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createserenity · 8 months

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Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship dynamic fascinates me and what fascinates me even more is how people perceive them, partly because I seem to have a much more optimistic view of their dynamic than a lot of what I read suggests they do.

With that in mind I started trying to unpick how I see their dynamic and why and what I ended up with was a series of rambles on various aspects, including confidence, trust, silliness and what they ask of each other. This one is about what they ask of each other and why their relationship isn't some weird one-sided thing where Crowley gives Aziraphale everything he could possibly want or ask for.

I see a lot of posts and things suggesting Crowley always rolls over and does anything Aziraphale asks of him. I don’t know to what extent most people really believe this or if it’s just a fun joke (and I’m not saying that’s bad, I think it’s a fun joke too, I love reading all that stuff and it makes me laugh). The point I wanted to make here though is that I don’t think it’s true and also why I don’t think it’s true.

Everything from here on out is my opinion, but I won’t keep stating that in order to make it more easily readable, just take it as a given. If your opinion is different that’s absolutely fine, I love that we can all see this stuff in different ways depending on our experiences and personalities, it’s why the fandom is so fun. (It’s also why my opinion on so many things in season two ricochets wildly from one theory to another).

So back to Crowley and Aziraphale – I don’t think Aziraphale walks all over Crowley, or certainly not to the extent that people sometimes think he does. Also Crowley doesn’t and wouldn’t allow himself to be walked all over anyway. Why is this even relevant? Because I’ve seen people say that in the final 15 minutes Aziraphale finally asked Crowley to do something that pushed him over the edge and that Aziraphale was shocked when Crowley didn’t roll over and do it because Crowley always does what Aziraphale asks. This isn’t at all true for a start, but also this view tends to include a second assumption, which is that their relationship is one-sided and Aziraphale never does anything for Crowley, that he dismisses him and takes him for granted, which also is not true in a lot of ways. I think it’s a fundamental misinterpretation of their relationship dynamic.

First of all why can Crowley’s actions be interpreted as just rolling over and doing whatever Aziraphale wants? Well, the answer to that is three-fold – firstly Crowley is a genuinely unselfish in many ways, he does things for people because that’s the way he is, it doesn’t make him a pushover, it just makes him nice. Secondly he loves Aziraphale deeply. Whether he knows it or not doesn’t matter, he cares for Aziraphale and wants him to be happy. This isn’t the same as being a complete doormat, it’s simply compromising with the person you are in a relationship with and occasionally prioritising them over yourself. Both these things come together in the third thing, which is that Crowley’s love language is acts of service – he enjoys doing nice things for Aziraphale, he enjoys rescuing him, or going along with him and letting him have his own way, so why not do it? The point is he’s never railroaded into it by Aziraphale, it’s always a deliberate choice. He is literally saying, I will do this thing for you because I love you and I enjoy making you happy and this is something I feel I can give to you.

How does Aziraphale see this behaviour?

Well that’s a tricky one, because in many ways Aziraphale is the more complex character, not least because he changes the most over the course of their history together. Is there a slight element of him taking Crowley for granted in some of their interactions, especially in season two? Possibly, but mostly I don’t think that’s it at all. When someone gives you things because their love language is acts of service you develop a (mostly sub-conscious) confidence in that relationship dynamic and if you also have confidence in yourself (which Aziraphale absolutely does – I’ll write more on this another time) then when you want something you ask for things. You ask not because you learn to expect, but because you think you’re worthy of asking and you think that your relationship is strong enough to stand up to the ask. I ask my husband for things all the time, sometimes they’re things I know he’ll give me – these are easy asks (I don’t just mean physical objects, I also mean acts of service such as helping me with something), sometimes though I’ll ask for things knowing he probably won’t give me that thing or without having a clue what his answer will be – these are harder asks, the sort you don’t do early on in relationships because they might break it either in one go or over time. Sometimes a hard ask results in me getting what I want, sometimes it results in a bit of back and forth before I get what I want, sometimes I get a no and I’m temporarily annoyed or upset, sometimes I get a no and I accept it because I knew it was the most likely outcome.

The point is that I ask, and so does Aziraphale. You ask because you have confidence that you are worthy of the ask and also that your relationship is strong enough to bear the request, even if the answer is no. Can a no still be annoying or upsetting? Yes absolutely. Can a no still be wrong on the part of the other person? Also yes. The point is that sometimes the no isn’t wrong and it doesn’t necessarily break the relationship. By the time season two comes along Aziraphale is confident enough in his relationship with Crowley to feel it can bear the weight of him asking.

So what happens when he asks? Does Crowley roll over?

Well no, he doesn’t. One big example of this is right at the beginning of the series, in episode one. Here Aziraphale makes a massive ask of Crowley and he knows it’s a big ask. Even before he tells Crowley what the problem is he’s aware of the possibility of a no. “Is it something I can help you with?” Crowley sayss, and Aziraphale merely shrugs. It’s not because Nina is there, she’s gone by that point. It’s also not because he doesn’t have faith in Crowley’s ability to help him, he always has faith in Crowley’s abilities (this is a whole other thing on trust). What he’s doubting is whether Crowley will help him. It’s why they’re meeting in the café, not the bookshop. He wants to break this one to Crowley a bit at a time – there’s a problem and I need help. I want your help, it’s why I called you, but you aren’t going to like it and I’m not even sure whether you will help so I’m establishing that I need help first, rather than showing you Gabriel immediately, so that you aren’t completely surprised when I present the whole problem to you.

Once they go to the bookshop and Crowley is confronted with Gabriel he offers the help he feels able to give by saying that he’ll drive Gabriel somewhere and dump him. He’s stating his willingness to help (which is important later), but for now he’ll only help in one specific way. What he isn’t willing to do is any more than that, not even for Aziraphale.

Help me take care of Gabriel. Help me sort this mess out, Aziraphale says, and what does Crowley say? No. Absolutely not. You’re on your own with this one. Even after Aziraphale practically begs him for help, complete with puppy dog eyes and the magic word, “I’d love you to help me,” Crowley still says no. That is not the reply of someone who lets themselves be walked all over or who rolls over every time the angel they’re in love with flutters their eyelashes.

Okay so what about the fact that he returns? Well, the stakes have been raised: for a start Aziraphale is now directly in danger, which alters the balance in favour of helping him, and remember he was already willing to help, he said as much, but he was previously only willing to help in one way. Now that’s changed. Doing things you wouldn’t normally do for someone you love when the stakes are raised is a perfectly normal rection in a relationship and does not indicate an unhealthy dynamic. Crowley has now realised that getting rid of Gabriel is no longer an option - his preferred plan (dumping Gabriel somewhere) will no longer work, so the only choice is now Aziraphale’s plan of keeping him in the bookshop and taking care of him.

This is why he returns.

A quick note on the call

Just backtracking a bit here – when Aziraphale calls Crowley to ask him for help Crowley agrees to be over in two minutes. It’s instant, no questions asked and at first glance looks like Aziraphale calls and Crowley comes running just because. But nope. Later we are very clearly told that Crowley knows something is wrong the moment he picks up the phone and Aziraphale starts speaking, “This was your ‘Something’s Wrong’ voice.” Crowley already knows there’s a problem and what do you do when your closest friend calls you and tells you about a problem? You try to help. Whether that’s advice, comfort, physically going around to help out or whatever the situation calls for. Of course Crowley says he’ll be there in two minutes, he doesn’t exactly have anything else on and his friend has just indirectly told him something is wrong. He’d be a pretty shitty person/entity if he didn’t agree to drop round and try to help.

So what about the 'I was wrong' dance?

This whole interaction, that many people say indicates how under the thumb he is actually shows us the exact opposite. What’s the first thing Crowley says when Aziraphale asks him to do the dance? “I don’t do the dance.” This tells us a hell of a lot about their relationship dynamic up to this point – for a start Aziraphale has clearly done the dance before, at Crowley’s request, and he lists off the occasions. The dance is silly and slightly demeaning and Aziraphale has done it several times for Crowley, whilst Crowley has never done it, yet somehow we read this whole scene as Crowley being the whipped one? Um. No. Also heavily implied in Crowley’s, “I don’t do the dance” statement is, You’ve asked me to do this before, I’ve always said no because I don’t want to. You’ve always accepted my no before and I want (expect!) you to accept it this time.

But this time Aziraphale doesn’t accept the no. Just like Crowley wouldn’t go along with his plan earlier, Aziraphale now won’t go along with Crowley’s no. Clearly he has done so in the past, but this time their dynamics are different. They’ve been much more open about their friendship for the past four years, they’ve both accepted that they are at least close friends, if not more. They’ve saved the world together and saved each other. They both acknowledge they “carved (this existence) out for ourselves” and that brings strength to their relationship. Now that Aziraphale has more confidence in what they are to each other, he takes that confidence and tests the limits of what Crowley will do for him, to push them more towards equality. Why should he always be the one to do the dance? Crowley responds by acquiescing not because he would just roll over and do anything for Aziraphale but because he recognises three things. Firstly that Aziraphale is pushing and that this is new and that this means something to him in the context of their relationship, secondly because he reluctantly accepts Aziraphale’s point that it isn’t really fair that he never does it, and finally because the request for him to do the dance isn’t about him refusing to help (Aziraphale was never certain he would), it’s about the fact that he’s broken Aziraphale’s trust by refusing to help (which is a slightly and very subtly different thing). To illustrate this, right before Crowley does the dance, just after he says “fine,” he gets this very brief, soft look on his face – this is him acknowledging to himself that Aziraphale deserves this dance, that he loves the angel and that he’s doing this because of both those things – he could have continued to insist on a no, he clearly has before, but this time he chooses not to.

I will do this thing for you because I love you and I enjoy making you happy and this is something I feel I can give to you.

All right, what about the car thing?

What about it? Lending your car to the person you love is very normal. Ok so the car means more to Crowley than a normal car does to us, but the point still stands. Aziraphale is making a reasonable request here. Does he expect a yes? Absolutely, because he also knows it’s a reasonable request given where their relationship is. Does he flirt to get his own way? Hell, yes. Does Crowley know exactly what Aziraphale is playing at? Also a hell yes. And Crowley totally plays up to it, he’s not as opposed to it as he claims. He’s playing up his “no” and his grumpiness for effect, to encourage Aziraphale’s silly flirtiness. Look at the difference between this no and the no he gave Aziraphale earlier. There’s no anger here, there’s no real sense that he thinks Aziraphale is asking too much, he’s playing a role in their relationship and they’ve both played this game before. Look at that little slap of the hand, which Aziraphale responds to equally playfully. The game even continues after Muriel turns up at the shop, when it’s already quite clear that Crowley is going to let Aziraphale use the car (he’s already taking the plants out). Even in the back-room Crowley still teasingly grumbles about trains whilst Aziraphale smiles flirtily, and Crowley playfully withholds the car keys when Muriel interrupts them. They both know Aziraphale is going to end up with them, there’s no point to him not directly handing them over in spite of the interruption, it’s just an excuse to tease Aziraphale back. I mean, look at him – he spends the rest of the conversation wiggling his hips, grinning smugly and confidently handling the Muriel problem by talking about love. Aziraphale’s very overt reaction tells you all you need to know about the dynamic of this one.

Two can play at this flirting game, angel.

But he follows him around like a little puppy!

Well, yes and no. Sure he follows him around whilst he goes around asking all the shopkeepers to the meeting, but he does that because it’s fun for him. He’s curious, Aziraphale is acting oddly, doing something he’s never done before and Crowley wants to know what it is. He’s always found him fascinating – what silly and ridiculous thing is the angel up to now?

Also wanting to hang out with the person you are in love with isn’t at all strange or a sign you are in some sort of weird relationship where only one of you calls the shots. It’s normal. Crowley knows Aziraphale has a tendency to be silly or do unexpected things and he wants to watch him do them and also flirt with him whilst he’s doing them. Looking grumpy and reacting to Aziraphale’s silliness with disbelief is how Crowley flirts-without-flirting. Both of them know, understand and like that dynamic, and he has that role not because he’s unhealthy levels enthralled with everything Aziraphale does but because of the levels of trust they have spent millennia establishing.

What Crowley doesn’t do is wait around for Aziraphale. Look at the scene where Aziraphale daydreams about Job. In that scene he’s aware Aziraphale has something else to show him (the record clue), but he doesn’t stick around whilst Aziraphale ignores him. He could have sat down somewhere in the shop and waited – he’s got an eternity, waiting an hour or so is no big deal, but waiting around like that would suggest he really is a doormat, just waiting for the next time Aziraphale shows him any attention. He doesn’t do that, instead he goes off and does… well, something. There’s a lot of speculation over what it is, but whether he goes off to read Pride and Prejudice or just wanders off to find something more interesting to look at than the back of Aziraphale’s head, he’s clearly saying here that he has a life outside of whatever Aziraphale wants to do.

Also side note - you know what else he doesn’t do for Aziraphale? Adjust his driving style. Aziraphale clearly hates it, it makes him nervous and he even asks Crowley to change several times whilst they’re in the car together, but Crowley never does. This is how I am angel, accept it or don’t, but this is the line and I’m not changing this for you. Related to this is his refusal to accept Aziraphale altering the Bentley. Aziraphale tries to persuade him, “But it’s pretty,” and Crowley really isn’t having it. It’s another hard line and he’s not going to let Aziraphale cross it.

Anything else?

There’s a few other examples that I’ve seen listed in the, “Crowley does whatever Aziraphale says/wants” evidence piles. Things like Aziraphale assuming he’s going to get the drinks in the pub. Well, someone has to get them, and it makes perfect sense that they both assume it’s Crowley here because he’s the one more comfortable with pubs. Having a role that you take on within certain situations in a relationship is healthy and normal, imagine how exhausting it would be to debate who is going to do every little thing all of the time.

In the first series the coat cleaning is another example often cited, but this is something Crowley is perfectly happy to do. Aziraphale is flirting, which is delightful, and he’s not being asked to do anything difficult or dangerous. I will do this thing for you because I love you and I enjoy making you happy and this is something I feel I can give to you, which is totally different from, you always ask, I always give, and you always take.

What about Aziraphale. When does he give?

All the damn time. We just don’t notice it as much because Crowley asks different things of him. His love language is acts of service towards others, but he doesn’t really ask or require them in return. Sometimes he gets them from Aziraphale anyway (Holy water anyone?) Also notably in the Globe Theatre when he’s clearly the one pushing the Arrangement, and Aziraphale more or less agrees to do his work for him (“That doesn’t sound like hard work”) even before he’s asked, before they’ve gone through their little dance of Crowley pushing and Aziraphale supposedly-reluctantly agreeing.

The other things Aziraphale gives Crowley are much more nuanced, and much less measurable to us as the audience, but he gives them constantly, or more or less constantly, throughout their relationship. He gives him acceptance (although he occasionally partially withdraws it, such as in the bandstand scene), his silliness (which is more important than it first appears), a safe space (not just the bookshop, but also a safe space for Crowley to air his real views without fear of consequence, which is important irrespective of whether or not he persuades Aziraphale to agree with him), his physicality (by 1826 he’s really in Crowley’s space so much of the time) and most importantly he gives Crowley himself. Crowley constantly pushes Aziraphale to grow as a person, it’s one of the original reasons he entertains developing a friendship with him. What he asks of Aziraphale is for Aziraphale to think – really think – about what he believes. And Aziraphale does so, but only for Crowley. Humans have constantly questioned religious beliefs throughout history, they’ve written books, made speeches and even had wars over religious doctrine and the problems, inconsistencies and absurdities within it. Crowley is saying nothing to Aziraphale that he won’t already have indirectly heard from humans and dismissed or ignored. But when Crowley says it, he thinks and he changes. That’s what Crowley asks of Aziraphale and it’s what Aziraphale gives him.

What was the point of all this waffle?

Well, honestly there isn’t much of one. Only that their relationship is much more balanced than some suggest and I think I just wanted to spell that out. It also has an implication for the final 15 minutes. There’s no way Aziraphale goes into that with some sort of fake confidence that he can persuade Crowley to follow him to heaven simply because Crowley always follows him – Crowley doesn’t, he has very clear limits that he enforces with Aziraphale and Aziraphale knows this. He might feel confident for other reasons (such as thinking Crowley will be happy to be an angel again) or something else entirely different might be happening (so many theories!) but I’m pretty sure it’s nothing to do with thinking Crowley always does what he asks, because he very clearly doesn’t.

It's also why Crowley waits around afterwards to watch Aziraphale leave. It’s a way indirectly of saying one final time, I love you and I enjoy making you happy… but this is something I cannot give to you.

#good omens 2 #good omens #good omens meta #apology dance #ineffable husbands #ineffable fandom #acts of service #crowley loves aziraphale #aziraphale loves crowley #aziraphale #crowley

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puranami · 7 months

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✿ It's The Little Things ✿

A/N: My first time writing! Admittedly I'm very nervous, but also so excited!! Kept it simple with a small headcanon list to start, but I tried to write a decent amount for each point, and I hope that everyone is in character :0 Posting at 4am because I have no control over my life...

Summary: Little relationship things with the Strawhats. Can be interpreted as the anime/manga or the live action version of the character.

Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Nami, Usopp, Sanji

Content: SFW, G/N reader, slightest hint of angst in Sanji's part, but otherwise, pure unadulterated fluff! ✿

(Part 2 - Buggy, Shanks, Mihawk) (Part 3 - Franky, Robin, Law, Kid, Killer) (Part 4 - Crocodile, Rosinante/Corazon, Doflamingo)

Luffy

✿ He absentmindedly draws shapes on your leg, back, or whatever part of you is there as you sit together, whether you are watching the waves, or listening to one of Usopp's stories. He is almost magnetic in the way he ends up attached to you. If you're not feeling it, he will do his best to keep his hands to himself, but as soon as his focus shifts onto anything else, they're back on you, drawing little clouds and hearts. He tried, he really did!

✿ This bottomless pit inhales food like it's going out of fashion, but, much to the bewilderment of the rest of the crew, he will actually feed you from his plate as he eats, even though you are eating your own food. It may be a case of "1 for you, 5 for me," but it's almost instinctive for him; he's sharing something he's passionate about with you, and making sure that, in his eyes, you are happy, healthy and strong. He values your wellbeing more than food; you are one of the most important things in his life.

✿ Despite how chaotic he is in every aspect of his life, his presence brings you to a state of complete peace, even when he's yelling about whatever currently has his attention. Just knowing he is there comforts you in a way that nothing, and no one else can. As long as Luffy is there, being the same old Luffy he always is, you know everything will be alright in the end, and if it isn't alright, well, it isn't the end yet.

Zoro

✿ He always places a comforting hand on your head when he passes by, or ends up in the same general space as you. It's his version of a hug, a reassuring touch that he is there, and that he's happy to see you. Zoro is very subtle with his affection, at least in public, but even when it's just the two of you, he automatically defaults to the head pat. It comforts him as much as it does you, and the simple action alone conveys his feelings far better than he ever could with words.

✿ You both love silently observing everything going on around you, and it's such a comfortable silence. You just enjoy each others company while watching the world go by, with Zoro also keeping an eye out for any threats, as he does. Sometimes you end up passing silent judgement on what you see, and you have both developed this uncanny ability to gossip without saying a single word. It's honestly unnerving at times, but you are just so familiar with each others micro-expressions that it's second nature.

✿ Insults are terms of endearment. If anyone else called either of you such things, all hell would break loose - swords drawn, blood spilt, bodies hit the floor, the whole song and dance. It actually started out as a form of deflection, with both of you being far too stubborn to admit any feelings were there, even to yourselves; "No, I don't like you, shitstain, I tolerate you." - "Whatever helps you sleep at night, arseface." As you connected though, it just became your thing, and you love seeing who can come up with the funniest insults. Zoro is surprisingly creative in this regard.

Nami

✿ Nami has a habit of fixing your clothes and hair if something is out of place. It can seem overbearing to others, but she knows you appreciate the gesture. She spent years putting up walls to defend herself, and this is a safe way for her to have a little moment alone with you, giving you gentle little touches without revealing to the world just how important you are to her. It is a very grounding experience for both of you, and you end up doing the same for her on the rare occasion that she isn't completely flawless. She may purposely put things out of place so you have the opportunity to fix something too.

✿ She has an eye for the finer things, and loves getting you little trinkets, and especially pieces of jewellery, which often match or pair with hers, like pendants that fit together to make a whole shape, and such. Just don't ask her where she got them; "Shhh, you don't need to worry about that." All that matters is that you now have a tangible connection to each other, no matter how close, or far apart you are.

✿ Another person who relishes in comfortable silence. Of course you love chatting with each other, and often do so later into the night than you intended. Nami is very quick-witted and your shared snark is always so enjoyable! But it's the moments when you are doing your own thing together, basking in the warmth of that closeness that brings the most joy. Every so often, you will share something interesting or amusing, depending on what you're doing, but you always return to that silence. It's very domestic.

Usopp

✿ You both end up in regular fits of giggles, that grow into raucous laughter, before devolving into the sounds of various suffocating wildlife, which only fuels the hilarious fire. He doesn't even have to say anything at times; he just has a look, and as soon as he catches your eye with it, you absolutely lose it. The amount of nonsensical inside jokes you have is absurd in itself.

✿ Ever the storyteller, Usopp will wind down the day with you relaxing under the stars, telling you fantastical stories about the impossible feats of the great 'Captain Usopp.' His creativity and imagination are something you greatly admire, and as much as you try to stay awake to appreciate those qualities, the comfort he brings has you dropping off every time. He'll carry you to bed most nights, but sometimes he can only manage to drag you around like a corpse he's trying to hide, and he'll end up waking you up laughing about it.

✿ You automatically link your little fingers whenever you are close enough to. It doesn't even register half of the time, only realising when you need that hand or try to go your separate ways. When this happens, providing there isn't anything that needs your urgent attention, you like to dramatize your parting, playing up that this is the most painful moment of your lives! "Don't you dare let go, Usopp! We can both make it out of this alive!" - "I'm so sorry, I can't hold on any longer, and I refuse to drag you down with me." - "No! Don't say that!" - "I love you so much, but you need to let me go..." Leading to you unlinking your fingers, and exaggerated fake cries of anguish. It annoys everyone around you immensely.

Sanji

✿ You shamelessly flirt with each other, making everyone around you uncomfortable, groaning at how painful it is. You weren't together when you started playing this romantic game of chicken, giving back everything Sanji threw at you, and then some, but once you figured your feelings out, you actually developed it into a legitimate game where you attempt to be as sickening and obnoxious as possible. If there is no one grimacing, angrily telling you both to pack it in, or simply leaving the room; you aren't flirting enough. There is a points system, and you're currently in the lead. Sanji ends up caving over the things you say, and his brain loses the ability to form words, let alone string them together in a coherent sentence.

✿ Sanji always leaves a drink and a bite to eat for you to wake up to, since he isn't there in person, having to wake up much earlier to prepare the food for the day. Growing up in a restaurant, early starts are just part of his natural rhythm, so it doesn't bother him, but sometimes you try to wake up with him to at least watch the sunrise together, before going back to bed for a couple more hours. He cherishes those mornings, and there is always an extra spring in his step on those days.

✿ He takes every opportunity he can to share a glance and a warm smile, a gentle touch of your hands, or a chaste kiss with you. They are agonisingly brief moments, but Sanji needs them to get him through the day, otherwise he would just cling to you, and neither of you would get anything done! Unknown to you, these moments are also his way of reminding himself that you chose him over everyone else, that he is loved unconditionally, and that he is enough, without having to, in his opinion, burden you with his insecurities. He'll open up to you one day, and you will be able to give him verbal affirmations along with everything else~

#one piece imagine #one piece x reader #luffy x reader #luffy x you #zoro x reader #zoro x you #nami x reader #nami x you #usopp x reader #usopp x you #sanji x reader #sanji x you #monkey d luffy #roronoa zoro #cat burglar nami #god usopp #blackleg sanji

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fefern · 18 days

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✧˖° their ways of showing affection. | aalto, calcharo, lingyang headcanons.

⋆ ˚☁️ ⁀➴ synopsis: you're in love and happily with these wonderful men! but just how do they show their affection for you?

⋆ ˚☁️ ⁀➴ characters involved (separate): aalto, calcharo, lingyang and a gender neutral reader.

⋆ ˚☁️ ⁀➴ warnings: none!

⋆ ˚☁️ ⁀➴ notes: another one! i love thinking about the little ways people show love , it makes me so happy ;v;! enjoy these little blurbs about how they'd love you! also, requests are currently open, so send them my way! also, i could not find a calcharo chibi drawing... ;;

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ aalto ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

knowledge is power! the more he knows about you, the more he utilizes it in showing his affection for you.

a big, BIG sweet talker. loves to flirt!

also big on compliments, find it cute when you don’t know what to say back.

a big spender in my opinion. oh, you liked that necklace but thought it was too expensive? surprise, it’s on the counter for you when you wake up the next day! you tried to win that plushie at the fair but it just didn’t work out? now you have 20 on the couch!

adores kisses, especially when you pepper them all over his face. (bonus points if you’re wearing lipstick, man is enamored to look at himself and see visually everywhere you smooched him.)

follows the sidewalk rule all the time. does not matter if it’s a safe area, he always is a bit protective in that way.

learns more about your hobbies and likes and begins to learn more about them in his free time. that way, when he sees you again, he’ll be able to engage in conversation with you about it.

loves the way that your eyes light up when you talk about something you’re passionate about, and stares at you a lot as a result.

likes to playfully scare you. he seems to have the ability to disappear and reappear as he pleases due to the mist, so he uses it sometimes to suddenly appear behind you and wrap his arms around your waist.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ calcharo ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

not much of a talker, and kind of new to showing affection entirely due to his past, so be patient.

will wake up early and remind you to bring a jacket if it’s cold.

the type of person to also remind you that you forgot something, but by the time you turn around, he has the missing item in his hand.

will protect you if you’re scared of something. loud thunder? his hands are around your ears. scary part of a show? he’s using his arm to pull you closer to his chest to hide in.

will quietly work in the same room as you, enjoying your presence entirely as you and him work.

will sometimes ask those he knows around him for some advice about love, which is sort of strange considering who it’s coming from, but he wants to improve himself to be a better partner for you.

tries to apply the advice after, it’s a hit or miss sometimes, but always coming from a good place.

iffy on physical touch, but he will slowly come to enjoy the feeling of holding your hand.

he also does the thumb thing where you rub the back of a person’s hand with your thumb while holding hands. his favorite.

will let you play with his hair sometimes in the morning if he’s in the mood for it. even if you do something goofy like braid his hair or put it into a random hairdo, he’ll enjoy the feeling of your hands in his hair as he slowly stirs awake.

ruthless and cold in many other aspects of his life, he’s a gentle giant when it comes to you, and it’s endearing to see him try.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ lingyang ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

will always love to eat with you, whether it’s going out or cooking with you.

^ always lets you have the last bite of the meal.

immediately looks for your reaction after he tells a joke with you, wanting to make sure that you enjoy his playfulness.

during the summer heatwaves, will use his glacio powers to help keep the both of you cool.

will sit in your lap and let you play with his ears as he rambles about his day.

loves yapping, and yapping in your presence as the two of you either bounce back and forth or you just listen, he likes both options.

loves hugs, hugs tight and for a long time, will not let go of you until you let go of him first.

will compliment your scent and comment on it if you change something up like your shampoo or perfume, usually the first to notice those small changes.

shares a blanket with you on cold days and cuddles with you for warmth.

will sometimes, after waking up, just admire your features because wow he got lucky because you’re his.

even if you wake up and your eyes are looking back at him, he does it without shame.

whenever someone talks about you, if they say something wrong, he’ll immediately interject. (ex. “they like strawberries the most.” “no no, they like peaches more!”)

does practice runs of new tricks and dance moves he learns for his lion dances, asking you about your opinion on them because it means the world to him to know you like the dance he’s so passionate about.

gets matching lucky charms with you and carries his around everywhere. “maybe we’ll win the lottery with this!” he tells you.

(he already did. after all, you’re his partner.)

#wuthering waves #wuthering waves x reader #wuthering waves headcanons #wuwa #wuwa aalto #wuwa calcharo #wuwa lingyang #wuthering waves lingyang x reader #wuthering waves calcharo x reader #wuthering waves aalto x reader #wuthering waves calcharo #wuthering waves aalto #wuthering waves lingyang #qi writes #calcharo x reader #wuwa x reader #lingyang x reader #aalto x reader

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dulcesiabits · 5 months

Text

you arrive like a dream.

summary: you are fourteen years old when bachira breaks your heart, and you run halfway across the world to avoid him. so how are you supposed to react when the universe, against all your express wishes, brings the two of you back together again?

notes: 14k words, fic, author's notes, childhood friends, childhood heartbreak, messy relationships, really kind of a study of how people fall apart and then get back together

“I want to take a break from us.”

It’s the first thing your boyfriend says to you, barely waiting for the waitress to set down your order and clear away your laminated menus before speaking.

Instead of responding, you take a long sip of your milkshake, whipped cream sinking into a chocolate sea, your mouth flooding with sweetness. You regard the boy across from you thoughtfully, the one you’ve been dating for six months ever since he confessed to you during a school dance. He’s not the only boy you’ve ever dated in America, but he’s the one you’ve dated the longest.

Most American boys seem to regard you with a mixture of curiosity and fascination as an exchange student from Japan. The kinder ones try not to treat you any differently than they would from your other classmates, but the worse ones will make constant jokes about hentai and mock your faint accent.

By this point, though, you’ve learned to tune out the insults and the passive aggressive comments. You’ve always been good at dealing with other people, knowing how to read the mood and adjusting your behavior accordingly. Your teachers often praised you for being so well-behaved and conscientious.

The meaner boys treat you like a zoo animal precisely because they want to see your reaction, so it’s better not to give them the reaction that they want. Otherwise, the second they sense hurt, they’ll sink their teeth in and never let go. Of course, they don’t seem to realize that in the same way they observe you, you can observe them right back.

As for your boyfriend, Thomas? Well. He does his best. Or at least you think he does his best. No one mocks you to his face when he’s around, and he valiantly tells people to “knock it off” whenever he thinks you feel uncomfortable. He’s sweet, if a little obtuse, and you like him well enough. You wouldn’t date him if you didn’t. But his confession had been so out of the blue, and you had no real reason to accept him– just like you didn’t have any real reason to reject him.

In short, your relationship started on an ambivalent whim. He’s not the sort of person you can share your thoughts with, but it’s not as if you’re looking for a lifelong companionship. He’s mild, and nice to be around, which is just what you need after everything that happened to you in Japan. He’s just like the whipped cream slowly disappearing into your milkshake in that aspect.

Your boyfriend calls your name. “Hey, are you okay? Do you want me… to explain?” Thomas says softly.

You’ve been staring into space for too long, and your milkshake is half-empty. You smile at him. “No, it’s fine. A break, right? I understand.”

“I don’t want this to be permanent. It doesn’t have to be,” Thomas says, running a hand through his shorn blond hair. “It’s just soccer season is kicking up again, and I won’t have a lot of time to spend with you. I didn’t want you to feel abandoned, or anything. And I want to focus on practice. So…” He looks at you like a kicked puppy, as if you’re the one breaking up with him, and not the other way around. “We can date again once the season is over.”

“Okay,” you say, dragging your straw through your softening milkshake. “Let’s see what happens at the end of the season.”

Thomas perks up. “Great! Do you want anything else to eat? It’s my treat.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” Thomas says.

Milkshakes are no remedies for break-ups, but you bite your tongue. “Yes. I’m sure.”

Thomas flags down the waitress, a freckled and red-haired girl who lets her stare linger a little too long. Not that you can blame her; he is cute. But Thomas, good old oblivious Thomas, only smiles innocently in return.

Maybe you should get jealous. Pull some American teen movie line and say that “he’s your man” and put her in her place, or something equally dramatic like that. But he’s not really “your man” anymore, is he? Besides, staring is free, and, as you often hear, this is a free country.

By the time the two of you are out of the diner, Thomas is pulling you into a hug. You limply wrap one arm around his back. “See you later,” he whispers. “You can still call me if anything happens, okay?”

Should you remind him of the international fees that it would take for him to call you Japan? “Okay.”

You’re still standing outside the diner when Thomas waves at you through the windows of his car and pulls away from the curb. Maybe you should have asked for a ride, but getting a ride with your now-ex is a little weird. The weather is clear and the sunshine warm, so it’s a mild enough spring day for you to walk back. You’d prefer the walk, anyways, compared to the awkward silence in Thomas’s stifling truck.

Halfway down the pavement, your phone starts buzzing in your pocket. You pull it out: it’s your mom. There’s a seventeen hour time difference between California and Japan, and the international fees of a phone call are exorbitant, but your mom has never cared much about finances. “Money is there for you to spend it,” she always claims. Easy enough for her to say when she runs an investment firm that rakes in enough yen for her to send you abroad.

“Hello, Okaa-san,” you say when you open your phone.

“Hello,” she coos. “Good morning! Ah, wait. It’s afternoon for you, right?”

“It’s afternoon, and you’re a day ahead of me,” you confirm.

“Oho! I forgot! So you’re talking to a time traveler right now,” she says.

“Seems so. Have any news from the future?”

“You’re going on spring break next week, right?” She doesn’t wait for you to respond before barreling on. “Why don’t you fly home to Japan for the holidays?” your mom says. “I’m already booking the tickets.”

“Why’d you even ask if you were going to do it for me?”

“Just because you always tell me you hate it when I do things without telling you. So I’m alerting you in advance,” she chirps.

You sigh. “Okay. Send me the ticket details when you’re done.”

You can imagine your mom’s grin over the phone. “Perfect! By the way, I ran into Yu-san a little while ago. We talked about how much you used to love her art lessons! Do you remember how you used to beg to spend extra time at Yu-san’s studio?”

You stop in the middle of the sidewalk, the sunshine suddenly searing your neck. You fight to keep your voice steady. “Yeah. I do. Why?”

“Well, then we started talking about Meguru-kun. You always bugged me about when he could come over and play. You were such a mild-mannered child, but as soon as you saw Meguru-kun, you would just get so wild. I’d never seen you have so much fun. I swear, it was so cute.”

“Okaa-san,” you say faintly, but she continues on.

“Since it’s been so long since you were back in Japan, Yu-san and I thought it would be nice if the two of you could see each other again, so we arranged a little meeting for the four of us. Won’t it be nice to catch up with your childhood friend over dinner? There’s no need to thank me.”

There really isn’t. You gape like an open-mouthed fish after your mom’s triumphant little speech, thoughts scattering like bubbles on the surface of a pond.

“Does Meguru know that you’ve done this?” you say. It’s the only question that manages to escape. His first name feels like ash in your mouth. When did you last use it?

“Yu-san told him right away. I think she said he was excited to see you!”

“That’s… great,” you say. “I have to go now, Okaa-san. I have something to do. I’ll see you when I fly back.”

“Okay. Love you!”

With a cheerful blip, your mom ends the call and you sink to your knees, digging the palms of your hands into your eyes. Shit. This is going to be the worst possible way to spend your spring break. Thomas is one thing, but Bachira? No way. There is absolutely no way in hell you can face him again.

You might have gotten along back in Japan, running around Chiba together as children, but it’s been years since then. Maybe if you were two regular childhood friends, you would jump with joy at the opportunity to see him. If you didn’t have the particular history you did, this would have been a pleasant surprise. But you two don’t have that sort of relationship anymore, and the thought of Bachira makes old wounds flare to life.

You can’t blame your mom for not knowing, not really. You’ve mentioned your American boyfriends here and there, but you tend to keep a tight lid on your love life, as you’ve always been her pristine, studious child. You try not to make it a habit to keep secrets from your mom.

In fact, the only secret you’ve ever kept from her is that Bachira Meguru broke your heart when you were fourteen years old.

–

You have always wanted to be the perfect child for your mom.

Ever since you could remember, your afternoons and weekends were full of different lessons, from piano to dance, and English to math tutoring. Your mom cooed with excitement at all your new hobbies, demanding you show her every time you learned a new musical piece or math equation. You charged headfirst into whatever skill you could learn to mold yourself into a well-rounded adult, so no one could find a way to look down on your mom. All of her business associates patted you on the head and spoke indulgently at you. As if you couldn’t sense the way they viewed you as an extension of your mom, and a way to judge her.

Art lessons, however, were when your life took a sudden, unexpected turn.

You remembered this: you were eight, and it was a cool spring day during your very first lesson, and Bachira-san had given you free reign of the canvas, handing you a palette and a brush. Her lessons always took place in her studio, the door open to let in the breeze, sunlight sinking into stacks of piled canvas and painting supplies placed haphazardly on every free surface.

You stared up at Bachira-san with a frown, looking uncertainly in her smiling face. “What am I supposed to do with this?” you asked.

“Whatever you want,” she replied, ruffling the top of your head. You gave a squeak of protest.

“But what do you want?” you persisted.

“I want you to do whatever you want,” Bachira-san said with a grin. “Why don’t I give you some space to paint? I’ll come back in a little bit, ‘kay?”

And so Bachira-san had left you in front of a canvas, your frown growing as you dipped a brush into the green paint. Incomprehensible. The adults in your life always had such clear expectations for you, and Bachira-san’s instructions feel like she just handed you a blank map and told you to chart unexplored territory.

You dragged a tentative, watery streak of green on the bright white canvas, but it looked ugly and intrusive. You’d marred the pristine surface already.

Something brushed your foot. You looked down to see a football rolling across the wooden floor of the studio, and not a second later, the small head of a child peeking around the corner of the door.

“Kaa-san! I’m back– eh? Who are you?”

The boy approached you curiously. There was a bandage on his face, and streaks of dirt running down his legs and striping his cheeks.

“Who are you?” you demanded, brandishing your brush like a sword. “I’m having an art lesson right now.”

Undeterred, the boy tilted his head like a giant chipmunk. “Art lesson? This is where Kaa-san works.”

“Huh…” Your teacher must be his mom, and he must be her son, you deduced.

Seemingly losing interest, the boy ran after the football, which had lodged in the corner. With a few swift kicks, the boy skilfully bounced it up on his knee, his elbow, and his head. It was just like the seals you saw once at the aquarium, who could perform the same tricks for a few fish as incentive.

“Hey! Can you play football?” the boy said suddenly, turning back to you with the ball balanced precariously on his head.

“Football? I can’t play. I have to study art.”

“But that’s boring… Wait!” The boy brightened as he lurched towards you, wrestling the brush from your grasp. You watched in horror as the boy slashed the brush across the canvas, dipping randomly into the paint, creating an incomprehensible mess of lines and paint splatters. “Done! Now you can play with me.”

You shoved him, as hard as you could, and the boy toppled to the floor, his football bouncing sadly into a pile of canvas. “What are you doing? You– you ruined it!”

“I helped you,” the boy protested. He leaped up into the air, regarding you quizzically. “Kaa-san paints like that all the time.”

“Bachira-san– Bachira-san is a real artist! You can’t just– argh!” You stumbled at him, annoyed, tiny fists swinging, but the boy only dodged out of the way.

A grin splitted his face. “Are we playing now? Yay!”

You don’t know how long this chase lasted. All you knew was that you wanted to wipe that unbearably happy look from his face after he ruined your lesson, because how on earth could you explain this to Bachira-san? But the boy only danced around, laughing as you tried to lunge at him, always just one step away from you.

You weren’t unathletic, but the boy had stamina on another level, because while you sweated and panted, hands on your knees, he only skipped in circles around you. “Hey,” the boy said. “Are you done already? Come on. Let’s play some more.”

How annoying! How super, super annoying! You gave a great yell as you jumped at him, and, startled, the boy couldn’t move away fast in enough time. The two of you crashed onto the floor, rolling and tumbling. You pulled at his hair and the boy grabbed at your cheeks.

“I’m back! Are you done with– Meguru? Kiddo?”

The two of you froze as Bachira-san stepped into the studio, a plate of cookies in her hand. The two of you watched her with big silent eyes as she surveyed the room. And, for the first time, you realized that you had knocked over some of her paint tubes and canvas, and the two of you were covered in streaks of paint and dust from the floor.

You sprang up as Bachira-san moved closer to the canvas you were supposed to paint on– the one her son had ruined. Your hands were clammy as you lowered your head, like a criminal readying for their punishment.

“Hey, nice artwork, kiddo,” Bachira-san said, breaking into a smile. “Very avante-garde.”

“He… he was the one who did it,” you mumbled, face heating up with shame, pointing at the boy– Meuguru– who was still on the floor.

He stuck out his tongue. “I only helped!”

“Well, the both of you did a great job,” Bachira-san said.

“Really…?” you mumbled, looking down at your black shoes, now scraped and scuffed from your scuffle across the floor.

“Yes, really! Why don’t the two of you have some snacks?”

The three of you munched on cookies for the rest of the lesson as Bachira-san explained the color palette and different forms of art to you. Meguru gifted you the very last cookie with a beaming expression on his face as if you hadn’t tried to tear his hair out, and you thanked him quietly.

During your next lesson, Meguru was waiting by the entrance of the studio. When he saw you, a goofy smile stole across his face, and he bounded towards you like a puppy.

“Here!” He thrust some flowers into your face. They were small and white, with five different petals. You took them gingerly.

“What are these for?” you asked.

“For you! So we can be friends! I had a lot of fun with you last time, but you didn’t look really happy. Kaa-san said I have to be aware of other people’s feelings, so this is a ‘let’s be friends’ flower!”

“You want to be friends with me?” you mumbled.

“Yup! No take backs,” Meguru added. “We’re friends for life now, okay?”

“Are you sure?” you said. “Yesterday I was rude to you.”

“Were you?” Meguru tilted his head. “Does that matter?”

“I was. I’m sorry,” you said.

“We’re friends! So it’s okay. Hey, this time, you’ll play football with me, right?”

He grabbed your hand, and you carefully wrapped your fingers around his. For some reason, there was a strange fluttering in your chest. Why did holding Meguru’s hand feel a little different from holding your mom’s, or your friend’s hand at school?

But all you know is this: ever since you took Meguru’s hand that day, you don’t think you’ve ever really let go.

–

You haven’t stepped foot in Japan for three years.

There’s always been an excuse not to: you were busy with studying. You had clubs and other activities. It would be too much of a hassle, and really, you wanted to enjoy every minute abroad you could get.

Your mom bought your excuses easily, so you never had to tell her the real reason you stayed away, the same reason you even bothered to study abroad in the first place: you didn’t want to be in the same country as Bachira Meguru.

But when your plane descends and jolts to a stop, when you pass through customs and scramble to find your luggage at the baggage claim, when you take that first wobbly step into the spring sunshine, squinting into the sky as you raise your hand to shield your eyes, you have no more excuses left. It’s like the universe won’t let you run away, because why the hell does Golden Week fall during the same week during your American spring break? Bachira is on break, same as you, so you can’t even use the excuse that he’s in school to avoid him. It’s a coincidence, or the universe is laughing at you for thinking you could get away so easily.

You pause to scroll through your phone; there’s a few messages from your mom, and an email from Thomas. You hover over the message with your thumb, before swiping away. You told him to email you if he needed you, since it’s not like he had Line or Whatsapp, but you didn’t think he’d actually go through with it.

Everyone is speaking in rushed Japanese around you. It’s a sea of people with black hair and black eyes and luggage and appointments and harried expressions, hurrying in every direction. This is home. America has never felt more far away.

You wander to the edge of the curb, phone still held loosely to your ear as a car pulls up. Your mom rolls down the side window, scarf around her throat and a grin wide on her face. “Hello, hello. Look who’s decided to show up on our side of the globe again.”

“It’s not like I had much of a choice,” you acknowledge.

The driver steps out to put your luggage in the trunk, and your mom rests her arm against the window. “How was your flight?”

“It was fine,” you say. “It’s not that far from California to Japan.”

“Perfect! So I assume you’ll be ready for dinner in a few hours?”

“Dinner?”

“Well, there’s this wonderful seafood restaurant I wanted to take Yu-san to, and Meguru-kun is free, so we planned our little get-together for today.” Your mom winks, but you feel as if someone pushed you off the airplane without a parachute. Actually, you’d have preferred that to whatever torture this is.

“Okaa-san, I can’t,” you protest, taking a step back. “I just got back. I’m tired. I–”

“Nonsense! It’s just some dinner. Aren’t you excited to see Meguru-kun?”

You force a queasy smile. “But I need to get ready. I want to shower and–”

“Then we can stop by home before we go to dinner. It’s not as if we’re going right now. Come, come. Hop in the car. The sooner we get back, the more time you’ll have to freshen up.”

The next few hours pass by in a weightless blur. You turn the water as hot as it can go and stand under the thundering steam until your fingers turn pruny. You pick out a tasteful outfit, decide you’re trying too hard, and settle for something casual, but then it feels like you’re not trying hard enough. This goes back and forth for half an hour until you throw on the first thing you picked out of your closet.

It almost feels like you’re getting ready for a date, and the thought makes you want to laugh hysterically.

When you’re done, you flop onto your bed and stare up at the ceiling. You haven’t been in this room for years, and there’s no dust, but it feels like a graveyard, a testament to a different time. There are faded patches of discolored paint on the wall where you once hung up photos of you and Bachira, and empty spots on your shelves where the plastic toys he won for you at summer fairs had once stood. You forgot where you put those old trinkets. They’re either shoved in a box in the back of your closet, or buried in a garbage heap.

Your mom calls your name. “Time to go! Are you ready?”

You’re not. You never will be, but you descend down the stairs and get into the car. You still feel weightless. Dread is the only thing propelling you forward, and it grows heavier with each passing step, weighing you down with its leaden mass.

The restaurant is all polished glass and cool blue tones, so you feel like you’re standing underwater when you step inside. The tablecloths are pressed, the menus so new and shiny you think you could cut yourself on their edges. You’re scurried off to a corner table, next to a painting of the ocean, layered with many painful shades of blue, the frothy white waves so textured you could lick it off like cream.

You order something. You’re not sure what, but the waiter is smiling at your choice.

“Yu-san is running a bit late,” your mom says, with her bright red lipstick which always looks elegant on her and never tacky. You feel childish, all of a sudden, trying to play at being a composed adult, next to her and her genuine enthusiasm for old family friends.

You hope Bachira and his mom never get here. Because of a traffic jam, perhaps. Or a sudden freak accident that cuts off their path, so they have to stay home. Or maybe they’ll just forget, and you can call the whole thing a wash.

“Ah, there she is! Yu-san! Meguru-kun!” Your mom waves wildly, her arm springing back and forth.

Against your will, you turn, biting the inside of your cheek hard. They’re both in street clothes, which sends a dull jolt of surprise through you, but then again, your old teacher has never been one for formalities. You focus hard on her instead of the boy next to her, never taking your eyes off her once as they both settle at the table. Your mom hugs Bachira-san, and they both giggle like schoolgirls. There’s paint on Bachira-san’s sleeves, faint splatters of red and blue and purple. Her hair is in a bun, pulled low.

She reaches out for you, and you melt into her embrace. She smells like paint, like salt water, with an artificial floral scent from her shampoo. “It’s been so long! You’ve gotten so much bigger. Have you been keeping up with your art?”

“I still sketch sometimes,” you say. “But I’ve been busy.”

Bachira-san laughs, a charming sound like windchimes. “Ah, so my lessons weren’t totally wasted! I’d love to see what you’ve been sketching. America has been nice to you, I see.”

You’ve chewed your cheek for too long. The sharp copper of blood fills your mouth like new pennies, and you manage to work your lips into the shape of a smile. “It’s been fun studying abroad.”

And then Bachira calls your name, and you feel like you’re fourteen again, getting your heart broken for the first time. “Hey, hey!” he says cheerfully. “Long time no see!”

You fight to maintain your smile. You can’t look him directly in the eye, so you look somewhere over his shoulder. Has his hair gotten longer? It looks like his mom had tried to tame his bangs with clips. “Hi. It has been a long time.” There. You even sound like you’re happy to see him.

Bachira and his mom order. She and your mom are drinking glasses of red wine, absorbed in their own world, so it’s just you and Bachira. He’s tearing his napkin into little pieces, a miniature blizzard that only grows in intensity with each ticking second. You’re both silent. Is he feeling just as nervous as you? Or are you the only one idiotically aware of the tension? Maybe he doesn’t even notice at all.

“Meguru-kun is on his school’s soccer team?” your mom asks suddenly, forcing the two of you to look at her. “That’s amazing! I heard you want to go to nationals.”

“Yup yup!” Bachira says. “It’s fun to play with everyone.”

“That’s great!” Your mom nudges you with her elbow. “This one over here is juggling a ton of different clubs in America, too. A math team, and a science one, and an art club on top of it, I think.”

Bachira is looking at you now. You stare hard at your glass of water, avoiding his eyes. The silence grows, stretching between the two of you, taut as a wire. Your mom looks back and forth between the two of you, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows.

You stand. “Okaa-san, I think I need a bit of a break. I’m still dizzy from my flight,�� you say politely, flawlessly. You smile at Bachira-san and your mom, and throw a fuzzy look in Bachira’s direction.

“Are you? I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard. Do you–”

“I just need some air,” you say, still smiling as you back away from the table. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

You flee before anyone can respond, pushing through the doors and into the dizzying sunlight. It’s a coward’s move, but so what? You’ve never pretended to be strong. Your go-to is to put on a smile and smooth over any situation. It’s better not to rock the boat. It’s better to just keep everyone happy– but you can’t do that now. You can’t do this, not now, not in front of Bachira Meguru.

You look up and down the streets, disoriented as you stumble to a stop. Where are you? The restaurant is at the end of the block, and you’ve somehow paced down the entire length of the street in your desire to escape. This is a high-end area with exclusive fashion stores and exorbitant restaurants, and their polished facades only make you feel smaller and uglier.

You sigh. Maybe it would be better to go home, to leave now before you worry anyone further. You would just ascribe all blame to your plane flight, and no one would be any wiser.

Just as you make up your mind, you see a figure blurring down the street, dashing at an impossibly high speed– a blur of yellow, no, a boy, running straight towards you– alarmed, you try to move to the side, but then he screeches to a stop right in front of you.

It’s Bachira. Shit shit shit— But then he abruptly spins around until all you can see is his back and the way his hair sticks up at the ends, perpetually untamable.

“What are you doing?” you say, irritated. Is this another one of his childish pranks?

“You don’t want to see me, right?” he says, more quietly than you thought he was capable of.

“I–”

“This way, you won’t have to look at me. Is that okay?”

“So?” you say. “What you do has nothing to do with me.”

“Let’s talk.”

“I don’t want to,” you say petulantly. You flush; why does Bachira bring out your inner child? “There’s nothing for us to say,” you add more coldly.

“I miss you.” The world, in its perpetual motion, freezes for just an instant at his words. Planets stop their revolutions. The tectonic plates pause. Everything slows down, to this single moment in time and space.

You can only manage to faintly say, “So what?” The world resumes spinning again.

“I want to talk to you again,” he says.

“I don’t care,” you say again.

“I’ll bug you if you don’t come see me again,” he says. “I’ll blow up your phone. I’m gonna send you a ton of mail. I’ll even go to your house and–”

“Stop!” you snap. “You sound like a stalker. Bachira, you know things can’t move backwards, right? We can only go forward. And I don’t want to act buddy buddy with you again.”

“One chance. Pleaseeee. Come on. If you talk with me just once, I won’t bother you again! I promise! Otherwise I’m going to call you! Every! Single! Day!”

You sigh. With the way Bachira is, you have no doubt that he would make good on his threat, no matter how childish or ridiculous he sounds right now. Just once. You could talk to him just once. Besides, this way, you could get rid of all your lingering feelings, and it’d be the same relief of a loose, bothersome baby tooth finally falling out of your mouth.

“Fine. I’ll see you just once. But!” you add, raising your voice before he can throw his hands up in the air in joy. “I decide when and where we will meet.”

“Yay!” Bachira whoops, waving his arms. “Let’s go back, then!”

“Go back where?”

“To the restaurant, duh. The food arrived. I was supposed to tell you that, actually. Oops!”

It would be so easy to just go home right now. But… you glance at the back of Bachira’s hair again. He’s grown taller. And despite his antsy movements, shifting back and forth on his feet, he still hasn’t turned back to look at you once, keeping his ridiculous promise.

“Fine. Lead the way,” you say grudgingly. Your steps feel light as you stare at Bachira, following him all the while, but he still doesn’t look back at you.

At the table, your mom smiles at you. “Feeling better?”

“A little,” you respond. The next time you look at Bachira, you finally meet him in the eye, and his smile lights up his face, just like it did when you were little, the sun rising to sweep the world in light and color.

–

Art lessons with Bachira-san quickly became your favorite thing in the world.

Maybe it was because she never demanded unerring perfection from you, nor did she treat you like a little doll. She delighted in every advancement you made with art, no matter how messy or imperfect. She treated you like you already had things worth saying, and listened to you babble about anything on your mind.

But as much as you loved those things, what you most loved about art lessons with Bachira-san was her son, Meguru.

At some point in the afternoon, he would inadvertently drag you away from your canvas for an adventure through the neighborhood. Bachira-san never seemed to care, and would even encourage you to leave your pastels behind and pick up a stick to be a sword, as long as you had finished drawing at least one thing that you liked.

So, in those perfect sunny afternoons, you would poke at bugs, digging worms out of the dirt and following ants back to their nest and lifting up rocks to watch rollie pollies curl up. You would climb trees, always trying to outrace each other and get to the tallest branch. You would pretend to be pirates and adventurers, clamoring up and down the slides on the park, searching for treasure.

Mostly, though, Bachira wanted to play football.

“You gotta kick it like this! And that!” he cheered, dribbling the ball back and forth between his feet in lithe, swift steps.

“Huh?” you said, trying to keep up with his movements. You always did well during your elementary school’s sports meet, but Meguru was on another level.

“No, no! More like this!” Meguru said, and kicked the ball high in the air, only to catch it with his knee.

“I’ll try,” you said.

“Yay! Then let’s play a few games, okay?”

And you played, not because you particularly loved football, like Meguru did, but because you liked it when he smiled. You and Meguru. Meguru and you. Why would you need anything else? The boundaries of your world began and ended with his hand in yours.

Bachira-san would let him sit in on your lessons on slow days, too, even though he would invariably end up doodling on your canvas instead of his.

“Use your own paper, Meguru!” you retorted as Meguru scribbled a lumpy shadow onto the corner of your sketchpad. “This one is mine!”

“Eh? But we’re friends! So I can draw on yours!”

And then the two of you bickered playfully until you ended up doodling all over each other’s works, which Bachira-san then dubbed a “collaborative masterpiece,” and hung up the pictures side by side on a corkboard in her studio. It made your heart flutter to see the papers fluttering like friends.

Other times, Meguru would wander off in the middle of your lesson after drawing to his heart’s content, grabbing the football that was perpetually by his side.

“I’m done,” Meguru said, throwing down his colored pencil. There was a strange red creation on his page, some machine with a thousand different blue and green buttons and square windows. It had dragon wings and a boat’s rudder, and soared through scribbled stars and over choppy turquoise waves.

“What is that?” you asked him.

“A car that can fly across the ocean,” Meguru explained. “I’m gonna drive it up to pick up all my favorite football players, and there’s gonna be a stadium in it, and we’re all gonna play football together!”

“Can I come, too?”

“Duh! You can sit in the pilot seat with me. That’s why I made it so big,” he said, before dribbling his football out the studio door.

Even if he wandered off, Meguru would always rejoin the two of you on time for lunch. He had some sort of sixth sense for the moment Bachira-san started passing out snacks, peeking his head (sometimes with twigs or dirt scattered in his hair) around the studio door, cheerfully announcing, “I’m home!”

“Welcome back, Meguru! You’re just in time for a snack,” Bachira-san said, sweeping her hands at the row of pudding cups on the table. You were sitting quietly in a chair, posture straight, methodically scooping out every last bit of pudding with your spoon.

“Pudding! It’s pudding time,” Meguru exclaimed cheerfully at the sight of the snacks, running up to the table to snatch up several cups and a spoon in his chubby hands.

“Meguru! Leave some for your friend!” Bachira-san scolded lightly, and Meguru would come running right back to you.

“Here,” he said, dropping a cup in front of you.

Meguru could never sit still, so your eyes were inevitably drawn to him as he danced around the room, running from corner to corner and shoving pudding into his mouth so fast his cheeks puffed out like a small animal’s. Whenever he caught your eye he would stick out his tongue, and you would stick out your tongue in return. When there was only one pudding cup left on the table, you reached for it, before turning to Meguru.

“Have this,” you said, handing him the pudding cup, which Meguru had been eying with a wide open mouth and sparkling eyes.

“Yay! Thanks!” he said. “Let’s share it!”

“I saved it for you, though.”

Meguru shook his head as he unpeeled the cap, revealing inch by tantalizing inch of the shiny, golden treat. “Well, I want you to have some, too.”

There was no better pudding in the world than the spoonfuls you had that day, Meguru graciously proffering the very last bite for you to eat. The memory of that sweetness resounded through your dreams.

Even your mom had gotten used to your chattering about Meguru. He was your favorite topic, and nothing was ever quite as important or interesting as him. As soon as your mom’s car pulled up to the curb at the end of your lessons, you would clamber inside, your artwork for the day clutched tightly in your hands, and a new story about Meguru on your lips.

“Okaa-san, Okaa-san,” you said brightly. “Guess what Meguru did today?”

“Let me guess,” your mom said playfully as the driver pulled away from the curb. “The two of you played together?”

“Yup! This time, we pretended to be monkeys living in the trees! And then we got into a monkey war! And we threw a bunch of sticks at each other, and Bachira-san let us eat bananas for a snack! And we kept trying to peel them like monkeys, too.”

“How exciting! I didn’t realize I was taking a monkey home with me today,” your mom replied. “Are you having fun with your art lessons?”

“I’m having a lot of fun, Okaa-san. I’m learning a lot!” You squirmed in your seat. “Oh! But you have to hear about what Meguru did!”

You didn’t know if your mom ever got tired of you chattering on and on about Meguru. If she did, she never let it show, and she watched you with gentle eyes the whole time you talked.

“You act differently around Meguru-kun,” she said.

“Is that bad?” you asked anxiously, suddenly alert.

She smiled. “No, not at all. Everyone has different sides to them. But I’m glad you’re good friends with him. You talk about him all the time.”

You fiddled with your fingers, feeling strangely pleased and shy all at once. Meguru always stirred unknown emotions in you. “I just like him a lot!”

“Enough to marry him?” your mom teased.

Your face brightened at her words; you hadn’t even realized that was an option. But it was such a great idea. If you married Meguru, then the two of you could be together forever. It just made a lot of sense; who else in the world would you rather spend your entire life with? No one else could compare to your best friend. If you lived in the same house, then you could have sleepovers everyday, and never be separated. “I do!”

Your mom laughed. “Does he want to marry you, though? You can’t decide that on your own!”

“He will if I ask him,” you explained. “He doesn’t say no to me.”

Your mom laughed even harder at that, tears springing to the corner of her eyes. “So he’ll do whatever you say? That sounds very sweet of him.”

However, one memory from this period of time stood out to you, clearer than the rest. You would dream about it, taking it down from a shelf to blow off the dust and stare into its depths.

It was a hot spring day, about a year after you had started art lessons, and Meguru stumbled into the studio with bruises on his face and scrapes on his knees. He had been gone for most of the afternoon, which had disappointed you slightly, but you knew you would see him again. However, you never imagined it would be like this.

“Meguru!” You ran to him, watercolor brush dropping to the paint splattered floor, stopping to grab his shoulders in concern. “Are you okay? Do I need to get Bachira-san?”

Meguru shook his head, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “No.”

“What happened?” you asked urgently. “You’re hurt!”

Ushering him to a seat, you ran to the sink and grabbed a towel, running it under a gush of cold water, before returning and dabbing at Meguru’s wounds as gently as you could. Blood came away in thin streaks like paint.

“Hey…” Meguru began quietly, in a small voice. He didn’t sound like the cheerful boy you knew, the one who was never phased and bounced off from every mistake and accident with a bright smile. It reminded you a little of how, when you were driving home after lessons, you would peek back at Meguru. His figure looked a little lonely outlined against the sunset, as he bounced a soccer ball quietly to himself.

“What is it?” You ran back to the sink, where you opened the cabinet underneath it to fish out some bandaids.

“We’re friends, right?” Meguru asked.

“Huh? Where’s this coming from? Of course we are. What else would I be?”

Meguru looked down at his knees as you slapped a bandaid on his skinned knees without a complaint.

“So you don’t think I’m weird, right?” he said, and his lips quivered with each word. “You’re not gonna leave me?”

“You’re not weird,” you said firmly. It occurred to you, then, that Meguru never talked about anyone in his life outside of you and Bachira-san. You hadn’t seen him with any other kids your age, either. Maybe you were his whole world, in the same way he was yours. “You’re my best friend, and I would never leave you. If you’re worried about it, then we could get married.”

“Married?” Meguru peeked at you from under the fringe of his bangs.

“So we can be together forever,” you explained.

Meguru smiled, just a little, a wobbly uplifting of his mouth. “Okay! Pinky-promise me, then! We’re gonna get married.”

You lifted up your hand and, with all the clumsy reverence of a child, locked pinkies with Meguru. You shook once, twice, and then let go, as if this was a ceremony as solemn as a real wedding.

“What happened, though, Meguru? Are you sure it’s okay if I don’t get Bachira-san?”

Meguru shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Because we have each other, right?”

You beamed at him, sunshine spilling in your chest, a golden glow. “Right. We’ll always have each other!”

–

Over the next few days, Bachira’s promise hangs over you like a darkening cloud, slowly threatening rain.

It’s not like you forgot what you told him. You would contact him, eventually. But there was a time and place for everything, and this required more delicate care than anything you’ve undertaken so far. Besides, when you look at your phone screen, you feel a flush of embarrassment. You’ve never been able to bring yourself to block Bachira’s contact, and you still know his number by heart.

When you first moved to America, a small, foolish part of you thought that he would contact you eventually. He would come running back to you, unable to stand the distance any longer. In your most unbearable, romantic daydreams, he would fly over to California and beg you to go home to Japan with him. But the weeks passed, and you entertained desperate thoughts each time you saw the lack of notifications on your phone screen.

You should message him first. No, you should call him. Or call Bachira-san instead, and learn more about Bachira through her. Or you could show up at one of his football games, and Bachira would be overcome by emotion and throw his arms around you and everything would be repaired, as easy as that.

But your dreams were nothing compared to the overwhelming silence of reality. No, it was better to find a way to bury the memory of Bachira, and find someone else. There were so many people in the world, and maybe you had been too distracted to realize that, out there, there was someone more perfect and wonderful for you. That’s how you found yourself dating Thomas, accepting his confession without a second thought.

You’re reminded of that time as your fingers hover over Bachira’s icon now, sitting cross-legged on your bed. Keep it simple. A short message.

Are you free to meet up today? I think we should go to the park near your house.

Not even a few seconds later, your phone dings.

yes!!!!!!! heading over now :3

Now? You aren’t even ready! Is your outfit good? What about your appearance? Your hands flutter nervously. You could be over at the park in a matter of minutes if you took the car, but… Wait. Why are you worrying over this sort of thing again? Why do you still care so much about his opinion? Knowing Bachira, it’d all be the same to him whenever you showed up in a trash bag or a thousand dollar suit. He’s never been one to care much for appearances.

Your phone buzzes again, and you whip it up to your face. It’s not a message from Bachira, but an email from Thomas. Your heart lunches as you open it to read a simple message asking about your trip, and if you’ve been well.

You’ve forgotten entirely about him. Instead, you’ve been thinking only of Bachira. Sure, you’re technically not dating Thomas right now, but why does it still make you feel so guilty?

You made a note to yourself to message Thomas back later. You can only handle one thing at a time right now, and Bachira is the major agenda on your list. It only takes a few minutes for you to make your way to the park, agonizingly short and slow at the same time, as if time is warping around you.

Bachira is sitting on one of the swings, twisting the metal chains in spirals and letting go slowly, so he twists in dizzying loops. The air is soft, perfumed with the scent of newly flowering trees, white petals falling like pale rain.

You pause just outside the entrance. He hasn’t noticed you yet. When did Bachira grow taller? He’s always had a round face, but puberty has melted the last of his baby fat away. His hair, at least, is as messy as ever, strands curling in every direction away from his face, his wild bangs held in check by a few clips clinging to remain on.

The worst part is that you know him still, that you will always know him. That you would recognize him even under a different name or if you had been struck blind and deaf. You would know him by your touch alone, by scent, by taste. The very space Bachira occupies is left changed by his presence, and you could chase his lingering trails for the rest of your life.

“Bachira,” you greet, walking slowly to where he’s still twisting in circles. You grab the chains, jerking him to a sudden stop, and he tilts his head up to look at you as he sways back and forth on the swings, your shadow falling across his face.

“Hey, hey, hey! You’re here!”

You nod. Your voice has fled in Bachira’s presence, and all you can do is drink him in.

“I missed you,” Bachira says.

“We met a few days ago.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “I meant I missed you the whole time you were gone from Japan! I thought of you the whole time.”

You finally manage to unstick your voice. “Why didn’t you text me?”

“Because you told me not to. You were so mad at me. I didn’t want to make you madder.”

“Did you think I hated you?” you say.

“You didn’t?” he says quietly.

“I…” you begin, then clear your throat. “I could never hate you.”

Bachira kicks at the ground. “Then why didn’t you text me?” he says, echoing your question.

“I was mad, Bachira. I…”

“You said we were best friends.”

You blink. Once, twice. “I did. I didn’t lie to you.”

“Then are we still best friends?”

“I…” You duck your head so he can’t see your face. “It’s been so long. And…” You can’t forget what happened in middle school. You can’t return to the way your relationship used to be, when you were children, and the world was simple, and uncomplicated. Why did he look at you like the two of you could? “It’s different now.”

“I always thought you were my best friend,” he says plaintively. “That’s never changed.”

“Then in middle school, why did you…” You chew the tender flesh of your cheek.

When you were in America, you had fantasized about what you would say to him, how you would redo your argument and say the right words to strike home. You had thought about running into him again, and how the perfect speech would flow from your mouth, conveying all your feelings, mending whatever had broken all those years ago. In angrier times, you thought about hitting right where it hurt, your words like a sword, and you, the perfect, righteous victim. Now, though? Now your sentences come in bits and pieces, awkward and stilted, breaking under his gaze.

“Why did you do that to me, Bachira?” you continue quietly. “Do you think we can go back to the way we were before, just like that?”

A buzz emanates from your pocket. Grateful for the distraction, you drop your grip from the swings. There are imprints of the chain links on your palm as you swipe open your new notification.

“Is it your mom?” Bachira asks.

You squint at the bright email on your phone. “No. It’s from my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” There’s a strange quaver in Bachira’s voice.

“My boyfriend. In America,” you add. “He plays football, too, and he drives me to places.” You feel mean then, your heart shriveling into something small and petty. You hadn’t intended to lie about Thomas, who was just your ex, but the lie feels good as you drink in Bachira’s lost gaze, eyes wide and shimmering with unspoken emotions.

“I’m qualified to make nationals for football,” Bachira says, that odd tone still in his voice.

“So is my boyfriend,” you add. The football season in America had just started, but Bachira didn’t need to know that.

“Cars are overrated. I just walk everywhere. It helps me become a better player,” Bachira adds.

“I should probably go so I can respond to him,” you say, waving your phone, ambling slowly towards the park entrance. Bachira’s gaze never leaves your phone.

Bachira kicks hard at the ground, shoes digging into the angry dirt. “So you like him, then? You like him a lot?”

“Bachira.” Your gaze bores into him. A breeze, sweet with the scent of flowers, ruffles his hair. “The way we are now, I don’t think you have the right to question me.”

He flinches, spinning the swing into motion, as if he can fly far from your words. But he’s only going back and forth in one direction, legs kicking at the sky.

You watch him for a while longer. All the anger drains out of you then. What is it that you came back here for, anyways? What are you looking for? What do you want? If growing up is going to be so painful, then maybe Bachira is right. You should have remained the way you once were, just the two of you.

–

By pulling some strings and begging your mom, you were able to get into the same public middle school as Meguru. The plan initially had been to send you to a fancy prep school overseas for both middle and high school, but you rebelled and pleaded, threatening to run away and to ruin the family reputation.

“I’ve never seen you cry so hard,” your mom teased. “From the way you were acting, I might as well have been torturing you. I didn’t realize you hated the idea of studying abroad so much.”

Your face burned at her words. “I’m sorry, Okaa-san.”

“Don’t be. It was cute. You hardly ever act like that, so it was nice to see.” She slid a sly smile at you. “But I wonder… is there a particular reason you wanted to go to this middle school?”

You shook your head vehemently. “No! Not at all!”

“Really? Not even for a certain little cute friend of yours?” your mom continues.

“Okaa-san!” you protested, and she threw up her hands in surrender.

When you started middle school with Meguru in the spring, though, it hadn’t been like what you expected. For starters, there was always a sea of people around you, pushing Meguru away like he was a piece of kelp set adrift on the tide. You knew how to make friends; how to smile just so, or to reply in the right lulls in the conversation to keep it going. But Meguru was always in a corner by himself. Even when you invited him over, your classmates would smile awkwardly at his nonchalant comments, or find reasons to drift away.

“He’s weird,” one of your classmates confided in you, one hand cupped around her mouth. “He talks to himself sometimes, and he never pays attention in class. He’s not a bad guy, but… he should try to fit in more.”

She looked expectantly at you, as if offering you a gift. You backed away from her instead, your own smile strained. “I see. But I like Meguru the way he is. He’s not doing anything wrong, and I don’t see why he has to change.”

Regardless of how the other students treated Meguru, though, you were determined not to let it affect you.

You were the only one to greet him in the hallways, and to sit by him during lunch. In the warm weather, the two of you would sit side by side in a secluded corner of the classroom, or try to find a place to sit outside under the shade of some trees. You walked home with him (because he preferred to dribble his football on the way, instead of taking a ride in your car), and walked to school with him, asking the driver to drop you off in front of his house. You dragged Meguru to study with you, somehow pulling him through each exam by the skin of his teeth, because you refused to imagine a situation in which the two of you wouldn’t be in a class together. Your classmates started joking that if they wanted to find you, all they had to do was call Meguru’s name, and you would pop up expectantly.

It was shaping up to be a good three years of middle school. You would graduate on time at this rate, and go to high school together. The only issue, though, was something that took place during the start of your third year of middle school. A classmate of yours had asked you to meet him after school, surrounded by two of his friends who grinned and elbowed him as he rubbed his neck, refusing to look you in the eye.

You didn’t think much of it at the time. When you showed up at the classroom, he turned to you with a sudden desperation, face red, and bowed.

“Please go out with me!” he said. “I’ve had a crush on you for the past two years!”

“Huh?” You gripped the straps of your bag tighter. “You… you like me?”

He bowed even more deeply at your confused tone. “Is it no good? Do you not feel anything for me?”

“I’m flattered, but I don’t like you in that way. I’m sorry,” you said gently.

The boy groaned. “I knew it. It’s because of Bachira, right? The two of you are always together. I don’t stand a chance against him.”

“Because of Meguru?” you repeated.

The boy nodded. “You like each other, right? It’s obvious. Man, I shouldn’t have tried to get in between that.”

You couldn’t find the words to deny him or to fix the misunderstanding, even after the two of you parted. You and Meguru? Of course you liked him. He was your best friend.

But you couldn’t let go of that boy’s words. You mulled over them, again and again. Like clothes that no longer fit quite right, your relationship with Meguru had changed shape before you had noticed. Somehow, that boy was the first to notice.

You always waited for Meguru to finish soccer practice, no matter how late it ran. Sometimes you had student council duties, or you would just sit cross-legged and work on your homework as he ran around the field. You’d done this for all three years of middle school, and the entire team knew you by name. The coach would jokingly ask if you were okay if you ever missed a day of practice, calling you an honorary member of the team.

Today was no different, and you made your way to the soccer field to wait for him. Without fail, when Meguru finished, the first thing he did was whip his head around, looking for you. As soon as he did, he made a beeline straight to you, without a care in the world.

He threw his arms around you from behind, causing the two of you to tumble into the grass. You shrieked, and he laughed, and you were a tangled pile of clinging limbs and grass stains.

It’s what he did. It’s what he was like. So why did your heart burst like a thousand butterflies into flight, reacting to his touch? He’s always been touchy. Your classmate was getting in your head.

“There you are!” Meguru said, looping his arms around your neck, heedless of who was watching, even if the team was used to his antics. “Let’s go home now!”

When he nuzzled his head into your shoulder, you couldn’t move, skin hot wherever he touched you.

“Okay, let’s go home, Meguru,” you said softly.

As soon as you went home, you sprinted past your mom to leap onto your bed and hug your pillow. You liked Meguru. You liked him so much, and it was so obvious now. It was the most natural stage for your relationship to progress to. Maybe you had always liked him, and you just didn’t have the words for it until now. Meguru had always been the most special person in the world to you, and that idea had simply taken on a new shade of meaning.

He had promised to be with you forever, hadn’t he? And Meguru would never break a promise to you.

You were careful not to let Meguru know your feelings over the following months. It would be embarrassing if he discovered them so soon, especially when it had taken you so long to realize them. But everyday after you went home, you would list all the things he had done that day, like touching your hand and hugging you, and calling your name three different times during history class. Everything about him felt so much more special now.

You liked him. You liked him so much. And you had to do something about it before graduation. As the months dripped by like water falling from a melting icicle, you planned when to make your move: on the most romantic day of the year.

During Valentine’s Day, you splayed your bandaged fingers across your desk in anticipation, your gift wrapped neatly in your backpack.

It had taken you all week to make the chocolates, which you had painstakingly molded into chocolate hearts. Since it was the first Valentine’s in which you were giving someone chocolate, you had delicately filled each heart with different fruit flavored jams– strawberry, orange, and even pineapple, Meguru’s favorite. The chocolates were nestled in a bag of pink cellophane and white tissue paper, with a red ribbon neatly tied in a bow on top. You had refused help from everyone, even the chef and your mom, because it was more special if you did it by yourself.

You hadn’t been able to stop bouncing in your seat all morning, nervous energy thrumming through you as the teacher’s history lecture went in one ear and out the other. The chocolates burned like a secret in your school bag, and you couldn’t resist fiddling with the zipper, constantly sliding it down to make sure the gift was still there.

When lunch finally rolled around, like an anxious puppy, you jumped out of your seat and headed straight to Meguru, who was sleeping, his head buried in his arms and doodles scattered across his notebooks like stars.

“Meguru,” you said, shaking his shoulder. “Meguru, wake up. Class is over.”

“Uh?” Meguru blinked one slow, sleepy eye at you, before stretching. “It is?”

“Yes. I have something to show you,” you emphasized. “It’s a surprise.”

“What is it?” He sat up, staring at you expectantly.

You glanced around the classroom; only a few people were still in their seats, eating homemade lunches and chatting with their friends, heads bent over magazines or phones. Reaching in your bag, you fumbled for the chocolates, hands trembling as you presented them to Meguru.

“Chocolate? Wow, thanks!” His eyes lit up as he reached for the bag, untying it and shaking a few of the hearts into his hand. He popped them in his mouth, his lips curling up in bliss. “These are so good!”

“I made them myself,” you explained shyly. “It took a while, but… I wanted to do something special for you, Meguru.”

He stuffed another chocolate into his mouth. “Thanks! You’re the best friend ever!”

Your face twitched at his choice of words, but you still plowed on. “Well… These aren’t just any chocolates, you know? Do you remember what day it is?”

“Uh…”

“It’s Valentine’s,” you supplied impatiently. “So, um…”

“These are friendship chocolates?” Meguru asked, his cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk.

“No.” Your hands were clammy now. It was just Meguru. Meguru, who you’ve known forever. Meguru, who promised to be by your side. Meguru, who understood you more than anyone else in the world. Why were you so afraid? He’d never hurt you.

“Can I share these with my mom?” Meguru continued innocently. “I think she’d love ‘em, too.”

“No!” Meguru stared at you, and your cheeks burned. “Sorry. I can make some for Bachira-san later. But these are special, Meguru. They’re… they’re not friendship chocolates.”

A sudden hush descended over the classroom. You were on a stage, a bright, hot spotlight beaming down on you and making your neck sweat. This wasn’t anything like what you read about how confessions went in shoujo manga. Meguru’s clueless eyes burned into you, and it was like he didn’t understand the script you were trying to read for him.

Meguru ate another heart, gnashing it beneath his teeth. “Eh? What other kind of chocolate can they be?”

You forced the words out. “They’re… they’re romantic. I’m confessing to you. I like you, Meguru.”

Your breathing was shallow, and your heart beat like a frightened animal. You couldn’t look at him anymore, and the heaviness of your words dropped like stones onto the floor.

“Oh. Um… I’m sorry.” The awkwardness in Meguru’s voice was too much. You backed away from his desk, tears burning at the corner of your eyes. When you looked up, you could see your classmates, feigning disinterest as they purposefully avoided your gaze.

You burst out of the classroom, ignoring the sound of Meguru’s chair screeching back as he yelled after you, “Wait!”

You were fast, but Meguru was faster. You skidded down the steps wildly, taking several at a time, and you were half down the landing when Meguru caught up to you. He called your name at the top of the stairs, but you refused to look back– and then, he landed in front of you, breathing heavily, shirt sleeves rolled up. He had jumped down an entire flight of stairs to catch up to you.

Meguru called your name. “Wait! Wait, wait.”

You turned your head away, but you could still sense Meguru in front of you. Your childhood friend. Your best friend. You had drawn hearts around his name in the back of your notebook this morning.

“What is it?” you said softly. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe Meguru had just been surprised, and now he would confess his feelings.

It was a joke, right?” he said uncertainly. “You were joking. It was a weird joke, but–”

“I wasn’t joking!” you yelled, shoving him backwards with a wild strength that surprised you. You haven’t been this mad at him since you first met.

Meguru stumbled back a few steps, watching you with wide eyes. It was an expression you hadn’t seen on him before: confused, lost, and afraid. Shouldn’t you be the one making that face?

“Okay. Um. It’s just weird if our relationship changes like that. You and me? That’s kinda weird,” he said again. “We’re friends! I don’t want to be anything else.”

You dug your nails into the meat of your palm until the pain was all you could think about. “I don’t want to be friends.”

“Huh?” Now Meguru looked even more afraid.

“I like you, Meguru,” you said, a broken sob in your voice. “I can’t just be friends with you. I…”

Meguru stepped closer to you. There was a starburst of hope in your chest, before it was dashed by Meguru dropping your Valentine’s Day chocolate in your hands. You curled your fingers over the hearts, crushing them in your palm.

“I don’t want to do this,” Meguru mumbled. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear anything, okay?”

“You’re a coward,” you said furiously, pushing all your hurt into your voice. You weren’t sad. You weren’t going to cry. Not especially in front of him. “I– I don’t want to see you again. Don’t talk to me. You liar! You said you would always be by my side!”

When you looked down the stairs, you could see a few of your fellow students, awkwardly hovering near the bottom of the landing. They averted their gazes when they met your eyes, but your whole body felt hot with rage and embarrassment. How many people had seen and heard the two of you? By tomorrow, everyone in school would probably be gossiping about how you were rejected by Meguru.

You ran. You ran, and this time, Meguru didn’t stop you as you jumped down the stairs. Somehow, you made your way home. You started listlessly at your phone, but there was no message from Meguru. You had been the one to tell him not to contact you, but… you threw your phone onto your bed.

Stupid Meguru. Stupid you. It had never occurred to you that Meguru might not feel the same way as you. You had been so arrogant, so certain that he liked you, and now you had embarrassed yourself in front of the whole school.

Did he forget? He promised to marry you. But that had been on a childish whim of his, no doubt, something he had long forgotten. You buried your head in your arms, and cried until you could drown the entirety of Chiba in your tears.

When your mom came home that night, a frown was brewing on her face, but the sight of your puffy eyes and hoarse voice stopped her lecture.

“What happened?” she asked you. “The school called me. You skipped classes.”

You shook your head. “I want to study abroad for high school.”

“What? Are you sure? You were so excited to go to school with Meguru-kun. The process would be–”

“I don’t care,” you said. His name stung your heart. “I want to go to America, Okaa-san. Please.”

She peered at you closely, then sighed. “Okay. Okay, let’s talk about this later. But if you really want to, then it’s not too late to make it happen.”

For the rest of your time until graduation, you avoided Meguru. You didn’t text him. When you saw him in the halls, you turned around and went a different way. You stuck closely to your other friends, and went home right away whenever you didn’t have any extracurriculars. You no longer visited the football field after school.

No one was cruel enough to talk about your confession to your face, but you could feel the glances, hear the whispers, until everyone lost interest and moved on to the next piece of gossip.

A part of you expected Meguru to come running to you, but he quietly kept out of your way. Maybe he was avoiding you, just as much as you were avoiding him. What an odd thought; Meguru had always been the first to whine when you had to leave to visit your grandparents for the summer. He was the one who always threw his arms around you. Maybe your relationship hadn’t meant that much to him after all.

When it came time for you to move to America, you and Meguru graduated middle school without talking to each other at all.

–

For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to talk to Thomas about Bachira.

In fact, you haven’t told any of your American friends about Bachira. You spent the first year in California trying to forget him, blindly agreeing to go on dates with any boys who showed interest in you. But their love for you was never greater than your own lack of it. Thomas is only the most recent one and you follow his lead, not out of loyalty, but convenience.

You keep your thoughts held tight to your chest, precious secrets that you refuse to let spill out of your grasp. With everyone in your life, sometimes even your mom, you have always put up a front. The only person you didn’t do that with was with Bachira.

Bachira is an open wound, one that grows bigger with every year, overwhelming you with its enormity and the way pressing on it still makes you ache. Your friends would laugh if you told them you were hanging on to a boy for so long, nursing this pain like your own child. They wouldn’t understand, and you would look pathetic in their eyes. There are no words in English or Japanese to describe what he means to you. His hold on you is as eternal as the way the flowers bloom during the spring, and the world revolves on its axis.

The rest of spring break passes in a flash. You hardly run into Bachira anymore, and your mom doesn’t force any more meetings. You email Thomas, who responds with boyish enthusiasm even at your dry answers.

The night before your morning flight, you rush up and down the stairs, sorting your various toiletries and stuffing clothes into your suitcase.

“All ready?” your mom asks you, nursing a mug of tea at the counter, watching you bustle.

“Yes, Okaa-san,” you say obediently. She holds open her arms, and you stop by for a hug, her arms enveloping you. She runs a hand in circles along your back, humming to herself.

“You’re such a good child,” she says affectionately. “Come visit me again soon. I’ll be lonely without you.”

“Okay.”

“And…” She pulls back to peer into your eyes. “You’re a little too good to me. You should try to be more wild. Rebel, so I can throw up my hands in exasperation at you and complain to all my friends.”

“I’ll try, so you have something to talk about with your coworkers,” you say, and she pinches your nose.

“Don’t try. Just do it,” she scolds. “I’ll always forgive you for any silly mistakes you make.”

“Okay, Okaa-san,” you say. “If I break a law, I’ll let you know in advance to prepare my bail.”

She smiles sadly. “You’re so old now. I wish you wouldn’t get hurt in life, but I can’t fix everything for you.”

“The world isn’t that nice,” you agree.

“You haven’t talked to Meguru-kun recently,” she says gently. “Did something happen?”

You stiffen, your face shuttering closed. “We’re okay. We’re just busy.”

She stirs the tea in her mug. “Okay. I won’t push you any further. Your life is yours to live. But I’ll always be here for you, if you need me.”

She leans in to kiss you on the forehead, and you want to cry. From the way she hesitates, you know she wants to say something else, but she simply lets you go.

How long has your mom suspected that your relationship with Bachira isn’t as pleasant as you pretend it is? You rub your forehead as you rush upstairs, dumping the last of your items into your suitcase. You sit on top of it to force it closed as you start zipping up the side, when your phone buzzes.

Bachira? No, it’s Thomas. The header of the email causes you to drop your phone in surprise.

About our relationship…

You pick up your phone, skimming the email.

Can we get back together? You read. I miss you.

How fickle. He was the one who broke up with you, and now he wants to get back together right away as soon as it’s convenient. That might not be a bad idea, though. A relationship where you knew what was expected from you, a simple transaction, would be easy.

Your phone buzzes again; it’s an incoming call. You stare at the caller ID for a few seconds, your surprised face reflected in the screen, before you answer, pressing the phone close to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Bachira says. “I’m outside.”

“What?”

“I’m outside your door,” he repeats. “Can you come outside? If not, I’ll come in.”

“Why are you here?” You stand, heart pounding.

“Kaa-san told me you were leaving tomorrow,” Bachira says. “So I wanted to stop by.”

“Bachira…”

“Just for a little bit,” he persists. “That’s all you need to do.”

You sigh. “All right, fine. But only for a few minutes, okay?”

You hang up, pulling on a light jacket before you’re flying down the stairs, trading your house slippers for flip flops, and burst into the cool night air. The sun is setting, painting the sky in vibrant swatches of peaches and reds. There’s a cool breeze, sweet with the scent of new growth.

Bachira is leaning outside your family gate, a football tucked under his arm.

“What is it?” you ask him tersely, shoving your hands in your jacket pockets.

“You’re going back to America?” he says.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

“When will you come back?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go to university there,” you reply. You had planned to come back for summer break to see your mom, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Okay.” Bachira looks at the ground. “What about your boyfriend?”

“Why do you want to know about him?”

“Do you like him?”

“I… Sure,” you say, but it sounds weak, even to your own ears. “We’re on break right now because he’s busy with football season, but we’re thinking about getting back together,” you add more strongly, and Bachira kicks at the ground.

“He sounds like a jerk. Why’d he break up with you if he just wants to get back together whenever he wants?”

“At least he’s clear with his intentions,” you say sharply. “And he doesn’t run away.”

Bachira flinches, but it doesn’t make you feel as good as it should have. “... Shouldn’t…” he mumbles.

“What?” You tilt your head to catch his words.

“You shouldn’t get with him again,” Bachira says, still kicking at the ground like he would dribble his football.

“Why not?” You laugh, short and bitter. “How is that your business, Bachira? It’s not like you’re my boyfriend. We’re not even— we’re not even friends anymore.”

No response. What did you expect?

“I’m tired of this, okay?” you say softly. “All this stupid back and forth. We keep going in circles. If all we’re going to do is hurt each other, then let’s just end this here.”

Bachirs looks up at you finally, his gaze full of so much desperation and uncertainty. His chin trembles as he says, “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, more serious than you’ve ever heard him. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I rejected your confession. I’m sorry I didn’t call you.”

Bachira might as well have stabbed you. “Do you think that’s going to fix things? You’re sorry? Now? After all this time? What’s that going to fucking fix?” you say, your voice rising with each word you spit out.

“You didn’t call me, either,” Bachira says quietly. You flinch at the raw hurt in his voice, his overwhelming sadness. “You’re the one who just left without a word. You’re the one who ignored me. You were my only friend. You were my best friend.”

You chew your lip hard. Were. Not are. “I couldn’t face you anymore,” you say.

“I thought our friendship was stronger than that,” he says.

“I guess it wasn’t.”

“Do you really not want to be friends anymore?”

“What do you think? You want us to go back to how we were before and pretend nothing happened? It’s too late. Everything has changed. There’s no going back,” you spit. “You broke my heart. I… I loved you.”

“Then why did you just leave so easily? If you loved me?” Bachira asks. “You ran away and didn’t even try.”

“I could ask you the same,” you snap. “Just tell me it’s over. Okay? Reject me for good.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? It was so easy for you before.”

“Because I love you,” Bachira says desperately.

It’s the world’s cruelest joke. Bachira reaches an uncertain hand towards you, and you jerk back, tears rolling down your face and blurring your vision. He can’t touch you. If he does, you’ll break apart. “Don’t lie,” you say. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m not lying. I didn’t want to admit it before,” he says. “When you told me you liked me, I was scared by how I felt.”

“Stop it.”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he says. “Things were changing so fast. You were my only friend, and if you liked me, then we couldn’t ever go back to being just friends.”

“So you’re doing this to me now?” you say. The tears are still falling, and you hug yourself. You feel so weak and so young, all your surety stripped away. “You think you can do this to me?”

I’m sorry,” he says.

“You lost me either way,” you snap, “when you broke my heart like that.”

“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt, and I’m sorry I pushed you away.”

You give a strangled laugh. “Really?”

“You don’t have to like me,” he says. “You can be as mad as you want. If you gotta go to America, that’s fine. If you– wanna be with someone else, too, if you don’t love me, that’s okay. We don’t even have to be friends, if you hate me. Just– can I please– can I love you? Is that okay? I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You’re so mean, Meguru,” you whisper. You can’t go forward until you confront him. You can’t go back because it’s impossible. Your fate has always been twisted by the boy in front of you.

You grab the front of his shirt, twisting the fabric in your hands savagely, as you press your lips against his. It’s a short kiss, salty with the taste of your tears, and Bachira is too surprised to kiss you back.

“Eh?” Bachira asks dazedly.

“You piss me off,” you say.

“Uh?”

You take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Meguru. I’m sorry I left you alone and that I ran away from you and that I gave up so easily. I was scared, okay? But… I never hated you. Ever.”

“You called me Meguru,” Meguru breathes. And then he throws his arms around your neck.

“You’re so clingy,” you complain, hesitantly wrapping your arms around his back. You’ve missed his warmth, familiar and pleasant and gentle. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“Sort of!”

“Pay attention!”

“Okay. Well, let’s start over from the beginning, then,” he says. “We can do it again this time, and do it better.” He pulls back from you, clearing his throat. “Hi, I’m Bachira Meguru! It’s nice to meet you,” he says goofily, sticking out his hand.

“Hi.” You take his hand, giving it one shake, introducing your name. “Let’s… let’s be friends.”

“We can’t date?” Meguru asks, pouting, and you frown at him.

“No. Not now,” you acknowledge. “I have to talk to Thomas properly about how I feel. And I’m going back to America tomorrow. And there’s so much that I have to sort through—”

Meguru leans in and kisses you mid-sentence, a quick, butterfly of a kiss that steals all the words from you. “We’ll be friends for now. And if you want, then we can try dating. And even marriage.”

“Married?” you sputter. “Who said anything about marriage?”

“You did,” he says nonchalantly.

“From when we were kids,” you point out.

“Eh? Does that matter? We promised, so we have to follow through on it.”

“Don’t tell me you were going to propose to me.”

“In the future,” he says. “We can’t get married before we’re adults.”

“Meguru,” you say slowly. “Were you seriously planning on proposing to me? Before even asking my opinion?”

“What’s wrong with that? I thought you liked romantic stuff. Isn’t that romantic?”

You grit your teeth. You move to grab his shoulders, but Meguru dodges your grasp and slides backwards. You lunge at him again, but he dances out of your way.

“Come back here, Bachira Meguru,” you yell. “Do you have any common sense?”

“Who needs that?” he says cheerfully.

It feels like your first meeting as kids, so long ago. No one else in the world can quite make you feel this way, for better or for worse. Frustrated, you chase after Meguru as he weaves out of your grasp and hops down the length of the sidewalk. This goes on for a little bit, and just when you’ve run out of steam, Meguru spins around. Before you can move, he leaps at you and gathers you into a hug, his arms around your waist.

“Meguru, cut it out,” you say, annoyed, but you don’t move out of his grasp.

“Hmm…” he says. “I’ve decided! I’ll come visit you in America!”

“What?”

Meguru nods to himself, satisfied. “It’ll be fun! I’ve never been out of the country before! Hey, do you think I could fit in your suitcase?”

“Obviously not!”

You take a deep gulp of the spring air, sweet in your mouth, the flowering trees sending a blessing of pink petals over you. You and Meguru. Meguru and you. It’s just like when the two of you were little, only you’re starting over this time. Nothing would ever be the same again, but what new things could you build instead? What sort of people would you be now?

You hold out your hand to Meguru. He takes it easily, interlacing your fingers like he’s always belonged there. With his touch, an endless world of possibilities unfolds before you. This time, the two of you will explore it together.

#liya writes #blue lock #bachira meguru #bachira meguru x reader #blue lock x reader #blue lock imagines #bllk #blue lock bachira #bllk x reader #bllk bachira #bachira x reader #meguru bachira #meguru bachira x reader

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monzabee · 1 year

Text

the name game – cl16

masterlist

Summary: The one where you and Charles try to get through one of the first hardships of parenthood.

Pairing: charles leclerc x reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: pregnancy (and pregnancy symptoms), crying, angst but also tooth rotting fluff

Request: “Can I request Charles and his girlfriend or fiancé having a baby? And they are talking about names and she suggest her ex boyfriends name to piss him off and he gets really upset and mad. And they then tlak about last names and she tells him she wants their baby to have her name and he is not happy about that or hyphenating as he feels strongly about his family name”

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! i’m so happy to be back after a month of exams, and what better way to kick it off with a charles fic?? the whole concept was extremely cute and i loved it so much, but i kind of wanted there to be a chaotic aspect to it?? thank you anon for your request, and i hope you guys enjoy this one! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.

Some people keep saying that the hardest part of pregnancy is the first trimester, some say that the hardest part is actually giving birth because, well – it’s quite literally pushing a baby from right there. But to you, the hardest part is not the nausea, or the possible pain of giving birth, or the sleepless nights to come, no. To you, the hardest part is deciding on what to name your baby. Everyone around you seems to have an opinion on what to name the baby, of course, and with the increasing amount of (sometimes uncalled) suggestions coming from you from all around, you and Charles find yourselves in the middle of a never ending game of name the baby.

“Alfred?” Charles suggests, raising his head from his phone.

The suggestion gets a groan, you shake your head to let him know that it’s definitely not the name. “Excuse me, are we about to raise Batman’s butler?”

“Good point,” he nods his head, “we are Marvel people anyway.”

“You guys are useless at this, you know that right?” Arthur scoffs, raising an eyebrow at the two of you. “Why don’t you wait until the baby is actually born? Many people say that it’s easier to name a baby that way.”

“And how do you know these people?” Charles asks, eyes narrowing at the edges.

Arthur raises his hands on the either side of his face in mock surrender. “Touché.” He takes a moment to think, “Why do you only looking at boy’s names? I thought you didn’t want to learn the gender until the birth.”

“We don’t,” you affirm, slowly perching yourself on the barstool next to Charles, “Charles just thinks that it’s going to be a boy.”

Arthur watches as his older brother nods while smiling proudly, then shares a look with you which screams, He knows there’s a fifty-percent chance, right? You shake your head as you shrug, turning your attention back to your phone. “Oh, oh! What about Luka?”

“Luka,” Charles repeats, and tests the name coming out of his lips, “Luka Leclerc?” His watches as you give him a bright smile as you nod repeatedly.

“It does have a nice ring to it,” Arthur comments from his place on the couch as he abandons the book filled with baby names in his hands.

“Luka.” Charles repeats the name again, but as he looks into your expectant eyes, he can feel a nudging at the back of his mind. Luka, Luka, Luka – has he met someone with the same name before? Well, probably, he thinks. He does meet a lot of people during his day to day life, not to mention the race weekends. He decides to let go of the worry, establishing in his mind that he probably met a fan with the same name– “No, chérie! We can’t use Luka!”

“What?” You ask him with a small pout on your lips, “Why not?”

“You dated a guy named Luka, remember?” He reminds you, expecting you to catch onto what he’s saying. “Chérie, it was right before we dated!” You look at him in confusion as you try to piece what he’s saying together, but Charles just looks at you in disbelief, “I can’t believe you want to name our baby after a guy you dated!”

“But–” You start, eyebrows furrowing together as you try and make yourself remember. “That can’t be true.”

“I’m telling you,” Charles turns to Arthur, raises his eyebrows as he looks at his brother for support, “Arthur tell her that I’m correct.”

Arthur chooses to throw him the pillow he takes from behind him. “How should I know the guy she dated before you, you idiot?”

“Would it kill you to be on my side for a change?” Charles deadpans.

You tune out the rest of their argument, still trying to remember whether Charles is actually correct or not – the pregnancy hormones definitely not helping you on your case. “Wait!” You exclaim, making both of the brothers to turn towards you. “I never dated a guy named Luka,” you raise a finger towards Charles to shut him up before he even gets a chance to speak, “let me rephrase that. I never dated a guy named Luka, because the last guy I went on a date with before we got together was Lucas.”

Charles’ voice is tentative as he asks “Lucas?”

“Yes, you idiot.” You roll your eyes at him, “Why would I try to name our baby after a guy I went on one date with?”

Arthur nods in support of you, “You have to admit you overreacted, Charles.”

“Okay, you? You zip it.” Charles snaps at his brother and then turns to you. “I’m sorry, chérie, but I thought it was Luka.”

“Well it wasn’t,” you cross your arms over your chest, “and don’t tell your brother to zip it, he’s right!” You let out a chuckle as you share a look with Arthur as Charles watches the both of you let out chuckles at his expense.

He lets his eyes narrow and he silently watches as the two of you make fun of him for his outburst. He only talks when your laughter is dying down, “Are you guys done?”

“Oh come on, darling, it was cute.” You lean towards him to link your fingers between his.

He raises one of his eyebrows as he asks, “So you wouldn’t react the same way if I just did that?”

“Oh, Charles, don’t–” Arthur warns him, but you quickly stop him.

“No, no,” you bite back a smile, “continue, my love.”

“As I was saying,” Charles gives his brother a pointed look and then turns his attention back to you, “you wouldn’t react the same way if I wanted to name our future child ‘Charlotte’?”

“Excuse me?” You stutter, frowning as your expression turns into a pout. You wait for a moment for Charles to realise what he’s just said, but when he fails to do so, you prompt him by asking, “How is that similar to what just happened? And why would you bring her into this in the first place?”

Charles shakes his head in disbelief, “How is it not?”

Arthur gets up from his place on the couch and pretends to yawn as he stretches his arms over his head, “You know what, I’m feeling kinda tired maybe I should go home.”

“You sit right back down on that couch, Arthur Leclerc.” You point a finger at him despite having your attention solely focused on your fiancé sitting in front of you, and not on the poor boy who tried to get away from the inevitable fight you and Charles are going to get into.

He lets himself fall back on the couch as he groans and presses a pillow over his face as he mumbles, “Here we go again.”

“I hope you know that these two situations are not similar to each other – like at all.” You emphasise for Charles, “I can’t believe you would even say that!”

There is a clear look of bewilderment in Charles’ eyes as he asks, “You dated ‘Lucas’, I dated Charlotte, how is it not the same?”

“I went on one date with the guy, didn’t date him for three whole years, that’s not the same, you idiot!” You exclaim as you quickly press your hand against your chest as you glare at Charles. “I can’t believe you couldn’t see that, God, Charles! You do this, you always do this!”

Maybe under different circumstances, Charles would have acted a bit smarter. He is, after all, a smart man, he prides himself of being one, but being the absolutely stupid man he is, he asks, “Do what?”

Arthur turns back from the couch, almost breaking his back in the process as his eyes widen in shock as well as he gives his brother a look which screams, How more stupid can you be, you dumbass? In an attempt to diffuse the tension, which is building between the two of you, he recommends, “How about we focus something other than the baby’s name, like the theme of the nursery?”

“Fairy tales,” you answer at the same time Charles chimes, “Racing cars.”

“Okay I take that back.” Arthur mumbles as he watches you and Charles throw glares at each other. “Let’s just stop talking about the baby? It’s clear that the two of you are set on having all the fights you didn’t have before deciding to have a baby.”

Charles lets out a supportive sound. “We clearly suck at discussion right now, this is starting to turn into the argument we had about you taking my surname.”

“Are- are you serious right now?” You stutter once again, eyes widened with surprise. “You are so obstinate, Charles! You refuse to see the right when you’re in the wrong and you refuse to compromise!” You voice is coming more of as a groan now that he’s opened that door. “We didn’t need to have that argument, because i’ve been telling you that I am hyphenating my surname.”

He lets out a similar groan, as he tries to reason, “I just don’t understand why–”

“So our children can have your name, but they can’t have mine?” You raise an eyebrow in warning, eyes narrowing on the edges as you look at your fiancé with suspicion.

“No,” he retorts, trying to defend himself, “I never said I didn’t want the baby, or our future children, to have your surname, I said I just wanted them to have mine.”

You let out a humourless laugh at his reasoning, “So I’m just supposed to lose a big part of myself when we get married, is that it?”

Charles immediately feels a wave of guilt wash over him as he realizes the impact of his words. He jumps up from his seat and rushes over to you, kneeling down in front of you as he gently takes your hands in his. “Well, no– I didn’t mean it like that–”

“I think I know what you’ve meant, Charles.” You voice is shaky as you mumble the next words, “Can you just help me get up, please?”

“What?” Charles asks, motioning his brother to stand back. “Why?”

“Because I can’t stand up on my own, I’m six-months pregnant!” You exclaim, the tears finally start falling down your cheeks. “And it’s all because of you!”

In hindsight, Charles should’ve foreseen the way his words would cause such a commotion in your relationship – given the fact that the two of you have talked about it before. As the weight of his insensitivity settles in, a new wave of panic washes over Charles – he just couldn't shake the thought that his thoughtless words might push you away. And he knows he should’ve listened to Arthur’s warnings before, and probably should have used better words to express his feelings instead of saying things he didn’t mean in the first place; but then again, he’s never been too good at it in the first place. After receiving a very lengthy lecture from Arthur what to say, or rather what not to say, to a hormonal pregnant woman, he left the apartment the two of you share in a hurry to find you. Despite the logical side of his brain constantly remind him of the fact that you know the city well enough to not get lost, the nagging voice at the back of his mind reminded him of the worst things that could have happened both to the love his life and his baby. So imagine his frustration when you don’t answer any of his calls as he frantically rides around the city in hopes of finding you and apologising like he should’ve before you got out of the door.

After dialling your number for the umpteenth time that night, he releases a relaxed breath when you finally answer his call. “Mon amour, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“Charles?” He hears your voice play through the car play speakers, “Oh, Charles, I did something bad.”

“Y/N.” Charles can swear his heart stops for a moment, he pulls the car over quickly to give you his undivided attention. “Talk to me, love, what’s wrong? Where are you?”

“I didn’t mean to do it, it was an accident–”

“Chérie, please tell me what happened.” He pleads, hands gripping the steering wheel tighter with anxiety. “Where are you? I’ll come to get you.”

He hears you take a shaky breath as you mumble your next words, “I accidentally ordered both raspberry and lemon ice cream, and I can’t finish both.”

“I- darling,” Charles lets out another relieved breath, “I’m coming to get you now, okay? Just wait for me.”

Your voice is sheepish as you mumble, but the small sniffle Charles hears through the speakers is enough to make his heart clench. “Okay, can you please bring me my blanket?”

“Of course I will, just stay there okay?” He mumbles as he starts up the car again, “I love you.”

“Thank you, darling, I love you too.”

Some of the anxiety he has been feeling about your brief disappearance ease with the enlightment as Charles begins to drive towards the small ice cream parlour near your apartment. Of course, you were right around the corner when he was looking for you throughout the entire city; and of course, he should have known you’d crave ice cream after eight o’clock. Thankfully, it doesn’t take him long to get to you, and he remembers to grab the blanked you keep in the car for when you get cold during night drive the two of you go on frequently.

He finds you sitting at one of the tables right near the door, sitting by yourself as you eye the cup in front of you with a small pout on your face. “Chérie.”

“Charles.” You mumble, meeting his eyes as you exhale a deep breath. “You found me.”

“Well to be fair, love, you’re right around the corner from our home.” He drapes the blanked across your shoulders before settling next to you. A small smile forms of his face when you push the small cup towards him. “You got lemon ice cream?”

You sigh sadly as you wrap the blanket around you tighter, “I couldn’t get far because the baby wouldn’t let me, and she wanted ice cream – and it’s habit, Leclerc.” You scowl at him, quickly adding, “I’m still mad at you.” You let out a frustrated groan when you find him smirking covertly, “What?”

“You called the baby a ‘she’.” He points out, grabbing the spoon and getting some of the ice cream on his spoon, “You think it’s going to be a girl.”

“I- I- no!” You gasp as you watch him bring the spoon to his mount and gives you a dimpled smile, “You stop that right now, Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc!” You reach over to hit his arm lightly, “I’m still very much mad at you.”

“I know,” he responds grimly, “we have to talk about what happened.” He laces his fingers against yours as he takes your hand on his arm in his, “I didn’t mean anything I said, I am so sorry.”

You let out a deep sigh, eyes softening around the edges, “I need you to understand that I don’t want to lose a part of myself just because we are getting married and starting a family, Charles.” You shake your head lightly as you give him a sad smile, “Do you know how it makes me feel when you say that you want our children to have only your surname?”

“I do.” Charles replies, but after receiving the look from you, he adds, “I mean – I do, now.”

“Charles,” you begin, “I love you, and I love that we get to go on this journey together, but I am not giving up my name. And I want our children to have both of our names.”

“I’m sorry, chérie, I don’t know why I said that.” Charles looks at you with a sad look.

“Your feelings are important to me,” you tell him, “I need you to know that.”

His eyes widen in surprise, “I know that, oh God. I do know that, Y/N.” He presses a small kiss to your conjoined hands, “And you have to admit, love, Y/N-Leclerc sounds great.”

“Thank you,” you let out breathily, eyes brimming with tears, “I love you.”

“I love you too, chérie.” Charles’ smile turns into a mischievous one, “So you think the baby is going to be a girl?”

“Shut up, Perceval.” You bite back a smile as you bring your hands on your belly, “I just hope she has your dimples and not your anger threshold.”

#monzabee #requests open #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 smut #formula 1 #fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #imagine #fluff #angst #smut #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc fluff

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grandlinedreams · 3 months

Text

|| in the same reader setting as [this]

|| warnings: lil bit of angst/self-deprecation, reader has spine, some drama for the sake of it, had Bryce's starlight power in mind w reader

Some days, you wonder why you're here. Objectively, you know why ㅡ but beyond the obvious circumstances, you can't puzzle it out.

Especially as you watch your sisters seemingly click into place. Feyre, of course, has always had a spot ㅡ as High Lady, mate to Rhysand. Nesta has come into her own as well, finding her strength with the Valkyries and Cassian. And even Elain seems more and more comfortable here.

You still aren't sure where you fit in. It's an echo of how it'd once been back home, before all of it ㅡ a careful balance to not take too much, need too much ㅡ to do what you could to help. Unremarkable in all aspects, you suppose, for being Nesta's twin.

Feyre has often likened you to the two sides of the moon ㅡ cut from the same cloth, but so very different.

And the longer that you go in living here, the more it unsettles you ㅡ until it eventually comes to a breaking point of needing to do something.

And you begin watching training sessions. The Valkyries, Nesta, Cassian and Azriel ㅡ it doesn't matter who it is, you watch ㅡ a book in your lap as an excuse. You don't know why you don't want them knowing what you're truly up to, as there's no shame to be had in wanting to defend yourself.

All the same, you don't breathe a word of it to anyone. Your own sessions are self-made, mimicry clumsy and often times uncoordinated ㅡ but you're trying, and that's enough. Illyrian warrior you are not ㅡ but at least it's something.

ㅡ

"Thank-you for coming with me today," Elain tells you as you walk beside her, pace sedate as she glances at the shops to the right, your own attention on the Sidra to the left.

"Of course," you answer, and you can't help but glance back. Several paces away, Azriel trails behind, looking for all the world relaxed ㅡ though you know he misses nothing. Though Elain had asked you to accompany her, part of you wonders if Azriel had been hoping to be alone with her ㅡ you've caught the quiet looks that he's shot her every now and then today.

Sun warming your shoulders, you find your attention back on the Sidra, the gleam of light refracting off the surface. Velaris is beautiful, and you can understand why Rhys worked so hard to keep this place a secret from Amarantha.

"Elain," you begin, "do you thinkㅡ" You cut yourself off, abruptly aware that your sister is no longer at your side ㅡ nor is Azriel behind you. In your absent mindedness, you must have kept walking when Elain hadn't ㅡ and your stomach tightens at the realization that you have no idea where you are.

Stay calm, you think, pushing down the tendrils of instinctive alarm as you try to orient yourself, though none of the buildings are even vaguely familiar. Just how far had you gone?

"Lost?" The voice that speaks from behind you is wholly unfamiliar as you whirl, eyes locking with the deep green of a fae male who approaches you.

"No," you answer coolly, pushing down how the steady rove of his gaze over you makes your skin crawl. "I'm on my way to meet with my sister, actually."

"Oh." He takes another step to you. "Allow me to escort you?"

"No. That won't be necessary," you answer. There's an edge to your tone that you can hear, razor sharp ㅡ and you move to skirt around him. "If you'll excuse meㅡ"

Fingers snap around your wrist, squeezing with enough force to hurt as you're yanked to a halt. Something stirs in your chest. "Let go of me."

"Not until you apologize," comes the rough reply. "I'm trying to be kind, and you're veing rude."

You can feel your skin bruising under his grip, the ache of your wrist ㅡ and your other hand is curling into a fist and snapping up before you truly think about it.

The punch lands against his jaw and he grunts, letting up on your wrist enough for you to wrench it free with a venomous hiss that'd make Nesta proud as warmth bubbles in your veins, licking up your spine as it buzzes beneath your skin. "Get your hands off me."

The male's eyes blaze before he's lunging for you, hand fisting into your hair to yank you back ㅡ and the world splinters into bright, dazzling light. It blazes, burns brighter than faelight with all the warmth of a summer day as you hear the male yelp ㅡ and then you're on your knees, hands aching as you press your palms to the rough stone and struggle to even your breathing.

The sharp cry of your name and the rapid approach of footsteps is the only warning you get before arms are around you, pulling you close ㅡ Elain.

"Are you okay? One minute you were beside me and then you weren't, we were looking everywhere for you and ㅡ oh, look at your handsㅡ" Her fussing is going in one ear and out the other as she coaxes you to your feet. "Come on, let's get you to Madja, okay?"

You don't remember much of the trek back, lost in a mute daze that has Elain shooting Azriel a worried look and asking for him to escort you to Madja so she can go tell Feyre what happened.

You're quiet even as the healer looks over your hands, the raw skin of your knuckles and knees where you hit the ground ㅡ and still not a word leaves your lips until Feyre is calling your name, hands on your shoulders.

"Elain told me what happened, but she said there was a burst of light right before they found youㅡ"

"Me," you mumble, cutting her off. "That was me. I think." Feyre stares at you, but you're studying your hands. "It...it came from me."

"Oh," Feyre breathes, then glances at Rhysand, who's watching you.

"It's possible she's yielded her powers," he says. "We'll have to see what the extent of it is, and go from there."

It feels a little weird, being discussed as though you aren't there ㅡ and you're more than grateful when the only one left is Azriel, who watches you as you keep studying your hands.

"...the male who grabbed me," you mumble. "I punched him."

"Good." Azriel's shadows had been the ones to report where you were and what was happening ㅡ and the fury he'd felt had been interrupted by that burst of light. "Don't feel bad for defending yourself."

"That's the thing," you answer. "I don't." Your brow furrows. "I'm not...like Nesta or Feyre, or Elain." You pause. "I don't know what I am."

He knows you mean more than just today, that this has been haunting you for a while ㅡ ever since the events that'd landed you here. He can sympathize, truly ㅡ and then he's approaching to ease your hands apart from where you'd been picking at the gauze over your knuckles.

"You don't need to be anything like them," he tells you, then tenses as you study his hands ㅡ broader than yours and scarred ㅡ and then you slot your fingers between his and squeeze gently.

"I have a question," you murmur, letting your other hand rise to trace a fingertip over his knuckles, seemingly unaware of what the simple touch is doing to him. "I...I've been watching all of you train, but I'd like to actually be taught properly."

Azriel hums. "Cassianㅡ"

"No," you counter, fingers tightening around his. "I want you."

Azriel stills for several long moments where he swears thst his heart stutters, stops, then resumes before he answers. "Okay."

#ㅡmine.#acotar x reader #azriel shadowsinger x reader #az x reader #azriel x reader

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stillmonsterz · 4 months

Text

Tired Of What We Are

pairing: sunghoon x reader

genre: angst (?), smut

summary: you drive to your old town, where old memories are awakened by the person who never ceased to confuse you, mystify you, and see you for what you are.

warnings: unprotected sex, swearing, piss is mentioned (not sexually), slapping, dubcon if you squint, name-calling, sunghoon is kind of a loser.

word count: 6.5k

As soon as you passed the sign on the highway welcoming you into your old town, you remembered why you had left in the first place. Small, ramshackle houses resting on lawns choking with weeds, cracked pavement, two grocery stores passing around the same pool of customers. You drove past the elementary school where children teemed on the swing sets, past the Methodist church where you had attended when a member of your family had felt religious conviction.

Five years had passed since you had been here, and everything seemed even smaller and bereft of beauty. This was a feat in itself, as you had been sick of it when you had lived here. You had driven here to pick up a reference from your first job; a part-time job as a receptionist, a role that had forced you to be human. As you pulled into the parking lot of the small insurance company, you wondered why you had bothered driving all the way here instead of having the reference letter e-mailed to you. You figure that you wanted to remind yourself of how far you had come.

After an uncomfortable conversation with your old boss, you’re clutching your reference letter in your hands. You could just drive home, but a lingering thread of nostalgia knots itself in your chest. Instead, you decide to walk around the main street of the town: a thrift shop, a bakery, two grocery stores, two convenience stores, a chiropractor clinic, a veterinarian's office, a burger joint, and a dispensary. “So they finally built something there,” you think. You remember when it was just an empty space, white-washed walls and cement floors. The last time you had seen it was with Sunghoon.

His name rings loudly in your head, the letters blazing red. You force yourself to walk past the dispensary, instead opting to go to the bakery. Something sweet will take your mind off of him. Sunghoon, your enemy, the bane of your high school existence, the only person who had ever understood you.

You pick out a cupcake, sliding money onto the counter idly as the memory overtakes you. Even a bite of the treat does little to quell the overwhelming feeling of…loss?

The last time you saw Sunghoon, you were both 18 years old. He was affable, good-looking, and hopelessly obnoxious. You had ended up on the same bus route, and he took pleasure in bothering you, from freshman year all the way to senior year. His taunts went from playground insults to targeted remarks about your body, your looks, your social life (or lack thereof). The one thing he focused on the most was your personality. Your other traits were all clearly jokes, but his dislike for certain aspects of your personality seemed almost personal. He would call you cowardly, overly shy, a people-pleaser.

He would slide into your seat, invading your personal space. You tried placing your backpack next to you, but he would just place the backpack on his lap and smile at you with a smug grin. Sunghoon would take pictures of you when you weren’t looking, pointing at your nostrils flaring, or your awkward facial expression. You couldn’t remember your first conversation with Sunghoon; it had all blended into a long string of annoyances.

At school, you rarely saw him. He wasn’t in any of your classes, opting for the more practical courses while you had gone for college levels. When you did pass by him in the hallway, he was usually slinking around alone or with one of his friends. He was sickly pale and sullen, but when he laid eyes on you, he would brighten and laugh. If you were carrying a book, he would make a snide remark about that. Otherwise, he would either be silent or make fun of your outfit. Sometimes he would have his arm around a girl, so he would walk past you as if you didn’t exist, but you swore you could feel his eyes burning holes in your back.

You never argued with him. You thought it was your way of turning the other cheek, of being the bigger person, but it just made you feel like a coward. You would swallow the taunts like a spoonful of acetone, gritting your teeth and smiling. The smiling would only make it worse, sometimes.

When you were 18 years old, three weeks before graduation, he had coaxed you out of your room during the middle of the night, rapping on your window with his reddened knuckles. It had taken some convincing, some wheedling, and a little name-calling, but you sensed that you could have an adventure. When you crawled out of your window, your backpack strapped to your back, he had helped you get out with a Cheshire grin.

That was the night he had led you into that space on Main Street, pushing past the doors with the bravado that only a high school drug dealer could muster. He sat on the floor, patting the ground next to him.

When you were 18 years old, and he gave you your first edible, resting your head on his shoulder as you waited for the THC to kick in. To pass the time, the two of you talked about your student body. Sunghoon disliked almost everyone there, spitting out names with venom. You weren’t fond of them either, but you told him that you didn’t mind them. He told you not to lie to him because he can tell. He said that he’s not fucking stupid. You said that you never thought he was stupid, and he told you to stop lying to him for once. Then you called him fucking stupid, and he laughed. Sunghoon had even started applauding you, but you had shoved him and told him to be quiet.

That was the night when he had given you one, two, three gentle kisses on the lips, whispering that it didn’t mean anything after you had pointed out he had a girlfriend. You remembered his slow smile after you gave him a soft kiss in return.

When you were 18 years old, and after the percs that he had taken had kicked in, he had admitted that he wished he had had your brain, so he could escape this town and become something, someone useful. When you had blearily suggested running away together, he had laughed and said that he wasn’t that fucking high.

And that night, when he had pressed you onto the cement floor, kissing you languidly, like time was all you had, he had whispered that he wanted to give you the rest, let you take everything. You said that you didn’t want to do it there, and not when he had a girlfriend, and he had sat up, nodding and pushing his hair back. And you had asked why he was so mean to you, and he asked why you never fought back. And he said that all you did was take it and take it, so he had to give it. He said that he could tell that there was something in you, something desperate to get out, but you were too weak, so he had to rip it out for you. So you had stumbled to your feet, offended and dazed, and he had offered to walk you home, and you had said no. You walked away from him, and the last time you saw him was at your graduation. You were surprised that he had had the credits to walk.

---

As you walked away from the bakery, you decided that you would drive to your old house, then you would never come back. You clambered into your car and drove to your neighborhood. You thought that things would have changed, but the sameness haunted you. The same people sitting on their porches, the same dogs tied to a post. When you get out of your car, parking it on the curb outside of your old house, and survey the ground, you could swear that the same glass bottles litter the ground.

Your old house is a one-story affair: worn, blue clapboard siding, a tired white porch. To your delight, whoever moved in after you had installed a windowbox of red begonias. As you survey everything, the wilted lawn, the gravel driveway, the weather-dampened wooden steps leading inside, you hear a voice behind you.

“If you wanna buy that one, you’re out of luck. I can get you someplace nicer.” The cadence, cockiness, the playfulness, it all burns you. You turn around, and there’s Sunghoon, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, smiling at you with that same shit-eating grin. He’s holding a glass bottle of blue soda.

You just stare at him, taking in his appearance. A bit of stubble dots his chin, he’s grown taller, and his eyes are wearier. But it’s still him.

“What, no hi?” He steps towards you, his arms outstretched. “You hate me that much?”

“Hi,” you mumble, hugging him. He smells the same, and his grasp is as you had imagined.

You feel his free hand stroking your back. “How have you been?”

“Good.” You pull away so you can see his face closely. “You?”

He shrugs. “I’m still here, so there’s your answer.” He steps back, letting his arms fall to his side. Sunghoon opens his soda, tossing the cap behind him. He takes a long swig of it as he stares at you. “What do you do now?”

You tell him your new profession, and he smirks. “Using that brain for good, are you?”

“I try,” you say dryly. “Do you still sell?”

“Nah,” Sunghoon says, shaking his head. “Gave that shit up after high school. No, I’m a real estate agent now.” When he notices you glancing at his unkempt appearance, he groans. “I have a meeting with a client in like a few hours, I don’t go around wearing a suit all the time.”

You laugh at him and walk away slightly. As you lean on your car door, crossing your arms, he follows you so that he’s standing directly in front of you.

“So, are you still a geek ass loser?”

“Are you still a burnout?”

Sunghoon scoffs, kicking at your shoes. “Burnout? You sound like a PSA. I’m actually in my bag now.”

You cover your mouth to muffle your laugh. “In your bag?”

Sunghoon smiles so widely you can see his molars. “Yeah. Stacking paper, you know. I’m planning to save up money and head out with Shay.”

“Shay?” You don’t recognize that name from Sunghoon’s revolving door of exes.

“Yeah.” His voice drops and his eyebrows set into an angry little line. “Yeah, Shay’s my girl. We’ve been together for two years now.”

“Oh. Congratulations.” For some reason, jealousy nips at you, and you can’t pinpoint why. “What’s she like?”

Sunghoon shrugs. “She’s nice, you know. Cute and sweet.” He takes another drink of his soda. “You got anyone?”

The teasing glint in his eyes makes you want to lie, but you know there’s no point. “No.”

He laughs. “I knew it. I bet the last play you ever got was I kissed you.”

The fact that he brings it up so casually takes you off guard, but years of arguing with Sunghoon have sharpened your reflexes. “You wish you were my only experience. You’re hardly that important.”

“Oh?” Sunghoon walks slightly closer to you, his tone mocking. “Goody two-shoes got a little wild in college? What, did a guy finger you in exchange for you writing a report for him?”

“Fuck off.”

He grins at you. “Oh, and she’s got a mouth on her now. Who taught you that?”

You roll your eyes. “Nice to see that you haven’t changed.”

“Hey,” Sunghoon says defensively, “I have changed. You on the other hand…” He tilts his head, smirking as he analyzes you from top to bottom. “Well, you’ve changed in the ways that matter.”

“And how’s that?”

Sunghoon smiles. “You got hotter.” Before you can retort, he starts walking away. “Come on,” he calls behind him, “I have to give you something.”

“Syphilis? Gonorrhea? Herpes?” you ask, wandering after him as he strides down the sidewalk. You rub your arms as you walk; the familiarity of the spring day has brought you chills.

“Haha,” Sunghoon says in a deadpan voice. “Humor was never your strong suit, was it?” He stops walking so you can catch up to him, then takes a right.

“You’re no comedian yourself,” you retort, nudging him with your elbow. He elbows you back, smiling, and then you remember that he’s dating someone. You clear your throat and look away, focusing on the poplar trees lining the sidewalk. “So what did you have to show me?”

“It’s a surprise,” you hear him say, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“I don’t like-,”

“Surprises,” he says, and you turn to look at him. “I know you don’t, but you’ll like this one.”

----

Sunghoon was still living with his parents. He explained that the housing economy was horrible, so he opted to stay with them until he saved up enough money.

His house was nicer than yours, which wasn’t a feat. It was two stories, and the small garden filled with perennials and irises seemed well-maintained. The walkway was clean, and there was a Honda Civic parked outside.

“My parents are in Montauk right now,” Sunghoon says, leading you into his home. He fumbles with his keys before successfully opening his newly-painted door.

“Where’s Shay?”

Sunghoon shrugs. "At work. We don't live together right now, but she might come over soon to visit me before my meeting." When you walk inside, you’re greeted with its simple living room: a worn-out sofa sat against one wall, its once vibrant upholstery now faded and threadbare. Across from it, a scratched coffee table held a scattering of magazines and a remote control with missing buttons. The plasma TV looms on the wall, adjacent to the stairs.

You kick your shoes off and line them up by the door.

“Cute,” Sunghoon mumbles. Then he clears his throat. “Come upstairs, to my room.”

You follow him up the carpeted stairs to his room, which bears the childish scribble “STAY OUT” in black Sharpie. You point at it and snicker.

“I had to let everyone know I wasn’t fucking around,” he says with a laugh.

“Did this deter your sister at all?”

Sunghoon sighs. “No. She would just come in here and take my things. Really grinded my gears.” As you enter his room, taking in its sheer normalcy, he continues talking. “Once, when I was in the living room watching a movie with my parents, she ran down the stairs and started shrieking. She was like, ‘I found something in Sunghoon’s room!’ and she was hollering. I got so scared, because I used to keep my stash in my sock drawer-,”

You stop ogling the various posters of movie characters that he had pasted around his room and turn to him. “Your sock drawer? Why?”

Sunghoon shrugs. “Who would check the sock drawer? It’s foolproof. Anyways, I thought for sure that I was done for, when she yells, ‘I found a…bad magazine in there!’”

“So what was it?” You lean against his tall wooden dresser.

Sunghoon places his half-empty bottle of soda on his tidy nightstand and starts to rummage around inside its small drawer. “It was a Playboy that one of my friends had found in the woods. I had put it, like, under my bed.”

“What’d your parents say?”

Sunghoon finally retrieves the item he was trying to find, turning to face you with his hand clenched around something. “They were like, son, you can’t bring that into the house…we’re going to have to confiscate it…I found it in my dad’s side of the closet a few months later.”

You laugh, crossing your arms. “You must have felt so slighted.”

“I did,” Sunghoon says gravely. His face brightens, and he hops onto his twin-sized bed. “C’mere.” You oblige, politely making space. “Now close your eyes…”

You roll your eyes, but you do what he says.

“Open your hand…Now close your hand again. Now open it one more time…now close it again.”

“Sunghoon.”

“All right, damn. Open your hand, for real.”

Something cold presses into your hand, with little rough edges. When you open your eyes, it’s a small piece of quartz. You hold it up higher, examining it. “A rock?”

“Don’t you remember?” Sunghoon laughs. “You got so pissed at me for taking this from you. I think you had found it outside at school, and you got so angry. You did your usual, ‘Whatever, Sunghoon, routine, but you were pissed.”

“So,” you begin slowly, rolling the quartz in your hands. “You brought me here for a rock?”

Sunghoon pauses, then nods. “Yeah.” He scoots closer to you, his knee touching yours. “Is a rock so meaningless to you?”

“It’s…fine. Imbued with memories.”

“You’re such a shit liar. Just say you’re pissed at me.”

You shrug. “I’m not pissed…”

Sunghoon reaches behind you and snatches your phone, springing to his feet. “Are you pissed now?”

“Oh, come on. Give it back,” you say, standing up as well.

“Come get me,” he replies, running down the stairs with a laugh. You toss the piece of quartz back onto his bed and you chase after him, fighting a smile from spreading on your face.

You finally catch up to him in his living room, where he’s tossing your phone from hand to hand. “Give it back, Sunghoon. You’re acting like a child.”

Sunghoon dangles your phone above your head. “You’re acting like you’re too good for some fun. Come on, try to get it from me.”

You unsuccessfully hop around, trying to snatch your phone from Sunghoon’s elusive grasp. He snickers at you like you’re a trained dog, and it pisses you off. Eventually, you get so fed up you try to get him off his feet, tackling him to the carpet. Your phone goes flying out of his hands as he falls, and you reach out to get it. Sunghoon’s hands wrap around your waist, preventing you from leaving. You turn to look at him as you hover above him, your knees on either side of his body. You and Sunghoon are behind his couch, obstructed from view if you walked in the house.

Sunghoon looks as if he’s about to say something, but instead he gently presses your head towards him. It’s not a surprise when his lips meet yours, but the tenderness with which he kisses you is shocking. He sighs softly into the kiss.

Sunghoon takes his time, running his hands along your body. His gaze is almost analytical, his touch precise. He strokes your stomach, rubs your breasts, caresses your waist. One of his hands slides down your inner thigh, rubbing circles there with his thumb. His other hand cups your cheek, and he kisses you gingerly, as if he’s scared that you’ll disappear. Once he seems sure that you’ll stay, he parts his reddened lips and slips his tongue into your mouth. You massage his tongue with your own, your eyes flickering shut. Warmth spreads through your stomach, trickling to your fingertips.

His cold hands slip under your shirt, and his fingers trail along your stomach. Sunghoon strokes your warm flesh, moaning slightly into the kiss. As you feel him groping your breast through your bra, you place your hand on his. “Stop,” you whisper.

Sunghoon stops fondling you, but his hand still rests on your breast. “Why?” His voice is almost childlike in its disappointment, his dark eyes narrowed.

“It’s wrong,” you say earnestly, “you have a girlfriend.”

“Shay won’t know,” he whispers, butting his nose against yours. “This is just a one-time thing, just to finish what we started.”

“It’s still cheating,” you say, circling your hand around his wrist.

“So get up.”

“Huh?”

Sunghoon scoffs and continues to feel up your chest. “You don’t care. If you had cared, you wouldn’t have followed me into my house. You wouldn’t have come up into my room, you wouldn’t have tackled me to the ground. If you feel so strongly about cheating, then get up and leave.”

You’re stunned, staring up at him. His response is to kiss your neck, licking at it. Sunghoon gently nips at a spot, and you whimper. “You know, that’s always been your problem,” he mutters. “Open your mouth.”

Still speechless, you timidly open your mouth. Sunghoon shoves two of your fingers inside. “Suck on these,” he orders.

As you lick around his fingers, tasting his coppery sweat, he plays with your hair with the other hand. “Your problem is that you’re always pretending to be this impossibly good girl. It made me sick, seeing you laughing it up with other people when I know you didn’t like them, pretending to care when you don’t. How could I not press your buttons? Just once, I wanted you to admit it. I wanted you to show anger, sadness, something, anything. Any reaction besides indifference or your little smiles. I was so happy today, seeing you fight back. It only took five years…”

Sunghoon pulls his fingers out of your mouth and uses the wetness to rub your nipples, looking you dead in the eyes. You whimper again, the coolness serving as a balm for your overheated body. “You remember the first week of freshman year, when our bus driver hit that rabbit?”

You jerk your head away from him. “What?”

“The rabbit,” he says insistingly, sliding his wet finger from your chest to your navel. “When it ran in front of the bus and it went flying. Everyone else was crying, or freaked out, or they made a joke out of it even though they were creeped out. But you didn’t react.”

His gaze is piercing, and you swallow heavily. “Yes, I did. I cried.”

“Fake fucking tears. I saw you, I saw you. I always see you. You were just sitting there, your face blank.” Sunghoon leans in and kisses your cheeks as if to punctuate his words. “Blank as. A. Fucking. Wall. Then you looked around at everyone else, and you started crying.”

“So?” His hands have wrapped around your waist again. “What are you trying to say?”

“That you don’t care,” Sunghoon whispers against your ear. He licks the shell of your ear, his tongue trailing down to the lobe. “And I love it. I always have.” Finally, he kisses your lips again, just as sweetly as before. “Tell me you care about Shay, right now. Tell me you care, and I’ll leave you alone.”

Emotions swirl in your gut, and you realize that you don’t recognize any of them as guilt. “I don’t care,” you say, eyes widening in realization.

“There she is,” he whispers before kissing you again, bringing you down so that your chest is flush with his. He runs his tongue on your teeth before breaking the kiss with a smack. Saliva drips out of his mouth, and his breath is heavy. “Why didn’t you let me have you back then?”

“I was scared that I would have fallen in love with you,” you admit softly, your hands entangled in his dark locks. You kiss the moles adorning his face.

“Probably a smart decision,” he says with a slight smile. “Is that still a risk now?”

You shake your head. “No. I doubt this will have much impact on me at all, honestly.”

“Fuck off,” Sunghoon says, now widely grinning. He flips you so that you’re underneath him, and his chain dangles in your face. You playfully bite it, tugging the chain so that Sunghoon’s face is close to yours. “When did you get so cute?” He kisses you again, the tenderness from before giving way to desire.

“When you started noticing,” you say, stroking his hair and the nape of his neck.

“Nah.” Sunghoon tilts his head and kisses you again, hands once more snaking under your shirt. “I always noticed you.” He starts to pull your shirt off and you help him. When you’re lying there, clad in your bra, Sunghoon pulls himself up, kneeling above you. His dark eyes are almost unreadable.

“What is it?”

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, stroking your arms, your stomach, your chest with a reverence reserved for a marble sculpture. He unzips your jeans, and you shimmy out of them. Sunghoon smirks, then, giving your pink panties a gentle tap. “Nice undies, you cute little shit.”

Your face reddens. “I wasn’t expecting anything…”

“I meant it,” Sunghoon says, pulling off his shirt and sweatpants deftly. He tosses them over his couch. Your attention is drawn to his Iron Man boxers and you snort. “Don’t laugh. These were a gift.”

“Who gifted you this atrocity?” You unhook your bra, putting it carefully next to your shirt.

As you’re pulling your underwear off, Sunghoon quietly says, “Shay did.”

Your first reaction should be to blush, to feel ashamed, something that indicates kindness. Instead, you laugh. “Shay has shit taste in more than just men, then.”

Sunghoon grins, tugging his boxers off and tossing them away. “Is that so?” He grabs your arms and pulls you up so that you’re sitting. You get a glimpse of his cock; the tip is slightly red, but it’s still somewhat soft.

“I can take care of that,” you whisper, nodding at it. You stretch your jaw out, but Sunghoon touches your chin.

“Don’t,” he says, “I don’t want you to do that.”

“You…don’t want me to suck you off?”

He shakes his head. “No. I can’t make you do that. And don’t bother asking me why, I just can’t.” Sunghoon holds his hand out instead, palm facing up. “Spit.”

You spit on his hand until he’s satisfied. He works his cock himself, staring straight at you as he does. “Don’t just sit there,” he says, his breath shuddering. So you hold out your hand, and he spits on it.

You part your legs and rub your clitoris, your other hand fucking your walls. You try to keep your eyes on Sunghoon, but his eyes are squeezed shut in ecstasy. “Open your eyes,” you say firmly. “Look at me.”

When he does open his eyes, they’re filled with lust. His cock has hardened, and he slows his movements. He teases his reddened tip with his thumb as he watches you play with yourself. “God, you’re hot,” he whispers. “Are you ready?”

You nod, and he grabs your hips, pulling you into his lap. You’re both sitting, his legs on either side of your body. Sunghoon kisses you one last time before teasing the head of his cock into your pussy, but he’s so hard that he has to press his thumb down to get it inside. Once he’s entered you, you hiss, adjusting to the feeling. “Does it hurt?”

You get the sense that he’d like it if it hurt. “Yeah, a little.”

“I’ll be gentle for you, baby,” Sunghoon murmurs, licking at the junction between your jaw and ear. He presses you onto his cock by your hips, getting you used to his length. When your arms wrap around his muscular, lean body, you notice Sunghoon smile widely. Once he’s fucked himself into you, you slowly shift up and down, but he stops you. “Let me do everything.”

Sunghoon is gentle, his hips working in tandem with him pressing you onto his cock. His nails dig into your soft flesh, and he kisses your neck warmly. You had envisioned sex with Sunghoon more often that you cared to admit, but as your hands slipped down to touch your tender parts, you were imagining something rougher, something animalistic to match his antagonistic personality. But the way he’s treating you now, murmuring sweet nothings into your ear, it feels alien.

“So gorgeous,” he whispers, giving your ass a squeeze. “So perfect. So tight. You feel like a virgin.”

“So this is what it’s like,” you murmur, reaching your hand down to lazily play with your clit.

“Hm?” Sunghoon licks the underside of your jaw, his pace staying moderate. It’s as though he’s trying to leave a lasting imprint of himself inside of you. “This is what what’s like?”

“Making love instead of fucking,” you reply.

Sunghoon presses you down so that he’s on top of you. He kisses you sweetly, then plants kisses with exaggerated smacks down your body. He swats the hand playing with your clit away, replacing it with his own tongue. “So sweet.” Sunghoon grips your hips, holding you in place. Moans leave your mouth in stutters as he lavishes your clit with attention, sucking it into his mouth before swirling his tongue around the bead. When your moans become ragged, he pulls his face away, licking his lips theatrically.

“Don’t stop,” you whine, but he places his lips on yours, the taste of your arousal seeping into your mouth. Sunghoon takes your wrists in one hand and holds them above your head. He uses his other hand to guide his angry cock into your pussy again. As soon as he enters it, he moans and his eyes close. “Don’t close your eyes, Sunghoon. Look at me.” Sunghoon nods, biting his lip.

He thrusts into you slowly, even slower than last time. His pace is almost excruciatingly gentle. His tongue licks at your nipples, sucking them into his mouth. The entire time, he looks directly into your eyes, and his gaze scares you. It’s so caring, you could almost mistake it for affection. The possibility of what could have been gnaws at your insides.

“Kiss me,” you say desperately. His lips find yours and he devours you hungrily, spit dribbling out of his mouth.

“I should have run away with you,” he whispers, releasing your hands from his grasp. You hook one leg around his back and press him down onto you; you interlace your fingers with his, clasping your hands together. Sunghoon whimpers and continues fucking into you, picking up the speed. His hips snap against yours, and his balls slap against your thighs. “I should have just left with you.”

“We were just kids,” you say, moving your hips up to match his movement.

“You knew what you wanted,” he says. “You asked me to leave with you.”

The wild look in his eyes, the desperation tinging his voice, the hope dripping out of his mouth prevent you from telling the truth. The truth that running away with him just seemed like the thing to say, that you would never spend your life with a man like him.

“It would have been great,” you lie, kissing him so he’ll stop talking. Without warning, his cock twitches inside of you and you feel his hot cum spurting inside of you.

“Shit,” Sunghoon says frantically. “You didn’t get to cum. Shit, shit. Sorry, I-fuck, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say gently, but he’s already plunging two of his fingers into your pussy, shoving his cum up into your tired cunt. His other finger rubs at your clit slowly and sensually, and you moan loudly.

“I couldn’t hold it,” he says, “I wanted to finish with you.”

“It’s okay.” When you cum, you try to moan performatively, tossing your head back. But your little show doesn’t please Sunghoon, who stares at you coldly.

“You hated that,” Sunghoon says, resting on his knees.

“I didn’t,” you say reassuringly. You rise from the ground; your knees hardly buckle.

“I told you to stop lying to me,” he says, his expression like that of a kicked puppy’s.

You sigh and crack your neck. “I’m going to use the restroom,” you say gently, leaving before he can protest.

As you take a piss, you think about it. Why was it so unfulfilling? Was it too emotional? Why did he care if you finished so badly? It wasn’t that he was a bad lay, something just felt off. You clean his cold cum off of your thighs, wash your face, and step out of the restroom. As soon as you step out of the restroom, Sunghoon pins you to the wall. His hand presses your shoulders, and his voice is tremulous when he says, “You keep lying to me. Tell me the truth.”

“The truth?” you sigh. “Fine. The truth is that I didn’t like that.”

“You didn’t?” Sunghoon’s voice is cold.

“Yeah.” You reach one hand out, shoving him slightly. Sunghoon’s eyes widen, and you swear you can see his nostrils flare. “It was too soft, too gentle. I hated it.”

“I thought you would have liked that,” Sunghoon retorts, backing up as you walk towards him.

“Why? Because I’m such a goody-two-shoes?” You push him again, and his legs hit the bottom step of his carpeted stairs.

“Yeah,” he says, but there’s a glint in his eyes, and as you advance towards him his grin becomes more of a snarl. “I almost felt bad fucking you because you’re so…nice.”

With one final push, Sunghoon stumbles backwards, lying naked on his stairs. You hover above him, and you take his cock into your hand. It’s slightly flaccid, which isn’t a problem for you. You tease the head in your folds, coating it with your arousal. You rub it on your inner thighs, introducing his red tip to your clit. Choked whimpers escape Sunghoon’s mouth, and his head is tilted back.

“Look at me,” you order, and you lightly squeeze his shaft as a warning. Your other hand grabs his hair and forces his head up. His eyes snap open and burn holes into you. You continue rubbing his cock onto your clit, and your fingers slip from his hair to delve into your walls.

“Fuck,” he ekes out, “stop fucking teasing me.”

“Or what?” Just to torture him, you ghost his tip over your opening. You don’t expect him to cant his hips up, shoving his cock into you. As you adjust to the change, Sunghoon pulls you on top of him. His hands run all over your body, stroking it, scratching it as he fucks you roughly. You moan loudly, your hands scrambling to find purchase. You dig your nails into his shoulders, not caring that Shay might see the marks you leave behind. That’s for him to explain.

“There she is,” he says huskily. “I knew there was something in you, but I didn’t know it was a cock-hungry whore.”

You lightly slap his face, grinding yourself onto his cock. “I’m not a whore.”

He slaps you back, more of a tap than a hit. “Then why are you taking me like one?”

You slap him again before mumbling, “Fuck you.” You bring his face towards yours and you kiss, sucking his tongue. He responds by shoving it so far down your throat you choke. Sunghoon pistons his hips up into you, his thighs smacking against yours as he stuffs his cock into you with fervor.

Sliding off his length, you sit up on him instead. He remains lying down on the steps, squeezing the plush flesh of your ass as you adjust yourself. This time, when he enters you, he doesn’t stop you from riding him. You brace your hands on his strong thighs as you work his cock the way you want. “That’s right,” Sunghoon groans, slapping your ass hard. “Bounce on this cock. Been waiting for this for years.” He spits on his fingers and rubs your clit, causing your whimpers to turn into deep, throaty moans. Instead of his deep, slow strokes, he fucks you quickly, looking for his own pleasure.

He pushes you off of him and stammers out, “Turn around, now, now.” He helps to spin you around so that your back rests on top of him. In this position, he can grab your tits and play with your clit easily. Sunghoon rests one leg on top of yours as he fucks into you, groaning at the way he’s stretching you out. One of your hands feebly reaches out and holds one of the spindles of the staircase to steady yourself, the other holding his head.

Sunghoon presses sloppy, wet kisses along your neck, nibbling at the sensitive flesh. “Going to leave you something to remember me by,” he says lowly. “Remember who took this pussy the best.”

“I’m close,” you stutter out, eyes fixed on his rosy, exhausted face. The heat rising inside of you is leagues different compared to the first time. It sets your nerve endings on fire, it contains all the longing, the confused emotions, the wasted potential.

“Me too,” Sunghoon says with a low grunt. He slaps your thigh, and you slap his face, harder than last time. “Kiss me, baby.”

Your lips meet in a clash of teeth and a tangle of tongues. When you whine into his mouth, he speeds up his abuse of your clit. Your arousal must be soaking into the carpet at this point. Sunghoon’s thrusts grow erratic, frantic, and needy as he chases his own orgasm. His hips shudder, and with a strangled moan of your name, he pumps his cum into you for a second time.

You cum shortly afterwards, your pussy clenching Sunghoon so tightly he can hardly move his softening cock out of you. You kiss him, savoring the taste of his lips. He wraps his arms around you and holds you so tightly. He kisses your cheeks over and over again, then your forehead, your chin, and finally planting a warm kiss onto your lips. You lie like that for a while on his steps, with his cock resting in you. Your breathing begins to match his, and as you lay on his chest you listen to his heartbeat. It goes from quick to even; you’ll have to leave soon.

He offers to let you shower, you say no. You want to smell like sex, like him. He calls you a fucking weirdo. You ask him if he ever calls Shay a weirdo, and he says that he treats Shay like a princess. He asks you again if you want to shower.

Sunghoon watches you gather your clothes. He orders you to leave the bathroom door open so he can watch you clean his cum from between your thighs, splash water on your face, and get dressed. He tells you to do a spin for him, and don’t you dare half-ass it. You spin slowly, and he smiles at you like you’re his.

He offers to walk you to your car, you say no. You say that it would be horrible if Shay were to come home early from work and see us together, with me smelling like sex. He says that the whole house reeks of sex, and he’s going to have to deep-clean the stairs. You say that he shouldn’t have fucked you on the stairs, and he says that if you don’t get out now he’ll fuck you on the stairs, and on the couch, and on the floor, and in his bedroom, and he’ll die with his cock buried in you.

You kiss goodbye, and his eyes look haunted. He tells you not to bother texting him, and you say that you weren’t planning on it.

You stumble to your car, and when you drive away you swear that your town looks different now.

#sunghoon smut #sunghoon angst #enhypen smut #enha smut #kpop smut #kpop fanfiction #kpop hard thoughts #This was supposed to be sexier...

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wingedjellyfishflight · 19 days

Text

Emotional Support Animal Wife

When the PMC you worked for noticed that König was calmer around you and less likely to fly off the handle, they thought it was a fluke. Nonetheless, they asked you to attend several meetings as a guest and sat you near him to test out the theory. When he did not lash out for a single meeting over two months, no matter how inane, your job was officially restructured to spend nearly every hour of your working day next to him with overtime hazard pay for all after hours meetings and parties. Any time he was not down range, you were by his side, it seemed. It didn't take long for the enforced closeness to work its magic, leading to your eventual marriage.

König and several other select team members were contracted out to an international military task force for a minimum six month term. This wasn't the first time he was loaned out and you always tagged along, ensuring that he didn't attack an officer for being rude to his men or take up the challenge often offered by the enlisted who heard rumors of his work down range. This time, the hiring military tried to argue that you were not allowed due to the top secret clearance required as well as you being unnecessary to the mission. Your boss countered that the health and well-being of all employees was a top priority and reminded the opposing bureaucrat that your presence was listed as a non-negotiable aspect of not only König's contract, but the entire team's contracts as his presence was required in every other contract. After several rounds of back and forth, your boss prevailed.

When the C-140 landed, you waited for the men of the team to disembark before following König. He always waited until last to leave so you wouldn't be far away, especially in new areas with unknown threats. You patiently waited behind the wall of tall, broad, and muscular men who were your coworkers while introductions and welcomes were made. Same old same old at this point in your career. You preferred to hide and work in the shadows, so to speak. Calling attention to yourself was not ideal due to past experiences with idiots trying to interfere with your attendance.

Speaking of interfering idiots, the men have barely begun to stride away when a man approaches you, demanding to know who you are and how you got here. You smile kindly, "I'm with König and the others from KorTac. If you'll excuse-."

"No, ma'am. I need to verify your presence before I can release you." The man bars your way, grabbing his radio with urgency. You sigh and lean around him, not wanting to get separated from the group.

"König! I need assistance!" He doesn't pause to assess the situation. Simply turns on his heel and begins running straight at you. The rest of the team also about faces and stands waiting. The man skitters to the side slightly, scared to see such a giant man striding toward him. You simply hold up your arms, knowing his aim and allowing König to pick you up. The man quails under the glares he is receiving and silently vows to stay away from KorTac members at all times. König catches back up to the group easily and sets you down to walk next to him, holding his hand. You can hear him muttering in German and have to fight the grin trying to spread across your face.

Once in the meeting, König sits you next to him, in the seat with Horangi's name tag. Horangi stands behind your chair, ruffling your hair, drawing a huff from you. He enjoys acting the big brother to you whenever possible. Settling in, you put on your noise canceling headphones, and pull out a book to read. Hidden behind König's bulk, you blend in quickly, few noticing you other than the men of KorTac. Their favorite way to pass the time is to try to distract you from your book.

After a few moments, Horangi sits in a newly appeared chair next to you, nearly squashing you between him and König before you put a hand on his chest, shoving him back playfully. He smirks and lets you return to your book to wait out the meeting, one hand resting on König's back gently to ground him. Near the end, there is a tap on your shoulder as König and the others stand, you following suite soon after. It's meet and greet time, which is typically a lot of posturing and crushing of hands. You carefully greet several men, most of whom catch the name tag on your vest and eye König before greeting you from a few feet away. Glancing around, you spot a familiar face that has you tucking yourself behind König. Your hand clenching his waist has him freezing in place, body tensing and readying to face the threat. You slip your hand into his pocket, fishing out a spare mask and slipping it on. His tenseness relaxes slightly as your hand releases his shirt, and you stand near his side again, pressing a hand to his back for comfort.

The team is alarmed by your use of the mask. You've always playfully protested König masking you, preferring to be recognized on your own rather than a smaller carbon copy of him. The atmosphere in the room becomes much more tense as they slowly close ranks, Horangi stepping a bit closer to your other side. When the familiar face, a cousin, greets König, your hand flinches slightly, despite your struggle not to react. His gaze hardens as he evaluates the threat in front of him, hand tightening unconsciously. When your cousin winces, he catches himself, letting go and turning away in clear dismissal. Before he can greet you, holding out his hand, Horangi leans forward, shaking his hand instead. The interaction doesn't go unnoticed, but König makes an effort to greet every other person amicably, and Horangi's smile sets most at ease, even as they eye your red fabric masked face with suspicion.

Finally, the meeting officially ends, and the team is led to their quarters. The sounds of outrage at being placed in bunk beds together in one room are broken up by your giggles. They turn to look and see König laying in the bed, scrunched up into a ball to fit on the mattress and still hanging off. Once the laughter dies down and enough pictures are taken, König stands up. "We will see about proper accommodations. This is unacceptable, clearly." You take his hand quietly, and he pauses. "Schatz, would you prefer to stay behind? I know you are... nervous."

"He is my family, König. I didn't want a fight to break out at the first meeting." He sighs, frustrated. Hearing that your childhood had mirrored much of his had been rage inducing, and it still simmers in the back of his mind. Luckily, he hadn't met any of them before today as you had cut contact when you took your first job as a contractor due to their vehement disapproval and insults. "I would prefer to stay anonymous here as much as possible rather than confront him." König nods, fighting back his protective instincts.

"I will follow your lead. If a fight is needed, then a fight we shall have."

You shake your head, saying, "Don't sound so excited for it, big guy."

König leads you out, nearly running into a soldier posted outside the door. "Colonel, you are to remain in your quarters until your allotted lunch at 1100 hours," the soldier's voice wavers only slightly despite the fear you feel rolling off of him. You rub your thumb on the back of König's glove, gently keeping him grounded.

"I wish to speak to someone about the quarters we have been provided. Please bring me to the person in charge of accommodations." The soldier looks stunned, rocking back on his heels.

"I-I will contact someone, but I must insist that you wait here. My orders were to ensure you did not leave." König nods agreeably.

"Understood. We will wait for this person." The soldier returns the nod before retreating up the hall several paces and calling over the radio. König merely leans back against the wall, crossing his arms over his broad chest. You mimic his posture, quietly waiting. It is only a few minutes later when the soldier approaches with another person in tow.

"Colonel, you wish to discuss your quarters? They are the standard quarters we provide to all visiting contractors." You honestly don't understand how they could continue to be confused, having to crane their neck back to meet his gaze.

"I am very tall, as are several of my men. The bunks are too short to sleep on. As well, there are not enough beds unless you expect my wife," he casually gestures at you, "to sleep on the floor."

The man stares at him, seemingly noticing his height for the first time, then his eyes flick to you. "Well, it was assumed that your... wife," your eyes narrow at the doubt lacing his tone, "would sleep with you, of course."

Before König can say a word, you snap at him. "He doesn't fit in the bunk, and you expect me to sleep there, too? Am I supposed to slice his belly open and crawl inside like this is a Star Wars movie?" The posted soldier snorts, unable to completely hide his laughter and the man opposite you smothers a grin, not expecting the reference, nor your unaccented, American voice.

"Uhh, no. We don't expect personnel to make such drastic choices. I will arrange for more appropriate beds. They will be exchanged before nightfall."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate being spared as a sacrifice." With that, König turns and guides you back into the quarters. You smile, seeing the team already at work rearranging the room.

With the door shut and locked, you pull off your mask, a small sigh of relief slipping out. Horangi shoots a questioning look at König, to no avail. You stiffen your back and meet his questioning gaze. "One of the men is estranged family. Recognizing me could easily lead to an all out brawl," your eyes flick to König. "Or worse." Horangi nods.

"Then we will maintain your anonymity outside these doors." There are nods of agreement all around. "Though, I wouldn't mind a piece of him myself if he is as bad as the rest of your family." Horangi's eyes shine with a predatory gleam. His name is well-earned after all.

"It's been years. Maybe he is better, maybe not."

When lunch rolls around, you don your mask again, now adjusted for your face so it does not cover your uniform and drapes nicely. König is great with a needle and thread, able to make, repair or adjust masks on the fly with ease. You walk single file, sandwiched between König and Oni who keeps poking you and dodging your jabbing elbow. You swear at him in Japanese, having picked up several languages in your time working with the team. Unfortunately or maybe not, almost all of it is exclusively the slang, curses and crude language they use as emphasis for their English. He laughs loud and long at your inventive cursing in his mother language, but stops antagonizing you just in time to walk into the mess hall full of soldiers.

You can feel the tension radiating off König and step to his side, a hand on his forearm. He glances down at you briefly. "Herz, you will go in front of me. I want both eyes on you in here." You pat his arm in agreement and pick up a tray, quickly moving through the line.

"Man, I thought that Koe-nig was supposed to be some badass. But look at this, he got tits!" You openly laugh at the cook's loud exclamation to his surprise and watch his face turn to shock and horror as König steps forward behind you.

"Herz, did you know that I have grown tits? Why did you not tell me?!" You shrug.

"I felt like that should be a discussion between you and your doctor, König. Or maybe between you and your workout routine." Your flat delivery has hysterical giggles bursting out among the cooks as they realize neither of you are going to kill them for their words.

Lunch is quick. Not as tasty as you usually manage to get, but edible enough. When a soldier appears to herd all of you back to your quarters, König is instantly annoyed. You silently cajole him into cooperating for now. It is only the first day, after all.

The promised beds are delivered to you before dark, though they aren't much bigger. Fortunately, your team has dealt with this issue before and they simply push the metal frames out into the hall to the surprise of the posted guard. He doesn't protest at all, understanding the frustration.

Snuggling that night is mandatory rather than optional. Your front is pressed against König with Horangi's back to yours. Between the two heaters, you don't need a blanket despite the cool Fall temps and the windows wide open to let in the breeze.

#call of duty #konig x reader #konig cod #cod smut #könig x reader

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quin-ns · 1 year

Text

Fake Blood (Ethan Landry x Reader)

Word count: 5.6K

Summary: spoiler: the blood isn’t fake. alone in your apartment after your friends had been attacked, you ask ethan to stop by. he does in an unexpected way and you get more than you bargained for

Tags: (18+), friends to lovers, minor violence, knife tw, flirting, making out, virgin!ethan, virgin!reader, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, the ghostface robe stays on during sex, denial ab ethan being a murderer :) (if bad why hot?)

A/N: just watched scream 6 for the first time only a few days ago and couldn’t get this psycho out of my brain (tiktok edits didn’t help lol). timeline might be a little wonky but tbh it’s not relevant. also this follows the theory that ethan did the big apartment attack. I really wasn’t expecting this to be this long but it’s worth it yall I promise

cross-posted to ao3 • scream masterlist • main masterlist

As much as you liked Mindy, if you knew becoming friends with her would lead to you being integrated into her friend group of past and present serial killer victims, you might’ve thought about asking someone else to partner up with you for a presentation in your film studies class.

When you’d asked her, it was mostly to avoid having to accept an offer from a guy named Jason, who had always stared at you during that class and brought up the ‘Stab’ movies whenever he could (this was before you knew your friends knew him, but you still got a weird vibe from the guy).

She’d been excited to hang out with you after you two gave your presentation, and that’s how you wound up spending most days with her and her tight knit group of friends.

You were probably closest with Mindy, but you liked her brother too. For a guy named Chad, he was actually pretty chill. You got along with Tara as well, who was in a bit of a rebellious phase after being attacked and nearly killed, which you only learned about once they trusted you enough. Her older sister Sam was mostly cool too, but a bit overprotective. There was a gloomy aspect to her, but you supposed it made sense given that she was betrayed by her murderous boyfriend and now the internet peddled theories that blamed her for a series of killings in their home town of Woodsboro.

They had a tight bond, and even though you grew close with each of them, you knew you’d be an outsider. Like Tara and Sam’s roommate Quinn, Mindy’s girlfriend Anika, and Chad’s roommate Ethan. You all had shared multiple conversations about their trust issues. It must’ve been hard to even start to trust people after all that.

Out of all of the other “newcomers” as Mindy once put it, you got along with Ethan the best. He was a little quiet and sorta dorky (which your friends would tease him about a little—all friendly, of course) but he was fun to talk to. You guys liked a lot of the same stuff, including horror movies, and it didn’t hurt that he was cute.

In your opinion, with his curly dark hair and eyes to compliment, the whole “shy guy” thing was part of the appeal.

You wondered if he’d ever make a move, or if he even knew you were curious about him in that way. You wouldn’t go so far to say it was a crush for your ego’s sake, but you wouldn’t send him running off with his tail between his legs like you did with most guys.

Like that guy Jason from film class, who, just before Halloween, was killed alongside his roommate by a masked killer.

“Didn’t he have a thing for you?” Mindy asked you as you were all gathered around the TV, finding out the news together.

You were sitting crammed in a chair next to Ethan since the others had all taken up the couch space. He didn’t seem to mind, but it did unfortunately make it easy for them all to look your way and stare. You didn’t like the attention.

You were in shock at the news, especially when the anchor revealed Jason had also killed your film professor. Ethan pointed that out, saying if the guy was crazy enough to do that he might’ve even gone after you.

“Maybe the killer who killed him did you a favor,” Quinn suggested in response to Ethan.

The thought terrified you. You looked around the group. “Do you guys think he really would’ve hurt me? He seemed weird, not psycho.”

“We talked not that long ago, nothing seemed off,” Tara revealed with a grim look. “He asked if you and Sam were gonna come to the party.”

You hadn’t planned on going—what the hell would’ve happened if you had?

You exchanged a look with Sam, who seemed to have the wheels in her head turning.

You zoned back into the news as the reporter explained the mask found was a ghostface mask—like from the Stab movies. And of course, the actual Woodsboro killings.

“Pack a bag,” Sam told her sister, springing up to move around the apartment building.

Sam and Tara argued, which was a little weird to witness. You tried to sink back into the chair, while Ethan looked at you like he wanted to say something.

Hopefully it wasn’t “get out of the chair” because you didn’t think you could move.

The night ended with you going back to your little apartment alone. Your roommate was out of town and so your anxiety was on high alert.

A lot had happened that night apparently, including Sam and Tara getting attacked in a convenience store and them being questioned by the cops.

As much as you cared about them, you feared what would happen if you were with them.

That’s why the next night when you were invited over, you had been hesitant. A government paper was the perfect excuse, but you had FaceTimed with them so you all could keep an eye on each other.

You sat at your little desk, your laptop opened to work on your paper, and your phone propped up on your cup so you could talk to them hands free.

Apparently everyone was together at the apartment except Ethan, who told you he was studying in the library when you texted to ask him. You responded that you were working on a paper and that if he wanted to come over to keep you company, he could.

You’d spent some time alone with him, but not a lot when you really thought about it. It was always in the group—who were all murder suspects, according to Mindy’s movie rules.

You knew you weren’t the killer, and you had absolutely no motive. The others were still suspicious of you so that hurt a little (maybe that was another reason why you were keeping to yourself), but you did your best to understand that they weren’t just suspicious of you.

Everyone was a suspect, and no one was safe.

You felt even less safe when Mindy said she’d call you back. You didn’t know why she had to hang up so urgently, but you had a feeling it had to do with the emotional conversation Tara and Sam had been having in the background. You couldn’t make out most of it clear so you avoided mentioning it.

You sighed and checked your chat with Ethan. He hasn’t responded to your text. You were getting nervous now that you weren’t video chatting with your other friends anymore and the thought of being home alone didn’t bring you much ease.

You thought about just going over to the Carpenter’s (and Quinn’s) apartment, not wanting to bother Ethan further. Maybe he was ignoring you on purpose.

However, it was a far walk there. You didn’t feel safe making it alone at night—especially with a killer on the loose, likely targeting your friends. If you had a car, maybe, but you were a broke college student who could barely afford a place to live.

You sucked it up and double texted Ethan, this time asking if he could come over and that you were worried.

When he didn’t respond right away, you gave it a few minutes.

A little while longer passed and since you now couldn’t focus on your paper, you tried to call Mindy back. Then Tara. Then Chad. Then Sam. Then Quinn. Then Anika.

Not a single one of them answered.

You took a deep breath. Then, you went to double check that your door was locked.

You tried to call Ethan, but his phone went immediately to voicemail. It must’ve been dead or powered off.

That left no one else to call, and you felt more alone than ever.

You sat down at your desk and tried to focus.

You ended up going to your bedroom, putting on sleep clothes, and watching a comfort show under all your blankets instead, paper completely forgotten.

Your phone dinged from your bedside table and when you looked at it, you saw a message from Ethan. Only a few hours late, but he said he was on his way up.

That was sudden. You tried to not overthink being alone with Ethan too much.

A few moments later, there was a knock at your front door.

You climbed out of bed, not really caring that you were wearing sleep shorts and a baggy shirt. Your friends had seen you go to class in about the same when you had all night study sessions.

When you got to the door, you got a little nervous. But you knew it had to be Ethan, so you tried to push the anxiety aside and unlocked then opened the door.

You were met with shock and horror.

Towering over you in your doorway stood a figure in a black robe… and a ghostface mask.

You tried to slam the door, but the person caught it. You choked on a scream when they shoved their way in, holding a knife. There was a small stain of red on the metal blade and a darker, bigger mass on the robe.

Blood. Blood was red.

You scrambled back and tried to think of where to go. None of the doors in your apartment locked, not even the bathroom door.

Your heart and mind raced and suddenly you were spewing words.

“I don’t know what to say to make you not kill me, but I please don’t,” you rushed out.

The person—the killer—moved closer to you after shutting and locking your front door.

You ran, but there was really nowhere to go. The killer ran too. You tried to lure them to the bathroom and shove them in, but they dodged and had you almost within their grasp.

They didn’t slash the knife, though.

You ran for the front door, but the killer grabbed you by the arm. You were shoved back against your hallway wall and pinned. Your back slammed against the wall, but not hard. They held the knife to your throat—not too close, but it was still there and still kept you frozen.

“Are you gonna kill me?”

The words came out before you could stop them. You internally scolded yourself. That’s the kinda shit the girls who got murdered asked.

There was a laugh, and then a familiar voice.

“I’d never do that.”

By the time the killer reached for the mask and pulled it off, you still hadn’t processed your shock.

“Ethan?” you gawked up at him while he gave you a cheeky smile. He let the mask drop and the hand holding the knife fell to his side.

“You should’ve seen your face,” he said through a smile, excited eyes scanning your face for realization.

“Is this… is this a fucking prank?” you questioned, finally comprehending. “Ethan, what the fuck!?” You shoved him back by his shoulder, admittedly a little pissed. “You’re covered in blood!”

He stayed standing in front of you.

“It’s fake, I promise. It was just a joke,” he reasoned, looking a little guilty. “Y’know, cause Halloween and… alright, maybe my timing isn’t great.”

You scoffed out a laugh at that. “It’s terrible timing. There really is someone after us.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Ethan apologized with a small, apologetic smile. You stared at him, still surprised. He looked so innocent for someone that could pull off, let alone come up with, such a messed up prank.

“Is this where you’ve been? Dressing up to mess with me while there really is a killer after us?” You questioned, raising your brows and crossing your arms.

“Y’know, if there really is a killer after us, we probably shouldn’t let each other die virgins,” Ethan stated in a flirtatious way he easily could’ve played off as a joke. Maybe it was entirely a joke, but you played along in a different direction.

You scoffed. “And you’re just assuming I’m a virgin?”

He shrugged, the long fabric of his costume rustling. “I see how you are with guys. They want you, you never want them.”

“So what, I’m a tease?” you guessed, used to hearing that but a little disappointed to think it would come from him.

“No,” he clarified quickly. “But they’re just never good enough for you and you know that. Like that jerk Jason.”

You cringed a little at the mention of him, and then felt bad about that. The guy had been murdered, after all.

“Don’t say that, he’s dead.”

“So what?” Ethan asked plainly, surprising you a little. “He was a killer too. He could’ve gone after you, you should be grateful to whoever did it.”

You furrowed your brows. He was starting to sound like someone else. “Grateful?”

“It’s okay, you’re allowed to be.” Ethan’s expression as he spoke was one of reassurance. “You could’ve been next, you never know. He was one of those guys who couldn’t take a hint that he was beneath you.”

You had no idea he thought that way about you—that there were men he deemed unworthy. It was enough to distract you from the shift in his demeanor.

“And what? You’re saying you’re one of the guys who’s good enough for me?” you couldn’t help but wonder. You never thought about your dating history (or lack of) like that.

“Hell no,” he said, surprising you yet again. You were expecting a ‘yes’ with the way he was coming onto you all of the sudden, but what he said carried even more of a self-depreciating brand of charm. “But I’m hoping maybe you’ll pity the loser who’s had a hopeless crush on you for a while now and give him a chance.”

“You’re not a loser,” you said before you registered the rest of his words. When you did, you were taken aback at the confession. “But you’re not usually this… bold, Ethan.”

You wanted to ask him if something was wrong, but there was a lot wrong these past few hours.

“What can I say? I’ve been feeling more confident recently.”

You hummed, understanding that in a way.

“Maybe it’s the whole ‘we could die any second’ thing,” you ventured a guess.

He smiled to himself, like you’d just referenced an inside joke you weren’t a part of.

“Could be,” he agreed. He laughed a little and looked down at himself, then met your eyes again. “Sorry about scaring you. It was in poor taste. We both like horror movies… I don’t know, it was stupid.”

You scoffed, but you weren’t really mad anymore.

“I like horror movies, I don’t want to be in one,” you told him, eyeing the knife he held loosely in his right hand. “Is the knife real?”

“What?” Ethan asked, feigning confusion. He lifted the knife and examined it. “This knife?”

“Yeah, that knife,” you parroted back his playful tone. “You said the blood is fake, but is the knife real?”

A devious look crossed Ethan’s face. He held it to your throat slowly, holding it horizontally. You didn’t flinch, much to his pleasure. He seemed almost impressed.

“Gotta be authentic, right?” he mused, eyes flicking to your parted lips as you breathed steadily. “Can I kiss you?”

When his curious eyes looked back at yours, you couldn’t help but notice he still held the knife. The rush of excitement you felt scared you more than the fear of him letting it slip forward.

“What’s the knife for?” you asked with a surge of confidence, taunting him a little. “If I say no?”

Ethan laughed at that. He pulled it back and let it drop to the floor. It clattered against the wood, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. But it wasn’t from fear—it was from anticipation. Maybe your curiosity was a little more than that after all.

“You’re safe with me,” he assured. “Promise.”

His words felt layered, but in a way you couldn’t define.

Perhaps it was his way of saying he’d protect you. Maybe it was strange, especially given his entrance, but you found yourself feeling exactly that with Ethan. Safe.

Nothing was going to hurt you, certainly not him.

“About that kiss…” you started, giving him the indication that he was looking for.

Ethan took the hint and ran with it, lips crashing into yours in the blink of an eye.

His lips were soft, but the kiss was needy and hungry. You tried to move your lips in sync with his, but he was much more dominant.

A joke that you’d never say flashed by about him practicing.

It was easy not to laugh when Ethan’s hand threaded into your hair and his tongue began to explore your mouth.

The leather glove felt strange. It made you pull back a little, which you almost couldn’t do with the way Ethan eagerly chased your swollen lips with his own.

You glanced over his costume again. It looked really legit—when did he have time to get it? Was he actually gonna wear this for Halloween? You swore you remembered him and Chad talking about some other costume he made out of cardboard for the frat party.

Before you could spiral down that path, Ethan pulled the leather gloves off quickly and cast them aside. It was like he could read your mind. Both hands went to your face, pulling you to meet him halfway in another searing kiss.

You didn’t know what was coming over you, but whatever it was was causing arousal to stir in your belly.

You figured out the answer to that pretty quickly.

It was want. You wanted Ethan.

“Is the other offer still on the table?” you uttered softly when you and Ethan had to part for air.

He grinned, unable to contain it.

“Thought there was no way in hell that would work,” Ethan admitted a little breathlessly. “Thought I never stood a chance with you, but I liked you anyway.”

Ethan had a boyish charm about him usually, but now that was combined with a streak of deviance that you finally now noticed.

You weren’t expecting to be as intrigued by it as you were.

“Give yourself a little more credit,” you told Ethan, raising your hand to cup his cheek. He leaned into your touch a little. One hand rested on your shoulder and the other fell to hold your hip, tucking under your baggy shirt and rubbing your skin beneath. “You are pretty cute.”

Ethan’s smile only grew, but when you leaned in to kiss him again his lips met yours.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and guided the two of you to the ground with your back leaning against the wall. He was in front of you, on his knees, with you in his lap.

You ran a hand through his curly hair and you guided his lips back to yours. From what he’d revealed, Ethan hadn’t had a lot of experience with girls. It was a damn shame, because the boy was a great kisser.

His hand caressed your thigh as he trailed upward. You gave him a soft sound of encouragement when his fingers found their way to the waistband of your shorts.

“Is this okay?” Ethan asked, which made you want to grab him and kiss him again.

“Yeah.”

His hand slid into your shorts and your underwear.

One finger—you guessed middle—pushed inside of you. A small gasp escaped you at the intrusion and he watched your face.

Ethan was making sure the sound wasn’t of pain, which it wasn’t, and you appreciated that.

He withdrew the digit, then pushed in again. He repeated the motion a few more times before adding his index finger.

Ethan’s breathing grew heavy as he felt you squeeze around his fingers. He thrust and curled them inside you with rhythm. He managed to find one pretty quickly. That plus his thumb rubbing at your clit, you were falling apart in mere minutes.

Your brief orgasm rocked your whole body, leaving you clenching his fingers and quivering.

Ethan muttered things to you, but you could hardly hear over the sound of your own heart pounding in your ears.

Your head rested back against the wall as you caught your breath, still trembling from the aftershocks. Ethan withdrew his hand from between your legs and out of your shorts.

Your eyelids felt heavy, but in between slow blinks you saw him lift his fingers to his lips. You watched breathlessly as he placed them into his mouth and moaned at the taste of you.

No words would come out of your mouth, but he took rendering you speechless as a compliment.

“I’ve thought about that,” Ethan started, voice a little ragged. He was watching you, but his hand had moved off to the side. “What you’d look like… what you’d sound like… what you’d taste like.” The awe in his eyes as he spoke left you swooning.

“And?” you managed, sitting up a little straighter.

With the change in your angle, you could feel the bulge in his pants, even though the added layer of the costume he had yet to remove.

“You’re better than I ever imagined,” Ethan finished.

A scrape against the floor alarmed you. You looked to the sound and saw Ethan grabbing the knife off of the floor.

You watched as he brought it between your bodies. He first tucked it through the leg of your shorts, the cold metal sliding against your skin as it caught under your underwear as well. Then, he pointed the sharp side facing out. Finally, he sliced up through the fabric. You gasped a little as the cold air of the room hit your newly exposed skin. He did the same with the other leg, then pulled the tattered material away from your body.

You did the honors of pulling off your shirt. You didn’t have a bra underneath and you almost laughed at the way Ethan gawked at your fully naked body when you cast it aside.

“Your turn,” you told him. You were completely undressed, while he still wore the long, black disguise.

“Actually,” Ethan said a little eerily. There was something in his eyes you couldn’t quite pinpoint. “I was thinking I could leave it on?”

It was a question, there was room for you to say no. Maybe you should’ve, it was a little weird. But you weren’t really thinking about that. You were more focused on how badly you wanted Ethan to fuck you, and that clouded your brain.

“As long as you don’t put the mask back on,” you relented in a joking tone.

“You’re so fucking cool,” Ethan rushed out before slamming his lips into yours. The knife was cast aside again—you didn’t see it happen, but both of his hands were on your face.

You laughed a little against his lips, dazed and drunk on arousal. You didn’t really care about the logistics of it.

His hands moved down, but you were distracted by his lips dominating yours.

You heard the sound of his zipper being undone and he moved a little—you guessed shoving his pants down his thighs.

There was no time to look down because in a rush, Ethan was pinning you back against the wall with his body. One hand gripped your waist, holding you in place for him. The other was presumably guiding his cock to your entrance.

You gasped a little against his lips when he started to press forward while simultaneously pulling you down into his lap. The fabric of the costume draped over your thighs, blocking your view.

The stretch of his cock pushing into you was more intense than you could’ve predicted, but your whole body trembled with pleasure at the feel.

Finally, he either got too excited or lost his patience, and guided you down the rest of the way until he was fully sheathed inside of you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Ethan cursed to himself, body straining to keep from moving. His head dropped to your shoulder, heavy breaths hitting your neck. He leaned against you, forcing you against the wall.

His cock twitched inside of you and his body tensed, trying to hold back.

You panted slightly, trying to get your breath back. You ran a hand up his back and you felt him shiver. Your hand moved up the back of his neck and into his mess of curls.

You always liked Ethan’s hair.

You gave a small, barely qualifiable tug, but it had an effect. His body jerked, causing him to move inside of you. You gasped a little, but the motion felt good.

He lifted his head to look at you. His face was a little flushed and the lust blown look in his eyes made you quiver.

“You can move,” you whispered out, not trusting your voice.

Ethan didn’t need to be told twice. He secured the arm around your waist a little tighter and he put the other hand on the wall, giving himself leverage.

The slow drag of him moving out of you made you gasp for breath. The thrust back in knocked the air out of your lungs.

He set a quick pace after that, hips slamming eagerly into yours as the pleasure and excitement overwhelmed him.

It felt good, really fucking good.

Neither of you knew exactly what you were doing, but you were sure you’d figured it out because your whole body tingled with pleasure.

You cried out his name, which only spurred him on.

In a jarring movement you could hardly track, Ethan dragged you from the wall to the floor. He put himself on top of you, never once withdrawing from inside of you.

He watched your face as he pounded into you. Ethan had more leverage this way, able to grip your hip in one hand while the other held the top half of him off of you by being planted on the floor near your head.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, which you couldn’t see because the bottom half of your body was covered by the black costume. You hardly paid any attention to that aspect. You didn’t care that he wore it, not when you were this caught up in pleasure.

(In hindsight, you should’ve).

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” Ethan breathed out, hips starting the stutter with every thrust.

The knot in your belly started to tighten as he buried himself into you over and over.

You couldn’t speak, your breathing was so labored as you reached to cling to him.

His head dropped down to your shoulder as he allowed more of his body weight to fall onto you. You found yourself enjoying the feel of him truly being on top of you.

You hardly noticed the fake blood smearing onto your bare skin. When you did, you were too gone to care.

You bucked your hips, meeting his stuttering thrusts. He was getting close to his edge and so were you. You moaned beneath him as his forceful thrusts sparked pleasure through your entire body.

“I’m close,” you managed to moan out against his ear.

“Oh, fuck,” Ethan groaned out, cock pulsing inside of you at the thought. He lifted his head enough to be able to watch your face. “Come again for me, please,” he panted out, nearly falling over the edge at the mere anticipation.

The begging was hot, and your body was already ready to give him what he wanted.

You noticed his eyes flicking down your body, seeing the red stains on your skin. That was quickly forgotten by you when your whole body began to tense and quiver. You held onto him tight as waves of ecstasy crashed over you.

You didn’t see his eyes linger.

Ethan couldn’t hold it together, not with the way your body tightened around him as your orgasm rocked you.

He collapsed on top of you, holding you against him as his forehead pressed to yours. His eyes were clenched shut as he frantically shoved his hips against yours, burying himself deep. His cock twitched, his whole body shivering as he spilled himself inside of you with a moan.

The sound of him alone was enough to prolong your pleasure as you rode it out, but the extra movement and the feeling of him filling you was an added bonus.

He kissed you hard on the lips, effectively pulling the air from your lungs.

After a moment, he found the strength to roll off of you, only to then drag you to his side.

“I can die a happy man, now,” he joked morbidly.

You shoved him a little by the shoulder like you had before, but not enough to actually make him go anywhere.

“Don’t say shit like that,” you argued weakly.

He flashed you a brief grin. “I meant it as a compliment.”

You rolled your eyes and did you best to laugh it off.

You lost track of how long it took you to move from the floor to your couch. The same thing happened between the time it took for you to get from the couch to your shower.

It was a tiny shower that couldn’t fit two people, so you rinsed off as quick as you could. You were tired, and your legs felt weak, and you knew you’d be sore in a way that would make it hard to keep calm tomorrow.

Whatever he had used for the blood, at least it washed off fast. You were able to finish up in a matter of minutes.

You threw on new pajamas and crawled into your bed, managing to tell Ethan to take however long he wanted and that he could stay over if he wanted.

You found yourself hoping he would.

You were nearly asleep when the shower shut off and Ethan finally joined you in bed. He was only in his boxers and a black t-shirt, which he must’ve been wearing under the costume robe.

A thought nagged at the back of your mind about the costume, wondering why he’d gone through all of that just to mess with you for a minute—albeit a terrifying minute. It didn’t seem like him, but then you remembered you’d only met him a few months ago.

You were so exhausted you fell asleep in his arms, not awake enough to care about all of the weird details. In fact, the only thing you could think about was how much you liked falling asleep with Ethan’s arms around you.

In the morning, you found out your friends had all been attacked.

You showed up with Ethan after the feed on your college’s chat app blew up with images of cops swarming and ambulances outside of Sam, Tara, and Quinn’s apartment.

Mindy seemed relieved to see you, but not so much when she realized Ethan was with you. Maybe she’d cleared you as a suspect in her head.

She yelled at him to stay back, accusing him of being the killer. Nobody was taking Quinn’s death well, but Mindy was especially heartbroken over Anika.

“Stay back!” Mindy yelled at Ethan, who did as she commanded.

Everyone turned on him then, even Chad. Everyone except you. They demanded his alibi.

“How do I know you’re not the killer, roomie,” Chad spit at him, amped up.

“I was with Y/N last night,” Ethan defended, holding his hands up in a small show of innocence, before you could say a word. “We were… preoccupied, alright?”

You wanted to elbow him for how he worded it, he couldn’t have been more obvious if he tried. It might’ve been on purpose, you weren’t sure.

He wasn’t close enough to do that, though, and now all eyes were on you.

“Yeah, he was with me,” you backed Ethan up.

You weren’t going to leave him hanging because it was the truth, but you knew what that implied, and so did your friends. They all shared subtle—but not unnoticeable—looks. Your face felt warm, while Ethan bit back a prideful smile.

“So you guys, um…”

“Chad, stop,” Tara scolded him before he could point out the obvious.

“Point is, we had nothing to do with this,” Ethan stated.

We?

They were suspicious of him, and now he was lumping the two of you together. There were always two killers in the movies—you began to doubt if the alibi would ease their anxiety or only spike it.

You thought back to when he had showed up to your apartment in that costume. He’d scared you, but you accepted it when he told you it was a joke that he mistakenly took too far.

It made you wonder. What if it was him?

If he wanted to hurt you, he easily could’ve. That didn’t seem to be his intention. What was? Seeing how much he could scare you? Get your heart rate up? Seeing if you wouldn’t believe him?

Or was it seeing if he could put the evidence right in front of you and have you ignore it because of a crush?

Fuck. Maybe it was some weird combination of all. Were you that gullible? Or were you overthinking it now?

Your brain struggled to come up with a conclusion.

You wanted to believe Ethan was innocent. You really, really did.

It was easier than believing you had slept with a killer. Or potentially worse, that you had feelings for one.

Ethan gave you a slight, assuring smile.

Your head told you one thing, but your heart told you another.

Maybe you shouldn’t have, but you kept your mouth shut and gave him one back.

#quin-ns writing #ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry x you #scream #scream 6 #ethan landry smut

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