won’t kill me. I graciously take the glass and sip at the strong drink.

“Polly says you don’t wanna talk. Can’t say I blame you. You’re like me.” I am? “You don’t spill your guts. You swallow them. But you can’t always let that happen, Verena.”

I huff. “Oh really? Says the man who practically banishes feelings so he can be ‘all man.?’”

“I’m just saying it’s not healthy,” Thomas says calmly.

“Right. What’d the Gypsies say?” I try to change the subject. “Good news, I hope?”

“They’ll consider it. We’ve made plans. Now quit asking questions.”

He gives me a pat on the back and walks over to grab an apple from the kitchen. That’s it? I act as a therapist to his problems and all he does for me is a quick drink?

“I talked with Freddie earlier at his mother’s grave. He wasn’t happy about Ada’s idea.”

“He still won’t leave?”

“Afraid not,” Thomas grunts and lights a cigarette before heading towards the office.

This whole thing is ridiculous! All this would be solved in half the time if they all just sat down at a table and yelled at each other ‘til they got what they wanted. Thomas, Freddie, Campbell, everyone.

Polly walks by and seems to have heard us.

“It would be solved in 20 minutes if women were in charge,” I mutter and busy myself with washing dishes.

Polly rolls her eyes. “I don’t doubt that.”

“Listen up!” 

John rushes into the room and looks between both of us with wide eyes. “Stay in the house. Kimber’s stopping by.”

Polly doesn’t say a word and walks right past him despite John’s words of warning. Billy Kimber, here? What kind of scheme is Thomas planning now? 

“Verena, please stay-” 

“Sorry John, but my American curiosity is getting the best of me.”

John groans in annoyment and pulls me over to the giant doors. “Fine, just stay here! Don’t let him see you. He’ll have you for breakfast.”

“He better be careful,” I growl. “I’d chop off his cock and make him swallow it after what he almost did to Grace.”

Arthur pokes his head in and seems to have heard my threat. “She’ll be fine, John. Won’t ya, Steenstra?”

John still looks skeptical but walks off with his brother. I carefully crouch down to look through a hole in the wall and two men walk in. Both are wearing spiffy suits. One is tall and skinny while the other is short with little hair and a thin mustache. That’s Kimber? It must be him and his accountant. He looks weak. What are they talking about? All I can hear through the wall is muttering about the racetrack. It goes surprisingly fast and before I know it the accountant finishes scribbling a few notes and the two men walk out. This leaves Thomas with a satisfied smirk and he motions for the other employees to gather.

“Verena! Come on in!” Finn opens the door and drags me over to the meeting.

“Attention, everybody. The Shelby family has its first legal racetrack pitch.” Thomas holds up a signed paper with a proud smile. He beckons me over and shows it off as if it’s a fancy watch. “There you go, love. Professional business, no more sneaking around.”

He’s right. It is official. “No more illegal shenanigans?”

Thomas’ gaze doesn’t shift and he gives a quick wink. “Well… Most of it.”

I knew it. Thomas Shelby would never go clean so quickly. But he’s started down the right path.

“Here we are!” Arthur goes around passing out shots for everyone. “You too, Steenstra. To the Peaky Blinders!”

“The Peaky Blinders!” We all chant in chorus.

Dear Lord, blessed are you to grant us this day of good fortune. Thank you for reaching out to the Shelbys and guiding them to a respectable path. I am grateful for their kindness and wish to help in any way I can. May no harm come to-

“Sorry to interrupt.”

Thomas’ voice cuts me out of my prayer and I stand to attention in the pews. Today the church is empty. Why would Thomas come here? He’s here- with Grace. “Oh! Hello, Grace. Thomas. What brings you two to the house of God?”

He looks around and sees I’m the only one here. “Verena, this church is a good place for confession, is it not?”

This question seems to have a deeper meaning. “Yes, I’d say so,” I reply slowly. “Why?”

“Just asking a question. Would you mind giving us some privacy?”

There’s something about the way Thomas is holding Grace’s arm that does not seem casual. She has hidden fear in her eyes yet does nothing to show discomfort. Should I leave them? After all it was Thomas who put her through the whore swap- though he did repent by saving her. 

I give him a stern look as if to say ‘no disgraceful business.’ Especially in this holy place. He returns the look with a short nod and understands my message. If he slips up again, he will answer to me.

“Of course. I need to return to Finn anyway. Goodbye, Grace.”

The barmaid gives me a quick wave as I stiffly walk down the aisle and out into the dusty streets. What are you up to now, Thomas? Maybe Polly will have an idea- Uh-oh.

I understand Arthur has good taste with alcohol. Thomas goes through liquor like drinking water. One that I do not to be downing shots is John.

I swipe the nearly-empty bottle before he can damage himself any further. “What the bloody Hell is going on?”

“Tommy, that’s what. He pointed out that he tested Lizzie.” John glares at the table. “Said he offered her money for sex and she said yes. What the Hell am I supposed to do with that? Not that it’s your business.”

Thomas! Why the Hell does he have to shift through everyone’s life? As for Lizzie- I cannot judge. As much as I want to, I cannot judge her yet. I haven’t met her, I do not know her situation. But what matters is that John needs a wife.

“I do care, John. I want what’s best for the family that took me in. I’m sorry I can’t do anything to fix this. I know you only want what’s best for your kids.”

John sees I’m not joking and gets up to walk to the door. “I’m going to talk to her.”

“Coming from a woman’s perspective, I say that’s the best choice. Be up front and honest.”

Before John exits he turns and tosses me a few coins. “Go to the Garrison. Buy yourself a drink. You deserve it after what happened yesterday.”

Right. Yesterday. As hard as I try… those sneering faces still haunt me. Alcohol will not suppress them. But it would be rude to pass up John’s gift. I need to get some fresh air anyway. I grab my clutch and head out after John. He goes one way to find Lizzie, I go the other towards the Shelby’s pub. 

Inside there are few customers. It’s late afternoon, not close enough to rush hour. Grace’s conversation with Thomas must have gone decently because she hasn’t left. She’s still standing behind the bar.

“Hello again, Verena. A glass of water, I imagine?”

“Actually… I’ll try some cherry whiskey. On the rocks.” I slide her John’s gifted money. “How’d it go with Thomas?”

“Um, it was fine,” she says as she pours the drink. “He dropped by with the contract about half an hour ago. It’s official now. I’m a bookkeeper of the Shelby Brothers Limited.”

I sip the sweet alcohol. “At least you have a proper job with a contract. I’m indebted to them for helping me, so I have to work off until I can get back home. How did he ask you?”

Grace gets a subtle giddy smile and she tries to brush it off by cleaning a glass. “It’s a sort of odd story, really. He- He kissed me.”

My heart stutters and my breathing skips. Alright. Why tell me that? She knows I don’t partake in gossip. Are we even that close to be talking about this? Granted, Grace is a kind woman. I don’t trust her enough to be so open. Or do you just not agree with her affect on Thomas? No. Thomas can handle his emotions how he sees fit. My job is to carry out my debt.

“Interesting. Well, best of luck on the crowd tonight.” I empty the shot glass and get up from the barstool.

“Verena, please stay. I… I just need someone to talk to,” Grace implores.

Someone to talk to. That’s been half my job here. Either lecture about academics and wisdom or listen to others’ problems. I don’t trust Grace enough to speak about my issues but that does not exclude her telling me her own.

“Well if there’s anyone who’s willing to shut up and listen, it’s me. What’s on your mind?”

The blonde woman bites her lip as she stews over her thoughts. “I’m playing a dangerous game. I’ve won over Thomas’ heart, but Lord knows what’ll happen if I crush it.”

My instincts are right. The fear in her eyes from before was real. Is it caused by Thomas or by her own intentions? 

“Are you threatening my boss?” I ask slowly, my eyes never wavering from hers. “Because if you are, I am very loyal to the Shelbys and will see to it that your threat is dealt with.”

She frantically tries to recover and explain- but it only comes across as a spurt of lies. “No, no! It’s not like that, I- I’ve never felt this way for someone before. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Neither do I, so tell me exactly what your intentions for Thomas are.”

Grace shakes her head and starts getting agitated. “You’ve never been in love, have you? If you had, you would understand!”

My American temper sparks. “Love takes many forms, Grace. Mine comes in the form of loyalty. If you try anything against the Shelbys I will not take that lightly.” I grip the pistol in my skirt pocket and discreetly pull it out halfway for her to see. “That’s just a taste. I am a tolerant Christian, but I will not stand for disloyalty. Good evening, Grace.”

Once I’ve exited the pub I let out a deep breath. This job just got deeper. What was once a simple tutor position turns into an accomplice title; one that comes with the stress of hidden paranoia. Whatever the case, I’m beginning to see why the Shelbys are lenient to trust people. Now how am I supposed to tell Thomas he’s wrong?

[yuuuhiii]

haiii i’m here for a matchup😈 i love ur writing

i’ll give the basics first: pronouns are she/her, i’m 5’11, my personality type is entj so8, i wear thin rectangular glasses, and my hair is naturally curly but yknow i fry that shit with heat so it’s straight and more manageable😍😍

people say i’m unapproachable because i “look cool” but idk if that’s true, i know i look unapproachable but that’s because i have the WORST resting bitch face ever it’s crazy💀 i dress pretty minimalistic and androgynous, my closet consists of the same pieces of clothing repeated cuz i’m lazy but sometimes i dress more fem. i’m pretty nice i think, i like helping people in any way i can, but i take more of a logical approach rather than an emotional approach. the only thing i enjoy other than hanging out with friends is music— you will not see me without my earbuds i live off of it. i also have severe adhd if that makes a difference💀

i don’t know how to describe myself in depth so i hope this is enough to match me with someone. answer this whenever you get the chance tyyyyyyyyyy✨✨✨✨✨✨

I match you with EREN YEAGER

First off you guys would be THAT couple

absolutely stunning, both you could literally pass as models

To be honest at first Eren is a little intimidated

Your gorgeous but you also look like you could pummel him to the ground

Which in his defense is pretty hot 🤷🏻‍♀️

He admires how you can be mature in situations but on his side he’s very emotional

As long as you’re allowed to be vulnerable with him he has no problem

He likes to play with your hair and tells you all the damn time

“Your natural hair is better.” “Babe can you leave your hair like this for today.”

Don’t get me started on your glasses because this man will have his fun

Always taking them off your face, wearing them or holding them above your head

Or even when your busy doing something, he has this habit where he just pushes up your glasses

No words shared just a common gesture

He gets pouty whenever he wants to talk to you and notices your bumping your music

He usually just asks to share the earbud because he really just wants be close to you

He finds your style comforting and honestly he’s always stealing your clothes

Your shirts, pants ,everything is going missing and there’s only one culprit

“What? You take my hoodies.” “I’ll wash it and give it back! Just let me wear it today.”

The days you doll yourself up he’s fascinated

He can’t keep his lips or hands off of you, he gets sooooo much more clinger

Constantly complimenting you and telling you how pretty you are

He likes helping you unwind though, taking off your makeup and just turning in and cuddling with you

A relationship with Eren is full of love and fun. He’s got a big heart and isn’t afraid to show his love for you either

© yuuuhiii 24 : don’t plagiarize, translate, or post my work on other platforms

[jaxteller87]

thankful part 1

Jax’s POV

“You know Halloween’s come and gone, right?” I said with a grin as I flopped onto the sofa next to Amber. We were both on Thanksgiving break, enjoying some well-deserved downtime.

Amber giggled, her eyes sparkling, “Yes, I do. It was the end of Casper.”

I leaned in closer, planting a playful kiss on her hand. “Well then, Amber, ask your silly question.”

With a twinkle in her eye, she asked, “Can I keep you?”

I burst into laughter, unable to contain myself, “Of course you can, as long as I can keep you too.” I smirked down at her and planted a sweet kiss on her forehead.

Amber shifted a bit, snuggling closer to me. “Deal.”

“So, I swung by to invite you and your parents to Thanksgiving dinner at the clubhouse. Gemma told me I should invite the whole family, which I was going to do, but you know me—always waitin’ til the last minute for things.”

A warm smile spread across her face. “I’ll definitely do that,” she replied, resting her head on my lap as we watched the end of the movie.

She couldn’t resist teasing, “So, I’ve got to ask, do the boys think I’ve stolen you away this week?”

I chuckled, gently running my finger over her cheek. “No, they haven’t.” One thing I loved about Amber was her understanding that I had a life outside of our relationship. She wasn’t the type to be possessive or jealous, and I admired that.

Amber’s POV

It was finally turkey day, and Gemma had prepared a feast with all the fixins’. It didn’t take long for everyone to be seated around the huge table. There was Bobby, Tig, Piney, and Opie. Opie mentioned that Donna would be joining us later since her family was in town.

“Alright, here’s the lowdown, folks. We’ve got turkey, the star of the show, cooked to perfection by Gemma. Then, there’s creamy mashed potatoes, stuffing that’s to die for, a medley of roasted veggies, and don’t forget the cranberry sauce –“

“Mm. Cranberry sauce,” Tig drolled a little, “ I like it cuz’ it’s sweet and tangy, like us.”

 “And to top it off, we’ve got pies, pumpkin, and pecan because why settle for one when you can have both?” I added.

“I 100 percent agree with that logic, son,” Piney joked. I could see the reflection of the pie in his eyes.

“Alright, gang, dig in, and let’s celebrate this day the only way we know how – with good food and great company.”

“Is there anything I can help you with, Mrs. Teller?” my mom asked, wearing a warm smile.

Gemma laughed, “Please, call me Gemma. And no, sweetie, you just sit back and enjoy the food.”

Piney raised his glass in a toast, his gruff voice cutting through the chatter.

“To family, friends, a damn fine turkey, and both kinds of pie,” he declared, and everyone clinked their glasses.

Laughter filled the room again as they dug into their Thanksgiving feast and in the midst of their brotherly banter,

I couldn’t help but smile as Jax grabbed my hand under the table.

“This food is wonderful, Gemma; thank you,” my parents said, smiling.

“Yeah, Mom, you did good with the turkey,” Jax chimed in, his mouth full.

“I know, but thank you, baby,” she replied with a snarky grin.

Many years later

I couldn’t help but giggle as I watched Thomas, our little troublemaker, attempt to steal some turkey off Jax’s plate. Despite Jax not being part of the club anymore, we still came together for Thanksgiving.

“Tell Daddy, say ‘turkey,’” I coaxed, a mischievous smile on my face.

“Key,” he beamed at his daddy.

“Turkey,” Jax smiled, slowly repeating it back to him and piling more meat onto our son’s plate.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, buddy,” Jax smiled, leaning in to kiss our son’s head.

I turned my attention to Mary, our sweet girl, and asked, “How are you doing lovebug? Need anything?” I leaned over the table to see her.

“I’m good, Mama,” she replied, grinning through a mouthful of food.

Nero and Clay were sitting at the same table, something I never thought I’d see.

“Here’s to family,” Nero announced, holding his glass above his head.

“A dysfunctional family,” Clay added.

“Hey, a dysfunctional family is still a family,” Jax quipped.

Clay nodded and smirked, “This is true.”

“Daddy, what does ‘dysfunctional’ mean?” Mary asked, her curious blue eyes looking up at him.

“Yeah, Daddy, what does ‘dysfunctional’ mean?” Tig chimed in with a chuckle.

Jax paused and flashed a nervous glance around the room, but all eyes were on him. “Well, um—kiddo, a dysfunctional family is like a bag of mixed nuts. Some of them are a little nutty, some are a bit cracked, and a few are just plain nuts, but when you put ’em all together, you get one crazy, unforgettable bunch of nuts that love each other no matter what.”

“Oh,” Mary thought for a moment, “So, Uncle Tiggy is one of the nutty ones?”

Everyone laughed, even Tig. “Yeah, that’s a fair assumption,” he added.

Later that night, we all snuggled up in bed after a little smoke and sandwich. Jax turned to me, holding me close, and asked, “Humor me.”

I nodded, looking up at him.

“I know your birthday is still a few months away, but it’s your 40th...”

I smiled and kissed the tip of his nose, “As of right now, I’m okay, Jax. I’m not upset, and I promise if I am, I’ll tell you.”

“You better,” he whispered, kissing my forehead. “And the other reason I’m asking is Donna and Ma are already asking what you might want. I told them something small, no need for some big production.”

“Yeah, I—” I paused.

“What is it, babe?” Jax asked.

“What’s bugging me already is my parents being gone. How in the world has it been ten years already?” I sighed.

“I think that’s what made it so bad. I turned 30, still trying to wrap my head around it, and then, bam, I lost not one but both my parents, not even a month later. And you were right there,” I chuckled, “I wasn’t alone. I had you and Gem, but I felt like I was. I had no family all of a sudden, and it was like, ‘How in the hell am I going to take care of myself?’ So I did what I do best, buried it in my gut, and didn’t deal with it until it all caught up with me.”

Jax interjected, “And watching you go through that wasn’t easy either. I felt helpless.”

“This time, it’s different. I know I’m not alone. I have a family, two little ones running around, and I have a job. So turning 40 isn’t going to be as bad as 30 was, I promise,” I reassured him, looking up at my husband.

“Babe, I promise that the minute I feel my depression start to creep up on me, you’ll be the first to know.”

Jax nodded, “We’ve got this, babe. We’re in this together, no matter what.”

I smiled, feeling a weight lifted from my shoulders. “And if all else fails, I’ll just start a biker club of retirees and call ourselves ‘The Sons of Arthritis.’ You can be my Vice President.”

Jax burst into laughter, “Sons of Arthritis? You might be onto something there. But only if we get matching golden leather jackets.”

“I was thinking pink with glitter,” I peered from the corner of my eye, trying to gauge his reaction as if I were legitimately pitching the idea.

“Pink glitter, huh?” He chirped, “As VP, I’m going to have to call that to a vote at the next meeting.”

“Oh, is that so?” I laughed.

“Yeah,” he gave me a humorous stare, “Because if I’m going to have a pink glitter bike, I definitely don’t want my cut clashing with my ride.”

We both laughed, imagining a future where we were still rebels at heart, even in our golden years. No matter what lay ahead, our unbreakable bond would surely guide us through.

[callsignlucky]

cherry pie and starmen

in which we discover what Maverick got into after crashing the Darkstar.

a/n: please accept this humble offering while I work on part 3 of talk to me, lucky

Serving at Mel's wasn’t forever, it was simply the means to an end.

It was a mantra I repeated to myself over and over and over again, pummeled it into my psyche until I had no choice but to believe it—or, hope against hope that someday I’d believe it.

Means to an end. That was the 40s style diner that I woke up and trudged to at 5:30 every morning, wearing the cheesy and just slightly misogynistic waitress dress pulled right out of Twin Peaks, along with the bouncy pin curls beneath that little hat that got me double in tips from the old timers when paired with red lipstick. The smell of burnt coffee forever ingrained into my DNA, the sticky syrup and shameless flirting from men old enough to be my grandfather, the women staring down their noses when I answer their question about what I want to do with my life, it was all to fill up that jar that read CALIFORNIA on the side.

Once that jar was overflowing, I’d pry myself away from the old timers that flow in through that door, clinging to that last great hope of nostalgia from their youths. I’d get away from this small, uneventful town where not a goddamn thing ever happens. I’ll go to California and I’ll make it big and I will never have to serve cherry pie with a fake smile ever again.

With a pencil tucked behind the shell of my ear and a notebook tucked in my apron, I dwelled on my dreams as I filled up Vernon Shaw’s coffee mug. It was another boring morning packed into another boring week in a boring life I had been living and tired of leading. Margarie whistled at me from the other end of the counter, alerting me that she needed yet another glass of water, and I heard her voice in my head lecturing me about her iron pill as I turned away to grab a glass and fill it. The bell dinged behind me, and I didn’t so much as look over my shoulder until I noticed the usual dull roar of conversation in the diner had ceased. Frowning to myself I turned, and nothing in the world could’ve prepared me for what I faced.

Standing in front of me was an astronaut. A real life, actual astronaut.

In one gloved hand he clung to a helmet, and any exposed skin was covered in soot. His dark hair stuck out in all directions, and I was briefly stunned by how handsome this astronaut was. His eyes were locked onto me, and slowly he raised his finger in a point, nodding his head at me. I caught his drift after a long moment and slowly held Margarie’s ice water out to him, and watched in stupefied awe as the starman took the glass and drank the entire thing in one go. His eyes scanned the diner as he drank, water sliding out of the sides of his mouth. Once the glass was sufficiently drained, he handed it back to me, catching his breath before he spoke.

“Where am I?” His voice was raspy, probably still sore, and before I could even speak, Eli answered him.

“Earth,” he replied, freckled face in awe at his childhood stories come to life right before him, spoon hanging over his bowl of now soggy fruit loops.

“You’re in Mayfield, Texas.” I answered again, finally finding my voice. The man wobbled on his feet, eyes in a daze, slowly nodding. I filled the glass again quickly and walked around the counter, using one hand on his back to guide him through the partition and into the back, away from the prying eyes of my hometown’s various characters. Vernon’s coffee was old news, and I knew Margarie could take her pill with just one glass. “Sir, can you tell me your name?” I asked as I eased him down onto the chair I took my breaks on.

He thought for a long moment, leaning so heavily forward that I thought he’d collapse onto the ground. “Maverick.”

“Your name is Maverick?” With my hands on his shoulders I bent at the waist, bringing one hand up to tilt his chin back so his eyes were towards the light, trying to check for a concussion.

“Pete. My name is Pete.” He corrected himself after a quick moment of thought, and I was about to pull away when he suddenly grabbed my hand. “Do you have a phone? I need…I need to make a call.”

“Oh, yeah, I do, just…hold on.” I turned quickly, dress fluttering out around me, before digging in my bag and retrieving my phone. Dragging a stool up next to him, I quickly unlocked my phone and brought up the dial pad. He went to reach for it and then stopped suddenly, eying the bulky gloves on his hands.

“I can’t—“

“How about I type it for you?” I offered, and he nodded. Slowly I dialed it, before putting the phone on speaker. I watched him as it rang; once, twice before the call was picked up.

“Hello?”

Pete cleared his throat. “Hey, Birdie. That you?”

A small gasp cut through the receiver, and the sounds of various voices being hushed followed, before the voice spoke up, choked. “Oh my god, Daddy, what—what happened to you?? Where are you, are you okay?” The voice was strained with the threat of tears, and I watched a smile slowly spread on Pete’s face.

“I’m fine, Birdie. Just a little banged up. I’m in a place called…” He trailed off and looked over at me, and I took that as my cue.

“Mayfield, Texas. It’s about thirty minutes from El Paso.”

“Hold on,” The woman cut Pete off before he could even speak. “Who is that?? There’s someone with you??”

“Well honey, I didn’t make a phone out of spare parts, I’m not MacGyver.” Pete chuckled and then grimaced, holding a gloved hand at his abdomen while he braced his other forearm against his knee. “I’m with a lovely young woman named…” Again he trailed off, and eyed my name tag before reading it off to his daughter. “She gave me water and sat me down and let me use her phone to call you.”

“Thank god.” She exhaled a sigh of relief, and I could practically feel her stress from here. “Townsend’s already pinged your location—you really had to choose the middle of nowhere to crash land, didn’t you?”

“At least it’s not in the middle of Texas.” Pete reasoned, and I was inclined to agree with that logic. His daughter, however, did not sound thrilled.

“Hondo’s getting a bird in the air in ten. He’ll be there within two hours, so just…sit tight.” She paused. “Ma’am, is there any way you could feed him and get him hydrated? We’ll reimburse you, he just never eats properly before test flights and god only knows when he’ll be able to eat next.”

I smiled fondly, nodding. “Of course. No need for reimbursement, just consider it southern hospitality.”

“Thank you, truly. Dad, I’ll deal with you when you get back.”

“Yes, ma’am. See you soon.”

The call clicked off, and Pete and I let out a simultaneous sigh, slumping back in our various chairs. “Do astronauts eat pie?” I asked after a moment, and Pete smiled cheerily over at me.

“This astronaut does.” He confirmed, and I nodded before smacking my thighs and standing.

“I will be back with the best slice of cherry pie in the great state of Texas. You’d better stay here before you give everyone out there another collective aneurysm.” I smiled when he laughed and nodded, before turning and heading back out to the counter. Mickey, the owner’s son, had taken over serving, and it took me nearly twenty minutes to escape the bombardment of questions and actually return to Pete with his very generous slice of pie, a tall glass of milk and a fork. Once he had everything in hand I returned to my seat next to him, keeping quiet for as long as possible before my curiosity got the best of me.

“So…do I ever get to know why you showed up here in a spacesuit, or will I be shrouded in mystery for the rest of my life?” I asked, and Pete laughed around his mouthful of pie, using the back of his glove to wipe his mouth.

“It’s technically classified.” He said, and I pulled a little bag of chips from my bag and settled in with a bright smile.

“I’m good at keeping secrets.” I declared, and Pete held my gaze for a long moment before nodding.

“Fair enough.” He reasoned, before starting at the beginning. By the end of his story, I heard the faint whir of helicopter blades in the field behind the diner, and saying goodbye to this mysterious, top secret test pilot was harder than I’d expected it to be. He hugged me goodbye and thanked me twice, one from him and one from his daughter, and I waved and waved until the helicopter vanished from view.

That night, after a slice of cherry pie, I smiled and dreamed of a black suited starman flying a sleek, dark plane amongst the stars.

[afterhoursgame]

A Night With...

Undine.

You hear the loud buzzing of Saturn's wings before you actually see her enter the living room. She zips into the room with dizzying speed, shouting a quick “Hello, Hello” to you, before yelling to her sister to hurry in. Saturn twirls and spins above you, keeping herself moving as she talks.

“She has something to ask you, yes yes. Something to ask, something to ask.” She repeats.

“I’m not goin in there.” You hear Undine from the doorway.

“In, in! Come in, sister! In!” Saturn zooms over to her sister, and a small battle ensues.

You watch curiously as she tries to pull Undine into the room, and try to make out  what they’re saying to each other through hushed arguing.

“Is everything alright?” You ask.

“It’s fine, it’s fine! Undine has something to ask, yes, yes. We talked about this! In, in!”

Saturn rushes out as she is finally able to haul her older sibling into the room.

Undine looks panicked and coughs loudly and fakely, straightening her a new satin dress you hadn’t seen her in before. Gone was her usual white coat, replaced with a thin, lace robe that hung just so off her shoulder. A new set of taller heels complimented the new look, making her already long legs look that much longer. You tried not to notice how high up the slit of her dress went up her left leg, choosing to instead avert your attention to lock eyes with her.

Seeing the two of you looking at each other finally, Saturn pops behind Undine, and gives her a shove, and wishes her good luck before she dives behind the couch. 

Undine smooths down her hair, making her way over to you anxiously. 

“Evenin’.” She clears her voice rather loudly when her voice starts cracking on your name. 

“Um. So. I just. How are ya?”

You stare at her quizzically. “I’m fine. You have something to ask me?”

Her cheeks get a shade darker as she blushes, face scrunching up. “Ummm, yea, I suppose.”

She fiddles with her glasses, looking up to the ceiling. “So. Just know ya don’t have to say yes, or anything. I mean I would like if ya did, it’s just not mandatory. To say yes I mean, not that it’s mandatory I liked it. That… Okay.”

She takes an extended deep breath. “Do ya… want to maybe go to an event with me? It doesn’t have to be a date. I mean it’s for doctors and their partners, but we aren’t partners yet.”

Saturn giggles from her spot behind the couch, and Undine's face contorts even more as her own words register to her in the moment after. 

“My god, not not yet.Partners does mean like… romantic partners in this case, but it can be work partners too! I mean maybe one day we could be partners, but right now I just want to know if you want to go with me?”

You both stare at each other for what feels like a century as you each process what she spewed out to you. She drops her face into her hands.

“My god, what a fuckin mess.” she groans.

“I completely understand if you don’t want to go after that. I mentioned the event to my sister and that I can bring a plus one, and how maybe you’d enjoy it? I didn’t mean to make a fool of myself.”

You think to yourself for a moment, looking over the woman you’ve been trying to get to know more personally. It might very well be a fun event, and a good way to spend some time with her, alone you think idly.

“When would it be?” You ask her, needing at least some time to prepare before you agree.

Her head snaps but from her hands. “What?”

“When is the event?” 

"Oh! Um. It… it’s in a few hours?”

Your eyes travel to your half eaten lunch, and try to work through what your schedule would be after you’re done. With classes, more classes, and then more classes, spending the evening with Undine arguably sounds much better than that. So, so much better…

“I’ll go. What should I wear?”

Saturn shoots up from behind the couch, wings buzzing wildly “I can help with that yes, yes! Pretty outfits! Make you pretty, prettier! Make Undine nervous when you look nice! Come come! Bring food with you! So fun, fun!”

Saturn all but snatches you and your plate away from your seat, pulling you excitedly to her room for a makeover.

She flies in and out while you finish your food, pulling items from her own closet and yours, until she dresses you to both of your approval. 

Your eyes roam over yourself, and you nod at your final look. 

"Do you think she'll like it too?"

Saturn's grin overtakes her features "Yes, yes! She'll love! Let's show, let's show!"

You're dragged once more to the living room, but you feel the buzz of excitement start prickling at your skin, curious to know how Undine is going to feel about your look. The pair of you enter the room to Undine pacing and mumbling to herself incoherently. Saturn releases your hand to spin around her sister wildly.

"Look look! Dressed nice for you, so nice!”

Undine freezes in place, and you swear you can hear her gasp when the two of you lock eyes.  Her face darkens in a blush, and an awkward, nervous smile tries to form on her lips.

“Wow… Don’t ya look… ya look lovely, eh? Heh, wow. Um.” 

She looks to the floor as she approaches, and holds out a hand. You lay yours atop hers, and as her eyes close, she presses the lightest, gentlest of kisses to your knuckles. Your own face starts to heat up at the breaths that dust own your hand. Her head rises once more, an unsure yet gentle smile on her lips.

"Ready?"

You nod at her and follow as she guides you out, to the thrill of her young sister, who buzzes happily, legs kicking in the air. 

Undine leads you outside to an automatic cab, holding to door up for each of you to slide in. She keeps your hand wrapped in hers, the thumb of her even numbered rubbing the top of yours. Undine sets the destination, and drops her eyes to your joined hands as the cab takes off. 

"Is… is it okay? That I hold ya hand a little, I mean?" She asks quietly before looking at you.

You feel your face grow warm once again. "Yea, you can hold my hand."

She laughs breathily as she toys with the tips of your fingers. "Aren't ya sweet.. I'm not sure what to do ya know… when someone so pretty…" 

"When someone so pretty… what?"

"Looks at me… when you..." She looks up to meet your eyes. "When you look at me. Looking as gorgeous as ever especially.. makes my mouth dry…"

You snort a little at that. "It makes your mouth dry when I look nice?"

"That… sounds incredibly dumb. I um.. I tried to think of something that might sound romantic. But I didn't want it to sound rehearsed, so I just said what came to mind. I'm thinking I probably should have cause this is getting worse by the minute the more I talk."

She clears her throat before continuing.

"So… do ya know how to dance at all? Not the best myself but I think we can we can make something work. Dont ya think?"

You smile at her, squeezing her hand a little tighter. 

"I think we can"

[borntoocry]

𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐊 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄.                    r. buckley x chubby femoc

summary: gay and scared Samara goes to a halloween party with Jonathan but quickly loses him following entering. she then finds herself sparking conversation with closeted Robin, who’s trying to become a barista.

warnings: excessive bullying, mentions of homophobia.

word count: 2+K

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“Samara the… panther?” 

I laugh. “No.” 

“Samara the… bunny?” 

“How do you jump from a panther to a bunny?” I ask. “And no, this is a cat costume.” 

“Just a cat costume?” Jonathan asked. 

I nod and continue looking out of the window. My sleek red hair shines back at me through the shiny glass, and I hope it doesn’t throw my costume off. High schoolers, especially the ones who believe speaking to college kids makes them cooler, enjoy making fun of me for everything that I do. I don’t know if it’s because I’m not slim, or because I’m a girl who coincidentally also likes girls, but they make fun, nonetheless. I know they’ll try to say something like, “Oh so you’re the fat cat from Cinderella?,” even though I look nothing like that stupid cat. Or they’d say, “I see you’ve gone with the safest option? Fat girls can’t really wear much else, amirite?” 

“You’re thinking too hard.” 

“What?” I straighten myself out and turn my head. I gather my sprawling fingers on my lap and try looking directly at Jonathan, even though his steaming black eyes force me to look out again. “I am not thinking too hard.” 

“You are.” 

“I’m not.” I pinch myself and bite down on my lip to force myself to say the truth. “Okay, I am. I’m regretting coming and dressing up because one, my parents expect me to stay out late, two, people will make fun of me again, and three, I’m only going for one reason.” 

Jonathan nods and he directs his eyesight towards me for a second. He raises an eyebrow and unleashes a deadly smirk. “Could you repeat the reason you’re going again? I tend to forget.” 

I laugh and shake my head. “No.” My face drains as we get closer and the fingers fighting one another on my lap freeze. “I can’t tell you because we’re moments away and what if she hears?” 

“Robin won’t hear you from a mile away telling your loser friend that you’re only at that stupid party for her.” 

I roll my eyes and throw a punch at his arm. “Thanks for spitting the truth in my face.” 

“No problem.” He smiles. Then after a moment, he says, “It’s good that you’re coming out.” 

“I am already out,” I joke. 

“Not like that,” he laughs. “I mean I’m glad that you’re out of the house. Most would think that because you’re a first generation Mexican-American, you’re stuck in your room like a damsel in distress. But you don’t have that excuse.” 

“Oh I do have that excuse and I can very well use it.” I pick at the fabric of my black skirt and shrug. “It just wouldn’t be truthful.” Jonathan parks the car and my immediate reaction is to pour all of my emotions out before we step out into the realness of the situation. “I’d rather use the excuse because everyone thinks it’s true. The stereotype is a stereotype for a reason: most Hispanic parents hate their kids going out to parties or dances or out in general. I just have the urge to lie because people are cruel and if I stay in my room reading and doing nothing, no one will make fun of me.”

“No one will make fun of you,” Jonathan whispers. He places a hand atop mine and smiles over at me. “You look like a… a hot cat…” He cringes as soon as the words are out and we burst into laughter. 

“Okay… Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say–but thank you.” I smile back and break our friendly stare to turn my head and observe the teenagers and early college attendees partying about. People are dancing outside, dancing inside without curtains on the windows, and there are cups everywhere; big, red, smelly cups everywhere. And there are also ghosts, and monsters, and zombies, and pretty girls in low-cut tops that reveal enough for my mind to wander.

I force myself to push Jonathan away and crawl out of the car. He follows right behind me and walks across the street, catching up to me and pulling me back as I almost trip over a clumsy drunk. “I feel like you’re way into your head,” he says. 

I shrug. “I don’t go to parties.” 

“I know. If you aren’t in your room reading, you’re at the park… reading.” 

“Not true.” 

“Do you have a book with you right now, Sam?” 

“Don’t call me Sam!” I exclaim as we near the doors. “And no… why would I?” 

“Because you’re Samara Gallegos.” 

I laugh and throw my head back. “Sadly, I don’t. Though I probably should have.” 

I sniff the air as we enter the house and I hiss in disgust. The room smells of sweat and lips and alcohol and a particular smell I know too well of: sex. It reeks of sex and it smells the same in the teachers bathroom no one uses. Only for sex. I sometimes use it–but to pee and read when I want to skip lunch in the cafeteria. 

“Do parties always smell like this?” I ask. I sniff the air again as I round the corner that leads to a hallway that leads to the kitchen. Then as no one replies to my question, I say, “Jonathan?” 

“Yes, parties do always smell like this.” 

I jump. I hold my beating heart with the palm of my hand and slice the air with my abnormally large head and body. Robin stands in front of me, holding a red plastic cup and dressed in her normal clothes, but a tad more revealing: a long patterned shirt with the first few buttons popped open, and a pair of large black jeans. Her shirt is tucked into her pants, but it looks like she failed–corners are flopping out and some patches of fabric are heavily wrinkled. 

“You didn’t dress up,” I say. “Why?” 

“Wanted to be different,” she tells me. “And you? Why are you wearing a costume?” 

“Wanted to be like everyone else.” 

She raises an eyebrow and reaches out to grab my hand. I step back and inch but she smiles at me. This smile sent from heaven on a girl sent from God himself. “Come on. Let’s get you a drink.” 

I slowly nod and let her take my hand. She skips along the sticky wood and takes me to the kitchen where people are sprawled about, kissing or drinking or blabbering about bullshit. 

“So,” she starts as she finds a bottle of alcohol branded VODKA, “you want to be like everyone.” 

I nod. 

“Why?” She doesn’t sound disgusted, but she sounds like she has no damn idea why I would want to be like the majority of teenagers. 

I don’t know what to say. I can still feel her warm fingers cover my palm, and her round fingernails caressing my skin. I should just say what most people would say, ‘I don’t know, why not?’, but I do know why and she’s being nice to me. 

“Because if I dress accordingly, people won’t try to pick.” 

“Ah.” 

“Ah,” I repeat. “Yeah.” 

She picks up the full red cup and hands it to me. I don’t know what she poured in but I take a sip anyway and almost choke as it goes down my throat. She looks at me with knitted eyebrows and a forming frown, but I nod and pull a thumbs up. 

“I’m not much of a bartender; I just sort of mixed some shit up. Sorry if you don’t like it.” 

“I don’t know if I should,” I hiss. “I don’t drink alcohol.” 

“Oh, me neither,” she laughs. I nervously laugh too then laugh for real when she snorts. “I’m sorry,” she says after a moment. “I–What were we talking about before? Before-before.” 

“About how I wanted to be the same and because if I dress like everyone, I won’t be bullied.” 

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “People are assholes! ASSHOLES!” She raises her up into the air and it spills all over. It misses my costume but it spills across the roll of garlic bread. She says nothing and continues. “I think you’re beautiful.” 

I look her over and squint as I fall onto her eyes again. “Are you drunk, Robin?” 

“What?” she sputters like a broken engine. 

“I said,” I begin, clearing my throat, “Are you drunk?” 

“No.” 

“No?” 

“I mean it, Samara. I think you’re beautiful.” I nod and she nods and then she begins looking at me with a questioning eye. “Why do you think I have to be drunk in order to say you’re beautiful?” 

I don’t know what to say, and I mean it. I scramble for words to put into a six-word sentence, but I come up with only a mewling sound. I swallow it down before I sound like I’m dying and tie my hands back to stop myself from expressing myself using my hands. 

Robin doesn’t stop looking at me questionably. She looks at me like I’m insane; like I’ve had more to drink than her. She pushes herself further over the counter and her hips almost touch mine. I can smell her breath and it smells of mint gum and overly cheap alcohol. Her lips are cherry red and I can smell her lip balm from where I stand, too. It isn’t cherry, it’s strawberry kiwi. 

“You die to be normal and look like everyone else because… why?” 

I take a large gulp of my drink and slosh the leftover juice around so it slides far up the sides. I bite down on my lip and glance at the people walking by us and kissing and talking and not looking at me. No one is looking at me, no one is batting an eye at the tight clothes I have on, and no one has said a thing. 

I wonder why no one has said a thing about my clothes. I feel big but I don’t feel ugly. No ‘whale’ comments have been shot my way and I question if everyone else sees me. Or if maybe I’ve successfully found myself being as normal and uncared for as everyone else. Like Robin. 

“I know what they say about you,” she whispers after I say nothing. 

“Yeah, it’s sad, huh?” 

“It is.” She nods. Then shakes her head. “But it isn’t true.” 

I take another gulp of my drink, it being the last one, and turn to pour myself straight cheap vodka. I take another gulp and view Robin from the corner of my eye. “Well if it isn’t true, why does everyone call me it?” 

She scoffs. “Because they don’t have anything else to do!” 

“You’re drunk,” I state. 

“I’m not,” she replies. She yanks my cup out of my hand and downs almost half of my drink. She smiles at me over my cup. 

“Okay,” I plainly say. 

“Okay.” 

I glance at the crowd around her. People are smashing into one another as they dance and I can’t seem to find Jonathan. Not that he would dance, but he might be around, looking for any girl who looks like she’d like the same music, or like the same books or maybe have a ‘Zombie Brother.’ 

“I have to get back to Jonathan,” I tell Robin. “I lost him when I walked in.” 

“He’s probably smoking weed. You should just stay down here–with me.” 

“No.” I shake my head as I glance at her. She’s beautiful but she doesn’t understand what’s happening inside of my head right now. She doesn’t get how stupidly I like her. “Jonathan wouldn’t do that. He only drinks occasionally.” 

“Really?” She raises a brow. 

“Yeah.” 

“Well then what is he doing right now?” 

“What?” 

“Look right through the window above the sink. Right out into the pool. Beach chairs.” 

I follow her directions and look out, at the pool, right beside it where the beach chairs are. “No fucking way,” I whisper. “No way. Since when?” 

“Since forever, Sam.” 

“It’s Samara,” I whisper. 

“Sorry.” 

“Thanks.” I look back at Robin and offer a wavering smile. “I don’t like being called Sam, I just… It white-washes my Mexican name. I think it’s already white-washed enough.” 

“Really?” 

I nod. “Most names like that start with a Z. It’s something with Latino’s loving the letter Z.” 

“Ah.” She takes my cup again and downs the rest of the vodka. Then holds it out to me and asks, “You want some more?” 

“Vodka?” I ask. I shake my head. “Do something like…” I look over the drinks settled about then look at the pink lemonade sitting by the tequila. “Do the lemonade and tequila.” 

She quickly fixes the drink up and hands it to me. I take a sip and crinkle my nose. “A lot of tequila.” 

“Sorry.” I smile. She smiles. “So…,” she then begins with her hands tied in a knot in front of her and moves forward and backwards on the balls of her feet. I only look at her. “You’ve come out already, right?” 

I nod. 

“Out of the closet?” 

I nod.

“How was it?” 

“Surprisingly,” I start, “my parents still love me. Other people think I’m disgusting and a demon and it makes me being ugly worse, but I don’t care. The only thing I care about is my parents loving me–and they do, so I don’t care what others have to say.” 

“You’re brave,” she whispers.

I don’t know why we’re whispering, but I whisper too. “It’s just me. I guess I’m brave.” 

She chuckles and looks away for a second. She fiddles with the bottles and bags of chips lying around. “I want to come out… But I just can’t.”

I force my eyes to stay inside of my eye sockets. “You like girls?” I whisper. “I–I didn’t know.” 

She scoffs. “Yeah, I’m all over them.” 

“Who was your awakening? Was it Farrah Fawcett? Susan Anton? God, she’s hot.” 

She laughs. “Yeah, Farrah and Charo and Audrey Landers. I mean, have you seen her in Playboy?” 

I smile wide and nod like a madman. “It’s a terrible crush.”

“Yeah.” Her voice is small and slowly, her laughs fade away. She looks at me and I can see the tennis-ball sized lump in her throat slowly slide into her stomach. She curls her fingers tighter and tighter until they turn into the color of my hair. “I also have had a crush on this one girl since freshman year and I don’t know what to do.” 

A pit is formed into my stomach and my heart slides right in. I nod and take another sip of my drink. “What’s her name?” I force myself to speak. 

She takes an empty cup and fills it with vodka. She downs the small amount inside and sighs. “Sam.” 

I almost choke. There’s only a few Sam’s at school. Me, and Samantha Nguyen. “Like… Sam Nguyen?” 

She shakes her head. “No.” 

I nod and swallow the rest of my drink. I can feel the drinks spinning around in my head and body and I think I might puke. “Then which one?” 

“Samara.” 

“Yes?” 

“You,” she spits out. “Samara Gallegos.” 

My heart drops as if it couldn’t drop any more and I shake my head. I’ve always wanted her to like me back, but now that she’s confessed to liking me, I want her to take it back. “No,” I tell her. “No.” 

“Yes,” she whines. “Yes.” 

“No,” I repeat. “You can’t like me.” 

Her eyebrows curl up and her face is far from interested in knowing why I’m saying no. “What do you mean?” she questions in the same mousy voice. When I don’t answer, she repeats herself. 

“Because it’s embarrassing,” I say almost too loudly with too much frustration in my tone.

 I want her to know that liking me comes with repercussions, like knowing that I cannot stand in front of a mirror for long, or that I can’t eat when people are around, and that’s why I eat with Ms. Briggs, the youngest English teacher in school. She has to know that I cry almost every night because I wonder when my self-hatred will vanish, and she has to know that people will make fun of her for liking me. Not only will people know that she likes girls too, but they’ll know that she likes the fat girl.

I’ve always been known as the fat girl, albeit Jonathan and his child-friends telling me that I’m not, I just have eyesight issues and detrimental mental problems blocking me from seeing it. I know they’re lying when they tell me that I’m not fat, but I know they just don’t think I should be placed in the ‘whale’ category. 

But everyone else… Everyone else thinks I do believe in that category. And if they find out Robin likes a fat girl, they’ll all forget about her being gay and focus on the fact that she has poor taste. 

Robin stares at me. Glaring is a more accurate statement. She glares at me as she scoots closer and asks, “For who?” 

“What?” I ask. 

“Who is it embarrassing for?” 

“For you,” I spit with a quivering mouth. “It’d be embarrassing for you to like me. I mean, Robin, imagine people knowing you like Samara Gallegos, the fat whale.” 

Her tongue darts out and wets her lips. She sucks in a breath and shifts on her feet. “I don’t care what people say, Samara. I think you’re beautiful and fuck what everyone thinks of you. Why would that matter if I’m the one liking you? If I’m the one that thinks you’re perfect.” 

A tear slips out and I shake my head. The ache from the drinks beats against my skull and swirls in my stomach. My mind isn’t thinking straight anymore and I want to kiss her and hug her and say sorry for being rude. I never want to try alcohol ever again if it makes me think of everything and nothing at all. 

“I don’t want people to make fun of you. There’s nothing wrong with you and I’ll fuck everything up.” 

“No,” she tells me for the first time. She steps forward and takes my face in her hands. She feels softer and I feel like I’m floating with her. “You will not mess anything up. I don’t care if people make fun of me for liking you. I can like who I want to like. Because that’s mine–no one else's.” 

I look into her teary eyes and shed another tear. I’m scared out of my mind. I fear more for her because she’s not out of the closet and the first girl she’s being close and intimate with is me. 

“Don’t like me,” I whisper. I sound like a tormented cat, mewling and shouting for help. I cry and she pulls my head into her chest. “Don’t like me, Robin.” 

“No,” she whispers into my steaming red hair, shushing me from saying another word. “I like you. I like you Samara Gallegos, you drunk in love.” 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

AUTHORS NOTE

i’ve always struggled with people liking me and i worrying that they’d be embarrassed of me because i wasn’t skinny. even through the bullying has stopped, the feeling and worry hasn’t gone away. this is a bit of writing to show how i feel.

[justsomeoneintoomanyfandoms]

...

Should i make this long or short?

I request for a matchup for bsd(bubgo stary dogs.) and genshin, please.

Name: Rieh.

Pronouns: she/her

Sexuality: i.. Honestly don't know, straight? Lesbian? Bisexual-? Ig bisexual, but more on girls.

Zodiac+mbti: pisces and intj

Appearance:hair: medium brown withstreaks of blonde.

eyes: brown.

height: 4'11

Glasses, yes(they're pink btw)

I usually wear like some bunny headband..? Like the one that stretches but on the neck.. Like a choker..??? I also wear headphones went i go out.

Personality: mood swings, whole..some..?(sometimes), childish(sometimes), rude/blunt(mostly)

Likes+dislikes:likes: candy. Fun stuff. (WHAT DO I LIKEE) uhm.. Myself 😃.

Dislikes: dust, stickiness, dirt.

Hobbies: playing genshin with that one song on repeat(like all day-), playing prosekai, practising chess, playing badminton, doing embroidery while watching sxf(spy x family) and kcc(komi can't communicate), sleeping, like literally. Thinking of scenarios or dramas that i could write or make, listening to music, eavesdropping(shh).

Any extra infromation: (finally the part where i can freely say stuff-) im kinda a self-centered girl who loves (mostly) for drama and twists and the fun in life and is kinda careless who doesn't even know what her sexuality. I want people to think im cute so i can have privilage to like ask my classmate for candy or sum shi, thats why i wear a bunny choker-like thingy around my neck. I am.. Very clumsy, even just covering a marker, i can get myself injured and have my finger bleeding. I sometimes just carry my plush anywhere i go. I pretend im like talking to someone all the time in my head. Also when i say 'music' i dont mean like gmfu, or simon says and shi like that, like i lit meant songs like, tondemo wonderz, or theme of niccori, or maybe sweety glitch from prosekai, haha.. I also play those songs like on full volume to make sure everyone around me will be reminded that im the youngest in sophomore year and think I'm cute. I also sometimes think like im in the spotlight, like im in some kind of show, and is the protagonist of the story, is that weird? I sometimes get to impress people with 'magic' and when someone asks me something... I just answer 'magic'. Would knowing my favourite characters in other fandoms work..? My fav character in kny(demon slayer) is Mitsuri and Muichiro, in prosekai probably Emu and Kanade, and like in kcc, in my head, i act like like naruse(how was his name spelt? I dont remember.) my favourite character in kcc is probably najimi and kaede, in oshi no ko probably ruby. ALSO DONT GUESS THAT MY FAVOURITE COLOUR IS PINK WHEN ITS ACTUALLY CERULEAN BLUE-!

Did that 'extra information' help? Anyways thanks for listening, cant wait to see what matchup i got!!

(lit just asked this to you in like midnight.)

Hi Rieh! Thank you for your request! Sorry it took so long. I hope you like your matchups!

In Bungo Stray Dogs, I match you with...

You and Akiko are a powerful and, at times, scary couple. Between your mood swings and her…medical inclinations, a lot people are timid when approaching you.

That’s not to say you won’t make friends though. The rest of the Armed Detective Agency love you and think you balance out Akiko’s intense nature well.

I can see Akiko as someone who is surprisingly into wholesome anime like Spy x Family. She thinks it’s sweet and it’s a nice break from her usual day to day. She especially likes Yor though she’s not sure why…

Due to her medical training, she’s a very neat and tidy person so no need to worry about dust, dirt, or stickiness around home. She’s not fond of them either so the house will always be tidy and clean.

Definitely thinks your cute. She can handle a lot so your mood swings won’t affect her a whole lot. She’s got the training to know how to help your mood swings be a bit more manageable so if you want some tips and tricks, she’s more than happy to help.

In Genshin Impact, I match you with...

Oh, Lisa thinks you’re just the cutest! Sure, she calls everyone cute but she thinks you’re especially adorable.

Don’t think you’re going to be able to easily manipulate her though. She’s seen some things in her time and knows what she’s doing. She won’t be mad that you’re trying to manipulate her but she will suggest you redirect and manipulate people into returning their books on time.

Enjoys taking naps with you. Lisa is already a pretty laid-back person but with you around in the library, the chances of Jean finding her asleep among the books with you next to her definitely increases.

Dust is to a certain extent unavoidable in the library but Lisa’s more than willing to join you in tidying the place up a bit. She’s been meaning to for a while, this is just the push she needed.

Please embroider things for her. Her clothes, her hat, her lunch bag. Anything and everything you want to embroider, she won’t way no to. It’s a little reminder of you when she’s away for a while.

[fenoglios-scraps]

I walk down the beach. The wind buffets the wisps of my cotton-like hair from under my hat. I stare at the crowded array of tanned people lying on beach blankets and lounging in tents. I sigh. I am told by my sister that this place was nicer before Covid. The mundane crash of the waves sounds as I walk towards the tide pools.

I’m here on summer break, just finishing my junior year of college. My feet drag through the heavy sand.

I look up and notice two people walking down. They are happy, and hold hands. They are about my age, both wearing glasses, and “Class of 2028,_____College” T-shirts. One of them has her long, blue-green hair in a complicated braid, her small, round face reminding one of an elf. The other has a shaved electric green head, and is dressed kinda strangely in gym shorts, knee high rainbow socks, pink crocs, and an open button-up with ferns on it. Despite the years aging their faces, I can tell it’s Dustfinger and Alice.

I am appalled at how they still seem more mature than me. Their posture is straight, expressions open. Krow still has that never ending confidence, despite clearly being a stranger here. E still looks relaxed. I wonder, do they remember me? What are they doing in _____ California? I want to talk to them, but I pull my baseball cap lower over my face.

Shockingly, they still approach me.

“Hi,” Dustfinger says with a big smile.

“H-hi,” I respond, unsure of what to do. It’s been a long time since we’ve talked.

“Are you from around here? We got lost on our way to our hotel. Do you know where the Ocean Shell Hotel is?” Alice asks.

I brighten, happy to be useful, “Yeah, that’s near where my sister lives. Take Junipero Serra Blvd, and turn a corner where there’s a big shopping center. Then it’s the second place on your left.”

“Ok, thanks,” They both say, then do that jinx thingy.

They turn to go, when, heart beating a mile a minute, I whisper, “You two are obviously tourists, and your shirts say ______ College. That’s a small town in —————what are y’all doing here?”

Dustfinger gives me this soft expression and says, “I’m sorry, but could you say that again? You’re a little quiet.”

I repeat myself, even though it sounds like I’m yelling. Then they give each other this questioning look, like they wonder how I’d know that.

However, Alice smoothly answers, “Neither of us have ever been to San Francisco, so we figured it might be nice to see such a famous city. And I think we had a friend who used to have family somewhere near here, so we thought it might be cool to see where she lived.”

Dustfinger clarifies, “We couldn't find a hotel in the city itself so we had to stay here. By the way, is your name Fenoglio?”

My chest beats fast, “No,” I lie, “why?”

Alice squints like she doesn’t believe me, “Because,” she explains, “Our friend we just mentioned, was named Fenoglio, and you kinda look like her so, even though there are probably a million people here, we wondered if you might be her.”

“And, we all used to live in __ ____, and I can bet it’s unusual for some BIG Californian to automatically guess we’re from ______ ___ and not _____, Georgia,” Dustfinger says somewhat sarcastically.

“Uh, my mom was from there, soo…I heard stories growing up,” I weakly argue

“And she has a PHD in ______ right? Fenoglio , I can tell you still hate lying,” Dustfinger affirms

I feel sheepish, “So even with my hat bent low, you still knew?”

“Yes. By the way, can I give you a hug?” Alice asks.

I accept her embrace, and welcome a pat on the back from Dustfinger. In my chest I feel brambles beginning to surround my heart. Despite the fear of being forgotten, they still remember me after all these years. I offer to take them to my house, and smile with hopes of catching up on things.

The End

[sukunasbabymama]

A little jealousy.

⌗ Pairing: Manjiro Sano (Mikey), Ken Ryuguji (Draken), Baji Keisuke, Chifuyu Matsuno.

⌗ Warnings: None i guess.

⌗ A/N: This is to see if I can write proper reactions (with scenarios(?), later I’ll try with headcanons and so on.

Manjiro Sano Mikey.

No, no, no, you don’t understand, he physically CAN’T fake it when he’s jealous. It doesn’t matter if y’all friends, lovers, enemies whatever. He will make sure you know.

Didn’t y’all see how he went off on poor Inupi when he just nominated Takemichi to be the leader of the Black Dragons? Yeah, he doesn’t play around.

Let’s say you’re ordering for him and you're making sure they got the order right because you aren’t in the mood to hear him whining for a damn flag in his meal, but the waiter keeps flirting with you. You noticed, Mikey noticed.

“Mine. Just mine, get yours somewhere else” he said pouting, the waiter thought he was too childish to be with you so he laughs it off.

“If I repeat myself one more time I’m not gonna be so chill about it.” Mikey says, this time in his I’m-The-Leader-Of-The-Strongest-Gang voice.

“You heard him, I'm his.” You laugh because by now you should know what you signed up for.

There go the waiter hopes, Mikey smile at you and you just rolled your eyes. What a man-child.

Ken Ryuguji Draken.

He doesn’t get jealous, or that’s what he thought, till he saw you leaning comfortably on the counter of the tattoo shop he got his tattoo. You were being instructed on how to take care of the new tattoo you just got, but the man behind the counter hasn’t stopped trying to flirt with you, not even when he was tattooing your leg. Draken was annoyed.

He walks up behind you and hugged you, putting almost his whole weight on you, hiding his head in your neck, he kisses it.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be the one taking care of it, no need to flirt through all the damn instructions” He says deadpan.

The other guy is embarrassed because he thought he was being subtle about it he wasn’t.

“That was weird, you don’t get jealous, what happened?” You ask Draken when the guy took a moment to look for some stuff they would provide for your tattoo.

“Who says I don’t get jealous? I have the prettiest angel in all Shibuya baby, I get jealous, a lot” He isn’t looking at your eyes because he’s embarrassed but he’s also really honest with you. “Sometimes tho, I have to show it so people know their place.”

Baji Keisuke.

We know this mf is feral, okay, but he’s also a very observant person, remember he got all the conclusions by himself in that arc.

So, when he went to your school for the first time so he could take you to hang out with his mom (she loves you okay) and he saw you walking out with a bunch of guys he started to get mad.

Not at you, but because he could observe they were harassing you, you were trying as much as you could to keep a serene expression, but he can see. When you see him you smile and run to him, with the boys behind you thinking you were running from them.

“I’m going to beat them” Is the first thing he says.

“No, I don’t want your mom to think I condone any of this,” You say fixing his glasses, he was coming from his school so he was wearing his nerdy attire.

“Is that your boyfriend? That nerd?” The group of guys starts making fun of both of you now, still following you, you ignore them till they started with the nonsense. “Does he knows you run to me every morning before the ring bells?”

You look at Baji and you swear you can see smoke coming out of his ears like in cartoons, you smile at him and take his backpack and glasses from him.

“I’ll make an excuse for your knuckles when we get to your house” You give him a quick kiss on the cheek and whispered in his ear. “Beat them all”

He smiles, what a joy to have his soulmate with him uh.

Chifuyu Matsuno.

Now, I know we like to portrait him as this soft boy, and he is, but when he means business, he’s a MENACE. Let’s not act like he wasn’t about to mop the floor with those little gangsters the day he met Baji. before they tried to jump his ass.🙄

You have been telling him about this guy that you have to do a project with, and the more you tell him about the way he talks to you when you’re working together, the less Chifuyu likes this guy. It’s more than obvious that he is interested in you, you knew that and Chifuyu too.

Now, Chifuyu wasn’t worried about you, he knows you and trusts you, but he didn’t like the fact that you have to go through that flirting just for a damn project. So, like the menace he is one day when your project partner was calling you, he took the call, with your permission obviously he’s a menace that’s afraid of you, you were playing with his cats so you told him to take the call.

The thing is that my man Chifuyu here can be rude as fuck, and when the guy started with a “hello beautiful” he was pissed, so he said a couple things and that’s why now you’re on an alleyway with at least 7 guys surrounding you, Chifuyu and his friend Baji.

“Gonna beat some propers manners into you,” Your project partner says, and you quietly got behind Baji at the same time he was getting in front of you to protect you, he was smiling amused at everything that was happening.

Your dumb ass boyfriend gave the guy a head butt while smiling.

“Whoops, my bad, I was trying to bow but you got in the way,” He says watching the guy sway in confusion.

“First division vice-captain, Chifuyu Matsuno, you have permission" As soon as those words let Baji's mouth your boyfriend started to beat all the guys' asses.

Well, they should have known better, you thought.

[wri0thesley]

Nat. NAT. I just saw your concept about naoya "training" his wife by just throwing her in the room and just watching her struggle to defend herself... Until she ofc breaks and begs him to protect her🙈 you have a MASSIVE brain, the biggest and horniest brain nat can you please write this concept for the event😭😭 maybe w 45 and any other dark or spicy add ons that you see fit!

traditional discipline - naoya x fem!reader (3.3k)

naoya has had enough of you, and resorts to an unusual method of discipline.

warnings: not sfw/minors dni. DARK CONTENT. unhealthy relationship/marriage. fearplay, dacryphilia, finger-sucking, cock-sucking, punishment, threat of violence and death. dubious consent. afab reader with fem pronouns. 

[a/n: this concept literally wouldn’t leave me alone. i’m sorry to all of the readers who are naoya’s wife i’m always so horrible to them]

The room goes quiet as Naoya hauls you out of it by your upper arm.

It’s an easy mistake, a simple slip-up; accidentally talking over your husband. But it’s one in a slew you’ve been making recently, despite Naoya thinking that you were polite and well-bred and knew your place. He’s sick of it, to be quite frank; he doesn’t have time to be correcting you when you should already know how to behave.

You’ve done accidental, small things since the two of you were married. Denying him when he rolled you onto your back at night. Not standing quite as far behind him as you should. Pouring tea for other people before him. He’s given you swift reprimand with both his words and his hands, but . . . it’s clearly not sinking into your pretty little head, is it?

He warned you about this.

“Next time,” he’d growled to you, when you’d laughed too loud at a joke that one of his brothers had made and not laughed at one of his, “I’m going to teach you a real lesson.”

He tells you about the ‘training and discipline room’ on the Zenin estate later that night. A room that the family use for honing cursed techniques, both for practising and for learning purposes, when someone needs to be brought down a peg or two. It’s full of cursed spirits – all the way up to grade two, which makes your blood run cold.

Of course, you have cursed energy. You even have a careful little technique; one that would wrap your enemies up in vines, if you’d ever been allowed to train to use it for anything other than keeping your well-appointed garden neat and orderly. Naoya would not have married someone without either of those things, lest they not bear him fruitful children--

But you have never been allowed to use it for anything more.

The women of your clan are pretty decoration, with no need to learn anything other than how to behave and how to please their masters-and-husbands. You would be useless, thrown into the den of the wolves like that.

“Please don’t,” you’d said to him, your voice all soft and gentle, trying to be appeasing. “Please. I promise I’ll try harder.”

Naoya had taken your chin between thumb and forefinger, the grin across his face very sharp as his light eyes took in the pleading in your own gaze. You remember how the light had hit his earrings, the look of satisfaction at your begging and having you utterly and completely under his thumb.

“Be good,” he’d breathed, all slow and drawling. “And I won’t have to, will I?”

And he’d bid you to get on your knees for him and show you just how good you could be. Starting with your mouth.

So you know where he’s dragging you, down the labyrinthine halls of the estate. You try and pull back, feet sliding on the tatami mat, your voice pitching as you say;

“Naoya, please, I’m sorry--”

“Women should be seen and not heard,” he says to you. “Don’t make a fuss like that. You earned this.”

Your eyes are filling with tears, hot fear clawing its way up your throat.

“I’ll do anything,” you say to him, despite knowing that it’s a dangerous bargain to give him. He almost considers it for a moment, pausing – but then, his fingers just dig harder into the softness of your bicep (you’re going to bruise), and he tugs you.

“You’re making a scene,” he says. “If you don’t stop, I’ll leave you in there even longer.” You try to wrench your arm out of his grip, all of your self-defense mechanisms going into overdrive as you recognise the door he’s leading to you too. You’re breathless, so frightened you think that your heart might stop.

Naoya opens the door and pulls you in. You almost stumble at the flight of stairs, but he clicks his tongue at you in annoyance.

“So clumsy,” he drawls. “And here I was, under the impression I was marrying a graceful, lovely, credit to her family--” More steps, until he’s gotten you in the middle of the floor. He gazes around him, and you hear the low hum of a hundred cursed spirit’s voices murmuring the same things, over and over again. “The only time you’re a credit to them is with your legs spread.”

“Naoya,” you whimper, torn between pushing yourself into him for the comfort and protection that you know he can offer, or trying to tear away from him and escape the room yourself. You know the second option won’t work – he’s far faster, far stronger than you – but it’s hard to think of anything when you feel like your very survival is teetering impossibly over your head.

“If you run,” he says, still in that cold, uninterested drawl, “I’ll break one of your ankles.”

You don’t think he’s bluffing. Naoya says a lot of things, yes – but he’s also reckless and proud enough to mean them. You stand there, next to him, feeling yourself begin to tremble.

“W-why aren’t they attacking yet?” You ask him, voice very small. He looks at you pityingly.

“They’re afraid of me, obviously,” he says to you, very slowly, like he’s explaining it to somebody very stupid. “I didn’t get this good at everything by not training myself, darling.” He lets go of you, finally, a whistle escaping his pursed mouth as he rocks on the balls of his feet. He’s supremely unconcerned by your fear. “When I’m gone, they’ll come out for you.”

Your eyes fill with tears.

“What am I supposed to do?” You ask him, desperation leaking into your cracked voice. “I can’t—I can’t protect myself--”

Naoya narrows his eyes.

“You should have thought about that before you were such a pain,” he replies. And, without further ado, he turns around and begins to ascend the stairs again. You turn with him, moving forward, stumbling in your haste and ending up sprawled at the bottom of the stairs with your hand pathetically fisted into the hem of his hakama.

He looks down at you with a disgusted sneer on his face, and you hate that even with that expression his features are still unmistakably handsome.

“Let go,” he says. “Have some dignity.”

“Please,” you repeat. You can feel a fat tear spilling from the corner of your eye down the curve of your cheeks. You know the ‘dignity’ statement is a dig; the fact that you’ve heard his family members calling your clan power-hungry undignified gold-digging whores, but you can’t bring yourself to care when you can see the beginning of shadows spilling out too far into the main floor of the room. “Naoya. Please.”

He kicks out at your wrist, face twisted in distaste, and you let go to avoid it being stood on and crushed under his strength. You cradle it against your chest, looking up at him still all desperate and afraid.

“If I helped,” he said to you, “you’d never learn your lesson.” He takes a step up and turns away completely from you, as if you’re nothing more than an ignored child on the street. “It will be good for you, beloved wife. Character-building.” You hear the smirk in his voice and you hate him.

You want to strangle him. You want to beg him to protect you. You want to tear him limb from limb, but you want him to let you bury your head in his chest as he dispels the spirits with ease. You want--

The door slams shut behind him. He’s too cheerful as he throws behind him;

“Good luck!”

And you are left alone.

It takes a moment before anything slithers out from the shadows, and you clap your hand over your mouth to stop yourself screaming. The first cursed spirit is a hunched over creature with the face of a Pierrot clown, mouth stretched impossibly wide with gaping black abyss where eyes ought to be. It’s whispering something over and over to itself, but the wide mouth is so crowded with teeth that it comes out as an incomprehensible noise, dripping drool as it begins to move horrifically slowly towards you.

Oh, God. You’re not supposed to look at them, are you? You dimly recall something about many sorcerers wearing glasses so the creatures can’t tell where their gazes are, but this one has already got the scent of you; those dark pits staring at your crumpled form.

Everything you’ve ever been told in passing about jujutsu and cursed spirits and cursed technique just seems to flow out of your mind to be replaced by mind-numbing fear. You’ve not been trained for this; when your clan had arranged your marriage with Naoya, you know that they’d expected fine silken kimonos and traditional food and you being a pretty trophy on the arm of the future leader of their clan. You know they’d be horrified if they saw what was happening.

More of them are melting from the shadows, the whispering and moaning reaching a terrifying crescendo. You’re trembling. Your heart is beating so fast inside of your chest you think it might break free of your ribcage and sputter out onto the floor.

The Pierrot monster is close enough that you can see the six hands it drags on the floor are all tipped with claws that are sharp as blades. You scramble up the stairs on your ass, too afraid to turn your back on the creatures. You realise you’re shouting, but it seems just as blurred as anything that the cursed spirits are saying. You’re crying, too – howling, whimpering, so scared you’re surprised any noise is able to come out at all.

You’re going to die.

It hits you with cruel certainty as you reach the top and throw your weight at the door, only for it to not give an inch. You scramble at the heavy wood, not caring about your careful manicure (Naoya wants you to be a credit to him, and that means manicures and facial treatments and a fancy bathroom full of soaps and creams that he expects you to use and that he slathers, too, on himself). You hear a nail break but you can’t bring yourself to worry about that when the Pierrot monster is dragging itself up the flight of stairs, one step at a time. It makes a hideous sliding thump, like it’s both wet and heavy – and you notice, too, the scent of blood invading your senses.

Your tear-blurred eyes can see all of the other monsters, too – not quite as close, but still too close for comfort. Too many eyes and not enough eyes, too many legs, claws and teeth and misshapen bones and blood leaking from holes. What are you supposed to do?

Naoya has left you here, alone, to teach you a lesson. You hadn’t realised the lesson would culminate in your death, but with all of the spirits so close to you, you cannot see any other way.

All of the fight goes out of you and you sag against the door, a broken sob escaping your lips. Your throat is dry from hoarse screaming.

You are going to die. You hope it will come quick; you hope the Pierrot monster will tear you limb from limb and you’ll die in instants from the shock. Your voice whispers Naoya’s name one last, hopeless time.

Will he find another wife? Will they even bother covering up your death, or will they spin some rumour or lie to your family and the whole of jujutsu society that you brought it upon yourself?

You would do anything to be rescued right now. You would crawl on your hands and knees behind Naoya for the rest of your life, refer to him only as ‘Master’, fulfil every single thing he ever asked you with no more than a meek nod of your head. Pull out your tongue so you couldn’t make any more mistakes.

But the time for pleading seems to have gone entirely, and you are useless and stupid and weak as you run out of tears, eyes burning. All you can do, you think, is wait for death.

The door swings open behind you and you’re dragged backwards, onto tatami, by powerful hands gripping your shoulders as it closes once more with a massive clunk that echoes in your ears--

And you find yourself strewn out on the floor, face caked with dried tear-tracks, a trembling, pathetic mess looking up at your husband’s face.

He leans against the door, listening to you scream. He can hear his name mixed in with sobs and screams and pleading; saying that you’ll do anything, you’re sorry, you’ll never disobey him again you’ll take any punishment he metes out with a smile on your face, if he just helps you. He hears you call yourself weak and pathetic and useless around the tears clogging your throat; he hears the thump of you hitting the door and the sound of your nails scratching down the wood, uncaring of anything other than getting away from them.

Yes, he thinks as he opens the door for you and you fall, shivering and sobbing, in front of him. Yes, he thinks you’ve learnt your lesson.

You’re so pretty, he thinks, closing it once more (he sees the cursed spirits begin to creep back to where they came from at the very sight of him, now their preferred victim is protected), with your eyes all glassy and wet. You’re extra pretty looking at him like he’s a conquering hero who’s saved you from certain death – which he supposes he is.

You cling to his arm, pulling yourself up, burying your face in his chest as your hands cling to him like you’ve been lost and he’s the first familiar thing you’ve seen in months. Your tears soak his kimono, but . . . he finds himself not really minding, as big, lean hands pet you gently on the back.

“It’s alright now,” he soothes you, murmuring low. “Your husband has you.”

“Please, please, ‘m so sorry--” You’re mumbling into him, whimpering, your shoulders shaking. “Please never m-make me, again--”

“Shhh,” he continues, gently beginning to move towards his chambers. You cling to him, adrift in a sea of your own fears. “It’s better now. You’ll be better now, won’t you?”

He receives a fierce nod for that, your fingers twisting into his clothing. It’s nice, having you so wrapped around him; seeing him as the strong protector that he knows he is but you needed reminding of. You’re still mewling little pleas into him even as he unlocks the door to his bedroom and gently pushes you in. Letting go of him even for a moment seems to cause you physical pain--

Good. You should feel like that. You should feel incomplete without him at your side. Naoya rewards you with a rare, soft smile.

“You know why you had to be punished like that, don’t you?” He purrs to you, petting your hair and carefully drawing back so he can look at your face. Your lips are all swollen from crying and biting; he thinks you’ve never looked quite so kissable as you do right now.

“Yes,” you nod, fiercely. “I’m sorry. I’ll do a-anything, I promise. I . . .” You swallow, your eyes filling with tears again. Naoya has been hard since the moment he heard you call out his name from inside the training room, your voice filled with choked tears, and watching them well up again does nothing for the stricture against the fabric. “I needed you.”

“And I saved you,” he says, arching an elegant brow – to which you nod again, and your hands drift towards him like you’re aimless without him in front of you to serve. “I’ll protect you, darling, as long as you learn your place.”

“I will!” That’s said with such conviction that he can’t help the smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I will. N-Naoya . . .” Your voice trembles a little. “’m willing to do anything for you. J-just please . . . not again.”

“Shh,” he reaches out and deigns to touch you, to gently and soothingly rub his thumb over your cheek, where the tears have dried. “If you’re really going to be so good for me, I won’t have to, will I?” You stumble forward onto your knees and Naoya’s brows shoot up in surprise as your hands tug at his hakama.

“Please let me show you how grateful I am,” you whisper, your eyes wide and bright and desperate. “Naoya, please, please, please--”

Oh, there’s something so gratifying about you like this, begging to suck his cock. It stirs between his thighs again, reminding him that he’s painfully stiff; and you are here, a willing mouth, scared out of your skull and desperate to please him. He’s smirking at you but you do not register it as such; all you see is the smile of your rescuer.

Your protector.

Your husband.

“Say what you want to do to me, darling,” he tells you, keeping his voice as sweet as he can make it. “You’re a big girl. You can use your words. What do you want to do, to show me how grateful you are that I saved your paltry life?”

You’re pouting; your mouth is sweet, pretty. He wants to pry your jaw open and fuck the back of your throat, and his body roars as your fingers tug on the hakama again and your meek, soft voice whispers;

“Please let me suck your cock.”

“You have a dirty mouth,” he coos to you, leaning forward to brush a finger over your lower lip. “Not befitting of a woman of your station. I suppose that means that it’s up to me to keep you quiet, hmm?”

You obediently open it, letting his finger gently rest on your tongue for a moment.

Desperate to please, your mouth closes about it, your tongue gently swiping over the pad, your cheeks hollowing a little as you suck on the digit inside of them. Naoya’s smiling again, the victorious grin of someone who’s gotten exactly what they wanted. He pulls his finger out and thrusts back in with two, whispering to you;

“Do you think you deserve my cock, after what you put me through today?”

You shake your head, but you don’t stop lavishing attention on the fingers in your mouth, a string of drool falling from the corner of your mouth as he presses his third finger inside of it. So warm, and wet. He needs his cock to be inside of you or he thinks he may embarrass himself.

The fingers are pulled out, wiped on the hakama fabric, before he says (the carefully adopted tone almost disinterested);

“Take them off, then. Don’t make your promises empty words. I wouldn’t appreciate such thoughtlessness in a wife.”

You’re eager, stripping off his clothes. Your mouth practically waters at the sight of his cock; elegant, flushed, hard and straining with a light upwards curve that he knows will hit you in the right place at the back of your throat to make you gag.

“Wait,” he says, as you lean in to bring him to your lips. “What do you say, darling?”

Your eyes (still brimming with tears, he notices – and fuck, he loves how you look teary-eyed and pouting. He has to make you cry more often) meet his, but the look in yours is worshipful so he doesn’t chide you for having the insolence to meet his gaze directly.

“Thank you,” you breathe. “For saving me. For letting me suck your cock. For everything.”

Naoya is smiling.

“Good girl,” he says, placidly, as you place a delicate kiss on the head of his cock and slowly envelope it in the warmth of your mouth. “Very good.”

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

Omg can I please get a hannibal x a shy girl reader ? Like he’s really possessive of her and she doesn’t know how to handle it but she likes him so they date??

Sorry this took so long, anon. I’ve been bouncing ideas around and this one in particular, I believe, fits your request. Y/n feels out of place among Hannibal’s fancy friends and it becomes even more obvious when he abandons her at a party. 

Trigger warnings: social anxiety, sexual harassment, overstimulation

You and Hannibal had an agreement about large gatherings. He could only bring you to a party if you had a week's notice and at least three uninterrupted hours of gaming time prior to the event.

For this event, you needed a solid six.

One of the major Maryland universities was awarding a lucrative research grant to a student of clinical psychology, and every influential name in the industry was expected to be there. As a recent college grad with a bachelor's in business you didn't know what to do with, you couldn't imagine a less welcoming environment if you tried. You couldn't fit into their world and more importantly, you didn't want to. But the thought of being noticeably different in any situation was twice as terrifying. So you spent the whole week repeating your mantra; blend in, be quiet and make it through the night.

But Hannibal had different plans for you.

Halfway through the week, just when you'd pushed the party out of your mind, Hannibal presented you with a gift.

"What's the occasion?" You asked. You hoped that if you pretended not to know, it would just magically go away.

"I brought you something to wear on Friday." Hannibal answered, hanging the garment bag up on the bureau. "You know I'll take any excuse to dress you up."

He unzipped the bag and placed a black silk dress into your arms. "Try it on so I have time to get it altered if it needs it."

The material was cool to the touch and outlined your figure so perfectly, you felt even a little naked. Hannibal, of course, loved this. You were his own personal Venus de Milo. His goddess and his muse. 

“Yes, that will do nicely.” He observed, looking at you hungrily. 

“Seems a little short for a such a sophisticated event, doesn’t it?” You raised an eyebrow. The answer was yes and he knew it. He was very deliberate in everything he did. “I don’t want to come off the wrong way.” 

“And what way would that be, darling?” He asked, not taking his eyes off your figure. 

“I mean--” You searched for the right words. “It’s a gathering of the Mid-Atlantic’s most esteemed academics, I feel like, in a dress like this, I might be seen as, well, a...” 

“A prostitute?” Hannibal finished, choosing a much nicer word than you would have.

You looked down. “Yeah. It just doesn’t seem all that appropriate.” 

Hannibal approached you and lifted your chin slightly to look into his eyes. “Many Christian denominations believe that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute, yet she was Christ’s right-hand woman. She was first to see him crucified and first to witness his resurrection.” 

“Dr. Lecter,” You smirked. “I never would have taken you for a religious man.” 

“Goodness, no.” He shook his head. “But any reputable academic is expected to be familiar with biblical literature and its many contradictions and impossibilities.” 

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You are my divine feminine, Miss [L/N].” Hannibal said in a low whisper. “And I want everyone to see it. If they see a common whore, it would only be a reflection of their own jealousy.” 

Hannibal's rationalization almost made you forget about your fear of being noticed. Almost. It all came rushing back when you arrived at the event. Not one person your age was in attendance. The women wore long, flowing evening gowns that reached the floor. The length of your skirt alone guaranteed that all eyes were on you. In a simple black silk dress, you looked the very model of high society. Silk was a sign of luxury, and Hannibal wanted everyone to know that you were a woman of means. His woman, to be precise. That was why he brought you to these functions in the first place. To put you in a dress short enough for any wandering eyes so see the smattering of love bites running up your inner thighs. He wanted everyone in his field to know that you were completely and entirely his.

You realized too late that this was all his little exercise in showing you off.

Everyone seemed to know him. He only knew a handful of people by name, and you didn't know anyone.

"And who is this delightful young woman?" A woman with a light southern twang in her voice asked, looking at you as if you were a caged animal on display.

"I wasn't aware you had a daughter, Dr. Lecter." The young man beside her laughed. "Or is she your side piece?"

Your eyes scanned the room for the nearest exit. It would be unbecoming to make a scene, so you plotted a way to slip out quietly.

“Darling, meet Dr. Charlotte Ramset and her TA, David.” Hannibal introduced, notably ignoring the young man. “Dr. Ramset, this is my intended, [F/N] [L/N].”

"I didn't realize she was also a ventriloquist!" The lady, presumably Dr. Ramset, joked. You'd heard that one a million times. She looked at you. "Tell me about yourself, sweetie. What are you studying?"

The lady was old enough to be your grandmother and reeked of too much perfume.

"I graduated last year." You said, quietly. "With a BA in business."

"See, there's a good woman." David added. "Only speaks when spoken to. They don't make ’em like you anymore, baby."

Hannibal tightened his grip on your hand. "On the contrary, David. See, Miss [L/N] is quite a bit like myself. She only dignifies those she deems worthy with a response. There's nothing wrong with being selective."

The lady laughed at David's expense and smiled at you. "Good for you."

You smiled back just a little, not ready to bring your guard down yet. "I've had to deal with more than enough. It's best not to engage."

"Oh, I know, I know." The lady said, shaking her head. "That's how it is for us educated gals. Always having to put up with pigs. See, I went to college in the sixties, so I can tell you some real stories."

This was a new experience. Talking to Hannibal's friends and having them listen to you was something you never considered possible. Now, you were one of the educated gals. You were just about to strike up a conversation with this woman, when the man next to her decided someone desperately needed to play devil’s advocate.

“I find that sexist, actually.” He cut in. “Not all men are pigs.” 

The silence following his comment was deafening and you wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Whatever progress Hannibal and Dr. Ramset made breaking down your defenses was completely reversed and you were ready to retreat.

Dr. Ramset took a long sip of wine and adjusted her shawl. “David, none of us said anything about men, you drew that conclusion yourself.”

“I mean, look at you.” David gestured to your dress. You knew exactly where this was going and you wished you could just disappear. “You’re basically asking for it.” 

Dr. Ramset glared at him. “David, that’s enough.” 

“I’m just stating facts.” David crossed his arms. “If you dress like a slut, what do you expect?”

Dr. Ramset and Hannibal seemed to have an entire conversation through prolonged eye contact before one of them broke the silence. 

"Charlotte, I hate to have to excuse myself so soon, but the president of the university is expecting me." Hannibal said, dropping your hand. Your heart hit the floor when you realized that he would be throwing you to the wolves.

"Of course, Dr. Lecter." She nodded. "Duty calls."

"I trust you'll keep an eye on my beloved [F/N] in my absence?" His voice hardened. The severity in his tone frightened you.

Dr. Ramset didn't seem disturbed or even surprised in the slightest by his gently threatening demand. "Of course."

"Thank you. And [F/N]?" He said, pressing his lips to the back of your hand. "I won't be going far. Please, try to have fun."

You tried not to look affronted, but you were going to have a long talk with Hannibal when you got home. 

"I'm just saying what everyone is thinking." David continued, his inability to take a hint positively astounding. "Why don't you respect yourself enough to cover up, [F/N]? You have a boyfriend!"

Your eyes scrolled across the room looking for any sign of Hannibal, but he was gone. Dr. Ramset finished her wine and stared at her TA with the resigned disgust of a death row jailer.

"Any other thoughts?" She said, snatching a fresh glass of wine. You looked at her with a clear expression of discomfort.

"Come on, do you see any other woman in the room dressed so provocatively?" David's voice broke mid-sentence. "No. Because they're educated enough to know that real men don't care about their bodies."

The hotel clerk approached the group. "Mr. Hosmer, there's a call for you."

David narrowed his eyes. "Uh, what?"

"Someone is on the phone asking for you." The clerk repeated. "Says it's an emergency."

David shrugged. "Fine."

Just when you thought you would be rid of him, at least for a moment, he planted his hands on your hips in attempt to "get by" you. His touch was like that of an insect crawling across your skin; unexpected, filthy and leaving you squeamish.

"I'm so sorry about that." Dr. Ramset's words echoed in your ears, but you didn't really hear them. You were too focused on grounding yourself to process what she was saying. 

“Dr. Ramset?” You said, quietly. “Which one is the president of the university?” 

She glanced at a tall woman in a dark blue suit, surrounded by equally important looking businesspeople. You followed her eyes. “That’s Dr. Mary Hosmer.”

Your ounce of righteous fury was squelched in two seconds when the reality of having to talk to someone, especially someone of stature, set in. You looked sheepishly back at Dr. Ramset. 

“Could you please ask her where Hannibal went?” You whispered. “I’d really like him to take me home now.” 

Her face turned sympathetic. “Of course, [F/N]. Stay right there.” 

You nodded. “Thank you.” 

Dr. Ramset crossed the floor and politely greeted the president. You took a few slow, calculated steps closer, just to get in earshot.

“Pardon me, but, have you seen Dr. Hannibal Lecter?” Dr. Ramset said, casually. 

“I wasn’t aware Hannibal had even arrived yet.” The president answered. “I haven’t seen him.” 

Your eyes widened. You fought the urge to freeze, but you had to move back before Dr. Ramset knew you’d been eavesdropping. You heard everything you needed and rushed back to where she’d left you.

“Dr. Hosmer said he stepped out.” She told you upon her return. “He should be back soon.” 

You tried not to show that you knew she was lying. “...oh.” 

“Would you like me to stay with you until he comes back?” 

You knew you were completely on your own. You didn’t know what was going on, but you had an inkling that it had to do with the president and David sharing a last name. All you knew for certain was that you couldn’t trust anybody. 

“Don’t bother.” You shook your head. You took off for the door, but Dr. Ramset grabbed your wrist. 

“I’m sorry, [F/N].” Her voice dropped to a low whisper. She didn’t look mad, but afraid. “But Dr. Lecter told me to stay with you. Please. Don’t make this harder for me.”

You recalled how seriously threatening Hannibal’s request was. She wasn’t answering to the president of the university. She was answering to Hannibal. You didn’t know whether to be scared or relieved. 

“Right.” You conceded, stepping back in. “I’m sorry.” 

The actual award ceremony was much longer than it needed to be, and it dragged on even longer knowing there was no reason for you to be there. Other than that, you awkwardly followed Dr. Ramset around the party like a lost puppy the whole time. You were back to your original plan: blend in, be quiet and make it through the night. 

Just when you thought the party would never end, someone tapped you on the arm. You turned around, hoping with every fiber of your being that it was Hannibal, but it wasn’t. A tall woman in a dark blue suit stared back at you. 

“I’m sorry to bother you, miss.” She said, apologetically. “But have you seen my son? I saw him talking to you and Dr. Charlotte earlier, perhaps he told you where he was going?” 

You’d pushed that man completely out of your mind. You shook your head. “He left to take a phone call and I haven’t seen him since.” 

A hand found your shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Hosmer, but I believe I saw the boy on his phone out in the lobby.” 

“Dr. Lecter!” The president’s eyes widened. “How nice of you to finally join us.” 

“...Yes, I believe he left right after making unwarranted comments towards my intended here.” Hannibal ran his hand down your arm lovingly. 

“Well, boys will be boys.” The president chuckled. “Maybe you should teach your girlfriend not to wear such revealing clothes.” 

Hannibal smiled and pulled you in protectively. “Whatever the case, I hope you find him very soon.” 

Her phone chimed in her back pocket. “Oh, that’s him right now.” 

“Wonderful.” Hannibal said. “[F/N] and I will be taking our leave.” 

He hurried you towards the door, his hand tight around yours. A blood-curdling scream came from behind you. You looked back for just a moment and found the president hollering in pain and falling to her knees. 

“Let’s go, darling.” Hannibal tugged at your arm. “They don’t deserve your presence.” 

“Hannibal, I swear.” You said, once you were in the safety of the car. “If you killed every man who looked at me like a piece of meat, sooner or later, there won’t be any men left.” 

Hannibal smirked and reached for his seatbelt. “Wonderful.” 

[kythed]

synopsis: sometimes the person who’s right for you is not the one who’s “perfect” for you. 

genre/warnings: akaashi x fem!reader, nyc au, mostly fluff, about three minutes of angst, like four (4) swear words.

tags: @neonghxst​ @catzula​

commitment level: 8.5k words.

a/n: dedicated to sandra bullock and my cat. I tried to capture the ups and downs of a real relationship, but with a hollywood feel haha. I know it’s kind of a biggie, but I personally think the end is worth it :)

+

It’s not hard to fall in love. It really isn’t.

Not when Love is standing right before you in a crowded Barnes & Nobles on the corner of South Street and 22nd Ave. 

Not when Love is wearing a rumpled button down, half-frame glasses, and a sheepish expression on his face. 

Not when Love, rubbing the back of his neck, apologizes for reaching for the same book that you were reaching for and says, “I’m Keiji Akaashi, pleased to meet you,” and “You have good taste,” accompanied by a laugh that sounds like almost everything you’ve ever wanted wrapped up in one chuckle. 

It’s not hard to fall in love with Love, especially when he offers you the last remaining copy of that book and asks if you want to grab lunch after checking out. 

“Sure,” you say lightly, beaming when his face brightens. “So long as you let me lend you this after I’m done.”

“Deal,” says Akaashi, and before you know it you’re perched at an outdoor counter beneath a cheerful yellow awning, sipping on a latte as Akaashi stirs stevia into his black tea. The scent of confederate jasmine surfs on the breeze, weaving through busy traffic and hapless cyclists until it fingers your hair from your shoulders, sweet and subtle. 

“I believe in soulmates,” he says fifteen minutes into the conversation. He’s half-smiling, but something about his tone convinces you he’s entirely serious. “The Greek philosopher Aristophanes believed humans originally had two sets of limbs and strength great enough to rival the gods, so Zeus decided to split them in two parts each.”

“And ever since we’ve all been feeling the loss of our other halves,” you finish, lips quirking up at the corners. “So what you’re saying is you’re a little bit of a romantic, then?”

“Just a little,” Akaashi laughs, absentmindedly piling the table’s little coffee creamers into a pyramid. “I’d consider myself more of a hopeful realist than a romantic. It makes sense, no? Sometimes there are those people we meet that just seem… right.” 

“Very true,” you say softly, picking up a creamer that falls from the top of the pyramid and handing it back to him. 

Just then, the waitress arrives with your sandwiches, and when she sets the plate down before you, you automatically begin ripping the crusts off, only to stop when you hear Akaashi laughing at you. 

“Listen,” you say, meeting his gaze with a burning face, “I know it’s childish, but I —”

“No,” says Akaashi with a grin. “It’s not that.” Then he looks down at his own plate, and you follow his eyes to his own crusts piled on the side of his plate. 

Sometimes there are those people we meet that just seem… right.

“Very true,” you repeat softly.

“Very true,” he echoes, eyes on yours. 

It’s not hard to fall in love, not when Love believes in soulmates and rips the crusts off his sandwiches. 

And something tells you it’s not hard for Love to fall for you either. 

+

There’s always been this amorphous idea of who Love is drifting around your brain, but over the next couple months, he begins to take on a more solid shape. What used to be a vague outline fleshes out, rendered in flushed skin and ink-shaded hair and blue eyes so dark they nearly look black in the dim light of the early evening. 

Turns out, Love isn’t six foot six with a blinding smile and a Herculean physique. He’s lithe and great at slipping in and out of rooms unnoticed. He likes running more than he likes weightlifting. He only watches movies made before 1990 and after 2010, and he grinds a dangerous amount of peppercorn over everything he eats. His last name fits with your first like it’s meant to be, and your fingers click in place like two hands off the same sculpture.

He kisses you three weeks after your first date, halfway through the walk home to your flat. The music from the concert he brought you to see still plays in the back of your head, huge and sweeping and orchestral. It’s a cool night, and you’re sure the stars would be beautiful… if you could see them.

“Stupid light pollution,” you say, craning your neck up to see a murky slate sky. “Can’t see a damn thing.” 

Akaashi looks up, leaning back with his hands shoved in the pockets of his long black coat. “That’s the thing about living in a city, I guess. You sacrifice the stars for the subway.” 

All around you, red brick apartments rise high into the air, windows shining warm and bright. On the side of the street, a man playing a James Taylor cover on his beat up acoustic guitar smiles in your direction, and Akaashi stops to toss a dollar in the man’s overturned baseball cap.

“And for the horrendous traffic,” you continue, nudging him with your shoulder as you amble along. It’s late, but plenty of other civilians are out and about — there’s an older woman walking her cocker spaniel, and a father in his early 30s pushing his fussy toddler in a stroller, while his wife walks alongside. “And dogs peeing on the sidewalk. And bread that costs $5.99 a loaf. And hotdog carts of very questionable quality.” 

Akaashi laughs and scoots a little closer to you, avoiding a street sign. “And skyscrapers that light up like Christmas trees all year long, and tiny corner delis with chubby cats snoozing behind the counters. And millions of different people dreaming millions of different lives into being every single night.” 

Despite yourself, you smile. Akaashi may be an editor, but he’s got the creative writer gene wired into his DNA — and you love it. “See? You’re definitely an optimist.” 

Again, Akaashi shakes his head. “No. Just the other side of your coin.” 

You stare at him for a moment, searching those big blue eyes — and he lets you. He lets your peer into him, face serene with slight amusement playing on his thin lips. 

Those lips…

The world freezes like a record scratch, and you’re quite sure your expression mirrors Akaashi’s: hesitant, waiting for someone to give permission, for someone to dive into the water and ripple its glassy surface. You’re in a dreamlike state — can I? Can we? 

And suddenly you’re being pulled back into reality and across the street; a taxi blares its horn as you stumble by but you hardly notice; you’re being pressed up against the graffitied wall of an alleyway, hands bunched into Akaashi’s collar as he kisses you, as his fingers tangle in your hair to draw you closer to him. His lips are gentle but firm on yours, smooth and sweet as maple syrup. 

Nearly unbearable heat blossoms in your chest, and Akaashi’s spicy, heady cologne along with the lack of oxygen starts to make you dizzy until he pulls away, face flushed and breaths ragged. 

“I…” he starts, swallowing thickly as he takes in your disheveled appearance. He self-consciously runs a hand through his own mussed hair, leaning his other hand on the wall behind you. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually that… reckless.” 

“No?” you say softly. Your hands are still twisted in his shirt, and your heart is still throbbing in your temples, the erratic bass beneath the surface of a hopeful song. 

“No,” says Akaashi. He grins, the dimple in his left cheek winking. “You just make me impatient, I guess.” 

“Good,” you whisper, and the word’s scarcely left your lips when he pulls you back in, mouth soft on yours. He folds you into himself until you’re pressed flush against his body, fingers splayed across his chest. Akaashi is your anchor in these wild, rapid waves, crashing at your feet again and again as this strange feeling overtakes you, this unfamiliar urge to keep kissing and being kissed forever. A sharp pain pricks at your bottom lip and you realize he’s sunk his teeth into it, playfully giving it a gentle tug before dipping down for another warm, slow kiss. 

It’s you who ventures to slip your tongue into his mouth, and he sighs softly when you do, squeezing your waist in appreciation. When he returns the favor, it’s no longer just kissing — it’s devouring, it’s drinking deep from an endless well of a desire to know and be known. 

Now your hands are curled in his hair, and his fingers are flirting with the hem of your sweater, and you’re all but in your own impervious snow globe as the world outside blurs by. 

Almost impervious, that is. 

A nearby police siren startles the both of you, and you jerk apart, swiveling your heads nervously. When it finally dawns on you that no, the police are not typically dispatched to arrest young couples for kissing in alleyways, Akaashi seems to have realized it too, and you and he exchange an embarrassed look. 

“So,” he begins, at the same time you blurt out, “That was…”

The two of you laugh, and a graceless dance of “No, you go,” and “No, no, you go,” commences: 

“I was just going to say —”

“Yeah, that was just —”

“I mean, yeah, it was so —” 

“Good,” finishes Akaashi breathlessly. “It was good.” 

You nod vehemently, unable to suppress the smile bubbling up in your throat. Then something snags your eye. “Oh, wait — take a look at that.”

“Look at what?” Akaashi says, glancing behind him. 

“There.” You gesture to the wall opposite you. Though it’s dim, and the orange light from the nearest streetlamp hardly permeates the narrow alley, you can just make out several swirls of cobalt, gold, and white spray-painted in bold strokes on the other side. 

“It’s ‘Starry Night,’” Akaashi breathes. “A very good imitation of it, at least.” 

As you squint, the characteristic black town rises into view, giving each wild, burning star an audience to shine for. You inhale sharply. “It’s beautiful.”

“Looks like you got to see your stars after all,” jokes Akaashi, and in response you slip your hand into his, giving it a light squeeze. 

“Looks like it.” 

Akaashi finally drops you home (after several “last” kisses) and as you sip a mug of green tea at your kitchen counter, you gaze out the window at the starless sky. It’s the same one you complained about an hour earlier, yet, somehow, it bothers you far less now. 

Perhaps it was the graffiti in the alley. 

Perhaps it’s the lingering giddiness of a first kiss.

Or perhaps, it’s the sudden realization that just because you can’t see the stars doesn’t mean they’re not there. 

+

Summer fades into autumn, and Akaashi clears a space for you in his life. 

There’s a you-sized indent in his mattress, the result of sleepless nights and sleepy mornings spent tangled in his sheets. Your favorite brand of orange juice finds a home in his refrigerator, ready to slosh into a glass that you’ll sip out of as you watch Akaashi’s bare back at the stove. His weeks are slowly filled by your fingerprints, Wednesday coffee runs and Friday dinner dates. 

He makes time for you. 

When he introduces you to his mom, she envelopes you in a tight hug, squeezing what seems to be enough love for the entire world into your body. She’s shorter than you, but she takes up so much space, a sharp contrast to Akaashi’s habit of seamlessly melting into corners. 

“I love your sweater,” you say after she releases you, gesturing to the thick, cream-colored pullover she wears. Its hem is embroidered with countless tiny blue flowers connected by a continuous vine of emerald green leaves.

“Keiji bought it for me,” she beams, and you smile back, seeing Akaashi — standing off to the side — flush a little. 

“Her birthday’s in February,” Akaashi explains, pointing to the flowers. “Irises.”

“Ah,” you say. “Ever detail oriented.” 

Akaashi rolls his eyes with a small smile and bends down to kiss his mother on the cheek before heading into the kitchen, murmuring something about putting the kettle on. The moment he leaves, Mrs. Akaashi takes a hold on your upper arm and draws you close. She smells like home — an odd but pleasant mix of flowery hand soap, laundry detergent, and burnt sugar. 

“My dear,” she whispers to you, a sense of urgency in her voice. Her eyes widen. “Keiji never smiles as much as he’s been smiling since he’s met you. I’ve never seen him so alive.”

“Oh?”

She nods vigorously. “Whatever it is you’re doing, keep on doing it.”

“Love brings out the best in people, I suppose,” you muse with a smile. Akaashi’s mom is about to say something else before Akaashi walks back in, a tray of tea and honey teetering in his hands. He raises his eyebrows at your pose — arm in his mother’s grip, bending your ear to her. 

“Gossiping about me?” he jokes, setting the tray down on the coffee table with a soft click. 

“Just warning her to get out while she still can,” Mrs. Akaashi teases right back. She leans towards you conspiratorially. “Keiji’s so picky about girls — the fact that you’ve surpassed his standards means he’ll never let you leave now.” 

You laugh, picking your way between armchairs to stand beside Akaashi. His arm slips around your waist almost automatically, chin coming to rest on your hair. “I wouldn’t want to.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Akaashi murmurs, eyes glinting with mischief. 

“Ditto.”

+

Sometimes when you think about the night of your first kiss with him, you remember Akaashi’s low but confident voice — “Just the other side of your coin” — and you think he must’ve been right.

There’s a steady push and pull to your relationship, a seamless switch of high tides and low tides washing up against the sand. Akaashi is incredibly straightforward, methodical in his work and his personality — he’s drawn of clean ruler lines and ballpoint pen. You’re a little more spontaneous, a little more disorderly, sketched in smudged charcoal and splashes of paint.

You’re always the first to lose at chess, but he’ll never challenge you to a game of Concentration. He thinks the way you douse your rice in soy sauce is abhorrent, but he never misses the dirty glances you cast at him when he sprinkles sugar on his eggs.

You’ll sing your lungs out in the great outdoors, breathless and giddy, while he’ll only be caught humming in the privacy of the shower. You despise ordering at restaurants, while he’ll make small talk with the waiters, no problem.

It’s not to say you’re opposites. No, the places you overlap are enough to show you’re just two shades of the same color. You give each other depth and richness, cerulean and indigo so well blended it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

+

“I think I want to go back to school,” you remark offhandedly. 

It’s mid-October, and it’s been a little over a year of loving Love. 

It’s been a little over a year of concerts in the park, of grocery shopping at 10pm, of 6-hour flights to see your family and 2-hour train rides to see his. 

It’s been hours of sitting in comfortable silence, reading a mystery novel while he cleans out his email inbox across the living room. 

It’s been a Thanksgiving, a Christmas, and a New Years, an overcooked turkey and socks patterned with reindeer and a midnight kiss that tasted like Champagne. 

It’s also been a handful of petty fights and disagreements — arguing over whether or not you should redo your shared bathroom, if the governor should’ve spent as many tax dollars as he did on infrastructure this year, which Adele album is objectively the best, etc. But you feel like you’ve gotten the hang of this love thing by now. And if a few small arguments are the price, you’re more than willing to pay. 

“You want to go back to school?” Akaashi repeats, eyebrows raised. You can already tell he doesn’t think it’s a good idea, and you deflate. 

“For my Master's,” you explain, playing with your fingers. “Could open up some career options for me, you know?”

“It could,” says Akaashi slowly. He takes his glasses off, folds them, and sets them on the arm of the sofa, leaning forward. “I just thought you were happy with your current position.” 

“I am,” you concede. “But I might not always be.”

“Is that ‘might’ enough of a reason to go to grad school?” Akaashi asks seriously. “It also ‘might’ be a waste of time and money.” 

“I’ve given it enough thought,” you insist, leaning in to place a hand on his knee. “Even if I end up staying with this job, a little more education won’t be a waste.”

Akaashi stares at you in silence, searching your face.

“Plus,” you say lightly, “I might not even get into the program I apply to. Or I could change my mind before enrolling. I’m just gonna register for an application right now.”

Finally, Akaashi sighs, not out of exasperation, but of reluctant agreement. “Well,” he says, tilting his head. “I trust your judgement. And I support you entirely. You know that.” 

“Thanks, Keiji,” you say, squeezing his wrist before leaning back into your seat. 

Trust. That’s key, you think. So, a couple weeks later, as you’re knee deep in application essays and forms, when Akaashi says he’s been thinking about trying to get a manuscript of his published — you give him your wholehearted trust, too. 

You’re the one who, in March, after you’ve submitted your application to grad school and he’s sent his manuscript to a publisher, suggests you open your letters together. They arrive on the same day, after all, and if that’s not a sign from the universe, what is? 

“Okay,” you say, nervously tapping your fingers on the kitchen counter. “Ready… set… open.” 

There’s a shaking of hands, the impatient, rustling sound of two envelopes being torn. It takes a moment for your eyes to register what the letter says.

Dear Miss… we regret to inform you… 

Oh. 

“They’re taking it!” Akaashi exclaims in disbelief. You look up to see his cheeks flushed with happiness, reading and rereading the publishing house’s response. “Oh my God. Wow.”

Then he looks up, sees your face. The small smile drops off of his as he gently pries the letter from your hands and scans it, eyebrows furrowing. He glances back at you. For the first time since you've known him, it seems that Keiji Akaashi doesn’t know the right thing to say. 

So you say it instead. “It’s okay. I’m proud of you.” 

You blink hard, willing yourself to smile rather than cry. Akaashi’s book is getting published — today is a good day. “Anyways — you were right. Waste of time.”

His face falls. “Oh, baby.” 

You stand up and push your chair in, turning your face towards the window so he can’t see the first tear fall. 

There’s a fragile moment of silence that hangs in the air, a delicate cobweb swaying in the breeze as it awaits a warm spring rain to wash it away. 

And then you hear Akaashi stand up as well, footsteps thumping their way over until he’s standing behind you. You smell that woodsy cologne, you hear his deep, steady breathing — and then you feel him wrap his arms around you and squeeze. He squeezes and squeezes and squeezes, because even though he can’t find the words to say, he is still his mother’s son and he knows how to hug love into someone. 

You start crying. 

+

It’s not easy to stay in love. It really isn’t. 

There are growing pains. Humans are dynamic creatures, and who we were yesterday is seldom the same as who we are today, regardless of the other constants in our lives. 

Sometimes, change hurts, and we mistake that ache for falling out of love. 

+

Akaashi has a busy schedule now. 

It’s been a couple months since his book’s been published, and he’s been unexpectedly catapulted into the apex of the literary scene, selling 10,000 copies the first week and double that the second. It seems like he has another journalist calling for an interview every other day — once, someone on the street stopped him for an autograph while the two of you were walking to the bank. 

At first, it was a constant celebration — you’d started to call him “Superstar,” and when his first paycheck arrived you booked a cab to the most expensive sushi place in town and shared a bottle of Dom Perignon between you, equally tipsy on alcohol, tuna nigiri, and glee. The sting of being rejected by your grad school pick faded slightly, smoothed over by a warm pride for your boyfriend. 

But success comes at a cost. A heart can only handle so much at the same time. You feel guilty for wondering if Akaashi’s no longer has room for you, between the constant publicity, the endless symposiums, and his day job for the manga publishing house (at which he’d promptly received a promotion after his newfound authordom).

He forgets things. 

Your two year anniversary, for instance — it’s not as scandalizing an offense as it might be were you married, but you can’t help but acknowledge the small pinprick of pain you feel when the warm June day comes and goes without Akaashi’s recognition. 

He forgets to call that last “I love you” over his shoulder when he leaves for work early in the morning. Where you used to make a point of prioritizing physical intimacy, he now often slumps into bed several hours after you do, asleep before his head hits the pillow. 

He’s less patient and more terse; and although you know he tries to be kind, he’s tired, and it shows. 

And every sharp word, the increasing frequency with which he snaps at you — they grind you down, sandpaper on wood, slowly but surely carving you smaller and smaller. 

+

You’re awakened by a hand shaking your shoulder.

“Babe.”

Bleary eyed, you sit up in bed, scrunching the navy blue comforter beneath your fingers with a yawn. There’s a sliver of sunlight slicing through the drawn curtains, but aside from that, the room is dark. Akaashi is already dressed and wide awake, work satchel swinging from his shoulder. 

“What is it?” you mumble, voice scratchy. A quick look at the nightstand tells you it’s still before 7:00, when you usually drag yourself out of bed for work. 

“You didn’t insert new ink into the printer last night like I asked you to,” he says, a slight edge to his voice. He glances at his watch. 

You groan. You’d been up far too late, working a crucial proposal for your boss. “I’m sorry, it slipped my mind.”

“Yeah, well,” says Akaashi, sighing and ruffling his hair. “I just need to know where the ink refills are. They’re not in the usual drawer.” 

“They’re not?”

Akaashi gapes at you. “What do you mean, ‘they’re not?’ I thought you must’ve moved them.”

“No,” you say, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. “I guess we’re out.”

“Shit.” Akaashi buries his face in his hands. “I had to print several extremely important documents for a meeting this morning.”

“Can’t you just print them at the office?”

“No!” he snaps, turning on his heel and stepping into the hall, the one you’d painted pale green together and lined with framed photos. 

You follow him into the hall, taking a quick glance at a picture of you and Akaashi at the seaside,  squinting from sunlight as the deep blue ocean swells in the background. Your bright smiles, forever frozen in film, seem mocking now.

“We’re meeting this client at a restaurant in about, let’s see —” Another look at his wristwatch. “—five minutes ago. Last time I checked restaurants don’t have printers.”

You’re still dressed in your oversized sleep shirt and fuzzy socks, and feeling far too much like a child being reprimanded. “Okay, well, look, I’m sorry I forgot about the printer, but it really should’ve been your responsibility anyways —”

“I have a lot of other responsibilities to take care of!” Akaashi says, jaw tensing in reproach. He snatches his keys from the counter with a metallic jingle. “It was the least you could’ve done.”

“Excuse me?” You blink in disbelief. “I have a lot of other responsibilities, too — just as many if not more than you do, actually, considering how you’re never home! More often than not, I’m alone in doing the dishes, the cooking, the vacuuming, the toilet cleaning —”

“Wow, toilet cleaning,” says Akaashi sarcastically. “How incredibly difficult that must be for you! While I’m out there doing real, professional work, you have to clean the damn bathroom once a week. Oh, the humanity!” 

The next beat of silence spans a slow, painful century.

Finally, you swallow, eyes filling with tears. “That was mean, Keiji.”

He stares, the full significance of his frustration fueled words solidifying. “I— I didn’t —”

“Just because I’m not some hotshot novelist doesn’t mean my job isn’t ‘real work,’“ you say, voice slightly raised. “And I know you’re stressed, but that doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. Maybe if you got your nose out of your Gmail and actually spent some time in the real world you’d notice how fucking insufferable you can be sometimes!” 

Again, no sound but a few pigeons cooing outside and the constant tick-tick-tick-tick of the wall clock. 

Akaashi glances at it and sighs, tightening his satchel strap. “I’m late. We can talk about this later —”

But you’re gone, storming back into the bedroom so he can’t see the hot tears beginning to scald your cheeks. And when he gets home late that night, you’re already in bed, eyes closed, facing the wall. 

“I know you’re awake,” he says quietly, but you don’t trust yourself to answer. You feel his weight sink into the mattress as he lays down beside you. He huffs a soft sigh. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier today. It was mean. And untrue.”

“I’ll try to do better.” He falters, starts again. “I’ll do better.” 

You don’t say anything aloud, but when he slips an arm around your waist, you take his hand and give it a light squeeze. A light squeeze that says, It’s okay. I’m sorry, too. 

He squeezes back.

+

Three words to describe the next two weeks: Fragile. Tentative. 

Fake. 

There are no fights. Everything is pleasant. 

The two of you are tiptoeing. Tiptoeing, ever so carefully, on a bridge built of nothing but olive branches and forced smiles.

+

“Keiji,” you say, brushing his shoulder lightly. He looks up from his seat on the balcony across from you, newspaper balancing on his knee, black coffee in hand. Although plenty of other routines have dissolved in the turmoil of this past season, Sunday breakfasts together remain a stubborn tradition. “You remember that poetry workshop I’ve been taking?”

Akaashi flashes you a grin. “Duh. I’m the one who told you to take it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say with a good-natured eye roll. 

“What about it?” he urges you on, blowing the steam from his mug. 

“We’re having a sort of performance,” you explain after you take a bite of toast. Here, on the fifth floor of the apartment building, you’re removed from the rest of the world down below. It’s so easy to pretend that everything is okay. “At a cafe downtown.”

“So it’s like a slam poetry sort of thing?” Akaashi muses. You try to ignore the obviously contrived, over-compensating interest in his tone.

“I mean, the term ‘slam poetry’ makes it sound a lot more hip than it really is,” you say. A sudden, blaring car alarm somewhere down the block drowns you out, so you patiently wait until you hear the car owner cuss and run outside to stop it before you repeat yourself. “The class is mostly just a bunch of young people looking to add something creative to their resume.”

To be quite honest, you’re a little embarrassed to be bringing the poetry thing up — you’ve never had quite the artistic caliber that Akaashi has, it seems. But you’ve been working hard on your portfolio, trying your best to channel some sort of hidden lyrical talent, and, for the first time in a while, you’re genuinely anticipating something. 

“What day is it?” Akaashi asks. A red robin lands on the balcony railing, whistling in glee as Akaashi proffers it a crumb of his toast. 

“It’s on the 15th. 7:00pm.” The robin pecks at the crumb and darts away with a chirp. “I know you get off at 6:30, but I was thinking you could just meet me there after work.” 

Akaashi leans forward to push your hair from your face and presses a brief kiss on your forehead. To him, it’s just a kiss, but to you, it’s a stamp of approval. “I’ll be there.”

“Will you?”

“I promise.” 

+

6:44.

6:49.

6:53.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

7:00.

+

He doesn’t come. 

+

“Baby, I’m sorry —” Akaashi starts as you burst through the door to the apartment, flinging your scarf and coat onto the sofa. 

“You said you would.” Your voice is quiet but quivering with frustration. Without meeting his eyes, you speed walk to the bedroom and begin shoveling your belongings into a duffel bag, tossing in t-shirts and cosmetics without rhyme or reason. 

Akaashi follows on your heels, remorse plain on his face as he runs a hand through his hair. “I know I did — and I should’ve. It’s just that my publisher called me out of the blue with a new advertising offer, and I lost track of time, and I know it’s not a great excuse… I’m sorry — but you’ll have another performance, right? And it’s just poetry anyway.”

The moment the sentence leaves his lips, Akaashi knows he’s said exactly the wrong thing. You whirl around to face him, face puffy and tear-streaked. 

“Just poetry?” You laugh without humor. “Actually, Keiji, it’s not just poetry. It’s everything.” 

“Babe, if I had realized you were so into it I would’ve —”

“But that’s the thing,” you say, stuffing a handful of chargers into your bag. “I’m not. I’m into you. I wanted you to come listen.”

Akaashi stays silent as you bend down to empty your sock drawer angrily. You draw in a deep, shuddering breath. 

“These past few months have been exhausting, okay?” you say, voice thick, as if it’s physically paining you to speak. “I love you, and I’m so, so wonderfully proud of you, and of all the good things in your life right now. But it’s like I’m not even a part of that life. We miss each other like fucking ships in the night, in and out of work and home and business trips, and it’s just —”

You stop to breathe for a second, fists clenching and unclenching at your sides. “It’s infuriating, Keiji. I’ve been trying to be helpful to you, and sometimes it seems like you realize that, but what you don’t realize is I just — I just feel —” You splay your hands and swallow hard, searching your addled mind for the right words — “I feel so small. So small compared to you. Too small for you to care about, if the way this relationship’s been going recently is anything to go by.”

You pause once more to zip the duffel, hoist it onto your shoulder, and push past Akaashi into the living room. “And that’s why I agreed to take that dumb poetry class in the first place,” you call over your shoulder. “To prove something. I’m not sure what — maybe that I can be eloquent, too. Or creative. Or whatever you want to call it. Anything that would get you to see me again.” 

And when you turn to look at Akaashi’s face again, you’re surprised by the expression in those blue eyes — it’s like the fog has cleared, and he is seeing you — really seeing you — for the first time in what feels like ages. 

“Please,” he says, so quietly you almost don’t catch it. Your heart cracks at the sight of it: Akaashi, standing there in the center of the living room, dark eye bags and the slumped shoulders of a tired man who knows he’s made a mistake. “Don’t go. Stay.” 

Your chest throbs, and every fiber in your body screams to drop your bag on the doorstep and fling yourself into his arms. This is the only person you’ll ever love, you’re sure of that. But still… something has to change. Your head is made of stone as you shake it — slowly, achingly. “I’m going to stay with my cousin for a little while. I... I need to think.” 

Your eyes sweep around the room one last time, and you turn the doorknob, stepping out into the open air. “I’ll see you later.” 

And the last thing you see before you close the door with a resounding ‘click’ is Love, heartbroken. 

+

Keiji Akaashi (24) for GQ Magazine, August 28th, 2021. 

Q: Mr. Akaashi, pleasure to have you here today.

A: Thank you so much, Mr. Johnson.

Q: Please, call me Greg.

A: [laughs] Greg, then. Feel free to call me Keiji, too.

Q: Great. So, Keiji — why don’t you start off by telling us a little about this novel of yours that’s taken the world by storm this past year? 

A: Well… it’s the story of a grey boy who meets a rainbow girl, essentially. 

Q: Ah, so it’s an opposites attract sort of thing, would you say?

A: Not at all. You’ve noticed that a rainbow always follows a grey sky, I hope. It’s the same thing here. In fact, I think what readers have liked about my book is the subversion of the ‘opposites attract’ trope. I tried to show how the differences between two people aren’t always direct opposites. Sometimes they’re just… balances.”

Q: Like the concept of being one’s ‘other half’?

A: Exactly. 

Q: That’s very romantic.

A: It’s very true. 

Q: Well, Keiji, another thing it seems your fans have been wondering about is the book dedication. ��To my one and only.’ Anything you can tell us about this mysterious lady love of yours? 

A: She’s incredible. She’s a big part of why I wrote this book in the first place, actually. I’d been toying with the idea for a number of years, but I didn’t take action until we started dating a while back. I hope she watches this.

Q: You hope?

A: Ah, well… she’s quite angry at me right now. As she has a right to be. So I’m not sure.

Q: [laughs] Best of luck with that. 

A: Thank you. But yeah, she really is my soulmate, you know? I love her more than anything. 

Q: [to the camera] Well, I hate to break it to you ladies, but it seems that the charming Akaashi Keiji is all tied up when it comes to romance! 

A: [laughs] Quite. 

Q: Okay, then, onto the next question…

+

August 30th, 2021, via iMessage.

[You]: I did watch it, by the way.

[Keiji]: ?

[You]: The GQ interview.

[Keiji]: Good. 

+

You’re etching in a crossword puzzle in your cousin’s spare room, struggling to find a four letter term for “by word of mouth” when you hear knocking on the front door. Three crisp knocks, and then nothing else. 

You frown, distracted, and lean into the hall. “Anyone gonna get that?”

Quiet.

“No? Just me?” 

You huff, tossing the crossword and your pen back onto the quilted bed before padding out into the front hall, rubbing your eyes as you do so. It’s too early for the mail, and nobody orders milk deliveries anymore — so what is it?

Violently bright sunlight blinds you momentarily when you crack open the door, so it’s a few seconds before your vision clears enough for you to notice the package sitting on the welcome mat. You inspect it carefully as you bring it in — wrapped in neat brown paper, it’s about the size of a clothing gift box. It also has your name written on it in very familiar handwriting, as does the pale blue envelope you find inside the box. 

You resolve to open that last, because there’s a stack of several other papers lying beneath it. One of them is a stapled copy of a fresh application to the same grad school you’d been denied at the year before. Your full name is scrawled at the top, along with most of your required personal information. Stuck to it there’s a yellow Post-It note, with Akaashi’s small, even letters spelling out: Because some things are worth trying again. 

Oh.

Your fingers find a small, glossy rectangle next, printed with a bright yellow vase bursting hosting equally bright sunflowers. You have to bring it right up to your eyes to decipher the tiny print on its back: 

Exclusive Van Gogh exhibit. Once in a lifetime opportunity to see the renowned artist’s most famous works. September 16th, 7pm at the Riverside Gallery. 

You draw a sharp breath. You’d been hankering to see the exhibit since you saw an ad for it on a billboard two weeks ago, but the ticket price had been just a little too high to justify it in relation to your salary. 

Beneath the application and the ticket, there’s one final item wrapped in white tissue paper. You lift it from the box delicately, gasping when a heavy swath of black satin pours out onto the rug. Gingerly, you scoop it up and hold it out in front of you — an evening gown in your size. God, this thing must’ve cost a fortune, too, you think, running your hands over the luxurious fabric again and again. 

When you finally manage to tear your eyes from the dress, you open the letter.

Meet me at the Riverside plaza. The occasion is black tie, hence the dress. 

Yours,

Keiji

“Oh,” you sigh to yourself, partly in frustration, partly to keep any telling, traitorous tears from escaping. “You foolish, beautiful boy.”

+

There’s a book that reads, quite famously, “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast,” and so on and so forth. 

What this book doesn’t mention, however, is that Love makes mistakes. 

Love is not perfect. 

Love is waiting at the front doors of the Riverside Gallery, wearing a tailored tuxedo and nervously looking at his watch again and again. 

6:44.

6:49.

6:53.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

“Sir,” says the doorman, “The exhibit will be closing its doors soon. Are you sure your guest is on her way?”

Love believes. Love believes in you.

“She’ll be here,” he says, staring into the distance. “She’s a better person than I am.”

+

You glance at the kitchen clock for the umpteenth time. It’s half past six, and you’re still at home dressed in a ratty college tee and soccer shorts. Akaashi’s package lies on the floor, untouched since you’d opened it several hours ago. 

“I’m angry at him,” you mutter. “I can’t go. It’d be weak of me.”

Your wavering tone sounds a little too much as though you’re trying to convince yourself — and you realize you’re fighting a failing battle. 

You love him, undeniably so. And sometimes that means giving second chances even when you’re still hurting. 

“Damn it,” you huff finally, scrambling onto your feet. You pull the dress up into your arms and stumble into the bathroom, tugging your hair out of its ponytail and haphazardly tossing your cosmetics bag onto the counter. Your reflection, frantic and, frankly, crusty stares back at you — you splash it with water and scrub furiously. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.” 

You’re halfway out the door when you remember the ticket, snatch it from the box, and practically somersault down the front steps, hailing the first cab you see. 

“How long does it take to get to the Riverside Gallery?” you ask the driver, a grisly older man in a newsboy cap, as you hike up your dress and climb in. 

“‘Bout 10 minutes, ma’am,” he grunts, pulling away from the curb. 

“And what time is it?” 

“6:50, ma’am.”

You swallow and thrust a ten dollar bill towards the front of the car. “Any way we could make that 8 minutes?” 

+

It’s 6:57 when traffic comes to a halt about a block and a half away from the gallery. The cars are absolutely gridlocked, bumper to bumper, the air a cacophony of blaring horns and cussing pedestrians. 

“Driver,” you say, peering over his shoulder, “Driver, can we speed this up at all?”

“Ma’am,” says the driver with exasperation, “I’m sorry, but there’s no way you’re getting there before 7:00 unless you get out of the car and run there.” 

You blink.

“Okay.”

And then you’re pulling off your heels, opening the door, tumbling out of the cab — and the driver is yelling, “Wait, no! I didn’t mean—” but you’re already sprinting on the sidewalk, shoes in one hand and clutch in the other. 

Your bare feet slap rhythmically as you pump your arms and legs, taking as big lungfuls of air as you can manage. Slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap. Breathe-breathe-breathe-breathe-breathe-breathe. 

The pavement is absolutely filthy, and other pedestrians give you strange looks that you hardly notice; and oh, wow, you’re out of breath, damn it — but there! There’s the gallery rising into view, all marble columns and elegant domes, and there’s a lone figure in black standing on the steps…

You run faster. 

+

7:00.

“I’m sorry sir, but I really have to close the doors now,” the doorman says apologetically, as Akaashi chews on his inner cheek. 

“Just one more minute?” he begs. “It’s not past 7:00 yet.” 

The doorman opens his mouth to say no before he’s interrupted by faint yelling across the plaza. 

“Wait!”

Akaashi squints into the setting sun. Is that…?

“Wait up!”

It is. 

It’s you, you in all your breathless, frazzled glory, sprinting up the plaza. Akaashi immediately runs to meet you in the middle, impulsively wrapping you in his arms for a brief embrace before you slump over, panting. 

“Alright, then,” calls the disgruntled doorman. “Can you two come in so I can finally do my job?” 

“Right,” says Akaashi, just as you stand upright. He can’t tear his eyes away — even after sprinting a quarter mile, you’re lovely. Your hair is falling out of its updo, and your face is flushed, and the bottoms of your feet are covered in street grime... and you’re positively beautiful. 

He offers you an arm. “Care to join me?”

Your eyes are gleaming as you slip your heels back on, straighten your dress, and flash him a nervous smile. “It would be my pleasure.”

Oh, he’s missed you. 

+

The art is breathtaking. 

It’s all bold, brash colors, swiped across canvases that seem to be in motion like movie screens, displaying scenes of golden wheat fields, and thickly planted purple irises, and delicate white almond blossoms that you swear you can smell through the glass. 

It’s also breathtakingly sad. There’s a heartbreaking honesty in some of Van Gogh’s portraits, portraits of people with just the ghost of a smile on their lips. People who want so desperately to feel — to live. You look away from some of them. 

There’s an elephant in the room, too, sneaking between every piece of artwork. The silence between the two of you is deafening. Though you stroll through the gallery arm in arm, there’s scarcely a word uttered besides, “Oh, that one’s nice,” or “Watch your step, now.” You wonder why he can’t just shatter the glass and tell you what’s on his mind — because something is definitely on his mind. You can see it in his face, in the way he’s carrying his body. Like a fifty pound barbell is physically weighing him down. 

The epiphany comes when a crisply dressed usher calls the attention of the exhibition hall with a bell. 

“Will all ladies and gentlemen please make their way to the dining courtyard? We’ve been so privileged as to hear a few words from some of the generous donors who’ve made this Riverside event possible,” he booms, and as the rest of the crowd, men in suits and women in long dresses like your own, file through the doors, Akaashi takes your hand and pulls you the opposite direction. 

“What are we —”

He shushes you and tugs you behind a pillar, keeping you close until the last of the guests are gone and the usher has shut the doors. 

“Come,” he says simply, voice echoing in the emptiness, so you follow him, ducking behind walls and through several corridors until you reach another set of doors, behind which is a wide spiral staircase. 

“Where’s this lead?” you ask, and Akaashi just gives you his small smile and pulls the doors open. There’s a brief climb, step upon step, until you emerge in a smaller, humbler room, one with only one painting at the back of it.

Eyes wide, you glide forward, heels clicking on the smooth marble floor. In front of you, firmly situated in a glass case on the wall, lies a stunning vista of swirling stars rising above a sleepy town. There’s cobalt blue, and gold, and white, and grassy rolling hills and a warmly glowing crescent moon. Beside the painting there’s a small museum label: 

Vincent Van Gogh

The Starry Night

Saint Rémy, June 1889

On loan from the MoMA

“They’re going to bring it down for the second half of the evening,” Akaashi says, coming to stand beside you. “It’s supposed to be the main event.”

“But you wanted a private showing?” you joke, still unable to tear your eyes away from the painting. 

“Yes,” says Akaashi, slipping his hand into yours. “But I also wanted to speak with you privately.” 

You finally yank your gaze from the wall and cock your head at Akaashi, who’s rummaging in his pocket. After withdrawing what looks to be a crumpled sheet of lined paper, he clears his throat. And then he looks at you, and he says your name with such tenderness and magnitude that you’re frozen, as if the earth has just shuddered beneath your feet. 

“I’m not very good at speaking on the fly,” he says, glancing down at the paper, which is almost imperceptibly trembling in his hands. “So I wrote this down. I hope you don’t mind.” 

“No,” you breathe, “not at all.”

Silence. 

Silence. 

Silence.

And then —

“It’s not hard to fall in love. It’s really not,” he begins, voice slightly faltering but growing stronger as he continues. “Especially not when Love was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, standing right in front of me in the Barnes & Noble on South and 22nd.”

You smile a little, recalling the first day, the shy glances and hesitant smiles.

“She was striking, you see, in every way imaginable, and I was long gone before I even knew it. I was gone before we even kissed, if you can believe it. Love had me in knots. 

I remember saying something rather profound on that first date. ‘Sometimes there are those people we meet that just seem… right.’ I said ‘right,’ and not ‘perfect,’ because Love and I? We weren’t perfect for each other. But we were so, so right. We are right.”

He glances up at you, cheek dimpling. 

“I screwed it up, though. Like people often do, I took Love for granted. I disregarded the little things, the things that made the full picture. The surprise dinners, and the mixtapes, and the way I always used to sneak an extra squeeze of honey into your coffee just so you’d always say I made it best.”

“I didn’t know you did that,” you interrupt, and Akaashi grins. 

“I forgot the little things, but I never stopped loving you,” he continues, voice growing a modicum softer. “Even when I didn’t show it. And of course, that’s no excuse for the way I treated you. But I think it’s important for you to know that, much like the stars, just because you couldn’t see it shining, doesn’t mean love wasn’t there. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

You want to say, ‘I forgive you,’ but you’re so choked up the words can’t get out — but he knows. He knows. 

“I hate that I ever made you feel small or unimportant. Because, actually, you’re the most important person in the world. You’re truly, honestly, genuinely my other half. You’re the reason why I desire to excel. You’re braver, funnier, and cooler than I am, and you both challenge and comfort me like nobody else can.”

Akaashi takes one last slow, deep inhale before tucking the paper back into his pocket and stepping forward, so close that you could close the distance just by leaning. 

“Which all goes to say,” he breathes, “if you were to forgive my wrongs and give me a second chance… I would take it in less than a heartbeat.”

He swallows. “Because some things are worth trying again.” 

And there he is. The boy you fell for in the first place. 

Love outstretches his hand, pale and soft in the white lights of the gallery. It’s a slender hand, but a large one, palm wide and empty, the perfect landing place for your own. You reach out, the centimeters between stretched like whole galaxies as you slowly extend your offering.

Yes. Yes, you’ll try again.

Your fingers click in place like two hands off the same sculpture.

+

“Wait, why are you laughing? This is supposed to be heartfelt!”

“I’m sorry, Keiji, it’s just — I think I like the graffiti version better than the authentic one!”

+

Keiji Akaashi (26) for GQ Magazine, October 2nd, 2023.

Q: Keiji! So great to have you back today.

A: It’s great to be back, Greg.

Q: Been a whirlwind couple years for you, hasn’t it?

A: [laughs] You could say that, yes.

Q: I’d love a quick rundown on all the new and exciting things that have happened since we last spoke.

A: Okay, let’s see… well, less importantly, I’ve gotten my second book on the New York Times Bestsellers list. 

Q: Less importantly? Goodness, that’s not something you hear every day.

A: Well, there are things more important in life than selling books, Greg.

Q: Aptly said. Speaking of your second book, though — I have to ask about the dedication page, yet again. Another unconventional one. 

A: Oh, yes. That brings me to my second point. 

Q: ‘Marry me,’ it says. And judging by that wedding band on your finger…?

A: My girlfriend — wife now, actually — was the first one to receive a copy of the published book. I thought I was clever for that one. She opened up the first page, read the dedication, and then I was on my knees in front of her. 

Q: Okay, there’s no way you can deny the ‘romantic’ title now.

A: [laughs] I guess not. 

Q: What’s your wife up to these days?

A: She’s currently a full time student. Getting her Master's, you know. And she’s gotten really into spoken word poetry, as well. 

Q: Two artists in the family, then.

A: [laughs] She’s much better than I am, Greg. Much better. 

+ 

“Love is not who you were expecting.

Love is not what you can predict.”

- When Love Arrives (Sarah Kay & Phil Kaye)

[sunkissedpages]

instead of you [part seventeen]

pairing: [best friend’s brother] tom holland x college!reader

summary: you didn’t expect to spend your summer pretending to be your best friend’s girlfriend- then again, you didn’t expect to fall for your best friend’s brother, either.

warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol +sex

word count: 1.5k

series masterlist

The flight from Naples to Tokyo took fourteen hours, not including the two and a half hour layover in Istanbul, meaning you had sixteen and a half hours to sit in awkward tension-filled silence next to Sam. The tension was one-sided, of course, but it was still agonizing to endure.

You had been able to push your anxiety aside during your last day in Italy because it had been so busy. There had been a power outage in the middle of the night, causing everyone to oversleep and miss the ferry for one of your tours that morning. It had been a scramble to get back on schedule and do as much as possible with the time you had left. The boys had been hungover and their parents were tired of wrangling them. You had dozens of photos on your camera roll of Sam and Harry bickering when they were supposed to be posing for a nice picture, and even more of Tom flicking them off. 

But now you were stuck alone with your thoughts, unable to use distraction as a means to escape. You tried reading your book, but found yourself unable to concentrate on the words on the page. After staring at the same paragraph for over fifteen minutes Sam noticed and asked if you were okay and you finally decided to call it quits. 

You almost wished the Hollands hadn’t scheduled in a day and a half to adjust to the time zone change. You’d rather exhaust yourself with the nonstop tourist bullshit than have to cope with the reality that you had gotten off to thoughts about your best friend’s brother. Not to mention living with the secret that the same best friend’s brother had kissed you not long before that. 

If Sam noticed anything was off, he didn’t mention it. He probably chalked it up to lack of sleep, or perhaps was too tired himself to care. 

“Which one of us do you think will be randomly selected in customs today?” Harry asked, stretching his arms above his head. 

You were standing in the aisle waiting to deplane, placing bets on who’d get searched by border agents this time. Somehow each time you traveled to a new place one of you was always chosen to get pat down or have your carry-on searched. Tom had yet to be the lucky winner, and you suspected it had something to do with his celebrity status. 

“Y/n,” Tom answered easily. “She has the U.S. passport.”

You rolled your eyes. “Like England has a squeaky clean record with Japan.”

“At least we didn’t-”

“Bro, you can’t say the b word on a plane,” Harry interrupted.

“Even when the plane’s on the ground?”

Sam shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Whatever,” Tom continued. “It’s definitely going to be y/n.”

-

“Would you mind stepping out of line, ma’am?” 

You sighed, not even bothering to look back at the boys. You already knew they were grinning like idiots and you didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. The agent ushered you to the side behind a glass partition, but not before you heard another agent repeat the same question to one of the Hollands. You smiled to yourself, happy not to be the only one singled out.

Behind the privacy screen another agent greeted you and asked you to take your sweatshirt off, explaining that it was too baggy and needed to be checked. You saw other people in baggy clothes who weren’t getting pulled out of line, but assumed they didn’t have the red flag of “U.S. Citizen” printed on their identification that would be cause for any additional suspicion. You complied with the agent’s request and pulled your sweatshirt off for them to further inspect.

You were glad you’d worn a sports bra underneath your sweatshirt because you usually didn’t wear anything underneath them. As soon as your head was out of the pullover you immediately met by Tom’s polite smile. 

He averted his eyes as soon as he saw you, pausing his conversation with the official to mumble a quiet ‘sorry’ to you as he was shown to the spot next to yours. 

You zoned out as they spoke, only aware of him again when he started unbuckling his belt. You caught his eye this time. 

“Forgot to take it off,” he explained.

“Sweatshirt’s too loose.”

You both faced forward as the customs officials proceeded through the motions. You were stuck standing there half-naked with your arms wrapped around your chest self-consciously while an agent pat Tom’s legs down. 

“Dad said we can meet them at baggage claim,” Tom said after a few moments of silence between the two of you. “They went on without us.”

“Okay,” you squeaked back in response. 

You knew it wouldn’t take long, but it still made you nervous to be alone with Tom. Sam was like a safety blanket, or a buffer between you and him and without him you were afraid it would be painfully awkward. 

The woman handed you your sweatshirt back and you had to wait for Tom outside of the screening area. He joined you a minute or so later.

“They find any dirt on you?” you asked from where you were leaning against the wall across from the exit. 

“Nope, you?”

“Yeah, actually I’m in custody right now. Can’t believe you missed the handcuffs.”

“Man, what’d they get you for?” 

“Identity theft,” you sighed. 

“Damn, that’s a bummer,” Tom replied, false sympathy rolling off his words. 

He cocked his head in the direction the rest of his family had went, indicating that you should get going, and held out a hand to pull you upright. You took it hesitantly and let him help you. 

“I was actually hoping you could bail me out?” you went on, continuing with the bit. 

Tom made a sound through his teeth and grimaced. “I’m kinda broke right now.”

“Aren’t you an actor?”

“Sorry, but I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“No, you’re definitely the guy!”

“You’re thinking of Tom Hiddleston,” he insisted.

“Remember that IOU you gave me? I’m cashing it in now.”

“That’s not how it works!” 

You laughed. “No, but if I ever actually get arrested I’m using my IOU to get you to bail me out of jail.”

“I don’t think that a kiss and getting bailed out of prison are comparable, but I didn’t put any conditions on that postcard, did I?”

“Nope!” You smiled happily.

“Well that’s on me, so...”

You took the shuttle together to the other side of the airport where the rest of the Hollands were waiting and finally found them with all of your luggage at the furthest carousel from the entrance. 

“It’s about time!” Harry yelled over the crowd as soon as he saw you. 

Sam grinned when he saw you and you couldn’t help but grin back. He wrapped an arm around you instinctively and you relaxed into his shoulder, relieved to be with him again. It hadn’t dawned on you until that moment just how attached you were, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it because the other Hollands were all looking at you expectantly.

“Did everything go okay?” Nikki asked. 

Tom nodded. “They made y/n strip, but it was uneventful otherwise.”

You pursed your lips, cheeks burning. “It was just my sweatshirt!” you hissed to Sam. 

“Yeah, but you never wear anything under your sweatshirts!” Sam hissed back.

“I had a bra on this time.”

“Oh, so it was just another night at the bar for you?” You wrestled yourself out of Sam’s grasp at that and glared. “Am I wrong?”

Sam’s dad cut in before you could respond. He had a habit of calling “family meetings” in the middle of public spaces to finalize plans and get everybody on the same page, which was always an experience. 

“Alright, gather up, gang!” he said, beckoning you all closer. “So we’ll be staying at... this hotel,” he explained and turned his phone around to show you the name of it. “And the thing is, we have two rooms to share between the six of us. One for your mother and I, and another for you four.”

“What?” Sam asked. “You’re going to make us stay with them?”

“I thought we were getting three rooms like every other time,” Tom chimed in.

“We were meant to, but I made a mistake when booking it,” Dom clarified.

“How?”

“The entire website was in Japanese, Sam. I don’t know Japanese!”

“Dad, Google has a translate webpage option!” Harry groaned.

“Well no one told me that while I was booking this entire trip by myself!”

You traded a look with Tom, who looked just as panicked as you felt. But it would only be for a week. You would find a way to manage. You didn’t really have any other option.

“I’m sure it’ll be fun,” Sam tried, forcing a smile.

“That’s the spirit!” Dom cheered. “We’ll make it work.”

sorry she’s short this week :( but lmk what you think i always appreciate feedback!!

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