x : ABUNDANCE :*+゚
in which: rin doesn’t know when to stop spoiling you and you don't know how to stop him either.
warnings: rich pro-athlete!rin, gn!reader- reader wears lip gloss and perfume but i am an avid believer that they are gn, rin is dramatic (tm), fluff, swearing. 1.6k wc
a/n: rin is a clown in my eyes LMFAO no but this was kinda self-indulgent and i just can't stray too far from itoshi rin before he inevitably pulls me back. haven't written anything for him in a while so it feels good to be back to my roots. also no i'm not off break lol i did say that i was still gonna write and come back to post hehe. ENJOY!! rbs appreciated !!
itoshi rin doesn’t know when to stop spoiling you.
and you didn’t know how to get him to stop spoiling you. you could never resist his presents no matter what shape or size, whether they were little nendoroids of your favourite anime characters to the latest designer bags, you would always accept them with a grateful smile.
however, there’s always a tug of guilt at your chest that makes you little hesitant, not wanting rin to waste unnecessary money on you. yet whenever you make this feeling known to rin, he scoffs and waves your concerns off, ending the conversation there as he urges you to open his presents, more concerned about your reaction than how much money is being extracted from his account.
what’s the point of money if he can’t spoil you with it? that’s always been his philosophy. besides, it’s not like you’re forcing him to, so what’s the big deal?
if there was a certain brand of perfume you wanted, he was going to buy it. if you needed a bigger monitor then he’ll buy it. if you needed a streaming platform to watch a certain show on then he’d buy it too, not a problem. in fact, you’re sure rin is funding the spotify premium for your account because he got tired of all the ads he had to listen to when sharing headphones with you.
despite rin’s insistence that he was more than okay to spend money on you, it didn’t stop the growing feeling of guilt festering in your gut. so eventually you stopped bringing up things you wanted to buy in front of rin, leaving to write them down in your notes app instead.
the pro-athlete doesn’t question the abrupt lack of complaints about things you needed to buy, leaving him blissfully unaware of the things you had been buying for yourself and him.
this dance continues for a little and it’s not until date night three weeks later that he figures you out. you never stood a chance against rin’s perceptiveness especially when one of his favourite things to do was watch you get ready for said date nights, leaving it only a matter of time before he’d realise,
“looking gorgeous as always,” he compliments whilst walking up to stand behind you, dressed handsomely in a crisp suit with his hair swept sideways- a hairstyle he began to wore more often when he realised how often you stared at him during a boring sponsorship event which turned out a lot more eventful thanks to the simple hair change.
you smile at him in the mirror as rin places a kiss on the side of your head, hand going to your hip before situating himself on the bed, glancing down at his watch to check that you were still on time for the dinner reservation.
when he looks back up at you, his eyes zero in on the foreign lipgloss you were holding in your hands and the small smile rin wore falls into a scowl. rin knows he didn’t get that for you, and judging from the sleekness of the packaging, it looks new. he withholds his suspicions, brushing them off.
alarms blare in rin’s head again when he notices the foreign highlighter in your hands. contrarily, you remain ignorant to rin’s inquisitive stare as you lean in close to the mirror to apply the product, too used to the usual intensity of his gaze to bat an eye.
the last straw is the perfume you use, spritzing it on your wrists, behind your ears and neck, doing a little fanning motion with your hands once you were done.
“okay, i’m ready, let’s go before we’re lat-” you say, turning around to look at rin, cutting yourself off when you notice the look of distraught on his face. “what’s the matter?”
walking over to where he sat, you leisurely lay your forearms on his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his cheek whilst doing so. the smell of your foreign perfume enters his nose and although it was a very nice and charming scent, the athlete’s nose scrunches in displeasure, eyebrows furrowing further.
“do i have something on my face?” you ask, backing away. rin grabs your hands before you can stray too far.
“no, not that,” he puts your hands on his shoulders again. “did you always have this lipgloss? and i don’t recognise this perfume.”
“oh, i bought it not too long ago.”
he looks at you as though you’ve committed the most blasphemous offence against him, which, you did. “excuse me?”
“i bought it?” you reaffirm, a lilt of confusion in your tone.
rin narrows his eyes, combating your confusion with scrutiny. “you bought it.” you nod. “with your own money?”
“duh.”
he exhales loudly through his nose and you can feel the judgement oozing off him. “no that’s not right. i have to fix this.”
abruptly swapping your positions so that you were now sitting on the bed, rin disappears into the bathroom, emerging with a pack of makeup removers before sifting through your numerous products, that look of concentration never leaving his face.
“we’re gonna be late, rin,” you say from where he planted you, watching helplessly as your boyfriend approaches to stand in front of you, crouching down to be eye level with you. rin takes out a wipe from the packet before gently rubbing it on your lips, touch contrastingly gentle to his fiery gaze.
“don’t care. this is more important.”
rin fiddles with the highlighter that he bought for you, opening it cautiously and using the same brush you always use as he carefully paints your skin with the glitter. it amazes you just how observant rin is as he traces all the spots correctly, knowing you down to of the most insignificant, tiny details.
he does the same with the lip gloss, opening the familiar bottle before putting a luxurious amount of the product over your lips. you don’t complain about it, not when rin’s nose scrunches in concentration and not when he makes a disgruntled noise because he overlined the lip gloss, wiping it from the corner of your mouth.
nevertheless, when rin pulls away, he admires his handiwork with a content grin, the scowl now fading. “much better,” he mumbles, grinning slightly. before you could say anything though, the athlete stumbles away to put your makeup away, returning with a bottle of perfume that he also bought for you.
“do not spray that on me. the scents will clash,” you threaten. rin blinks at you before grabbing your wrist, spritzing a small amount before repeating the same step on your other pulse points.
his actions were sweet and you understood that rin had good intentions, but through the endearment you felt for your lover, there is an undeniable feeling of dejection settling within you. “i liked the products that i bought,” you murmur, tone slightly downcast as you express your thoughts. “i like using my own money sometimes too, rin.”
the smile rin wore falls ever so slightly as he looks at your somewhat-dejected form, crouching in front of you instinctively as to get a better glance at your face.
“i feel horrible whenever you use your money on me. especially on things that are way too expensive and way out of my budget. i don’t want people- i don’t want you to get the wrong idea of us,” you confess the last part breathily, rubbing your arms awkwardly. “and i hate feeling like i owe something to you.”
“hey, you know that will never happen, we’re not like that,” he rubs a hand on your knee reassuringly. “i buy things for you because i know, and don’t talk about this lukewarm shit about ‘owing’ me. if anything i owe you for putting up with me.”
you let his words sink in with a sigh, focusing on the warmth of rin’s palm.
“and i also buy things for you because you only deserve the best. none of that mediocre crap that anybody can buy.”
“but what if i like the ‘lukewarm shit’?”
“then you need better tastes, but i guess i have no choice but to buy it for you.” he stands up ever so slightly to kiss you.
you back away, cutting him off with a press of your finger against his lips. “rin. no.”
he gives you a withering glare for denying his affection.
“that’s not the point. as much as i love and appreciate it when you do buy things for me, i would also appreciate it if you let me use my own money too.”
the soccer player backs away, eyes scanning your expression to decide on what to say next. he sighs when he sees the determination in your face and like a dam giving out, it’s the first sign of rin’s stubbornness surrendering to your pleas. “fine, i’ll respect your choice, but it doesn’t mean that i like it.”
you grin, pulling him back in for the kiss he wanted earlier, catching rin off guard briefly before his shock subsides, letting him melt right into you. your lipgloss was now effectively ruined but you didn’t have it in you to care much. rin could always reapply it for you.
“but i’m paying for dinner,” he asserts against your mouth.
“deal.”
you return home tomorrow to see the same products you bought for yourself on your shared bed. except brand new and still in their sleek packages.
what were you going to do with rin?
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Rigor Mortis (part 4)
College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader
(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,
Part 3, Part 5
summary: You get your laptop fixed... eventually.
warnings: smut!! (finally lmfao) masturbation, mutual masturbation, tiny bit of voyeurism, recreational drug use, dry humping, etc 18+ Minors DNI
a/n: caught up to where the og oneshot ends so i wanted to switch it up!!
Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3
Join my taglists here
wc: 6.8k (still in shock i wrote all this lmfao, i'm strictly a <4k words kinda gal)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
lips black and blue and gold.
You're frustrated. Bouncing off the walls, head spinning; and it's for a couple of reasons.
First off: you haven't managed to find a laptop. Money you've worked damn hard for, and you can't really afford a new one. With moving around, you've burnt through quite a bit of your emergency fund. Enough to convince yourself you'll be just fine with a pen and paper in class, and the Google docs on your phone when desperate. It might actually force you to go to the library instead of half assing assignments the night before, you think.
And there's your lab book, which you were smart enough to back up on your computer, but guess what? That's fucked; probably taken apart and sold for scraps by Miguel's mysterious friend , who you've conveniently never even heard of and–
"Just ask for an extension." He says, feet up on the sofa. Oddly enough, you've been doing that more often; spending time together. He's not holed up in his room as much, and spends time studying on the dining table, or pretending not to watch the soaps you've got on TV.
"You're overthinking it. Explain the situation, chula, and it'll be fine." He doesn't even look up, just throws the statement in your direction like the lazy pass of a ball.
You scoff, because he's right, and go back to overthinking. You think you can copy out the ruined half of your labbook by hand, and if you beg your OChem teacher for an extra credit project then–
"If I let you use my laptop, will you stop doing that?"
"Doing what?" You frown as he walks over, and reaches to gently pull your hands apart. He turns your palms over, pointing at the raw edges of your fingernails.
" That. " Mindlessly, you'd been picking at your fingernails, without even noticing. Looking up at him, he rolls his eyes.
"...is that a yes?" You nod, hesitant, and catch the hint of a smile as he pads off to his room.
When he returns, open laptop in hand, he thrusts it into your arms - and sits himself back onto the sofa. This time, he splays out facing you, avocado socks resting on your knee. You fight the urge to push him off, a small price to pay in return for his moment of kindness. He's been doing that more often now, slightly more touchy and maybe even… comfortable around you. Eyes flickering up towards him, you catch his. His brows knead together, and you return your attention to the screen just as quickly.
You're going through the motions, more or less, logging into your college's portal and drafting up quick emails to send to your lecturers. But it's when you open up a new tab, that you see something at the top of the screen and pause. Mouse hovering over an incognito tab, hidden in a nest of referencing websites and scientific journals; it's there. Bold letters, in all caps: WOMAN POUNDED BY BIG BEEFY–
You shouldn't. You really, really shouldn't. Once again, you look up at Miguel, and he couldn't care less; tapping away at his phone, only stopping to look at the TV. Nevertheless, you shift to hide the laptop screen from him. But you're not going to look, or anything. You know better than to take a look at your roommates porn habits, the stuff he drools over whilst he fucks his fist; a big, dextrous palm wrapped around his shaft.
You've done it. Clicked on the tab and nothing's exploded, as of yet. You turn down the brightness, with some shame, as if to make the paused video less explicit. But the image stays, a woman folded under the weight of the man above – in the middle of bullying his fat cock into her pussy. It's amateur; hot and sweaty and sticky, with only the woman fully visible. You suppose your curiosity's been sated, but you can't help but think…
…the woman. She looks like you.
Tilting your head, you can't help but see the resemblance. Not the exact same of course - but her hair is similar, body type, skin tone, eyes. It's not close enough to be weird, you guess, but it's enough that that thought stays - burrows into you like an earthworm into an apple. Scrolling down, you see other videos, with the same woman, other women that look like you - the telltale red bar of watched videos. Evidence, but not really, and it makes you heat up. Your mouth goes dry, and you look over to him: only able to concentrate on the hand he's got spread out at his belly, the brown flesh peeking out - and how it looks just like the one on the base of the woman's stomach in the video.
"...everything ok?" He's looking at you, suddenly; and you attempt to click over to your original tab, discreetly.
He doesn't seem to notice, padding over to your side and leaning into your shoulder.
"Yeah, no, I just…" All you can manage is a nervous smile. "The screen froze, so…"
"Oh." He gives the track pad a swipe. "Seems fine to m–"
He freezes up slightly, and you watch as his eyes flick up the screen. The laptop is eased out of your hands, and he gives a few quick clicks. By the time it's back in your lap, the offending tab is gone. Imperceptible, his jaw shifts.
"...Should be okay now."
You hum, a little amused at the display. He's seemingly unfazed, his little slip up notwithstanding, and leans back to lie up against you. Obnoxious, he splays onto the sofa cushions, his weight practically smothering you as you fight to push him off. You think he likes it – it's the only possible explanation – and gets off from watching you squirm. He seems desperate for a reaction, a child pushing boundaries and pressing buttons to see what exactly makes you tick.
And that's the second thing: it works . He's more touchy, and just as insufferable – jumping at any excuse to be near you, it seems. Miguel has a tendency to hover, follow you around the apartment as you talk aimlessly, and you do the same. You sit by against the doorway to the kitchen whilst he makes dinner; he floats around the door to your room when you try to study. In fact, you've spoken to your roommate more in the past week than you have in the past month; about anything and everything. Sometimes, he actually tells you where he goes during the day; off to lectures of his own, another tutoring session or his basically-an-unpaid-job of an internship. In your words, it seems like with the shit they make him do at Alchemex, he may as well be a full employee: with way fewer perks and a distinct paycut. It's almost as if they're paying for my degree, he says with an eye roll, practically hanging off your door frame.
He does that a lot, now: arms drawn upwards to lean from the oak trim. Especially during lazy mornings in - he'll hang on the frame, and move to tug at your heel, waking you up despite fervent protest. Ultimately, it's a kindness and you don't know how to tell him how much you appreciate it; as he wakes you up on time to get to the library in good stead. You're still waiting on that laptop, debating whether or not to bite the bullet; but for now Miguel obliges, letting you borrow his now and then.
He's not nice, you think his tongue is much too sharp for that; but he is kind, giving you some grace you're not too sure you deserve. It's more than what you've been given in a relationship of 4 years, and you don't know how to feel about it.
Well, you do. Your talk on the living room floor not so long ago flipped a switch and all of a sudden you're paying attention to your roommate; really, really looking at him. He is very, very pretty; with a tendency for lingering touches disguised as something else. And you're out of practice: horny, frustrated, stressed. With the way he touches you; a hand on your back to greet you, a squeeze of your shoulder to tease, bare legs across yours on the sofa; it's a lethal combo.
And here you are, headphones on, prepping to take a dildo. Incredibly self-indulgent, but you need it . You don't quite have the emotional stability for a one night stand (you think if someone touches you just right, you'll fall in love), but this dry spell has taken its toll.
It wasn't just after the break up, either. Mismatched libidos had felt like a steady death knoll. Realistically, you knew Jaime was always too tired after a placement, but it didn't make you feel wanted. You just want to be desirable and fucked within an inch of your life – was that too much to ask?
As a result, your toy drawer had grown: vibrators and dildos, clit-suckers and g-spot strokers; crude once said aloud, but all in search of something. With the stress of school and Miguel, Schrodinger's slut ; it's a wonder you haven't cracked it open earlier.
You're on the floor, its purple base suctioned to the hardwood and towels to cushion your knees. Lower half completely exposed, it's an art , porn on your phone to complete the visage. The screen is smaller than that of the laptop you're used to, only providing some stimulation. And so, as you sink down on its silicone length, you can't help but think back to the sofa - and the videos squirrelled away on an incognito tab. Miguel, hunched over and fisting his cock to someone that looks like you; maybe even thinking of you – although the jury's still out, on that one.
But you keep it close to your chest, rub your clit to the thought of it: you're his type, and maybe he'd fuck into you like the man on your screen. Broad, gorgeous shoulders and you wonder how pretty he'd look with scratches littered down his back, or hickeys sucked into skin: lips plump and messy and swollen.
"Oh, fuck," You say it under your breath, knowing that whilst Miguel is out of the house, it still feels odd to put your lips around the pleasure that thinking of him gives.
You speed up, the slap of thighs ringing out into your bedroom. The dildo is around 6 inches, sizeable; but you can't help but wonder how it compares to Miguel's. He might even be bigger; thicker, most definitely; and you bet his cock is just as pretty as he is. Oh fuck, and he'd tease; press into your hole just to snatch it away at the last second, rubbing persistent circles at your clit. You hear his voice in your head, the low grunts and groans you've memorised from all those nights he's spent with other girls.
"Miguel," You're moaning shamelessly now. "...f-fuck, please–"
There must be something electric in the way he fucks: with the litany of girls in and out of his bedroom, what keeps them coming back? He must talk them through it, whispering filth with his plush lips against their ear, and you wonder what he'd say to you. God , you'd give anything to hear it him say, just once, how beautiful he thinks you are; for him to wrap his hand around your neck and pull you close. You want him to fuck you; hard and deep and desperate.
With that, your pace quickens and you gush around the toy. A spasm of limbs, and you're clamping down on the silicone – an orgasm that leaves you breathless and heaving. You convince yourself it's the taboo of it: fucking yourself to the thought of your roommate, after listening to his grunts and groans for the past couple weeks. He started it … thin walls, and all that.
You ignore the want that lays stubborn at the pit of your stomach, riding through stuttering spasms as your orgasm winds down. You're touch starved, that's all, and Miguel's the closest warm body to latch onto. Nothing more, nothing less. Groaning, you shift, picking up your hips to gear up for another round. Just once more, so you know for sure.
Thin walls. The sound leaks into your roommate's bedroom. But with your headphones on, you can't hear the sounds that echo back: Miguel O'Hara, back home early, with an ear pressed to the wall and desperately pumping his cock.
~~~
"I'm not completely convinced, to be honest." You're in Miguel's car, tongue sticking out as you fiddle around with the dials.
His gaze flicks over, and bats your paws off the dashboard. Flopping into your seat, you watch as he turns up the AC and switches the radio, as if reading your mind.
"You really think I'd go through all this trouble?" He scoffs. "Bundle your ass out of the house and drive all the way here to…. do what exactly?"
"Assert dominance in our shared ecosystem." You say it with finality, and he scrunches up his face in confusion.
"...what does that even mean?"
"Like in that nature doc you were watching the other day."
"Well, the point was that spiders aren't hierarchical in the traditional sense. They form colonies that are… quasi-social, if anything, and–" He pauses. "Wait. You were paying attention?"
You shrug. "I thought it was interesting."
"Seriously?"
"...no, not really."
You laugh as he pulls over to park, in a space next to what looks like an apartment complex. It looks way nicer than your place, with sandy brick and hedges that look well kept. Your laughter peters off. Miguel looks decidedly not amused.
He opens the car door and clambers out as you scramble for the seatbelt. To your surprise, he opens the door for you; stretching out a hand for stability as you get out. When you both walk over to the intercom, your palm burns with his touch, and flexes with the memory of it. It's becoming a problem, his hands. You push down the beginnings of a hazy daydream. He presses a panel, waiting for the buzz.
"Lyla? Could you let us up?"
He waves demurely to the camera, and the receiver clicks. A cheery voice rings back.
"...Us? Who's us, Miggy? Did you finally find a girl that puts up with your shit?" Her voice is singsong, teasing. With a smile, you watch as Miguel bristles, speaking into the slick panel.
"My roommate, Jesus, Ly–" He says the next bit a little rushed, turning away slightly as if you still can't hear her loud and clear. "I thought we went through this, you can't keep trying to embarassmeeverytimeI–"
She talks over him towards the end, rapid-fire banter that you can barely make out.
"You never come and visit, except when it's 2am and you need to break into–"
"Once! It was one time! Déjate, ya está bueno ya–"
[Let it go, that's enough now–]
"Let it go? No, no, absolutely not… what is it that you always say? It's the principle –"
"Can you just fucking open the–"
"What's the magic word?"
He sighs, mouthing an apology to you. "Lyla–"
"Magic. Word."
He mumbles. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please could you open the fucking door."
There's a pause, and rustling over the intercom. The door buzzes open.
In the elevator up, you keep quiet, trying your hardest not to burst out laughing. Miguel is visibly brooding; arms crossed and brow furrowed.
"Don't." He says, with a pout you almost think is cute. Almost.
"I'm trying really, really hard not to." You put your hands up, as if to surrender. "... Miggy."
"Fuck off." And then, a little softer.
"...I told you I have friends."
~~~
You leave it at that until you're in Lyla'a apartment, when she opens and ushers you in. She looks exactly the way she sounds: pretty, mousy features, with her hair in short, choppy layers. She's bundled up into a plush white robe; heart-shaped sunglasses sliding down the tip of her nose.
Miguel breezes past her, towards the murmuring voices you can just about make out in the front room.
"Lovely to see you too, Miguel." It's under her breath, but when she turns towards you there's a twinkle in her eye.
You introduce yourself, and she pulls you into a tight hug.
"I know," She says. It's ominous, but her voice is light and airy. When you separate, she flashes a wide smile. "Lyla. It's nice to put a face to a name."
"Uhh, sorry. What?" She ushers you further into her apartment as you speak, confused.
"Oh, Miggy talks about you all the time. Complaining , mostly, but in that way he gets when he's trying really, really hard to pretend he doesn't care. Like, he texted me yesterday and–"
"Thaaat's enough." You feel hands on your shoulders, and all of a sudden, Miguel is steering you away from her grip. You stumble into her living room, so bright and airy your eyes have to adjust to the light that floods in. Looking around, her apartment is gorgeous; a spacious open plan, floor-to-ceiling windows with a prime view, and lush furniture. Everything about it screams expensive – especially in comparison to your paltry place. Maybe the shock is visible on your face, but you're in awe. She can't be much older than Miguel, right? She looks about the same age, mid-twenties, not too far-removed from college… and it isn't quite adding up.
"How can she afford this? That's what you're thinking." There's a voice on the sofa that makes you blink. A young man with messy brown hair, a set jaw and 5 o'clock shadow calls out to you in between mouthfuls of pizza. "Lyla's… mmhgh… suuper fuckin' rich… mmfgh… that's how."
It's then that you notice there are other people here, sprawled out on the sofa set; boxes of takeout on the side tables next to them. Of course Lyla's rich: only 20-somethings with money to spare have matching sofas.
She's like Beetlejuice, or the Candyman, and pops up next to you when her name's said.
"I work in tech! With a cute little job on Wall Street, and a part-time one white hat hacking." She clarifies. " Ethical hacking."
She giggles like she's told a joke somewhere, and you nod – still not quite understanding.
"...and some side gigs that aren't as ethical." A blond haired man next to Mouthful-Of-Pizza pipes up. "When are you going to introduce us, Miguel?"
He's grumbling in the kitchen area, digging through the shelves for something. He returns with a bag of chips and dip in a container, flopping onto the zebra print throw pillows. Distracted, he waves a hand around the group noncommittally.
"Uhh, Peter, Ben, Lyla." He gestures to you, saying your name, and then to himself; tearing open the bag at the same time. "-and Miguel. All done"
"My turn for questions, now," Miguel says, pointing at Lyla, looking at the boys to his side. "Is she…?"
"...super high? Most definitely." Lyla giggles at Ben's words, for good measure.
"...right. Peter Parker, nice to meet you." He throws a thumb to the back of the sofa, where you notice a little mop of red curls peeking out. "And this is my little Mayday."
Peals of laughter erupt from behind him, and you notice grubby hands with a death grip to the cushion rest. Miguel leaps up, rushing to her side to help her up its back.
"Ayyy dios mio." He scoops her up carefully, "Buenas, Arañita."
Mayday is on his lap now, a little toddler of about 1 or 2, snaking herself around to hug Miguel's chest. She is certifiably the cutest thing you've ever seen: gap-toothed and giggly, with a smatter of freckles like someone's flicked a paintbrush across her nose. And with the way Miguel melts, you can die happy, knowing that you've seen the impossible: Miguel O'Hara, cooing and fussing over the little girl.
"Arañita?" You ask, to no one in particular.
"Itsy-bitsy spider." . ..is the sing-song, choral response from everyone but Miguel. They're mimicking his tone of voice, and he raises his head from May, looking around.
"I don't sound- "
"You do, dude." Peter sighs, tickling the little red head on the tummy; smiling as she collapses into bright laughter. "I don't have a nickname, and I've known you waaay longer than she has."
Miguel covers her tiny little ears, and says, "Eres un pendejo, Parker . "
[you're a dipshit, Parker]
The scraggly man sticks his tongue out in response, and May pulls at his hair for good measure. He yelps, and Miguel passes her over to her Dad. The scene is funny, for sure, but you feel it's warmth more than anything. God, you can tell they've loved and laughed with each other for years; the kind of friendship you'd kill to have.
"We just need whatever's left of her laptop, Lyla," He's blunt, batting away long forgotten chips and dip. "...and then we'll get going. Wish I could stay longer, Arañita, but I've got some work to finish off."
May makes grabby hands at him, and you melt. Who knows how Miguel can stay strong in the face of her big, round eyes.
He gets up to stand next to you, arms crossed. The height difference is stark: his tall, solid frame towering over everyone else. It seems like an intimidation tactic, but you know him just well enough to tell: he's trying not to be swayed by puppy eyes and promises of food.
"You just got here, Miggy." Lyla sighs. "We're going over prep for Jess', and we'll be two minutes, I swear."
"Oh?" His eyebrows light up. "I knew it! You were being evasive on the group chat, and Pete wasn't returning my calls…"
Huffing, he clasps his hand around yours, ready to storm out. "This is an ambush. A goddamn setup!"
"Wait, Miguel, I need my-"
"I'll pick it up later for you, okay?" It's said like an aside, so soft only you can hear it. With his hand around yours, it certainly feels more intimate than it should. And it seems like he realises a little too late, dropping your hand as your faces are mere inches away.
"Um, we should… we should go."
You look past him to the faces blinking at you guys, on the sofa. A pause, and then you're gulping down stubborn feelings to ask a question.
"Jess' ? Is there a party, or something?"
Lyla nods. "Yeah, and Miguel's meant to be picking up cake."
The man in question pinches his nose. "I can pick up the cake just fine. It's the whole… going to a party bit I'm not too keen on."
"Come onnn, you know Jess would love it."
"She'd love to blackmail me with some dumb shit I did drunk, that's for sure."
"It's her birthday, hardass ." Peter whispers that last bit, covering little May's ears like before. "She can have a little blackmail, as a treat."
"You're gonna say no to a surprise party ?" Ben echoes, shaking his head dramatically.
"A surprise birthday?" You light up. "Miguel, you have to go."
His stony demeanor cracks, for a moment. You latch onto it, hellbent on wearing him down. He's always got his laptop out doing work, or cracking open a little notebook to prep a lab. When he's not at home, he's at that internship, or tutoring, or planning a tutoring session. Work, work, work; and you'll be dammed if you let him rot away in a little cage of his own machinations.
"Come on, Miggy." You watch him bristle, prying at that little crack in the surface. This has to be done with finesse: present a challenge, and watch him scramble to prove you wrong. "You're telling me a couple of hours at a party's too much for you? That's it? "
"That's not–"
"S'what it sounds like to me." You shrug, a little smile on your face. The aim is to look as smug as possible; and it seems to be working.
His jaw shifts, annoyed. Lyla catches on, giving you a crazed smile.
"Even your roommate's gonna come." She says, an arm linked in yours.
"I am?" She gives you a little dig, and you're spluttering. "Y-Yeah, I am!"
You can see him fight with his own ego; but it's a one-sided affair.
"Fine. " He strains. "Two hours, max. And then I'm gone."
Lyla gives you a squeeze, and then wraps you both up in a hug he desperately tries to fight off. Ben slots around you guys, and Peter's last to join, with Mayday squealing on his shoulders.
Eventually, you get what's left of your laptop: a little thumb drive with as much as Lyla could save. You'd thanked her profusely, of course; trying to slither out of her vice grip of a hug, as best you could. She's absolutely batshit, the good kind; cryptic, and strange, but with a lot of heart. She makes you wonder, and they all do; just how did they become friends with Miguel? How do they fit?
The man himself seems a little different, as if reinvigorated by being around friends. In fact, you catch him smiling to himself on the drive home. It's sweet; to see a different side of him around people he's clearly comfortable with. If only for a little while, he sheds the heavy weight he seems to carry around.
Around the house, you notice he seems lighter – humming to himself whilst cooking dinner. That very day, you watch the little sway of hips as he stirs a pot; headphones in, singing under his breath. He can't sing for shit, of course, and he'd kill you if you ever uttered a word; but it's a sight you commit to memory, not knowing when next he'll be in such a good mood.
There's still the question of a new laptop in the air, but you feel more settled by the events of the day. You're a little less fucked school-wise, you've got a party to look forward to, and potentially a drunk Miguel to make fun of. He goes to bed early; and you can hear the quiet drone of a podcast from the other side of the wall. He drifts off to the sweet, dulcet tones of Top Ten Genetic Precursors for Early Onset Dementia; one of his favourites, you've determined.
All is well, for now. A tentative truce, and maybe, just maybe: you're finally friends with your roommate.
~~~
There's something about dramatic irony that seems to smack you across the face, every time.
You've come to somewhat of a understanding with your prickly roommate, and the stream of women in his bed seem to slow down, for a bit. He's hot, he's a whore; but he's sweet, with an eye for detail. He can read you with a scary amount of accuracy. Antsy and hungry from a long day? He leaves you scratching your head at his clairvoyance when you come home, chucking you a hot water bottle and a warm meal. You go to bed with a full belly, cramps abated.
He's still a prick, of course. Sarcastic comments, and a massive grump – but you've learnt to deal with that. Just a couple of days after a seemingly settled week; what you can't wrap your head around is the pounding music from next door, at fuck-off-o'clock . He shouldn't be awake, let alone interrupting your late night study session.
You're pissed, leaping from your desk to pound at his door. You're thudding towards his room, ready to deliver a well-deserved verbal lashing, and the door just… swings open. Empty; there's a window ajar and music pumping from speakers. Bachata and cheesy 90s R&B; which sounds suspiciously like his sex playlist.
Yes, he has a sex playlist. And it really has no business to sound as good as it does.
Nevertheless, you're resolute. If he's managed to sneak someone, at this hour, you decide he's going to get more than a stern talking to.
There's clattering in the kitchen, and you whip around; half-expecting the giggle of another girl. When you walk in, it's just Miguel, rummaging through cupboards: a half-naked thief in the night.
"Miguel?"
He pops his head up from a cabinet, with a half-eaten piece of bread in his mouth. Caught red-handed, you suppose; and he gives you a little smile.
"S'everyfin' – mmmfggh –" He scarfs the rest of it down. "Everything okay?"
You squint. "No. Not really."
He chuckles, a slight rasp at the edges of his voice. Dickhead – what exactly is so funny?
"You can't have your music so fucking loud, not when I'm studying. It's the middle of the night and–"
Dressed in nothing but a pair of gray sweats, he's busying himself with a sandwich on the counter; clattering around noisily like he doesn't have full control of his limbs. Which is…. weird, admittedly. You'd trust Miguel to slice a grape with a machete – his dexterity is usually unmatched. Not that you'd made a habit of staring at his hands, or anything.
"Are you even listening to me?"
He nods, attempting to keep a straight face, but the faux solemnity does nothing to hide that droop of eyelids and slump of his shoulders. You get closer, pushing him to face you properly.
"Oh, fuck," His eyes are a little red, hair messy and windswept. "Are you… high? "
Miguel O'Hara? High? You'd never thought you'd live to see the day, honestly. His eyes go wide, dropping his sandwich dramatically. And then he's got a big hand at your shoulder, pulling you closer with a finger pressed to his lips.
"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering your name like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone."
With the way he says your name it makes you light-headed. It's slow and careful, as if he's testing the way it feels spilling from his lips. And maybe, with the way he smiles, it feels good; tastes sweet wrapped around his tongue.
"I won't." You breathe, and then you're both giggling.
There's something about the way he looks at you, peering under heavy lashes; basically eye-fucking you in the space of your tiny kitchen. You feel bare in a little t-shirt and sleep shorts; suddenly exposed.
"You should…" He starts, cocking his head ever so slightly. "Join me, chula. "
It's soft; sinful, even; said as he coaxes you between his body and the kitchen counter.
You don't trust your voice enough to answer, legs already shaky, so you nod. Slight, at first; and then with a little more gusto as the idea of him and you on his sheets – intimate, alone – creeps in. He stretches out a hand, and you take it; led to his bedroom like a scene you've seen before. All those girls before you; led to the dragon's lair like damsels in a fairytale. Except in this one, you suppose, you're not waiting for a knight in shining armour to save you.
He sits you down on the bed, passing you a freshly rolled blunt. Passing it to your lips , more specifically; hand on your chin as he brings the lighter up to its end. Even prettier up close, all you can do is watch the press of plump lips, and pink tongue sticking out as he concentrates. As he leans in, there's a hand on your bare thigh. You inhale, deeply, and he hums with content.
"Good girl," He purrs, prying it from your lips to take a slow drag.
"You're a bad influence." You murmur, watching as his eyes flutter shut.
"You need to relax," He leans back, arm drawn lazily upwards. "This is helping."
"That's not–" Oh. You feel it now, a steady haze rolling over limbs.
Miguel quirks up an eyebrow, amused.
You repeat, slowly, "You're a bad influence ."
"Does it feel good?" You pause, trying to ignore his low tone; and the steady blaze that it ignites within you. Dragging your eyes to meet his, you see it: want, lust, something heavy that swirls behind them.
You nod, itching for another pull. As if psychic, he gestures for you to come closer; and your lips almost slot against his. He exhales, and you inhale; in the closest thing you've come to a kiss in months. It makes you ache for just a little more contact, for those pretty hands to slot between your thighs and–
"Is this all I need to do for some quiet around here?" He asks, lilting. If only he'd stop talking; interrupting your fantasy with that stupid grin of his.
You're shaking your head, laughing at the sheer gall .
"You're fucking someone new every week, O'Hara. Loud. Who was it the other day? Cathy, Kayla –"
"Sita, actually." He has a strange expression on his face. "And we didn't fuck. Just going over lecture notes."
"Sorry . Must have gotten mixed up with the half-dozen other girls in and out of here. Our apartment's not a brothel , Miggy."
He rolls his eyes, handing you the remnants of the blunt.
"...s'not my fault there isn't anyone fucking you right."
You scoff. "How would you know?"
"Thin walls. " It's cryptic. What the fuck does that mean?
You take a careful drag, and hand the blunt back – trying your hardest not to strangle him. It must show on your face as you tussle with the thought, because Miguel is staring; unabashedly, unashamedly. When you notice, it throws you off.
"... what?" Ready to defend yourself, you huff.
He shrugs. His expression is soft, reminding you of that night, not long ago.
"You look like a painting."
You practically short circuit. You've been complimented before, of course. Hot, by men trying to get into your pants. Pretty, sometimes. Beautiful, the other times. Whether it's been sincere, you don't know – but you're smart enough to not overthink it. It's hard enough to live a life, as it is; and you'd rather not be bogged down by what others think, how you look whilst doing it. And yet, you feel your body betray you; a steady bloom of heat at your heart, like you've been stabbed. So deep, it spreads like blood on the front of a blouse. Like a painting, he says. And you like the way he says it; how it sounds spilling from his lips.
Its implication sits heavy. Like a painting : hand-crafted, silken, soft –
He blinks, the crack of a smile on his face. And it ends in a fit of giggling, if you can even call it that.
"Stop fucking with me." You grumble, and he thinks the way your face scrunches up with disdain is cute. There's probably an implication there he should unpack in therapy – how he likes it when you shout and put him in his place – but he's much too high to care.
"M'not-" He quiets down, flattens his face into something resembling sobriety and gravitas. He gets a little closer, so close you can feel the heat of his body and flutter of lashes. With wide, dilated pupils, he stills - and it really doesn't help that he looks so pretty.
"Can't stop thinking about you, hermosa." His voice is low, slurred with the weight of the blunt he's taken careful drags of. Every word makes you feel hazy, drawn in by his lips. " Fuck, all the time."
"Hear your laugh in my dreams, sometimes." He circles your bare thigh carefully, without breaking eye contact. With a thumb on your chin, he brings you closer, and closer still. Gently, you close your eyes, expecting the press of his lips against yours…
…instead, you get a puff of smoke for your troubles. Reeling, you push him away. He collapses on the bed in a laughing fit.
"... now I'm fucking with you." Rumbling laughter, and you've got the wherewithal to be embarrassed – hand still resting on his bare chest.
A little cruelly, you push down, giving him an elbow to the ribs for good measure and he splutters with surprise – laughing all the same.
"Asshole." You slur, and he grabs your arm to pull you onto the covers with him. You paw at him wildly, wrestling amongst the table of sheets. It's not a fair fight, not really; the wide expanse of his bare chest feels solid, and he's probably got more muscle in his pinky toe than you do in your whole body. Miguel is strong , but plays along regardless, pinning you to the bed with his hands around your wrists - but lets you turn him over just as quick. You're both laughing, the blunt long forgotten but its haze blurring the lines. You straddle his middle, hips flush against his and he keens; head back and cheeks flushed.
"Fuck," It's quiet, said as he writhes below you and you try to pin his hands above his head. Maybe it's the weed, but he lets you: eyes low, breath steady. And you stay like that, for a moment; bodies laid against one another.
You don't know who starts it: the slow roll of hips, the swell of his cock bucking up against your heat. Regardless, you welcome it, letting the heat build up with the pressure at your clit. Your hips sway and all Miguel can do is watch.
Lips parted, head back; and you set a steady rhythm that washes over you both.
Humping against one another, you get more desperate and drag your hands to his chest for purchase. Underneath you, Miguel practically purrs – one hand on your waist and the other clutching yours at his chest.
"So, so pretty…" He sighs into it, wide palm pawing at your ass, shamelessly grabbing handfuls. By now, he's rock hard; and you feel him throb through the thin material of his sweats.
"Fuck, I can't–" You moan, ragged, the roll of your hips gaining speed.
Miguel coos, bringing a hand to your chin to pull you closer to the crook of his neck.
"Too fast, hermosa. S-Slow it down for me." He grips your waist, forcing the pace to slow. Your hips stutter against his, delicious pressure making you cry out. And, God, you're close; pleasure building up at your gut.
"Ohhh, fuck. Just like that, just like–" It's soft, whispered between the press of bodies like a prayer: reverent, intimate, a slew of garbled English and Spanish into the shell of your ear that goes straight to your pussy.
"A-Ahi, ahi–"
[t-there, there–]
Plush lips brush against your cheek, and you try so hard to not float away - with only his words to keep you tethered.
"... no pares lo que sea que estes haciendo–ohh-fuck–"
[don't stop what you're doing, oh fuck–]
The coil at the base of your stomach snaps, and you arch into his touch as he does the same. Miguel spills into his sweats, heaving with the effort. He can feel the clench of your pussy above, and he chases it in the aftermath; craning his neck to finally get a kiss. Limbs heavy, you still manage to swerve so his kisses land at your jaw. He's grateful for the contact anyway it comes and sucks careful hickies into the skin: at your neck, your collarbone, and anywhere else he can reach.
You sink into it, curl up on his chest like a housecat; his hands wandering the gentle slope of your back under your shirt.
Limbs heavy, you pry yourself from his hands ever so slightly. He strains to follow you up, snapping back into the sheets like an elastic band. Still, he kneads at your flesh - bare thighs spilling from your shorts.
" Miguel," You whisper, hand travelling past his neck to cradle his jaw. "Need more…"
You punctuate that last word with a roll of your hips. Wanton, conflicted; he groans .
"It's late, chula. " He says it slowly, hesitant – like he can't believe the words are coming out of his mouth. He's still high, lost in the whispy remnants of that blunt. You've never known weed to make someone more responsible, and you flop to his side, a little childishly.
Miguel makes sure to keep a hand wrapped around your waist, dragging his other knuckles up your exposed tummy so that it rides up to the swell of your tits.
"And you've got that 9am."
You cover your face with the span of your hands, grumbling. From between the gaps in your fingers, you repeat,
" ...and I've got that 9am ."
He traces lazy circles in your flesh. Maybe it's the blunt, or the afterglow of an orgasm; but you make him laugh, a gentle ache replacing the creak and shudder of gears.
"Idiot." He says, kissing it into your skin. And he burns from the touch, fleeting; like the warm flame from paper lanterns, or the flicker of a lighter against cool night air.
_
_
_
Miguel taglist (1): @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns
@ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings @aiyaaayei @hyp-oh-critical @tea-earl-grey-thot @sunset-euphoria @moonsio @akiras-key@szaplsdropthealbum@levanneisdumb @naiya-patel17 @Serostapesweat @strawberrymiguel @yumeeesss @errorundyne-exe @spear-bitch @redsoleily @marsissoswag @slezhara @ye4gerzz @adlct515 @nanam1 @indigocookie @cincocosas-blog @starguiders @path0logicalpeoplepleaser@funkyfishy@whoreloll@eugeab@tarjapearce@maddielikesmoths@egotaestical
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You Can't Swim??
SUMMARY: The Octotrio don't know that you have never learned to swim. And you went to a beach. What could go wrong?
WORD COUNT: 1.9k (I need to sleep)
WARNINGS: Floyd almost let you drown, reader kind of gets panic attacks? Idk (I'm the writer I should know, someone hit me), reader thinks about whacking Floyd, Azul is genuinely in love, Azul is also very traumatized I think, Azul overthinks
A/N: Gotta love how I have no warnings about Jade I-
Gotta love getting a fic idea about me being unable to swim- And I've had this thought swimming (lol) in my thoughts for a couple of days??
Idk if reader is the significant other of these guys or just besties. I think it leans toward s/o though
This reads like a crack fic to me but honestly make sure you know how to swim so you don't die (i don't but that's not the point here)
Maybe OOC Jade because he hides himself too well for me to get an accurate read on personality lmfao
When Jade is genuinely sweet but the others are unhinged so naturally the unhinged ones are longer- I'm sorry I get no decent ideas for Jade </3
Another late late night post (it's 1:50 AM)
© kazumiwrites - All rights reserved; please do not steal, edit, copy, repost (etc) my work without my express permission.
You had never learned to swim. It wasn't that you were afraid, really. It was just that you had passed the age where people normally learned, and now you were too lazy to and/or didn't have enough time. Whatever excuse to stop a nagging person.
Now, this wouldn't have been a problem if you never went anywhere near bodies of water. Which you mostly didn't. However, knowing merfolk was not the best idea if you didn't know how to swim.
Now you have gone to the beach with him, and that probably wasn't the best idea for either of you.
Floyd Leech
You had been sitting on the beach near the water, absently looking over some shells as Floyd splashed around deeper in the ocean. The shells really were interesting - nothing like the ones where you had come from (although they had some similarities) and were colorful. So many shapes and varieties, although most were not intact.
You had been so engrossed in this, in fact, that you hadn't realized Floyd had been sneaking up on you. Before you could say another word, he playfully dragged you into the water. While you were fully clothed.
You weren't expecting to go into the water, but you should've known better with Floyd. He was playful and loved to do stuff like this. Usually if Azul was around, he'd have done something… But he wasn't here.
Before you knew it, you were deeper in the ocean than you ever had been before, courtesy to the teal-haired boy swimming and dragging you along. You flailed around a bit, eyes wide in panic. You were, quite honestly, terrified. And it obviously didn't help when Floyd just immediately let you go.
Was he an idiot or was he an idiot?
"Floyd-" You got out before coughing as water shot up your nose, still flailing miserably. It didn't work. You didn't know what to do. Surely, Floyd would help… If he realized what was going on. No matter what you thought, he was bright, wasn't he?
Not bright enough, it seemed, as he was still laughing and not realizing how actually panicked you were.
"Koebi-chan, you look so ridiculous like that," he laughed, almost in hysterics, and you would've smacked him if you weren't so close to actually dying.
And then you sunk.
Your desperate attempts to go to the surface were pointless as you didn't even know how to float or move around in the water.
After a few seconds, Floyd finally noticed you were gone and quickly dove under the surface. Maybe you were trying to get him back?
But his gaze immediately widened as he saw you literally sinking to the ocean floor. His eel tail moved quickly, almost without thinking as he shot to grab you and take you up, up, up so you could actually breathe.
When you came to, you were on the sandy beach again, Floyd leaning over you. His eyes, normally filled with a joking light, were unusually subdued.
"Koebi-chan, why didn't you tell me you couldn't swim?" A pout grew on Floyd's face. "If I knew, I wouldn't have-"
"Yes you would have. We would still be here, just having a different conversation."
"But-"
"No buts."
"I would've made it more fun-"
"Drowning in the ocean is the opposite of fun, Floyd-"
~Bonus because I don't know how to fit one into the story~
"I can teach you how to swim. You just go whoo and let your body move. Y'know. Like dancing."
"No, I don't know, Floyd, and this is not going to help me with anything-"
Jade Leech
Jade had been spending his time on the beach with you, but you were almost certain that he wanted to be swimming in the ocean. It was his natural element, after all.
"Jade, you sure you don't want to go in the water?"
"I'm fine staying here with you, [Y/N]." He gave you a soft smile.
You shook your head. "We've come all the way here, you might as well go swim." You gave him a gentle nudge.
"Well, I'd like you to come with me, if that is possible?" He watched you quietly. "You never go swimming with me."
You paused. Although it was sweet that he wanted you to go with him… "No, I don't think so…" You trailed off. You never liked telling people that you couldn't swim. At this point, it was embarrassing.
The pair of heterochromia eyes staring at you only left you feeling more jittery. "…I, er… I can't swim. So going into the ocean with you sounds kind of like… A bad idea." You froze. "Did you use your Signature Spell on me?"
"Of course not, [Y/N]." Jade stared at you with eyes of hurt, one that looked almost identical to that of his twin's. Only, it was almost obvious that Jade didn't mean the hurt in his eyes. "You just trust me enough to say things to me."
You couldn't deny the truth there. You trusted Jade. "And you wouldn't use your Signature Spell on something so trivial, would you?"
"No, I would not." He shrugged. "On a different note, I can help you learn how to swim."
"I really don't need it-"
"What if someone tries to hurt you one day and they know your weakness?"
"Why would-"
"It's an example, [Y/N]. But if that person decides to do that, you wouldn't be able to do anything. So I should help you in case that scenario occurs."
You sighed softly. "Fine, I guess I can take lessons from you… If it's not too much of a hassle."
"Of course it would not be a hassle or anything of the sort." Jade inclined his head. "All to help you stay safe."
The day went on with Jade helping you learn the basics of swimming - he was a good teacher, which you were happy about. He was patient, and always was there if you ever started to panic.
"We wouldn't want you getting scared of the ocean now, would we?"
Azul Ashengrotto
Azul had gotten used to you after a couple months. Sure, he hadn't opened up to many people in a while (only Floyd and Jade, but they also teased him constantly about everything, so), but you were soothing and nice. Sure, you teased him sometimes, but it was different. It didn't feel mean, you stopped as soon as you noticed him looking a little uncomfortable, and… He honestly felt like he could open up about anything.
So when it was decided that you two were going to the beach - together - alone? It kind of made him very messed up.
Would you like being at the beach with him? He wasn't completely against showing his octopus form… Would you want him to swim with you? Was he even ready for that?
Those thoughts led him down a spiral, and the day you two were to go, he had bags under his eyes and looked like he was half-dead.
You gently nudged him, murmuring how he should've tried to get more sleep for this day supposedly filled with fun, but he just shrugged.
Soon, you were at the beach, and as Azul saw your smiling face, his gaze softened a little. He loved seeing your happy face.
"C'mon!" You grabbed Azul's hand as you started to run to the water, ignoring his surprised stumbling as he was dragged along. He had a light flush on his cheeks that he was glad you couldn't see.
Soon, you had reached the edge of the water, splashing around in your sandals. It was really fun, even though you knew that you were going to be getting sand in your toes later on.
Azul just kind of watched on, a relaxed expression on his face. This really was soothing… Although he was still thinking about if the Mostro Lounge would be okay with him gone. Surely Jade would do something if Floyd got into trouble… Hopefully. And hopefully, no more dishes would break.
"What are you looking so glum for?" Your voice brought him back to his senses.
"Nothing, just hoping that Jade and Floyd can take care of things at the Mostro Lounge." He sighed softly.
"Oh, I'm sure they'll be fine. Jade's there, right?"
"He can cause as much trouble as Floyd, you know. Although he won't be outright about it." Azul shook his head, a small frown on his face.
"C'mon, turn that frown upside down." You moved closer to him, gently squishing his cheeks. "Today is for having fun, Azul."
"Yes, yes, I know." Azul couldn't help himself; he let out a soft laugh. A genuine one.
You smiled brightly. "You aren't charging me for hearing your little cute laugh?"
"I will charge you if you call it cute."
"Of course you will." You rolled your eyes before abruptly changing the subject. "So are you not going to swim?"
Azul paused. Did you want him to swim? To see his true form? There was an even chance. What should his answer be? "Er… I don't know?"
"Of course you don't have to, Azul, I just thought… I mean, there's no one around." You shrugged a little.
And now more pressure on Azul. Great. He was used to dealing with pressure, yes. Just not this kind from you. "Er… Would you come swim with me?" If you were with him, then maybe…
"No." Your lips parted, maybe to offer an explanation, but it was too late.
Azul was in a downward spiral. Why had you said no? Perhaps octopi merfolk were really too much. Perhaps you would rather be with someone with a pretty tailfin than tentacles. Or maybe a human, one of your own kind. Who said that you even liked him at all? Perhaps you were only with him out of pity, because he was that useless, chubby, good-for-nothing-
"Azul? Azul, are you listening to me?"
He snapped back to attention.
"Seriously, are you okay? Did you seriously get enough sleep last night?" You sighed.
"That's none of your-"
"It is if you're literally zoning out every five seconds." You rolled your eyes. "And anyway, I was just saying that I kind of can't go deeper into the ocean where you probably feel comfortable swimming. Because I can't swim." You shrugged nonchalantly.
But for Azul, it felt like a figurative bomb had been dropped.
You? Couldn't swim? Now that he thought about it, it did make sense… How you always looked so awkward and uncomfortable with water, especially when you came to the Octavinelle dorm. But seriously? How could you not know how to swim?
"Is not knowing how to swim… Normal?"
"Definitely not." You rolled your eyes. "But I'm just too lazy to learn now. And I have no time."
"You do if you have time to scroll on Magicam." Finally, Azul felt a bit better. At least you didn't hate him.
"And this time, I'll teach you how to swim. I'll even do it free of charge." Azul shook his head. "Seeing as I'm so generous."
"You sound like headmage Crowley."
"Do be quiet."
Azul was a pretty good teacher. He ended up not turning into his octopus form until nearly the end of the day, you were practicing your swimming and then just playing around on the sand, building sand castles, anything that you might do at a normal beach outing.
His octopus form was beautiful (as expected), and although you couldn't go to deeper waters, you enjoyed seeing him swim around, always eventually coming back to you.
"Today was truly relaxing, [Y/N]. We should do this again another time."
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