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everlastingdreams · 2 years

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Weeping Monk x Reader : The Forbidden Apple Chapter 19

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Story Summary: Father Carden begins to notice how his Weeping Monk starts to question all he was raised to believe in. In an effort to distract him, he has his Red Brothers bring him a 'gift.' The Monk is skeptical when he hears of this, Father never just gave him gifts. But when the Monk enters his tent in the evening he understood what Father had meant by 'gift'. You, a fey girl, were the gift.

Chapter Title: Absit Invidia

Notes: Going through some of those ‘feeling like shit about my writing days’, sorry if I’m slow.

Warnings: There's a list of warnings for this story: Stockholm syndrome (?), lima syndrom (?). Rape threats, sexual assault, murder and violence. Angst. Sexism. Strong Language. Trauma. Childhood trauma. Survivor's guilt. Mentions of child maltreatment. Mention of menstruation.

Other warnings: ! Smut ! Jealousy. Enemies to lovers (?). Romance. Pining. Thigh grinding.

Word count of this fic: +140K

Chapter: 19 / 27

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When the sun went down, both you and Pym had headed to the spot in the forest that Red Spear had chosen.

Red Spear had made sure that some of her crew remained sober and vigilant to keep an eye out for trouble.

A bonfire lighted the open space in the forest, some sat around it to talk or just enjoy the warmth. Others were dancing, some even play (?) fighting.

The raiders sure looked like they were enjoying themselves and you weren’t going to be shocked if at least ten of them would need a healer the next morning for injuries they might obtain during this.

Although you feared Pym wouldn’t be up to the task if she kept taking so many sips from her tankard of ale in short periods of time.

At some moments it looked like a fight had broken out, all for it to settle into laughter not a minute later.

Needless to say, this feast was as bizarre as the injuries the raiders often obtained.

You weren’t used to things like this, celebrating with people, especially not a large group.

All your life you had kept yourself on the sideline, fearing that you would disappoint others once they got to know you.

That fear had returned in full force the day you ran into your parents again, your past seemingly following you.

And unlike Pym, you kept yourself away from the more crowded spots.

Lancelot had kept his word and brought Percival along, often tugging at the boy’s vest to keep him from running off just yet.

You went up to them right away “You’re here ! Great ! Do you want some ale ? I could get you a tankard.”

Percival answered before Lancelot could “Yes !” the Ash Man gave him a nudge “Yes, please.” it earned him a second nudge.

Interesting how the otherwise blunt boy could be polite if it was to get what he wanted.

He bit back a smile “No, thank you.” then told the boy “Do not drink ale, Percival. You are too young.”

Percival tried to discuss it “Just a sip ?”

The stern look of the Ash Man gave him the answer he wanted.

An irritated “Fine.” came from the boy.

The scent of ale hanged around the place, something he was not used to smell so much.

Some reeked of ale so strongly he feared he would become ‘intoxicated’ just by the scent of it.

He could not pick up an ale scent on you however.

You decided to warn him “If you see people fighting, don’t worry. I guess it is the raider’s way of dancing or something.”

A chuckle left him, the raiders were loyal and brave fighters but they were…strange “I will not interfere as long as I see no blood. I thought you would be closer to the crowd ?”

Shrugging your shoulders, you admitted “I don’t feel very comfortable in crowds yet…”

Neither did he “I believe you have helped some of these raiders, you are no stranger to them. I am sure they will wish to strike a conversation with someone who has helped them.”

It sounded like he was encouraging you to socialize with the crowd more “Are you going to spend some time talking to others ?”

Well, he was not a very social person either, at least not to strangers or people he barely knew “I should keep my sight on Percival.”

You tilted your head slightly “Lancelot… where is the boy ?”

The slight confusion turned into a startled one when he looked next to him and saw that the child had vanished from his sight.

You knew but all too well where the child had wandered off to in the time he had spend talking to you and it was a beautiful thing to see how he scanned the place rapidly like a worried parent.

You ended his beginning panic “He went with Gawain.”

His attention snapped to you, seeing that coy cheeky smile on your face “Why am I surrounded by people who are determined to make me lose my sanity ?”

With an obviously feigned pout, you decided to mess with him “Aw, it must be really hard for you.”

The look on his face now…

For a second he wasn’t sure how to react, then his eyes narrowed.

With one step he was right in front of you, standing so close that it would have intimidated any other person.

The more time spend between you, the more confident he could see you grow. Where you had perhaps once been afraid of him, you now dared to make light of him.

It should not have caused the reaction in him that it did “Does my concern for the boy amuse you ?”

Shaking your head, you corrected “Not amuse, but I find it very sweet. It is quite attractive to see someone protect children.”

He was fidgeting terribly with the hilt of the sword resting at his side “Attractive ?”

Once he had told you of the desire he felt for you, but you had not done the same.

He was left to figure this out for himself and feared to feed false hope.

Even though you feared to admit it, you did not take it back that you found him attractive “The best swordsman of the lands who fears only one thing, that something might happen to the child he is caring for. Of course that draws positive attention from others.”

His heart swelled at the compliment “I fear one other thing.”

It was a guess “Damnation ?”

You still stood so close to him, eyes locked on his with a smile that could melt the coldest winter snow, taking another guess “Pym ?”

A smirk played on his lips “I also fear that something might happen to you.”

There were no paladins here, no immediate threats “You don’t have to worry about me.”

Regardless, he had sworn to himself to protect you from harm “I will never forget how I felt when I thought you had been killed. As long as I live, I will look after you, this I promise. I never want to experience such a thing again.”

Now you were the one fidgeting with your sleeves “I…”

Gods, you didn’t really know what to say. Not many people were brave enough to admit such a thing to another.

Unable to express yourself into words, you chose action, him standing so close made it all the more easier to plant a kiss on his cheek.

Your gaze dropped to the grass at your feet right away afterwards.

He could feel the stares of people around who had seen it happen and realized he could not care less if someone disapproved of this.

You spotted Pym again in the crowd and wanted to go to her.

Quietly you spoke and meant it “Enjoy your evening, Ash Man.”

He gave a polite inclination of the head and watched as you went over to Pym.

The night went on, the atmosphere that hanged between the people was pleasant.

At some point a raider had managed to convince you to dance with him, you were apprehensive but some other raiders cheered you on and well… it was nice to feel a part of the cheery group.

The raider’s hands moved so quick and fluently over you, it was hard to believe he even touched you at all.

He had you twirling around effortlessly, it was much more fun then you had ever thought it would be, the raiders sure knew how to entertain themselves.

After another twirl, your back collided with his chest and a laugh fell from both.

You giggled an apology “Sorry.”

Again he turned you around, the scar near his mouth moved with his broad smile “Don’t worry, lass.”

For the first time in your life, you danced with someone and it was fun.

Something both the Ash Man and the Manblood seemed to notice.

The Manblood nodded in your direction, watching the dancing crowd alongside Lancelot “She looks like she is enjoying herself tonight.”

Was it his imagination or did Arthur sound displeased about that fact ?

He sounded the same, now aware of the possibility that Arthur could indeed be more interested in you than previously thought to be “She does.”

Arthur cleared his throat, trying to sound casual about it “Red Spear’s raiders have a very different way of dancing than I was taught about.”

The Ash Man rolled his tense jaw, grinding his teeth at the sight of the raider putting his hands all over you “They do.”

With crossed arms, Arthur observed the scene “I think he just touched her-”

He did not need to be told, he had seen the raider act imprudent.

As the dancing continued, the raider became braver. Those light brushes of his hands had landed on places that made your face start to burn.

This time you really felt him put a hand on your hip, it was the light grip that made you consider ending the dance but he did not seem pushy. The raider was getting carried away a little, some ale causing it.

You took his hand off your hip and turned to face him, it halted his movements, proving that he had no ill-intent.

It wasn’t your intention to scold him for it, you just wanted to tell him you preferred to dance differently.

You did not get that chance…

One shove from an overprotective Ash Man against the raider’s chest was enough to send him stumbling backwards.

Lancelot spat out at him “Have you no manners ?!”

The people around you turned to view the impending altercation.

The raider looked so lost for words, and absolutely terrified to be faced with the wrath of the former Weeping Monk “I…”

You ended this before it could escalate “Enough !” stepping between them to apologize to the raider “Everything is alright. Uhm… thank you for dancing with me.”

The raider could barely find his voice “My pleasure.”

With a shallow sideways nod, he gave the raider the chance to leave.

With a somber expression, you watched the raider hastily walk away.

As you were looking away, an empty tankard was thrown at Lancelot by a comrade of the chased away raider.

The Ash Man did not even flinch, he was used to these kind of things.

Without thinking you picked the tankard up and tossed it back at the raider who had been so rude and watched them duck for cover “You stupid lout !”

When your attention returned to the Ash Man and caught how his intense gaze traveled from your face down to your feet, for a moment it distracted from what was happening around you.

Had he ever looked at you like this before ?

The raider who had danced with you gave his comrade a shove and a scolding, telling him to mind his own business.

You turned to the overprotective oaf who could not control his temper “I did not need saving, Lancelot.”

That scolding tone of voice made his anger turn quite quickly “He was touching you improperly.”

A smirk curled at your lips while reminding him “You’re one to talk.”

He could not find a proper excuse.

With a clearly feigned innocent look “If you wanted to dance with me, you could have just asked.”

His mouth opened but closed again, words died in his throat.

A tilt of your head to the dancing crowd, left him even more nervous about the whole situation.

His own tilted down, eyes landing on the grass beneath his feet.

It was irresistible to mess with him a bit “I might have said ‘yes’. "

Those blue orbs lifted to yours with a slight frown.

Might ?

With that you walked away, leaving him to simmer on it.

ooOooOooooOooO

About an hour or two later, you had taken place around the fire along with Pym and some raiders. One of the raiders was speaking of her favorite battle, claiming that she had killed two enemies with one arrow across a large field.

During her story you could feel the Ash Man’s eyes on you from across the fire. The intensity of them burned brighter than the flames in front of you. When you dared to raise your eyes to search his, you did not even hear the person next to you speak anymore.

You held his gaze for a moment, then let your own fall to the grass.

The sound of someone else taking a seat next to you, made you look.

Arthur had taken a seat, making himself comfortable “Having fun ?”

You nodded and proceeded to talk with him.

These past few weeks, Gawain had managed to keep the Ash Man and the Manblood working together, but also out of each other’s hairs when needed.

It all risked to come crumbling down when Lancelot saw Arthur and you sit next to each other amicably at the bonfire.

No matter how much Gawain tried to distract him from it, he could not ignore it.

First the Manblood had caused him so many headaches and now this.

Arthur was not one to listen easily, could be ill-mannered and had quite an ego. He detested him. But he also respected Arthur’s bravery and skill in battle. Arthur was the opposite in character compared to him.

Where he was quiet, the Manblood was loud.

Where he was raised to listen to orders, the Manblood flat out ignored them.

Where he could be insecure, the Manblood was overly confident.

Especially when it came to conversing with others.

And Arthur seemingly had his sights fixed on the one thing he wanted the Manblood to stay away from.

His focus switched between Percival and you often, luckily the boy had fallen asleep against the tree close to him, the loud snoring made it unnecessary to keep his eyes in him constantly.

Gawain saw both Lancelot and the Red Spear look in the direction where you and Arthur were sitting. Gods, he’d never seen two people look so green with jealousy before.

Arthur was speaking of his father and Nimue again, you had offered him a listening ear ever since you arrived in Gramaire.

Arthur placed his hand on top of the one you had on your knee “I am glad to have someone to listen to me. Someone who doesn’t judge me for all the stupid mistakes I have made.”

He was genuinely grateful, under that scoundrel behavior was a man with a good heart, always willing to learn.

You hated to hear how he clearly blamed himself for these mistakes “Everyone makes mistakes, Arthur. The important part is that we learn from them.”

He squeezed your hand, offering you one of his charming smiles “I hope you liked the flower ? I thought you could use something to make you smile after that ordeal with your mother.”

He had sounded so insecure about it “I loved the peony. I have it in my room, it smells really good. Thank you again, for the flower and for trying to stand up for me.”

He looked happy to hear it and gave your hand a soft squeeze “You’re very welcome.”

Arthur then proceeded to try and figure out what your favorite flower was.

Gawain was placing his bets on the Red Spear being the first to react, and lost when the otherwise reserved Ash Man rose to his feet and marched over to Arthur.

Your attention snapped to Lancelot right away when you saw him quickly approach.

It was what made Arthur look up, he had not noticed the icy glare in the Ash Man’s eyes and greeted calmly but a bit coolly as always “Lancelot. Need anything ?”

Lancelot greeted him in the same tone, still walking “Manblood.”

Without stopping he effortlessly grabbed Arthur by his jerkin and practically dragged him along.

You watched poor Arthur barely keep his footing, saw how Lancelot said something to him and then let go off him.

It could not have been longer than three seconds that the men made eye contact, but it felt much longer. Lancelot walked off into the forest, Arthur sighed and followed him.

You were about to follow them when Gawain stopped you from doing so.

He patted you on the shoulder with a sigh “Stay here, y/n. Don’t give up your spot by the fire for those fools. I shall make sure they do not kill each other.”

The others around the bonfire thought nothing of it, they were used to the arguments between the two by now.

“What the bloody hell is going on ?” You demanded to know.

Gawain brought up a similar excuse he had used the last time the Ash Man had failed to contain his jealousy “Arthur wants to travel to the mill by the fastest route. Lancelot prefers the slower one, fears there are paladin scouts.”

You were not given a chance to tell him that you did not believe this excuse as he went to find them.

oOOoOOOOooOoOoOOo

~“Follow me.”~

It was all he had said to the Manblood, tone more venomous than a snake’s bite.

The Ash Man was simmering as he strode through the forest aimlessly “What are your intentions with her ?”

Arthur chuckled, not understanding just yet that Lancelot was serious “I beg your pardon ?”

He hated that he had to repeat himself “With y/n. What are your intentions ?”

Now the Manblood could feel the tense atmosphere rising between them and began to diffuse the situation “Lancelot, she’s a friend.”

It was not answering his question, at least not well enough to put his mind at ease “Do you give all your ‘friends’ flowers ?”

Arthur did not want to argue “This is madness, Lancelot. It don’t want to fight with you over this, it’s not worth dying over.”

They disagreed on that, as the Ash Man sharply responded “She is to me.”

The Manblood stared back at him, starting to understand just how deeply the Ash Man cared for you.

Arthur was not the type to dance around an issue “What is this really about ?”

He was not about to explain the true reason and refused to answer.

Arthur sighed, reasoning with him “Y/n ran into her parents. As you might know, they aren’t very nice people. I wanted to cheer her up. Therefore I gave her a flower.”

Dammit…

How had he missed this ? Was he so blinded by jealousy that he had not noticed that you were indeed upset and not just under stress or tired ?

His jaw relaxed, no longer able to look Arthur in the eyes after that “I did not know she had. I…”

Arthur walked over to him “You want to protect her.” stopping only a few steps away “So do I. She has been there for me after I lost Nimue, I owe her for that. Can we agree that we both just want the best for her ?”

He still felt left in the dark regarding Arthur’s intentions with you.

When the Manblood held out his hand for him, Lancelot quirked a brow and denied the offer, tone amused “I am not going to shake your hand.”

Arthur drew his hand back, mouthing a ‘oh, well’.

Still… he felt a pang of guilt over the way he had acted.

It was not simple for Lancelot to admit that he might have been wrong about the Manblood “Arthur, I know we have not been quite…” no, it was not the time to be vague “It is necessary that I apologize for the pain and problems I have caused. I am sorry you lost your love. I hope we can start anew ?”

Arthur said nothing, then he offered his hand out to him again.

This time he did shake Arthur’s hand, albeit a little awkwardly.

Gawain had found and interrupted them before he could speak again “What the bloody hell are you two doing ?” he looked at Lancelot to explain himself right away.

The Manblood however decided to protect him from a scolding “He thought he saw a bear. We went to investigate.”

The Green Knight crossed his arms over his chest, ready to hear whatever excuse these two fools were going to use “A bear ?”

Lancelot looked at Arthur for a blink second, then parroted “A bear.”

Gawain was not impressed, sounding bored “There are no bears in this area.”

Arthur deadpanned “Clearly not.”

The Green Knight stared at the both of them sternly “Head back to the camp, the both of you. We shouldn’t be running off like this. We have to stay together. There are no bears, but wolves are active around these hours.”

Their excuse had been pathetic, still it was an improvement that they were able to come together to fabricate a story to hide the true reason of their latest arguing.

It was progress.

oOooOOooOooOooOoo

Considering that Arthur, Lancelot and Gawain had headed off in the forest, you considered it wise to see where Percival was.

After bumping into at least five people to get through the crowd, you found him sleeping on the ground against a tree.

It was late and the boy had fought against his tiredness until he had fallen asleep.

Kneeling down, you gently shook his shoulder “Percival ?”

The boy mumbled something whilst turning to sleep on his other side.

Ruffling his hair, you tried to wake him again “You can’t sleep here all night, let me take you back to your room.”

This time he grumbled and got off of the ground, you held him close at your side, maneuvering the sleepy child through the crowd and back towards the safety of the village’s walls. It took a while to reach the castle and the boy looked like he was sleepwalking. After steering him towards his room, he just plopped down on his bed, too tired to get rid of his jacket. You helped him out of his jacket anyway, it would get uncomfortable to wear while sleeping.

You tucked the boy in, ignoring how even he smelled and looked like he had touched ale.

After a yawn he asked “Can you draw other things, I mean, other than maps ?”

You fluffed up the pillow before placing it behind his head again “It depends, why do you ask ?”

The boy gave the most adorable pleading eyes he could manage “Could you draw a fox for me ?”

It had been a few days since you had drawn something else than maps and you were interested in granting him the request “Why a fox ?”

Percival loved foxes for one reason in particular “Because they can run really fast.”

You clasped your hands together, ready for the new challenge “I’ll do my best and start on it tomorrow.”

When you rose to your feet and placed a kiss on his hair to wish him a good night, the smell of ale on him was undeniable “Who gave you ale ?”

He replied completely truthful “No one did.”

You saw right through him “Because you stole it from somebody.”

Heaven, that boy’s eyes betrayed his mischief all the time “Please, don’t tell Lancelot.”

You struck a deal “I won’t if you don’t do it again.”

The Ash Man had come right on time to hear it “Do what ?”

Speak of the devil…

He was leaning against the doorway, watching the two of you from the shadows

Smelling the ale on the boy from even this distance…

He could not turn his back on the child for a single moment.

Lancelot looked at the both of you expectantly but you kept your mouth shut.

He walked in the room, standing beside you and flicking two of his fingers against Percival’s nose in an upward motion “Rascal.”

The boy grinned up at the Ash Man, glad that he didn’t get a scolding.

Absentmindedly he moved the sheet a little higher on the boy “You will learn your lesson in the morning when your head will hurt from the ale.”

That cheeky grin of the boy started to falter “What ?”

He did not acknowledge the boy’s confused reaction “Good night, Percival.”

Experience was often the best teacher.

While brushing a hand through Percival’s untameable locks, you planted another kiss on him, this time to his forehead “Sweet dreams. I will come and see you tomorrow to see if you will have a headache or not, I’ll help you.”

Percival sank back in his pillow to try and avoid the second kiss from you, quietly mumbling “Good night”.

You blew out the candle next to his bed and headed out the door along with Lancelot.

When you closed the door very quietly, Lancelot send you an amused look “I don’t think hearing a door slam shut will help him fall asleep faster.”

He proceeded to lean against the wall, keeping his voice down “He has been hounding me to ask you for a drawing.”

It was flattering to hear how people liked your drawings “Why didn’t you say ?”

After all the work you did and the burdens your carried, he was amazed that you would still make time to make another person happy “You have work enough as it is.”

It was considerate of him, but you would never refuse to make a child happy “I promised him one. I’ll start on it tomorrow when we are back from the mill.”

Like him, you often overworked yourself if no one was there to stop you from doing so “Take your time. It could be late tomorrow and you need your rest.”

You nodded, already determined to make the drawing even if it meant getting no sleep.

His tone dropped to a a near whispering one, knowing that what he asked could upset you “It was brought to my attention that your parents are in Gramaire. Was that why you were upset today ?”

Right away you crossed your arms over your chest, as if to shield yourself from the memory “My father just ignores me. Mother… she keeps saying these horrible things…” taking a breath “She even insulted Percival once. I couldn’t believe she would do it to another child.”

The fury he felt upon hearing it was indescribable. Even now these monsters did not stop their abuse.

His jaw locked so tightly it nearly hurt “Did they hurt you ?”

You kept your eyes on the floor when shaking your head.

He could still see the tremble of your lip and lifted your chin up with his finger, eyes falling on the tears that were brimming in yours.

You moved your head to the side, the humiliation from almost being slapped by your own mother in front of so many others was awful.

Your voice broke when admitting “She tried to hit me. I stopped her and my father was angry that I held her wrist to do so. I wasn’t even hurting her.”

He would not have been so kind considering the circumstances.

With a motion of your hand, you tried to make light of the situation. Telling him ‘there you have it’ without words.

You were hugging yourself, now that your parents were in Gramaire too, you risked running into them constantly which gave a lot of stress.

It all came out off you, the pain and anger it had brought you, through tears you told him “To her I am soiled by the enemies of our people. The worst part is that even though I know this isn’t true, I can’t help but feel filthy. Like the people believe that I was only kept alive because…because I…”

He let you spill it all out, hoping that getting it off your chest would help.

After taking a deep shaking breath you concluded “Because I must have ‘entertained’ the enemy well. "

A bitter chuckle fell from you, it was so unfair.

A silence dropped between you.

A needed one, a moment of time to calm himself down before he could help you do the same. He could not let his rage win, not when you needed him there with you and not outside searching for those responsible like he wanted to do.

Without invading the walls you were building around yourself, he let his hand hover near your waist “We know the truth. I will not let such lies be spread about you. If I hear of it, I will correct them. I swear it.” he offered a solution to the nightmare that hounded you “I shall see to it that they will leave this city. You have but to ask.”

It was getting hard to speak, surely your voice was giving your sorrow away “That’s not what I want.”

Even though they were horrible, getting them send away from Gramaire could result in them being burned alive, a fate you wished on nobody.

Perhaps there was another way you wanted him to handle the situation, one more sinister, one he was still willing to do if it made you happy again “What do you want ? Speak your wish and I swear I will grant it.”

The smile you tried to give was twisting into a pained one, voice quiet and fragile “Hold me ?”

Not what he expected.

His head tilted to the side a little, processing the request.

You saw it as rejection and dropped your gaze to the ground.

When you did not lift your eyes to his, he took the risk and moved you to him by your waist, not a second later he had you in an embrace.

Like a chain being removed, your locked up emotions broke free. When you started to cry, his fingers slid up in the back of your hair and gently scratched at your scalp.

The sound of someone approaching made him halt.

To your dismay you felt him let go, weakly you pleaded for him not to “Please, don’t…”

He could not believe he ever considered letting go an option when you clearly needed him in that moment.

As if to apologize, he held you tighter, fingers still moving over your scalp.

The sound of footsteps faded away, leaving only the sound of your quiet sniffling.

And soon even that faded, his other hand brushed over your cheek once when he whispered against your temple “We are not responsible for how others choose to see us. You are not soiled and even if you had been, your heart is so much purer than those who find pleasure in the pain of others. Nothing excuses this horrible treatment.”

No one deserved to be shunned for this.

The paladins would visit brothels and then proceed to shun those they visited and walk away unscathed themselves. It was unfair how the women were always the first to receive blame and shame.

After you had calmed down a bit, you felt a bit embarrassed “I’m sorry…”

Again he stroked your cheek “There is no need for an apology. I could go and have a word with your mother tomorrow ?”

Almost emotionless you shrugged your shoulders, pretending that the situation did not affect you as much as it did “Arthur and Gawain have spoken to her. She’ll give up if I ignore her long enough. Then she can go back to ignoring me, like she always did when I was little.”

He doubted it would be so simple.

That reminded you “Speaking of Arthur. What happened back there in the forest, Lancelot ?”

He was unprepared for that question.

He had hoped it would not be brought up “I needed to talk to Arthur in private. We had a disagreement of how we should handle the situation with the mill "

You could tell he wasn’t being completely honest, he never looked you in the eyes when he lied.

It was upsetting and you didn’t want to stay near him because of it “I don’t like it when I’m being lied to.”

When you removed yourself from his arms and stepped away, he quickly said “I apologized to Arthur.”

That couldn’t have been easy “You did ?”

He gave a nod while fumbling with the hilt of his sword “I did. I fear I have misjudged him, Arthur is indeed…honorable.”

It felt like a relief to hear him say it, it meant he was opening up to others “See, don’t be afraid to trust more people, they might just surprise you. I bet you and Pym would get along quite well too.”

The jest slipped out of him “If she is not throwing bowls at me.”

You took a step closer again “She did say she was sorry. She doesn’t usually throw things at her patients and we had a lot of work with you.”

He picked up on the teasing tone you had “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time.”

Your lip tugged in a smile “You are forgiven and I must say, you were one of our favorites. No complaints, polite,…”

That week in the infirmary room had only been bearable because of the hour you spend treating his injuries every day. Every single day he had looked forward to that time.

Hands folded behind his back, the smile on his face matched the joy in his eyes “How could I complain when not one but two healers dedicated their time to me.”

You kept still when he got closer again “When they first brought you here, I was terrified that you wouldn’t make it. I hope you know that I am very happy that your are alright.”

He feigned ignorance but that cocky smirk said it all “Are you ?”

Was he teasing you now ?

Your eyes narrowed slightly, starting to slowly move past him, arm brushing against his “I am. Goodnight, Lancelot.”

Was he imagining things, or had that sounded seductive ?

No…no. He must have been around people smelling of ale too long and now it had affected him too.

He could not find his voice until you were already some steps past and behind him “Shall I walk you to your room ?”

That drop in the volume of his voice didn’t go unnoticed by you, your heart felt like it had taken a jump in your chest, playfully you told him “I think I can find it.”

He tilted his head respectfully “Goodnight, y/n.”

As you left him there alone, all that remained was the warm feeling that grew inside of him with each passing day spend with you.

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@ourlazydetectivekitten @the-great-adventures-of-me @linkpk88 @mixedchicaq @fxrchxldws @elenaoftheturks @slytherlight @beananacake @captainbucky-yt @crystallizedtime @moonlightaura03 @gracelongstreth @atani-chan296 @angrygardendeer @have-aheart @oh–its-just-me @5am-cigarette @arcanenature @yeboi-0418 @cheezecrisps @thewinterskywalker @notyourwildestdream @coloursforyourportrait @koressecretidentity @nike90 @n1ghtlux @rachlovesactors @luckyzipperscissorsbat @morena-doing-stuff @the-fangirl-diaries @gipsydanger17 @heavenly1927 @phantasmalbeiing @labyrinthonmymind @asarcastic-thiamstan

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist of this story.

#weeping monk #lancelot #weeping monk reader #the weeping monk #weeping monk fanfiction #weeping monk cursed #lancelot x reader #Cursed Netflix #cursed #netflix cursed #cursed lancelot #the weeping monk x reader #lancelot/reader #reader x lancelot

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the-average-melli · 2 years

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Stinky sMelli Redemption?

I alluded to it--it was coming! Can such a ratchet character ever be redeemed? Is there anything to like or add to this character to make them more than a blundering doodoohead that occasionally pops up to take a flaming dump in your cereal just because it bothers you? Why, yes. Yes there are. Just as people have good and bad qualities about them, SMelli and other arguably complex characters also come with their fair share of goods and bads. In this post, I will go over what I believe to be redeeming qualities for this tol twink. I will stick to canon information, but you can find head canons where I expand on sMelli's canon traits, too.

He cares for the homies

His bio on the official Pokémon Legends Arceus website mentions that, "He puts on airs and is a tad quick to fight, but he cares passionately for his fellow clan members." Even if he doesn't show it when the player is around, it is canon that he does actually care for them. There are a lot of people who care in their own way, and part of having a close circle of friends is knowing how each person expresses care. Based on how he cares for the members of his Clan in particular, I'd venture to say sMelli is the type who seems sour and salty to outsiders, but has some other side that he will only show to close friends in his personal circle who understand him and have earnt his trust. We don't show our most vulnerable sides to strangers we just met, so I find it reasonable and fair that sMelli doesn't feel obligated to show the player, a complete stranger, any vulnerable sides of him. He's doing what we call in the industry a "pro-gamer move:" keeping people you don't know at arms' length and not investing in them until you've been around them long enough to feel comfortable sharing more.

Honesty is the best policy

SMelli is honest. Most other characters in Hisui are fine trusting a 15-or-so-year old kid who fell from the sky randomly one day and the ones who don't instantly trust the player are gradually won over after seeing how well the player fairs in the fields as an adept Survey Corps member. Even those characters like Irida and Kamado who are skeptical of the player's intents at first are eventually won over by the alacrity of the player. The same is not true for the stinky sMelli. He doesn't like outsiders meddling around and inserting themselves in affairs they have no business being involved in, and for good reason when thinking about this avoidance from another perspective. Not everyone is going to trust you or even like you at first, which is a good quality to have when you are looking out for yourself and others who matter to you. Part of self-care is realising that you can't help others if you can't help yourself, and sMelli at least recognises this by how honest he is. Honesty alone is a respectable trait because it takes a lot of courage to speak up, especially if you're saying something that others won't like to hear. Being honest is perceived by many as "rude," but oftentimes, honesty only appears rude because of how it's delivered and how another hearing it takes it. Being blunt and honest are rare, yet commednable traits; if you know someone is blunt and honest, you know they won't be lying to you by telling you what you want to hear; they aren't only telling you things that make you feel good. You can rely on candid people to give you all kinds of feedback or new ways to look at things you're dealing with!

The chutzpah! The audacity!

If there is one thing that stinky sMelli has, it's the ✨️audacity✨️. For better or for worse, he has a lot of nerve. This is a great quality to have in the right scenarios. Taking risks, doing or saying things people may not like, or staying true to your own authentic self and what you may believe in are all possible with a little nerve. Unlocking ✨️the audacity✨️ in our daily lives can embue us with the testicular fortitude to grab life by the throat, get out of bed, and do whatever we need to do to survive. Daring to be true to ourselves is not easy, especially in a world where others command unity and conformity to a certain standard or norm. Fear not! For having ✨️the audacity✨️ also fills one with the confidence and creativity required to defy norms and rules whenever they are stupid or arbitrary. Melli has his own views about the frenzying Noble Pokémon which makes him unique from other characters. His own views give an alternative perspective to whether or not someone should stop the rampaging Noble pokémon. It might be an ill-informed take, but sMelli has ✨️the audacity✨️ to stand by what he thinks. Going all in for something you believe in can be inspiring, especially for people who aren't as brave enough to take a stand, think for themselves, ask questions, or be their authentic selves without regret. It's easier said than done, which is why someone who can do these things clearly had a history that shaped them into the kind of person overflowing with a lot of chutzpah!

A driving force

SMelli's stinky personality works as a foil for other characters' personalities to react to and bounce off of. From a writing perspective, having foils is an excellent way of breathing life into otherwise static NPCs with little to nothing that makes them memorable. Having a character like sMelli presents an opportunity draw out the differing personalities of other characters in the world. In PLA, a high-point was watching stinky sMelli fire relentless shots at Lian's unsuspecting hat and watching Lian retort back. That moment cut the tension of the climax at the Temple of Sinnoh and it felt like an effective use of comedy to balance out the serious elements of the storyline at that point. Stinky sMelli and his antics are very silly, and it puts a smile on my face to watch Lian and him squabble like an old married couple or two siblings who need to be torn apart to make sure they don't unalive each other. It's moments like this that made the game outside of the actual storyline and other high points that many already praise it for, like the unique two-stage final boss battle of the post-game.

Not entirely static

Stinky sMelli does experience character development implied throughout the game. The first implication occurs during the Daybreak update for PLA which added more content with the massive outbreaks and more opportunities to rematch NPCs in battle. Stinky sMelli appears to give out epic aguav berries for the player's adorable efforts investigating the outbreaks. After giving one of the best shooketh faces a character can have in this game, he departs and Mai informs the player that he used to be a very shy (stinky) boy. He one day decided to change so he could help Adaman. People have many character arcs in their own lives, and it was wonderful to see this twink get some kind of backstory. How he changed into the opposite of who he was as a kid is left open to interpretatiom, but the fact remains that he started from the bottom and now he's--not at the bottom anymore (??) He changed over the years with a particular goal in mind, much like any person would if they were dead set on achieving a goal of their own. How lovely. 🌺 I include how he might have changed over the years in my head canons for him; no matter how he did, he surely must have had to stay on the grind and get out of his comfort zone to try new things. That's pretty respectable since it can be quite the challenge to change or improve parts of the self.

The Update includes another chance to interact with the stinkiest Warden in the entire region! During the battle, he is still his very twinkie self, but he at the very least acknowledges the player as a decent sparring partner. He makes similar acknowledgement of the player and actually throws less shade at them as the game progresses. He will always consider himself "Great" but by the end of the game, he is willing to admit that the player is a formidable opponent in battle. By the end of the game, his name-calling transforms from a condescending form of address to mere teasing. (What a tease!)

I will never forget the first nice thing this massive twinkie man ever said to me: he would be here for "moral support!" It hits so different when a character who has done nothing but drag you to the moon and back in insults finally says one nice thing to you. It feels like they mean it since they won't say it often and being so supportive is just so out of pocket for a stinky sMelli like him!

He has a good outlook on existence

This can be taken multiple ways, but I choose to look at it with a side of optimism. Suffering surely is quite painful. It isn't ideal, but without suffering no human would have any character development. We have grown to be who we are because of adversity, and resillience. There are many obstacles and forces that may try to take us out of the game of life prematurely, and yet, we are still here today. To acknowledge and suggest that suffering is a large part of the human experience is not to say that it is mandatory, nor ideal in the slightest. It is how we handle the trials and tribulations life thrusts our way that speaks to the amount of perserverence required to just keep swimming. When you look at it from a deeper side, this quote from the stinkiest of twinkies is actually quite profound! I don't expect such existentialism or intentionality in a kid's game, so I am delightfully surprised by dialogue like this. His moment of wisdom here is not the only one.

We are walking contradictions of ourselves

In the above dialogue, stinky sMelli has another real moment: while he wasn't as supportive of the player (me! These are my screenshots hurrah!) and casually did everything he could to prevent them from reaching the Moonview arena... he admits a part of him did hope the player would make it. This is a good note to end on, seeing as it speaks to something about humans as a species. We are walking contradictions of ourselves whether we choose to say it or not. As humans, we have biases, dreams, preferences, and more! We have experiences unique to ourselves and our own inner-worlds. Anyone who enjoys this Disney Princess on Crack™ as much as I may be just as much of a contradiction. There are many toxic people online here who love this character (perhaps because they embody the worst at times and can relate to another just as poisonous!) I have no doubts about that, but I would like to assume that there are also decent humans that take a liking to this character. Assuming there are, congratualtions on being a walking contradiction; we find quite the appeal in one of the most ratchet, feral, and off-putting characters in Pokémon! That is a cause for celebration! Despite his flaws and how we as humans may not condone the things he might do in our own lives, we are still smitten by an obnoxiously flambouyant fictional mans! What an achievement we have unlocked. And how excellent: the reward is knowing that there are in fact a niche few who do in fact see good in even the wildest characters!

In conclusion

This man is a very petty man-child and a Dollar Store Disney Princess on Crack rolled into one hot mess, but he is my hot mess. I would not want him any other way. Even if it's hard for most, I do see good qualities somewhere deep within him. He is just the type who needs to trust you and know you before caring about you, and that care is expressed in his own stinky way. I would not want anyone else but him to babysit my balls or have my D

This is the second part of my super stinky sMelli character analysis! Click here if you missed part one!

Of course I spent five hours straight writing this two part character analysis infodump!

#pokemon #gaming #pla #pokemon arceus #pokemon legends arceus #melli #pokemon melli #pla melli #pokemon legends arceus melli #warden melli #diamond clan melli #character analysis #character development #character design

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rindecisions · 1 year

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Stranger Tales: 14

A poll based Stranger Things fanfiction

Read all of it on AO3

After staring in fear at Steve for way too long, Eddie sighed and turned his attention back to the polished wooden bar. “Nope.”

Steve flinched at the deeper than expected voice. He’d heard women with deep voices before, so… maybe? Even up close, he couldn’t really see how that was a man. “So, um…’ Steve trailed off awkwardly. He swallowed and took a deep breath. “What should I call you then?” He was proud of himself for managing that smoothly. Perfect delivery.

“Eddie works,” he shrugged, looking at Steve out of the corner of his eye. The look of shock and horror on Steve’s face was both amusing and painful.

“Shit!” Steve shouted. “It really is you, goddamn it!” He placed his elbows on the bar and shoved his face into his hands.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Eddie groaned, looking around for the bartender, but they were well occupied by a rambling client. He sighed and settled back in the stool.

“No, it’s not you,” Steve complained, rubbing his face. “I made a bet with Robin that you were actually a woman.”

Eddie slowly turned his head back to Steve. “You come to a drag show, which, by the way, is the last place I’d ever expect to see you, and-”

“Why do people keep saying that?” Steve mumbled to himself.

Eddie ignored him and continued. “Still think some of the people you see on stage are women?”

Steve sighed and vaguely waved at Eddie. “To be fair, if I didn’t hear your voice, I’d still think you were one.”

Eddie put his elbow on the bar and pressed his fist into his chin. He looked at Steve through hooded, skeptical eyes. “Out of everyone that’s been on stage, why choose me to make your bet on?”

Steve swallowed as he stared back at Eddie. His mind was still struggling with putting two and two together. Why did he have to be a man? As a woman, he was stunning, and god his eyes were huge. He took a deep breath and sighed. “Because you’re hot.”

The bluntness made Eddie cough in surprise. “Pardon?”

“I mean, you’re hot as a woman,” Steve corrected.

“Yeah… no… I got it.” Eddie glanced away. “If,” he started. “What was your plan if I was a woman?”

“I would ask you out on a date or something,” Steve stated dismissively.

Eddie stared at the polished bar. Maybe he should have kept his trap shut, but then he’d just be feeding a lie, and that’s not what he’d want. He shiftily looked at the bartender, who was still getting a customer’s life story. Other patrons were walking up to him to place their orders, but that wasn’t something Eddie could do, he had to order his privately. He glanced around for something to write on. He didn’t really want to sit here torturing himself by being so close to Harrington.

“Why did you do this, anyway?” When Eddie looked at him through the corner of his eyes, he felt a sparkle of goosebumps over his shoulders.

“It was for a friend,” Eddie explained. “The hostess, she knows my uncle and needed the help tonight.”

“So, was that your first time doing this?”

Eddie was getting antsy. This was by far the longest conversation he’d had with Steve. He was fine just watching him from afar, but the proximity was killing him. “Yeah.”

“It was an impressive performance.”

The compliment was nice, but Eddie needed to keep things shallow, and his heart wouldn’t shut the fuck up enough for him to think clearly. “It’s my first time in drag, not my first time on stage.” Shit, that came out cockier than I intended.

“Really?” Steve squinted. “What else do you do?”

Just don’t look at him, Munson. Don’t look at those giant curious puppy eyes. “I’m in a rock band,” he said simply.

“Seriously?” Steve smiled, somewhat impressed. “That’s kind of cool.”

“Thanks.” A pen caught Eddie’s eye, and he leaned behind the bar to get it.

The position Eddie put himself in showed off his exposed narrow midriff. Even if Steve knew he was a man, his body didn’t want to believe it and still found him insanely attractive. His breath caught in his throat when he saw a pair of dimples on his lower back just peeking over the top of the skirt. He melted every time he saw those on women. When Eddie sat back down, Steve watched him pull a napkin over and start writing on it. “I hope that’s your number, baby.”

Eddie shot him a startled side-eye. What the hell? Why was Steve hitting on him? “Uh, No… I can’t say it is.”

Hearing Eddie’s masculine voice snapped him back to reality. “Shit,” he hissed. How could he be so dumb as to forget that’s a man under that makeup? “Sorry,” he groaned in embarrassment. “I fo- I didn’t-” He sighed heavily and put his face in his hands. “That was reflex, sorry.”

“It’s reflex for you to hit on people?” Eddie finished writing on the napkin and folded it in half.

“What can I say? Beautiful women are my weakness.”

There was a moment of silence as Eddie stared at him. “I’m… not a woman.”

“I know that,” Steve sighed. “But you look like one, and a really hot one at that, so I guess it still fits the bill.”

“Right…” Eddie waved at the bartender to get his attention, showing him the napkin and placing it under a cup behind the bar. “Well…” He gave Steve another glance. “It was nice chatting with you, but I gotta go.” Eddie slammed his hands on the bar and stood.

More fics by Rindecision

#Poll #Stranger Things #LGBTQ #Fanfiction #Vote #Fanfic #Choose your own adventure #Polls #CYOA #Eddie Munson #Steve Harrington

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fademirrored · 1 year

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alpha: Champion of Kirkwall

“I’m an older brother to twins. I’ve learned from the best how to ignore someone trying to get on my nerves.”

Cyrus “Crabapple” Hawke Champion of Kirkwall. Primarily Blue

Male. He/Him/His. Panromantic, demisexual. 13 Bloomington, 9:10 Dragon. Lothering, Ferelden. Mage; Primal and Force magic.

Eyes: Light blue. Narrow, hooded. Looks perpetually skeptical. Hair: Very pale blond, but more gold than white. Smooth, slightly wavy, just past his shoulders. Usually pulled back, though he’s not fussed about how. If it’s down, he spends most of his time pushing it out of his face. Skin: Typically pale, but tans relatively easily. Gets freckles easily. Height: 5'9". Build: Average height, stocky, with well built arms and shoulders. Generally looks like he can deck someone pretty solidly in the face. Notable Details: Electrical scars up his arms. Very prominent bump on the bridge of his nose. Scar through his right eyebrow. Voice: Standard male Hawke voice.

Positive Traits: Kind to a fault, general grumpiness aside; he likes to help and to give what he can, and he likes to keep people safe and happy and tended to. Patient, even if he’s grumpy; it takes a while before his default grumpiness turns into actual anger. Modest and willing to take input; he knows he’s not the top of every class, and accordingly he’s willing to take advice. Decisive; it typically doesn’t take him long to pro and con a situation and decide on a course of action, and he’s not prone to waffling once he’s made his decision. Team player, good at cooperating; he doesn’t necessarily need to be in charge, even if that’s how it frequently works out, and he’s happy to defer to someone else when that would be best. Negative Traits: Irritable and grumpy, and is typically always some level of exasperated, like he’s just assuming the situation is going to turn weird; Varric calls him Crabapple for a reason. Strict, even when it’s not required; it’s more of a knee-jerk reaction carried over from the fact that Kirkwall is a deathtrap, and he’s duly chastened when called on it, but it happens again regardless. Overly blunt, to the point of being tactless; it’s not even an ignorant thing, since he’s generally aware that what he’s saying is not the most polite option, but he wants what he thinks to be known anyway. Neutral Traits: Ambivert. Deadpan. Dryly snarky. Agreeable to most things that don’t sound bat shit crazy. Casual and not too fussed about ceremony or formality. Gets a bit scatterbrained when it’s quiet. Gets a little theatrical at times. Optimist vs. Pessimist: Optimistic, albeit cautiously so; attempts to be a realist. Quirks: Prone to nonsequiturs. Likes having company, but doesn’t always want to talk to his company. Prefers a day to be structured, which probably contributes to his grumpiness.

Religion: Agnostic and uninterested. Likes: Dogs. Kids. Music. Dance. Finding new and bizarre uses for magic. Savory-sweet combos. Coffee. Mead. The night sky. Heavy storms. The rare chance to see a good landslide. Dislikes: Templars. People who are very insistent that The Circle Is Good Actually. Being underground. Most authority figures, until they prove themselves. Being hurled into the limelight. Getting caught in heavy storms or a good landslide. Being preached at. Favorite Colors: Electric blue. Grey-blue. Crimson red. Electric yellow. Hobbies: Finding unconventional magic uses. Can play the piano. Cooking. Dog-training. Helps in the clinic. Somehow winds up babysitting most of the children in Lowtown even once he lives in Hightown.

Family: Malcolm Hawke (father, deceased). Leandra Hawke (mother, deceased). Carver Hawke (brother). Bethany Hawke (sister, deceased). Gamlen (uncle). Dog: Decker. Romance: Anders. Friends: Fenris. Merrill. Aveline. Varric. Carver. Note: He’s a little embarrassed to admit that Sebastian always made him a little uncomfortable, what with his utmost faith in the Chantry and the Circle and Cyrus’s greatest fear being getting thrown into the Circle. *everything in this sectioncan of course be tweaked or disregarded entirely for specific threads, if you’d rather.

#Hightown Matters [Cyrus]#darp #dragon age rp

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alsmp-headcanons · 3 years

Note

So I know I said I’d write something but school (derogatory) killed my motivation so instead take how I think the afterlifers got corrupted in the Corrupted Paradise au (the ones I know anyway)

Gem is presented with an offer of power. Xornoth tells her that if she accepts their deal she’ll be able to protect her village better than ever before, and no one will call her paranoid again. She’s not fully convinced until they say she’ll be more powerful than the illager that keeps trying to enter her village.

And so, Gem falls to the corruption.

Fwhip was laughably easy in comparison. He already had power in spades, but all it took was two little sentences.

“I have already convinced the villager. Join me, and you can be siblings again.”

And so, Fwhip falls to the corruption.

Lizzie does not understand a word Xornoth says. Her common’s already pretty shakey and the distortion doesn’t help. They start to think it may be a challenge to corrupt her… until she just starts to straight up eat it.

And so, Lizzie falls to the corruption.

Joel can actually see Xornoth this time, which makes things easier. They simply promise him a chance to find living relatives. He has Sausage as an adoptive dad, but the thought of others is tempting. Xornoth was made of the fire and obsidian, just as he is, and has connections. They just need a bit of help before they have the time to search.

And so, Joel falls to the corruption.

Joey was harder than expected. They planned to walk in, flirt a bit, and then leave again with a new minion, but it didn’t work at all! Eventually they learn about the incident with Mika, Shrub, and the third person I may or may not have forgotten, and say that no one will leave him behind again.

And so, Joey falls to the corruption.

The first time Xornoth tried to approach Shrub she hissed at them and threw stuff until they left again. Which, if you swapped this hissing for growling, wouldn’t have been too far off from E!Shrub. They soon realised the problem, which is that with the whole “fire and lava demon” thing they’re really bright. Their existence was antithetical to hers, but in the end it’s what they use. They were just like her once, they claim. Flinching from light and made of shadows. Until they gained this power, allowing them to wield it so no light would hurt them again. She’s skeptical, but willing to give it a try.

And so, Shubble falls to the corruption.

Lauren is tired. Xornoth offers to babysit her chicken kids every once in a while.

And so, Lauren falls to the corruption. And also sleep.

Before Xornoth can even open their mouth Scott is attached to them because of all the light they radiate. They’re slightly put out because they wanted to fight at least some version of their brother where they were guaranteed a win, but oh well.

And so, Scott falls to the corruption.

Sausage fights back, refusing to join Xornoth. He’s an angel, he will never work for a demon. They try to use Joel to get to him, and when that doesn’t work they try forcibly corrupting him.

None of it works. It makes sense, in a way. Pearl was always the one who could fight off Xornoth the best, not losing until they cheated, so obviously her angel would do the same. Doesn’t make it any less annoying.

Luckily a resistance to corruption does not mean a resistance to blunt force trauma.

And so, Sausage falls to unconscious. But his mind is free.

So yeah that’s everyone I watch or have some idea of! Characterisation may not be consistent but oh well lol

-🦊

OK THIS????? IS SO COOL??? I LOVE???

I love these so much thank you,,,

Also Scott’s made me snort.

Xornoth: Our battle with be legendar-

Scott: Shut up lava lamp man let me sleep on you.

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honeypiehotchner · 3 years

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Looking Too Closely (Bucky x Stark!Fem!Reader) -- part one

I know, I know. I just finished a 100k fic about Aaron Hotchner, I have another fic for him coming in May, and yet here I am, writing a Bucky Barnes fic. The Falcon and The Winter Soldier has done things to me, guys. I knew I was going to fall right back in love with Bucky and I totally did. So here’s this xx.

(Also, as for the timeline, don’t question it. I’m kind of imagining this on its own separate timeline, but I’ll pull details from everywhere)

Summary: You’re (possibly) Tony Stark’s daughter. You’re also (possibly) on the run from the law. What better place to show up than the Avengers Tower? [Oh and no Bucky in this one! He comes in part 2]

Warnings: angst, mentions of death (your mom), mentions of homelessness, Tony is kinda an asshole (but I still think it’s in character)

BUCKY BARNES MASTERLIST

You weren’t going to come here.

It was a last-resort kind of option. A I-don’t-want-to-sleep-on-a-park-bench-(again) option. An is-going-to-jail-really-better-than-just-knocking-on-a-door? Kind of option.

Turns out, knocking on a door is better than going to jail. Especially when Tony Stark’s shocked face is almost as comical as your mom’s.

Currently, you’re soaking wet (damn skies decided to open up before you could get to the Tower) and sitting in Tony’s office while he paces and talks on the phone.

“Pepper, honey, I know this is bad timing, but I need you to pick up, okay? I have a kid here— Okay, she’s glaring at me, so not a kid— No, you know what? She is a kid and she’s getting water everywhere and she says she’s my kid and I’m two seconds from going into crisis mode.”

You and me both, you think to yourself. If you knew Tony was this much of a drama queen, you would’ve just gone to the police station. It was closer, anyway. Damn.

Tony ends the voicemail (which is his fifth one, you believe) and spins around to face you, a nervous smile on his lips. “Okay. How old are you again?”

“19,” you repeat tiredly. It was one of the first questions he asked you. “And I don’t actually know if I’m really your kid, okay? My mom says you are, but I don’t know.”

“Where is your mom?” His eyebrows raise like he’s brilliant and has found a way out. “Can you call her?”

“I don’t have a phone, but even if I did, no, I can’t,” you pause, rolling your eyes at his confusion. “She’s dead, Tony. She passed away last month.”

His confusion settles into shock. “Oh.”

“Oh is right,” you chuckle, ignoring your teeth chattering. “And trust me, I wouldn’t be here if I had literally anywhere else I could go.”

Tony opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by his phone. He hurriedly answers and returns to pacing. “Pepper! Hi!— Okay, slow down, yes I’m telling the truth! Why would I lie— Okay, that was one time. Listen, this time, I’m not lying.” Pause. “Yes, there really is a kid here. You’re serious? Okay, fine, hang on.”

You watch as Tony starts a video call, and then turns the phone around on you.

Pepper Potts’s eyes widen when she sees you staring back at her, a cold and shivering mess.

“Um, hi?” Your voice is small and wary.

“Shit,” Pepper replies, and Tony turns the phone back on his face.

“See? Not lying.”

“For God’s sake, Tony!” Pepper yells. “Get the poor girl some dry clothes! I’ll be there as soon as I can, but try not to freeze her to death before I can get there. Christ.” The call ends.

You muffle a giggle in your hand, looking up to find a tired stare from Tony. Your laughter ends and you mirror his expression. “I told you dude, if I had literally anywhere else I could go, I’d be there.”

“Homeless shelter?” Tony questions.

“A homeless shelter in New York? You mean a breeding ground for disease and sexual assault?”

Your blunt reply has Tony faltering, but he accepts it. “Right. Let’s just— Let’s get you into something dry and warm and maybe get some food in you.” His eyes graze over your form. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Do you really want to ask me that?”

He thinks it over, and nods. “Never mind. Follow me.”

You stand and follow him, leaving a trail of water wherever you step.

He grimaces, pausing in his steps to say, “FRIDAY, will you dry the floors in here before I get back?”

“Who the hell are you talking to—”

Your question is promptly cut off by a female voice answering Tony. “Yes, Mr. Stark.” The voice echoes all around and sounds human, but distinctly sounds like it isn’t.

“What the fuck was that?”

“FRIDAY,” Tony replies. “Stands for ‘Female Replacement Intelligent Digital Assistant Youth’. A mouthful, I know, so I just call her FRIDAY. She’s my AI and she’s all over this building.”

“She— Never mind,” you shake your head. “Cool. Weird, but cool. I guess.”

Tony smiles, but then continues walking, exiting his office.

You follow closely behind, trying not to get too distracted by everything you’re seeing. All you saw on the way up here was the lobby, the elevator, and then right into Tony’s office. Now, you’re seeing out glass windows and down into the rest of the Tower. You have a clean view into what looks like a lab, and you see a few people working in there, but they’re too focused to even bother looking elsewhere.

After stepping into the elevator with you, Tony says, “Wanda should have some extra clothes you can borrow and if not she can at least help you...find some.”

He eyes you like he doesn’t quite know what to do with you, which you think is remarkably humbling of him. Part of you expected (what with all the stories you’ve heard and read about him) that he would act like he knew exactly what to do — regardless of whether it was right.

Maybe he will act that way later, but right now he almost seems frightened, and it’s weirdly comforting.

“Wanda is one of the…” Tony pauses. “You know where we are, right?”

You raise one eyebrow. “You mean do I know this is the Avengers Tower and that the Avengers are real people?”

“Yes…”

“Then yes.”

“Okay,” Tony says, straightening and composing himself once more. “Wanda is one of the Avengers.”

“I know.”

Tony hesitates, and the elevator is still going. “You’re not some crazy fan, right?”

“Dude, I told you. If I had anywhere else to be, I would’ve gone there.” You shrug. “Yeah, it’s cool or whatever, but I’m not going to faint.”

“Good to know,” he says, though you faintly hear him mutter, “cool or whatever,” to himself.

Finally, the elevator stops and the doors open to a new floor, one that you quickly realize is what can be described as the residential area for the Avengers. Their rooms are on this floor, along with a kitchen and a living area of sorts — both of which are empty right now.

Tony notices you looking around and says, “Most everyone is out on a mission right now, so it’s just me and Wanda around.”

“Okay,” you say.

Tony takes you down a hall and around a corner, and stops at a door. He knocks a couple times and then says, “Hey Wan, it’s me and I have a...an issue that I need your help with.”

The door opens a moment later to reveal Wanda Maximoff, a younger woman closer to your age wearing a confused expression. “An issue?” She questions, and then her eyes land on you. “Oh, hi.”

“Hey,” you offer a small smile. “I’m Y/N.”

“I’m Wanda,” she replies, offering a smile in return. But when she looks at Tony, it drops. “What did you do?”

“Why does everyone always assume that I’ve done something?”

“Because when have you not done something?”

Tony pauses. “Fair point. Look, the kid needs some clothes, and I figured borrowing something old of yours would be more comfortable than Avengers workout gear.”

Wanda seems surprised Tony even thought of that. “Of course,” she looks at you. “You can take a shower to warm up, if you want. But I definitely have some clothes you can borrow.”

“Thanks.”

“Just uh…” Tony pauses, waving around like the words will appear in thin air. “Bring her to the kitchen when she’s done.”

“Standing right here,” you mutter, earning a laugh from Wanda.

“Go away,” she waves at Tony. “I’ve got this.”

Tony walks away, clearly elated to be rid of you and have you in the hands of a responsible adult that is not himself.

Wanda shuts her door with a roll of her eyes. “Sometimes I wonder how Pepper keeps him afloat,” she murmurs. “Anyway, on to you— Oh, before all that, I can read minds, but I am actively blocking that right now. I’ll try really hard not to be nosy, but don’t worry, I am really good at keeping secrets because of it.”

You can’t help but smile. “It’s okay. There’s not much that goes on up here anyway.”

She gives you a skeptical look. “I may not be listening, but the amount of energy I am using right now to not listen tells me that’s far from true.”

You just shrug in response, not wanting to get into it.

Thankfully, she keeps her promise and moves on, too, walking toward her closet. “I have loads of t-shirts and hoodies, skirts, too, but I do have some leggings. Do you have a preference?”

“Just whatever you’re comfortable with letting me borrow.”

Part of you thinks she read your mind, though, because she hands you leggings and a t-shirt, along with one of her many zip-up hoodies. You were silently wishing she wouldn’t hand you a skirt.

“My bathroom is just through there and there’s clean towels on the shelf if you want to shower.” Wanda smiles, gesturing toward the open door at the other end of her room.

“Thanks.” You walk over and quickly pee, not realizing until you entered that you’ve desperately had to piss this entire time.

You decide against a shower for the sake of not wanting to take up too much time, and not feeling up for being naked in a stranger’s shower (albeit a kind stranger).

After changing into Wanda’s clothes, and hanging your wet ones over the shower curtain, you go back into Wanda’s bedroom. She’s sitting on her bed, mindlessly moving a red ball of energy between her fingers and up her arms.

She smiles upon seeing you, but doesn’t drop the energy. “Feel better?”

“Yeah,” you nod, mesmerized by the glowing ball of red in her palms. “That’s so dope.”

“Dope?”

“Really cool,” you clarify.

“Oh,” she giggles, and the energy evaporates. “I think I’ve heard Peter say that a few times.”

You have no clue who Peter is, but you don’t question it. “Should we go out there?”

“Yes,” she slides off the bed. “I’ll come with you. Tony can be a handful.”

That’s what your mom used to say about him, too.

You follow Wanda silently out into the hallway, and as you both get closer to the living area and kitchen, you hear two voices this time. One is Tony’s and after a few more steps, you find out that the other voice is Pepper.

“You’re saying she just showed up out of nowhere?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying because that’s exactly what happened.”

“And she says you’re her father?”

“Allegedly,” Tony scoffs, resting his hands on the kitchen counter. “I don’t actually know. I can’t remember that far back.”

“How far back?” Pepper asks, arms crossed over her chest.

“She says she’s 19.”

“I’ll be 20 this year,” you interject, enjoying the way Tony fumbles and tries to put on his mask one more time.

“Hey kiddo,” he says. “This is Pepper Potts, she’s the one who wrangles me in.”

Pepper shakes her head before offering you a warm smile and her hand to shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m sorry you seem to be going through such a tough time.”

“It’s okay,” you say while shaking her hand. “I’m sorry for barging in and all. I didn’t know where else to really go.”

“Nope, that’s okay,” she assures you. “We’re going to get this figured out. Do you mind if you and I just talk for a minute?”

“That sounds good.”

“Awesome,” Pepper smiles. “Okay, Tony, just...go to the lab or something. But...go away.”

You and Wanda share a look as Tony saunters off, no doubt muttering under his breath.

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Wanda says, gesturing between you and Pepper. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” you smile. “Thanks again for the clothes. I’ll try to give them back soon.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Wanda shakes her head before heading back down the hallway to her room.

You’re left alone with Pepper, who doesn’t terrify you, but the prospect of what conversation is going to come next does.

“Do you want something to eat?” She asks. “I can order something while we talk.”

“Um...pizza?” It’s inexpensive and never fails you in terms of being able to eat it.

“Sure,” Pepper smiles gently. “What kind?”

After telling her your favorite toppings, the two of you take a seat on one of the couches. She finishes placing the order on her phone before she sets down the device and gives you her full attention.

“So. Tony told me your mom passed away,” Pepper pauses. “I’m really sorry for your loss.”

“It’s alright.”

“He also told me you didn’t show up with anything at all,” Pepper says. “Do you mind if FRIDAY does an identity check?”

“Is that like a background check?”

“Essentially, but it’s not that extensive. It’s just so we know the truth about who you are.” She pauses again, sensing your hesitation. “Unfortunately, it’s just a precaution we have to take.”

“Okay,” you agree, realizing you have nothing left to lose. “Uh, how do I…?”

“Right,” Pepper chuckles. “FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Ms. Potts.”

“Will you please do an identity check on…”

“Y/N M/N L/N.”

“One moment.”

“It should just take a few seconds,” Pepper explains. “Oh, and there will be a hologram that will appear— Right there.”

“Identity confirmed.”

The hologram appears in front of the TV, showing general information about you alongside a picture of you — a picture that you think is on your driver’s license, wherever the ashes of that is.

“Y/N M/N L/N, born to Isabella L/N in 2001 in a hospital in Newark, New Jersey. She was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s weird.”

“Thank you, FRIDAY,” Pepper says, and the hologram disappears. “It is a little freaky. I’m still not totally used to all of Tony’s tech, but I’ve stopped worrying about it. Good news is, you are who you say you are.” She pauses. “But I do have to ask why you decided to show up here? You told Tony if you had anywhere else to go, you would’ve, so I understand.”

“It’s the first place I could think of,” you admit quietly. “I’ve been living on the streets for a few weeks now.”

Pepper pales. “You’ve been homeless?”

You nod. “Mom died in a house fire. It was our house. I was on a walk to the gas station to get her favorite candy bar because she had been having a rough time.”

“And she…”

“By the time I came out of the gas station, fire trucks were blaring past and I could smell the smoke. The flames were high enough to see from a mile away.”

“I...I am so sorry.”

You shrug, surprised you’re not crying. “Everything I had was in there, except the clothes I was wearing when I got here. She had my cell phone because we could only afford the one, but it burned, too. Everything burned.

“Anyway, she… She always told me Tony was my dad and I didn’t believe her, but then she showed me pictures of them together, and it made me believe her. So I figured coming here would be better than staying on the streets or going to another shelter.”

Pepper nods. “Okay, well, I’m glad you came here. I am. But...Tony can’t do anything for you if he isn’t your real father.”

“I understand.”

“We can do a paternity test,” she offers. “If you want to, I’ll get him to agree. It wouldn’t be the first one he’s had to do, but this one…this one would probably be the first I think he’d do willingly.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “Really?”

She nods. “The others have been infants and the mothers have mostly been after money. The paternity tests were used in court.”

Your eyes widen. “I do not want to go to court.”

“You won’t,” she says. “The test could be done here and kept between the three of us. But, until then, it is up to Tony what he wants to do — whether or not he wants to let you stay. I’m not saying I will allow him to kick you out, but if he doesn’t want you to stay here, I will do everything I can to make sure you are somewhere safe.” She pauses, watching your expression as it changes. “I’m sorry if this sounds so harsh. It’s a recycled speech I’ve had to give a thousand times,” she laughs airily. “But I do mean it when I say I will make sure you’re safe. I don’t care if it comes out of my paycheck.”

“No, you don’t need to do that,” you start shaking your head, but she stops you.

“You are special, I can tell,” Pepper says. “And Wanda seems to like you, which is telling. In the time that she’s been here, it hasn’t been easy to get her to open up to others.”

You felt comfortable around Wanda, too. The same kind of comfortable you feel with Pepper right now.

Before anything else can be said, footsteps are heard and the smell of pizza fills your nostrils.

“Did you order me pizza? You’re too kind, Ms. Potts,” Tony’s voice floats from the hallway before he enters the living room, pizza box in hand.

“Actually, it’s for Y/N,” Pepper says.

“It’s fine,” you wave them off, but neither of them let it slide.

“Nope,” Tony says, placing the box down on the table in front of the couch. “I’ll get plates. You’re eating.”

“But if you—”

“Ah-ah,” he holds up his index finger, raising his eyebrows. “No arguing.”

“Seriously?” You deadpan, rolling your eyes.

You open the box and pull out a slice while he’s busy wasting time getting plates. When he returns, he hands you a plate, even though you won’t use it. He plops down next to Pepper and grabs a slice, shoving half of it in his mouth.

“Want some?” He gestures the half-eaten slice toward Pepper.

She shakes her head. “No, it’s your favorite, not mine.”

Your chewing slows. “It’s your favorite?”

“Yeah,” Tony replies, eating the other half of his slice.

“It’s my favorite, too,” you reply slowly, reaching for a second piece.

Tony smiles, grabbing a second slice, too. “You’ve got good taste, kid.” He takes less of a big bite this time. “So, what’s the consensus? How much money do you want?”

“Tony—” Pepper starts, but he doesn’t let her finish.

“Or, let me guess, paternity test. And money. College? I can give you a scholarship.”

With every word that falls from his lips, you get more and more angry.

“Or are we just waiting for the police to pick you up? I have to admit, that’s boring, but if that’s what we’re doing—”

“That is enough,” Pepper hisses.

“Um,” you swallow the bite of pizza that you had in your mouth. “Thanks for the pizza and...dry clothes and the talk, but I’m gonna go.”

“Y/N--” Pepper tries.

“No, it’s fine,” you shake your head as you stand. “It’s okay, it was a bad idea anyway. Don’t worry about the test, I mean, I’m an adult anyway, it’s not like it would make any difference.”

“She has a point,” Tony adds.

You ignore him. “I’ll just...yeah.”

The two of them are still bickering when you run off, toward the elevator. The doors open quickly and you let the elevator swallow you whole.

You were stupid, so stupid for coming here. You would’ve been better off on another park bench or something.

When the elevator reaches the lobby, you’re running out as fast as your feet will carry you.

+++

You’re thankful for Wanda’s hoodie when the cold wind of New York starts biting into your skin. It’s a miracle to find an open park bench, and it’d be a miracle if it could be a few degrees warmer outside, but you know that’s asking for way too much.

Still, you try to relax and rest. You have no clue where to go from here. Maybe back to a shelter, but the idea of that makes your body shiver for a different reason other than the cold.

You zip the hoodie up to your chin and wrap your arms around yourself, keeping the heat in as much as you can. Eventually, because of the exhaustion, you find yourself drifting off.

When you wake, it’s with a jolt because the empty seat next to you on the bench is now filled.

“What do you want?” After realizing the person is none other than Tony Stark, you can’t be bothered to be polite.

“For you to come back to the Tower before it starts raining.”

You sit up straighter, shaking your head. “No thanks. Did Pepper put you up to this?”

“Actually, I put myself up to this,” he replies. “I was a jackass. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it, kid.”

“Maybe stop calling me ‘kid.’”

“I will when you quit acting like one.”

You lift your head to glare at him. “That’s a low blow. Even for you.”

“I just want you to come back to the Tower with me,” Tony says. “I’m sorry. It was a low blow, and so was everything else I said earlier. But I refuse to let you sleep here when there’s a perfectly fine and vacant room at the Tower. Right next to Wanda’s room.”

You mull it over for a second. The mention of Wanda is enticing because despite today’s circumstances, she did seem kind and harmless. The two of you seemed like you could get along well, too, which is rare for you — and her, apparently.

“Fine,” you cave. “But only because this bench is uncomfortable as hell.”

Tony sighs, but doesn’t comment on that. Instead, he stands, gesturing for you to follow, and you do. “Okay, come on. I parked over here.”

“Parked?”

“Yeah, ki— You walked a good thirty minute drive from the Tower.”

“Oh.”

“It’s fine,” he says. “But it is about to rain, so.”

He clicks something and what was once a black smudge in your vision suddenly lit up as the car’s engine roared to life, turning the headlights on, too.

You can’t help but scoff.

“What?” Tony asks through a laugh. “It’s my car.”

“It’s so flashy.”

He accepts it. “Fair point.”

You have no clue what make or model the car is, but regardless it’s too sleek and too low to the ground. Thank God you aren’t driving.

You hop in the passenger seat, unashamed that you want to get out of the wind. Tony silently turns the seat warmers on when he gets in.

After driving for a few minutes, Tony breaks the silence.

“I need to call Pepper to let her know I found you,” he says, and without another word, the car begins calling Pepper. Well, FRIDAY does, because she’s in his cars, too.

Pepper picks up almost immediately. “Please tell me you found her.”

“I did, Pep.”

“Thank God,” she says, exhaling deeply. “Is she in the car? Y/N?”

“I’m here,” you speak up.

“Good,” she replies. “I was scared he made you angrier instead of apologizing.”

You’re still angry with him, but you don’t say that. “He apologized.”

“Good,” Pepper says. “Drive safe, Tony, please.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll only go ten above the speed limit.”

“Tony—”

“Call disconnected.”

“Oops,” Tony says. “Do you want a milkshake? Late night snack?”

“I’m good.”

“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, speeding up.

+++

You got a milkshake.

Not because you really wanted one, but because Tony ordered you one anyway. He guessed your favorite — it’s the same as his, but still — and didn’t let you argue. And you’re not one to let something go to waste if it’s right in front of you.

Pepper and Wanda look more than relieved when you enter the Tower beside Tony, milkshake still in hand.

“I have returned with the… With Y/N.”

You roll your eyes.

“Thank you,” Pepper says, but she still gives Tony a glare. When she looks back at you, her expression is soft. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “I won’t stay for long, I promise.”

Pepper shook her head. “You can stay for as long as you need to. There’s no sense in you sleeping anywhere else when there’s a room here you can have.”

“I could use the company,” Wanda adds, smiling gently. “If you want.”

You smile in return, but you’re still wary. You look at Tony to see what he thinks, but to your complete surprise, he doesn’t look angry or anything.

“As long as you don’t ask for an entire floor, you can stay,” he says.

That’s about as good a response you’re going to get out of him, it seems, so you accept it.

#also called #fuck it i'm tony stark's daughter #stark!reader #stark!fem!reader #tony stark #pepper potts #wanda maximoff #bucky barnes x stark!reader #bucky barnes x stark!fem!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes x you #the tower #the avengers tower #stark!reader fanfiction #stark!reader fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction

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ahsokasleftbicep · 2 years

Text

How Crosshair spends time with Omega after returning to The Bad Batch

I know this probably won't happen in Season 2 because Filoni only knows pain and sadness but I like thinking about it:

×××××××××××××××××××××××××××

- When Crosshair first returns to the batch, things are definitely awkward.

-Firstly, he gets his chip removed (I do not believe he actually had it removed... THERE WAS NO SCAR AND HE KEPT RUBBING HIS HEAD!!)

- Afterwards, he eventually assimilates back into the group, but he mostly bonds with Omega since the others are still weary.

- Omega shows Crosshair her bow and he's interested. He offers to help her practice (in a very blunt way but still) and she is so excited!

- They practice in Cid's bar, it mostly starts with a lot of tips and tricks from Crosshair to Omega.

- Omega and Crosshair will actually stay up and practice late into the night, but once Hunter tells them to go to bed, they will stop for the day.

- Crosshair will go with Wrecker and Omega to get Mantell Mix. Sometimes when Wrecker and the others are away, they will go on their own little adventure within the city. (I don't think they'd let Crosshair go on jobs for a while.)

- One time, somehow, Omega gets entered in a competition. Specifically one based on accuracy and sharpshooting.

-To be safe, Crosshair gets/makes Omega a helmet or mask to keep her identity secret. He doesn't need someone noticing and getting too close.

- Omega actually wins the competition and wins a hefty amount of prize money.

- When the rest of the batch returns, they are shocked to see Cid actually smiling, like wow. They also see Crosshair smiling a bit at Omega, who is jumping around excited holding the money.

- She runs up to Hunter and shows him, telling him about the competition. He's skeptical at first but when he sees the helmet or mask, he calms down a bit.

- Omega loudly exclaims how Crosshair is the best teacher ever! She runs over to Crosshair and hugs him.

- Crosshair goes tense, not used to the affection. He relaxes when Omega squeezes him extra tight and he chuckles, returning the hug.

- When Crosshair is able to go on jobs, he and Omega usually stick together. Hunter gets a little jealous in the beginning, but regardless he is happy to see Crosshair bonding with his sister.

- These two are a power duo! During jobs, those two cover the others with a practiced excellence.

-When the time comes for Omega to start wearing armor, Crosshair helps attach a better strap so she can carry her bow.

- The two are almost inseparable. Crosshair is still himself. Very stoic and grumpy, but he's always gentle with Omega. He's stern but careful with his words and how he talks to her.

-Omega is very outgoing in contrast, but she understands when Crosshair is just not feeling it. So she steps back for a moment and tries to be more calm on those days. Crosshair is very grateful for that.

-Both of them are grateful for each other. Omega helps Crosshair return to the normal speed of his family. Crosshair helps Omega (though he might not notice immediately) by giving her another brother. One who she holds near and dear to her.

×××××××××××××××××××××××××××

Hope you enjoyed! I wanted to get these out in prep of sorts for Name and Soul!

I hope to get more HCs, shorts, etc. out during the week!

Much love and molte benedizioni!

-Teeny 🌼

#clone trooper crosshair #omega #sibling bonding time #happy ending au #the bad batch

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fruitcoops · 3 years

Note

LOOPS RAILING CAP IN THE SHOWER - cause we all know he deserves it after a game

Not exactly after a game, but still some fun and frisky locker room shower times. Coops (and James) credit goes to @lumosinlove!

TW for smut, being sort-of walked in on (only after everything is said and done), cramping muscles

“Hurry up,” Sirius hissed as he teetered on one foot and accidentally dipped the toe of his sock into the water pooling beneath him.

“I’m trying!” Remus whispered back, still elbows-deep in his duffel bag. His face lit up and he rocked back on his heels with a small container.

“Absolutely not,” Sirius said immediately.

“It’s all I have!”

“Mon dieu,” he muttered, yanking his other sock off and kneeling by his own bag. “There is no universe in which that bullshit is going up my ass.”

“It’s Vaseline, baby, not battery acid.”

Sirius turned to him and raised an eyebrow. “It’s sticky, it’s slimy, and it’s cold as shit. You hate it, too!”

“Fair point.”

With a quiet, triumphant ‘ha!’, Sirius emerged with a small tube of clear aloe gel. “Who’s the Boy Scout now, sweetheart?”

“You’re the Boy Scout,” Remus grumbled, wincing as he stood and his knees crackled. “Alright, scoot, we don’t have a ton of time.”

“Oh, baby, talk dirty to me,” Sirius deadpanned.

Remus made a face to hide his smile. “Shut up, you.”

He peeked around the edge of the shower stall once more before backing up against the wall, then stifled a shout at the cold tile between his shoulder blades. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“We do have a perfectly good shower at home.” Despite his words, Sirius could see the gleam of excitement in Remus’ eye as he was beckoned forward. The idea of maybe possibly maybe getting caught was a bit embarrassing if he thought about it too long, but it still sent a thrill through every nerve. That may have just been the feeling of Remus’ warmth on his front mixing with the chill on his back, though.

“Do you—” Sirius cut himself off with one more heated kiss, sliding a hand down Remus’ neck and laughing slightly at the squeak of his wet skin. “I wanna see you. Can you hold me up?”

Remus hummed, then pulled back with a thoughtful look. “Not before stretching. Sorry.”

“Pas de problem, mon coeur.” Sirius uncapped the aloe and handed it to Remus, using the side wall of the stall as a brace to hold himself up. He prayed his own tired muscles would do the job and not send them both tumbling to the floor in a heap of horniness.

“Here, let me…” Remus bit his lower lip and looped an arm under Sirius’ knee, lifting his leg around his waist. “Will that cramp?”

“Nah.”

He looked skeptical, but didn’t protest as he slicked his fingers and ran them down Sirius’ cleft. The water had finally started warming up to a more comfortable temperature; Sirius closed his eyes with a sigh and soaked in the feeling, letting the familiar tingles wash over him while Remus dragged his teeth along the side of his neck and the pad of his first finger slid in.

“You have magic fingers,” he murmured, gasping when cold air hit his pulse point. Whoever created aloe gel, I owe you a fruit basket.

He could feel Remus’ smile as his hitched-up thigh started trembling. “Merci.”

A door slammed down the hall and they both jerked in surprise—the digit rubbing gently around his outer muscle slipped very deep inside on very short notice and Sirius’ yelp was quickly muffled by Remus’ palm. “Fucking Christ,” he wheezed, torn between moaning in contentment and shrieking like a little girl at the sudden intrusion.

“Sorry, sorry, it was an accident.” Remus kissed his cheek. “Are you okay?”

“All good.”

“Will this be enough?"

“Considering we have—” Sirius did some awkward gymnastics to spot the wall clock. “—shit, just under an hour until the guys should start showing up, it’ll have to be.”

Remus chewed on the inside of his lip and glanced at the aloe. “I don’t know…”

“Hey.” Sirius cupped his face and kissed him. “This isn’t my first horse show.”

“Rodeo.”

“Same thing.” Remus’ lips twitched upwards and warmth spread all the way down to his toes, not just from the showerhead still spraying them like a firehose. “Besides, God knows you stretched me well enough last night.”

His concern turned to smugness and he crooked his finger slightly. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Bastard.”

The playful insult came out a little breathy as Sirius leaned his head back against the wall, losing himself to Remus’ practiced movements and damp, smooth skin touching him everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Something blunt and quite a bit slicker nudged his entrance after a moment—after a slow exhale on Remus’ part and a whine from Sirius, he was in to the hilt with all ten fingers gripping Sirius’ hips.

“Oh, fuck.” Sirius was rather winded for reasons he couldn’t spare the braincells to name, and Remus laughed under his breath as he began to move. “Oh, fuck.”

“Shh.”

“I can’t.”

“I know you can.”

“I don’t want to,” Sirius corrected, rocking his hips to match Remus’ thrusts. His fingers began to get sore from holding the stall so tight, but heat was building in his gut and he was hard enough to almost hurt in the best way. “God, there.”

“Not god, just me.”

He flicked his arm with a teasing grin. “Smartass. This is exciting.”

“Uh-huh.” Remus caught him by the thigh as his other knee buckled after a particularly nice angle. “Can’t hold you, can’t hold you, baby—”

“Got it,” Sirius managed, propping himself up again. A clunky door echoed in a faraway corridor and he heard Remus’ breath catch. “Keep going.”

“Someone’s gonna hear.”

“So?” He quirked an eyebrow and wrapped his free arm around Remus’ upper chest, drawing him even closer for a kiss that was more tongue than lips. “That’s the whole point, right?”

“The point—” Remus punctuated his words with a harder thrust that left Sirius’ scrabbling for grip on the wet tiles with a shaky sound. “—is that we could get caught. We could get caught, and then everyone would see how whiny, and needy, and lovely you are while you’re begging for me.”

“Oh my god,” Sirius practically whimpered. He swallowed hard and wrapped his leg tighter around Remus’ waist.

The water was starting to lose some of its heat, but he was dizzy with lust, and pure pleasure dripped like wildfire through his veins. “Actually, I think they already know,” Remus murmured into the hollow of his throat, leaving a light bite there. “Our friends don’t need to find us fucking in the showers, do they? They just need to take one look at you and they’ll know that as soon as I get you between the sheets, you’re a wreck.”

Sirius’ eyes fluttered shut; he couldn’t seem to close his mouth anymore, nor could he muffle the short, guttural sounds slipping out with every quick movement. His left leg was completely numb; it was a miracle it hadn’t given out yet.

“But no,” Remus continued, hoisting him back up into the proper place with a huff. “No, we just have to be that couple that sneaks into the locker room an hour before call time because we just love to tempt fate.”

“This was—your idea—too,” Sirius panted.

“Yeah, because I can’t keep my hands off you.”

He melted into Remus’ palms as they ran along his ribs and back, then down to his ass to give it a firm squeeze. “Close?” he asked, half-slurred.

“Not as close as you.”

His free leg tried to buckle again as Remus stroked along his shaft, but he forced it to stay steady and settled for gritting his teeth around a loud moan that would surely give them away. Remus smiled and upped the pace, but kept his hips moving at the exact same speed. The contrast made Sirius’ head spin. “Please, please, please, please—”

Teeth sank into the junction of his shoulder and all the air fled his lungs. “What else do you want, baby?”

“I don’t know.” It came out far needier than he intended, but who cared? Stars were already popping at the corners of his vision, and he couldn’t even feel the lukewarm water very much anymore.

“Come.”

“I c—”

“Now.”

Sirius took one shallow breath, two, and then shuddered apart, leaning all his weight into the tiles while Remus pulled out and came on his inner thigh. Through his hazy vision, he saw they still had about forty minutes until any of the others would show up. “Love you. Oh, fuck yeah,” he sighed.

Remus made a questioning noise against his collarbone; Sirius felt his heartbeat pounding under his hand.

“We’ve got time to spare.”

“Thank god,” Remus said with a breathless laugh. “I don’t actually want anyone to catch us.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” Sirius agreed. “I think I’d rather—”

“Sup, Mad-Eye?”

Both of them froze in place as a cheerful voice rang out down the hallway. Sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floors, drawing closer every second. Sirius had gone ice cold, but he didn’t think it was just the shower’s fault.

“Go, go, go!” Remus hissed, yanking away.

Unfortunately, Sirius’ thigh decided that was the perfect moment to cramp so hard it made his vision go white for a second. As soon as his foot touched the ground, his whole hamstring seized, and he doubled over with a strained “motherfucker!”

“Get up!”

“I can’t!”

James’ footsteps were getting louder. Sirius cursed under his breath and limped after Remus into the shitty little janitor’s closet in the corner, wedging himself next to a mop as he bit down on his knuckles to stifle the pained groans building in his throat. Remus shot him an apologetic look and squeezed his hand in sympathy.

The closet was not meant for much more than a handful of emergency cleaning supplies, let alone two mid-season-muscled hockey players. They were pressed chest-to-chest, holding their breath as doom approached.

Well, not doom. Just utter, world-ending humiliation. Not the kinky kind, either.

James whistled to himself as he neared the locker room—two seconds after Sirius buried his face in the side of Remus’ neck to breathe through the agony in his leg, the door slammed open and his best friend began clattering around.

All of a sudden, the room fell silent. Shit.

“Hello?” James called, sounding much too amused for his own good. “Anyone in here?”

Sirius’ pulse hammered in his ears.

“Huh. Looks like somebody left the shower on,” James said with a dramatic gasp. “And what’s this? Two whole duffel bags?”

Fuck, Remus mouthed as Sirius straightened up with a wince.

James started laughing. Deep, deep in his soul, Sirius knew he had spotted the aloe. The squeaking stopped just outside the closet. “Good morning,” James singsonged, though he didn’t open the door.

Remus opened his mouth, resigned, but Sirius jabbed him in the chest with his pointer finger and shot him a warning look. They weren’t going to engage in conversation while naked and crammed in a janitor’s closet. Especially not when James Potter was on the other side.

“I think it’s a little early for all this, but I could be wrong.” He could almost see James shrugging through the thick wood. “I suppose you’ve gotta take what free time you have. Cap, your showers are a lot nicer than these, though. At least they stay warm for more than a few minutes.”

Remus thudded his forehead against Sirius’ sternum.

“Alright, alright,” James said after a moment of quiet. “If anyone were to perhaps be hiding after getting off in the shitty team showers at seven in the morning—at least, I hope you got off—they should feel free to come out of the closet in a much more literal sense because I am leaving. And I will be out of the locker room for five minutes. Once again, that is five minutes, and then I will be back in here to get ready for my job like a responsible adult.”

The door opened and closed again with a click. They both waited with bated breath.

“Ugh, fine,” James groaned. The hinges creaked, his footsteps faded, and there was a loud slam as it shut for real.

“I’m going to kill him,” Sirius said as they shuffled out of the closet, knocking over several spray bottles in the process. “Really, I will.”

“I’ll help you bury the body,” Remus said wearily as he tossed the aloe back in his bag with a sigh. “That was horrific. Think we can sneak out and back in without him noticing?”

Sirius narrowed his eyes at the door. “The son of a bitch will be waiting for us. It’s better to just accept our fate and let him have this.”

“We’re putting shaving cream in his gloves after this, right?”

“Actually, I think Vaseline would be better.”

#fanfic #my fic #sirius black #remus lupin #coops #wolfstar #lumosinlove #sweater weather #smut #shower #james potter #alastor moody

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highpope · 3 years

Text

"Boo!" (JJ x reader)

highpope's 13 nights of halloween - send in your requests

“C’mon guys, it’ll be fine.” John B called out behind him. You and the rest of the pogues had walked up a small gravel path to the abandoned church on the island. The boys had heard that it was actually haunted and had somehow convinced you to stay over so they could “ghost hunt.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s what you said last time and we ended up getting shot at.” You replied, tightening your hold on JJ’s hand. You had a small duffel bag around your shoulders and he was carrying two sleeping bags in his other hand.

“Which time?” Pope muttered, he also didn’t want to be there. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but he was sure to point out about every disaster and disease you could possibly contract from a building this old. We’ll be crushed and suffocated in our sleep, he had said.

“Hey, I warned y’all about Craine. It was JB that made us go in.” JJ said to the two of you.

“You guys aren’t really scared are you?” Sarah asked, turning around on her heels.

You looked at Pope, he narrowed his eyes back at you.

“Absolutely not,” JJ laughed, “lead the way, Blondie.”

When you finally pried the door open, the six of you were met with what genuinely looked like a horror movie. Pope was right, if you didn’t get sick from mold exposure, the ceiling was definitely going to collapse.

“Are we sure about this?” You asked, trying to reason with someone. Kie just shrugged and made her way through the debris, “we’ll be fine just gotta clean a few things up.” You reluctantly started helping clear a space to lay out your sleeping bags and settle in for probably the longest night of your life.

For the most part, the night had gone relatively well. John B and JJ were geeking out about how haunted this place was while using this camera Pope had recommended. It had a night vision lens and you could set it on a timer to turn on when it detects motion. They were very excited. You laughed, watching your boyfriend and bestfriend.

“So, what happens when we stay here all night and nothing happens,” Sarah joked, nudging Kie next to her. They were helping themselves to the blunt JJ rolled earlier, while you and Pope had just started a card game.

“I tell them I told you so and we move on with our lives,” He said.

“Ha ha,” JJ mocked.

John B shared a look with JJ before he responded, “You’ll see.”

Sarah rolled her eyes and went back to softly chatting to Kiara. Before you could return to your game John B spoke up again, “Oh, shit. Hey guys, can you run to the van and get my drawstring? I forgot the flashlights.”

“You forgot the flashlights? The one we need to go to the car…to get the flashlights.” Pope said, skepticism high.

“Yup.”

“You are su-”

“Hey,” you say, smacking his chest, “let’s just go. We’ll make it there before it gets too dark.”

Pope grumbled something under his breath before standing up and offering you his hand. You took it thankfully and shot a look at JJ before you turned back to the door.

“Be safe,” he called out to you tilting his head slightly.

“I’ll be so safe,” both you, Pope, and John B say at the same time, remembering a familiar joke.

“That is the last time I ever do anything nice.” He replied, finality in his tone.

“When do you ever do anything nice?” You hear Kie before the two of you are too far from the door.

The bath back to the road was a lot harder to see in the dark with no nearby lights. The trees towered above you, blocking most of the sky. You had to stay trained to your feet in order to ensure you wouldn’t fall or end up going the wrong direction.

You heard a branch snap behind you and you instantly froze. Slowly, you turn, afraid to find out what the actual cause was. When you can’t seem to see anything, you turn around to keep following Pope to the car. Only he wasn’t in front of you anymore. You tried to squint in the darkness to make out how far you were or where he could be, but it was no use. You could barely see past your hand.

You might as well keep going, you thought. Carefully, you tread down the path, focusing on every step. You only made it about four more seconds before you heard another branch snap. This time accompanied by a scream in the distance.

“Sarah?” you yell. You can hear your voice echo off the trees, “Pope are you there?”

You wait. All you received is silence in return. Your heart was starting to beat faster, adrenaline pumping as you tried to make a decision. You could turn back and try to make it back to the church or try to find the van and hopefully Pope. The latter seemed like the smarter idea, but the farther down the path you got, the darker it seemed.

You were on high alert. You heard another scream and that’s when you decided to run. You were sprinting down the path blindly, kicking up rocks and mud. You weren’t sure you were even going the right way, but you didn’t care. Your mind was racing and you had started to run out of breath.

You felt something touch your arm and you shrieked.

“Hey, hey!” Someone called out. You realize Pope had reached out to you.

“Shit,” you breathed, relief washed over your body.

He let go of you, “Let’s go get these stupid flashlights and get the hell out of here, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. You linked your arm with his and continued down the path once more. The pair arrived at the van in mere moments, unlocking the door and reaching inside to look for the flashlights.

“I think it’s in the back?” You suggested to Pope. His knees were on the seats in the middle row while his top half hung over the back.

He replied, but it was drowned out by the fact that he was upside down in the backseat.

“He probably didn’t even leave his stupid bag out here.”

Just then something grabs your waist, making you scream. You swing your arm behind you, yelling for Pope to help.

“Y/n, hey, it’s me.”

“JJ?” you yelled.

“Dude c’mon?” Pope said, obviously annoyed, “was this all some big prank?”

JJ brought a flashlight to his chin, turning it out and let out a menacing laugh.

“So not cool.” Pope said, slamming the van door and snatching the flashlight from him. He started walking back to the church.

You hit JJ on the arm.

“What was that for?” He replied, rubbing his forearm.

“For scaring me!”

“Baby, you have to admit it was kinda funny.”

“It certainly was not.” You pushed past him.

“I’m sorry. It was just a joke. I didn’t mean to make you scared,” He said, rushing to meet you, grabbing your hand with his.

“That was literally your intention.”

“Well, yeah,” he said sheepishly. You turned to leave once again, “But I thought you’d yell and then laugh about it.”

You groan.

“Look, I’m sorry. From now on, I promise only to protect you.”

“Okay,” you said hesitantly.

“Okay?” He pushed.

“Yes. Okay.” You said, rolling your eyes.

He leans down and kisses your forehead, “Okay baby, let’s move.”

JJ throws his arm around your shoulders and produces another flashlight from his jacket pocket. You feel yourself leaning into his side, happy not to walk back alone and in the dark.

“So,” JJ started when you had made it halfway up the walkway, “Did you think I was a ghost?”

#obx #obx fics #obx blurb #obx season two #obx season one #outer banks fic #outer banks #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #outer banks season 2 #JJ obx #halloween obx #halloween prompts #highpope halloween

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palbabor-writes · 3 years

Text

Latibule pt. ii

Pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, kinda heavy petting? we still going slow up in this ride, adult language, eventual SMUT, oh & Kiyoomi being a blunt asshole

Words: 12,880

His usual spot at the cafe is taken, and he’s already decided to keep walking on, but somehow, somehow, he manages to catch your eye.

His feet are slowing, a stuttering breath stagnating in his lungs, all at once hopeful and bewildered, but before he can examine his fluttering emotions, you’re alongside him on the noisy sidewalk, passing him his usual evening drink, a pleased smile on your soft lips.

Suddenly, the world smells like velvety pine and heady bergamot, and he can’t stop staring down at you.

Notes: me: try to keep it at 7,000 words, also me: what’s a word count?

i owe my life to @wickedfaerytale & @albinoburrito for their edits and suggestions on this monster. i love you both & appreciate you to the moon and back.

Latibule

pt. ii: Four Set

a high set to the strong side/outside hitter

[ pt. i: an opening ] ||

[ You: 4:35pm ]

Hey! It’s me– from the coffee shop. Wanted to see if you were busy this evening? Maybe we can meet up when I get off?

[ Sakusa: 5:02pm ]

I know. Sure.

[ You: 6:21pm ]

Great! I’m off at 9:30. Want to meet at the shop?

[ Sakusa: 7:10pm ]

Read at 7:10pm

“Is he coming?” Kane asks, following you out of the coffee shop and pausing under the shallow awning, twisting his head, watching your back as you turn the key in the door. You tug against the handle, testing the hold, your hands heavy against the cool metal.

“I don’t know,” you sigh, eyes peering into the darkened depths of the cafe lobby. “It says he read the last text, but he didn’t respond. He’s likely busy. I have no idea how long they practice; he’s a professional athlete, and after seeing that game...well, I can only imagine how intense his training schedule is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move like that before it was so fluid, like watching quicksilver.”

“Eh? Quicksilver? What is this, a poetry slam? Who describes people like that? Still, I bet he does, like, 20,000 sit-ups a day. You can tell, even under that baggy jacket, that he’s crazy fit,” Kane ruminates, leaning against one of the stacked sets of metal chairs. “Damn. It’s kinda crazy to think about, you know? You and a hot pro athlete going out on a date.”

You huff out a laugh and give him a playful scowl. “Ugh, shut up, you’re so rude, Kane. And I wouldn’t say it’s a ‘date.’ We just exchanged numbers. That’s all.”

“Oh? I’m sorry. You’re totally right. All those googly eyes must have happened with someone else. Definitely not you and that six-foot monster of a man. I mean, usually the guy just sits at his seat and ignores us, watching those videos on his computer and taking his notes, or he gets his coffee and is on his way, but today he was practically sitting on the hand off plane, and staring at you.

Don’t gimme that face! You know I’m right. And–awe, look at you! So bashful! Oooh, you like him, don’t you? That’s so cute! Come on (Y/N), that’s so––ow!”

“Didn’t you say you had a paper to write?” you grumble, shoving your knuckles against his shoulder again. “There was so much whining from you tonight. Way worse than usual. So many, ‘hurry up, (Y/N)! I need to get home. What if this makes me bomb my paper! What if I fail the class because of this?’ What happened to all that? Huh? Suddenly you’ve got time to suss’ me out on the sidewalk?”

“Yow! So touchy! And this is totally workplace harassment, ya’ know! Jeez, that’s a mean right hook you’ve got. You didn’t even warn me! Eee, I’m gonna be bruised tomorrow!”

“Oh, shut up. You completely deserved that. Now go away and go finish your paper, you soon to be fail––”

“You said 9:30, right?”

The sound of Sakusa’s low voice startles you and you spring away from Kane, head whipping around and eyes wide. He’s standing a few feet behind the two of you, his shoulders curved into their usual hunch, eyes dark behind his fringe of curls. Under his golden jacket, a crisp white shirt is stretched across his broad chest, the bottom tucked carefully into the front of his jeans, and his MSBY bag is hanging against his back. His onyx hair looks heavy and you can see some lingering moisture, no doubt from a recent shower, glistening against the raven waves.

“Hey!” you call, unable to bite back the elated grin that’s suddenly curving the edges of your lips. Kane is right about one thing, you think, stepping closer to Sakusa’s stiff form. This is kinda surreal. “We just finished closing up. Uh, this is Kane,” you wince, gesturing to the smirking face of your coworker.

Shit. Stop it. You sound like an idiot. He knows who Kane is. You’ve seen them talking at the register before, but the rambling introduction keeps tumbling out of you. “He works here. He’s usually at the register, he’s learning, um, the bar and–uh. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, you’ve seen him before, uh, probably...definitely...ha, but, er–”

“And that’s my cue,” Kane chuckles, shaking his head at your janky attempts to introduce him properly to a man that he’s known, in passing, for over a year. “Nice seeing you Sakusa-sama,” he bows, tossing you a cheeky wink from his polite curve, “you guys have fun.” And with that, he’s gone, leaving you and the impassive Sakusa alone on the empty street.

A hushed quiet falls over the two of you as you adjust the straps of your purse, eyes lowered. Stop freaking out, you chide yourself, taking a deep inhale of air into your lungs, fingers padding aimlessly over the leather slings of your bag. Just talk with him. It’s always easier when you ask the questions first, since he’s not much of a talker. So ask him about something he can answer.

Volleyball. Yeah, ask him about that. It’s not exactly a groundbreaking conversation starter, but it will work.

Strategy set, confidence mounting, you open your mouth.

“So, how did your practice–” “How was your day–”

He speaks when you do, and the two of you clatter directly into each other, words smattering into nothingness as you both fumble into an uneasy silence again.

Hopeless, you’re both hopeless. It’s kinda funny, in a horrifically awkward way.

“Uh,” you grin, eyes finally lifting to his. “You first?”

The gentle thud of his heart echoes against his ears and his breath is hot under the cover of his mask. You’re so close. If he wanted to, he could reach out and touch you, could drop his hand from his pocket and let it slip into yours again. That thought makes his palms feel itchy, and he scrapes his nails down the skin, easing the ache.

Not yet.

He watches you as you shake your head, a glowing smile breaking across your lips. You’re not just pretty, he thinks, unconsciously drifting closer, you’re captivating. It’s like you’re some kinda homing beacon.

He’s a cautious guy, always has been. But something about you makes him want to blindly reach, to be nearer to you.

“Practice was fine. Where did you want to go?” he murmurs, fingers lifting, tugging his mask down his face.

He wants to kiss you.

It’s been on his mind all day, through the training, through the practice games, hovering over him, shrouding him with the foggy remembrance of the pressure of your lips. He’d fucked your first one up and he wants to try again, to do better. But it’s different when you’re expecting it, when he can see your gaze following the downward pull of his hand, your eyes hooded and watchful as he reveals the lower portion of his face to you. When you bite your lip into your mouth, teeth pressing before slowly letting the plump flesh spring free again, he nearly groans aloud.

He wonders if you’ll let him do it, let him kiss you, and that thought makes him feel lightheaded. You’re so close––No, he gulps, jaw clenching and shoulders straightening, his back arching upward and right foot jerking a step, pulling away from your tempting openness. It’s too much, it’s too soon.

Just wait, he reminds himself, be patient. Not now, not yet.

You notice his shift and look up at him curiously, popping your weight onto your other leg, one hand braced against your hip, but you still smile up at him, acknowledging his unspoken cues for distance. “Well, I was going to see if you wanted to get a drink.”

“I don’t like bars,” he blurts.

Your eyes widen and you suck a sharp breath into your lungs, lips falling into a half-formed ‘oh.’

No. He didn’t mean it like––Damn it.

Kiyoomi flinches, nose wrinkling and mouth pulling into a thin line. He’s not good at this.

“Mm, well, this is less of a bar and more like a gastropub. It’s small, laid-back. Plus, it’s a Tuesday night, they’re gonna be slow, and if they’re not, we can leave and try something else...”

“It’s fine,” he rectifies sharply. Again, he sounds too harsh. “I don’t care about any of that. If it’s slow or not. If you want to go, we’ll go. I didn’t...I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Don’t worry about it. Besides, I didn’t think it was rude.”

Kiyoomi jerks his chin up, his mouth pressing into a pursed frown, peering skeptically at you, eyes narrowed. You let out a laughed exhale and tilt your head, quickly shrugging your shoulders, attempting to mollify his mistrustful stare. “I mean it!” you insist, waving your hand. “I’ll take someone who’s blunt any day of the week. It’s exhausting trying to read people who are good at hiding behind smiles, or false facades. You always know where you stand when someone is straightforward. Seriously,” you continue, grinning up at his abashed expression, “it doesn’t bother me. Be yourself. Besides, I like it. It kinda makes me jealous…”

“Jealous?” Kiyoomi echoes, watching you step past him and down the darkened street. His heart is beating out that uneven tattoo again, and it feels like he can’t catch his breath. What do you mean, ‘you like his bluntness’? No one’s ever told him that. No one’s ever told him to ‘be himself’ either. And, as if that wasn’t enough for him to chew on, now you’re casually saying that you’re jealous of his unapologetic retorts. It doesn’t make any sense.

“Sure,” you nod, slowing your footfalls, letting him catch up with you as you stride down the sidewalk. “I always lean on the polite side of things, likely because I’ve spent too many years in customer service, haha. So it’s refreshing to hear someone just speak their mind. Besides, you don’t strike me as someone who’s careless with what they say to others; you’re candid, but careful, you just don’t mince your words. Nothing wrong with that. Anyway, I’m babbling, again. Looks like you kinda have that effect on me, huh?”

His lips quirk at your admission and he steps a little closer, the fabric of his jacket wicking across your clothed arm as he matches your pace. “Is it far?” he asks after a time, watching as the lights of the main street twinkle between the lumbering edges of the buildings.

“Not much farther. But you might wanna put your mask up, we’ll go past the cross street and that area is always a little busy this time of night.”

[ Damn. That’s––The fact that that thought would even cross your mind–– ]

His hand is out of his pocket before he can blink, seeking the soft warmth of your curled fingers, cupping over your knuckles as he heeds your advice with his other, tugging his mask up and pinching it securely over the bridge of his nose. He can feel your eyes on him, but he doesn’t pause, doesn’t look down. He likely should have asked. After all, he doesn’t know you that well. But you ease your digits against his, your thumb curling over the joint of his ring finger, and his lips twitch into a smile.

You greet the girl behind the hostess stand with a hug and a few other members of the staff walk up to the table that you select, big grins and booming voices calling out jovial ‘hello’s’ and ‘good to see you’s’.

“You come here a lot?” Kiyoomi inquires, slouching against the cushions of the booth, obsidian eyes peering around the space. The table is off to the side, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the main dining area and bar, and is half covered by a glass wall that provides the two of you with an extra buffer of privacy. It’s an ideal spot, and he’s inwardly grateful that you’d chosen it.

“I used to work here,” you answer, lifting your purse onto your lap before fishing around for something within the depths of the leather. “I–ah! Here it is. I always lose stuff in here, it’s like a black hole, no matter how many times I organize it, it goes right back to being a mess. Price you pay when you have a big bag, I guess.” You lift a small bottle of hand sanitizer out and dollop some onto your palm. He blinks, following the rapid motions of your hands as you clean them off with the solution. That’s...nice. Nice feels like a strange word for this observation, but it’s true. You spy his gwaping expression and hold the bottle out, nodding your head at his coiled fingers. “Want some?”

“Thanks,” he rumbles, mimicking your motions as he eases the cold sanitizer against his chapped hands. “So you worked here?”

“Yeah! I did this and the coffee shop for a while. I was behind the bar, mostly. It was a good job, but when things picked up with my degree plan, I had to drop it.”

“Ah,” Kiyoomi hums, pulling his mask off and tucking it carefully into the pocket of his jacket. “That’s why you knew it wouldn’t be busy.”

“Yup! Tuesdays and Wednesdays are always slow. This is likely the busiest it will get. They have food here too, if you’re hungry. Got some good sushi and the agedashi tofu is one of the best in the city.”

“I already ate.” [ Shit. ]

“Ohh-kay. Well, I’m probably going to get something. They’ve got non-alcoholic drinks as well. Should be at the bottom of the menu.”

“I said I don’t like bars, not that I don’t drink.” [ Fuck. ]

“Fair enough,” you shrug, cocking your head at his clenched jaw and averted eyes. “You see anything you want?”

“Sorry,” Kiyoomi sighs, lifting the paper menu and scanning the side that lists the specials.

“I told you,” your voice is soft, and he glances up at you, glad to see that you’re still smiling happily at him, “I don’t mind. Tell you what, if you go too far I’ll let you know, sound good?” You stretch your hand toward him, bunching your fingers, except for your pinky, which is waiting, outstretched, and reaching toward him.

“What?” he asks, chin dipping and heavy brows furrowing as he eyes your hand suspiciously.

“Whaddya’ mean, ‘what?’ It’s a pinky promise. You’ve never done this before?”

“I’ve never done this before,” he deadpans, blinking slowly.

You guffaw and the burst of joyous sound makes him snicker too, his shoulders easing from that all too familiar hunch, his head ducking, the faint stain of a blush seeping over his cheeks. It’s just a laugh, he reasons, annoyed by his flushed skin and twitching fingers. Why is he getting worked up? He takes a second to refocus, but when he does, you’re still waiting for him, your pinky wiggling, blithely enticing him.

“It’s easy,” you promise. “You just hook your smallest finger with mine and we shake once on it and boom, that’s an unbreakable promise. And, well, if it kills you then I guess you’ll go down in a book of world records or something.”

Kiyoomi scoffs at your jab and lifts his arm onto the table, holding his pinky out, waiting for you to make the last move, rolling his eyes at your dramatically slow approach.

Your touch is gentle, finger ghosting over the middle joint of his pinky, curling slowly, teasingly, before it wraps around the width of his digit. Then you give him a quick squeeze, swiftly bobbing your joined fingers in a mock shake. It’s over in an instant, but you maintain the touch, gradually untwining your crooked digits. “Your fingers are long,” you observe, eyes catching his before traveling back to that lingering connection, distractedly easing your fingertip down the line of his hand and pausing against the base of his wrist.

It feels like his entire arm is electrified and a fine shiver of goose flesh breaks across his warm skin. His mouth is open, lips parted as he sucks in a shallow drag of air and he can’t stop staring, wholly enraptured by your flirtatious strokes. When your eyes rake upwards to playfully find his, that pleased smile soft against your lips, he thinks he might just lurch forward and grab you.

“There,” you beam before pulling away. “Now that that’s done, what are you gonna’ order?”

He lets you place your drink order first, saying he needs to keep looking, that it has been a while since he’s had a drink, and he’s never been all that sure of his preferences, anyway.

It’s an unexpected admission.

If there’s one thing that you’ve been relatively sure of, it’s that Sakusa is a man who doesn’t hesitate. In the two years that you’ve known him, granted from the other side of the counter of a coffee shop, he’s always known what he wants and is confident in his selections. He can rattle them off by rote, by flavor, by taste, by temperature, so seeing him this off balance, a little frazzled and out of his depth, is a bit of a surprise.

He’s not fidgety, his hands are resting placidly in his lap, feet evenly placed on the floor, but you can tell there’s an underlying thrum of agitation behind all those half ducked glances he keeps giving you, his obsidian eyes sharp, gleaming like flints each time they linger against you. He’d laughed once, before you’d squeezed his pinky with yours, and then promptly fallen back into that sullen silence, answering your questions with one word quips or hushed murmurs.

It made you feel guilty.

He said he hated bars, so maybe you should have taken that admission a little more seriously. But out of all the places the two of you could go, this late at night in downtown Osaka, you’d figured that this was likely the quietest, the one where he’d feel the most comfortable.

“So you’ve played with them for two years?” you ask, giving your server a quick thanks as they sit your drink down. “That’s impressive. But you said you went to school for four? That’s different. I bet most players skip college and go right for the pros, so why didn’t you do that?”

“Volleyball isn’t everything,” he answers, tone clipped, matter of fact, as he watches you take a sip of your drink, waiting for the clink of the ice and the gentle clatter of the glass as you set it back down on the table before he continues. “I’m not invincible. Someday I won’t be able to play. And it makes sense to have a backup, something that I can do later.”

You pop your chin into your upturned palm, lips resting against your curled fingers. “True. You’re very thorough, you know?”

Sakusa’s forehead creases, and those two perfectly stacked moles lower over his right eyebrow. “I like to do things properly, that’s all. It just feels right. To take things one step at a time. I do that with everything. I guess most see it as something repetitive, or monotonous, all those basic tasks that you do day in, day out, but I like it. And if you think of them as mindful tasks, rather than mindless, then you can get to that point where those little things become pleasure, instead of drudgery. I know that I’m not guaranteed anything, but, if I’m lucky, I’ll be able to go out, to leave volleyball, satisfied. Knowing I did my best.”

It sounds stupid to his ears, pompous, and as soon as he finishes his preamble, he lets out an inaudible sigh, teeth worrying against the soft flesh of the inside of his mouth. Damn it. Why did he say all that? What’s the point? You’d only asked him about college and here he is, rattling off his ideologies and distant thoughts. Why did he–

“That’s...that’s a cool way of looking at it.”

His jaw is gritted, his face covered by a sheen of impassive blankness. But he looks up when you say that. He wants to see you, even if it’s only to take in your bewildered amusement. But you’re not giving him some piteous smirk, no, you’re looking at him like he’s helped you solve a long awaited puzzle, and your face is filled with the softest, haziest glimmer of ardent happiness that he’s ever seen. Your smile broadens, and he looks away, fingers feeling blindly for the pulse in his lowered wrist.

His heart’s pounding.

How do you do that? Then, as he tries to steady his shaking breaths, you lean back, lifting your glass to your parted lips to take a quick sip, a distant look in your eyes.

“You know, I’ve never really thought about it that way, but you’re right. I always have so much trouble explaining that mindset to new hires. Like, how do you tell them that, yeah, while this seems like a stupid thing we have you do, to keep busy during the slow period of the day, it matters in the long run. Take our cleaning routines, if you don’t clean something, and clean it diligently, then the gunk and grime builds up, and it’s harder to get out later. Things harden, become set in their ways, and I guess the same thing can happen to the pros too. It seems like most don’t go to school. They just slip right into the sport–after all, if you’re good enough to make it onto a division ranked team right out of high school, then there you go, that’s your end goal, right?

But I like that you took the little steps, the ones that people ignore, or try to bypass. It’s another sort of preparedness, really. Others may not see it that way, might think of it as wasted time, but you did what felt right for you and I know it’ll pay off. It’s–oh! Sorry! I’m babbling again! Ha, God, I’m gonna stop, okay?”

“You don’t have to,” Kiyoomi utters, arms lifting from his lap, pressing against the smooth wood of the table, ignoring the racing of his heart. “I liked it. I’m glad that you...I liked it. Keep talking. I like hearing you talk. And, uh, can I try your drink? I know nothing about gin, or whiskey, or whatever that is. I usually just stick to beer and sake.”

You bite your lip, a soft chuckle falling between the two of you, and press two fingers bashfully against your nose, covering your giddy smile and pushing your drink forward, toward his open palms. “It’s kinda nice to know that I’m not the only one who’s flustered. Hmm, but here. If you don’t drink much, then you may not have had this before. Sorry if it’s strong. Also, I go for brown liquor, so it’s got rye for the base.”

“Rye’s a whiskey, right?” he asks, pushing the tiny black straw aside and taking a careful swig from the rim of the glass. It’s got a smooth flavor, almost like the caramel notes of his doppio con panna, but without that cloying sweetness that sometimes sits against the back of his tongue when he’s finished. Instead of the hum of sugar, there is only a shiver of bitterness and then the quick bite of the alcohol is gone, passing over his teeth and down his throat in a single gulp.

It’s good.

Better than he expected. And he passes the glass back, his fingers holding against the cool surface, waiting for yours. “I’ll get that,” he tells you, an impish smirk lifting his lips. “It’s perfect.”

After that-and a second round of drinks-the night went a little smoother. He did his best to not lapse into unsociable silences and you did just as he’d asked of you and kept talking.

You traded the basics, where you were born, talked about your family, your education, degrees, pets, and, slowly, the uncertainty simply faded away.

You were easy to talk with, impossibly so; always ready with another question, a congenial quip, or an antidote about your own life. Soon he was regaling you about his cousin, Motoya, the latest antics of his teammates, his hopes for the upcoming season, for the 2021 Olympics, for anything that he could think of, anything to keep you in that seat, to keep you chatting with him for just a little longer.

[ It’s late, but that doesn’t matter. Keep talking, ask her something else. ]

Is it supposed to feel like this?

He’s never really had a relationship; not when he was in high school or college, and any of his half-formed attractions always fizzled out before they ever really started. He was too busy, too one track minded to notice, [ to care ] to find the time [ to make the time. ]

It’s certainly not love, [ Tch. Love at first sight, who believes in stuff like that anyway, this isn’t some movie, plus he’s known you for years, so it’s not first sight either ] not yet, but there’s another feeling that’s laced within this humming excitement that keeps bubbling to the surface, that has him hanging onto every word that passes from your lips.

It’s want.

He wants more, greedily so, and he hasn’t experienced that feeling, outside of volleyball, in a long time.

“I’m not too far from here. I’ll just hop on the train and then be back in my district. Easy-peasy.”

Sakusa nods at your jovial reassurances, hoisting his track bag higher against his shoulder, following you toward the lights of the street. It’s late, later than he’s used to, and his eyes feel heavy. The lull of the alcohol isn’t helping either, so he shuffles closer, bumping unevenly against you every few steps. You twist your head toward him, a faint smile on your lips, eyeing his lumbering form skeptically. “Sure I don’t need to walk you to your station, Sakusa? You look dead on your feet. Sorry I kept you out so late.”

“You didn’t,” he sighs, his words rasping past a yawn. “I wanted to stay. I’ll regret it tomorrow. For now, I’m fine.”

“Pfft, okay, well, I’ll look forward to receiving your annoyed text about me keeping you out past your bedtime in the morning then.”

Huh? Text? You want him to text you in the morning? Can he do that? Be the first person you think of when your notification lights up your dark screen, the first one that you reply to. Shit. What–what does that mean?

Sakusa slows, his hand reaching for you.

He misses your arm and snags your purse instead, jerking the straps, and by association you, a little harder than he intended. [ Damn it. His coordination’s off. ] You stumble backwards, shoulders bracing against his broad chest, and you blink up at him. You lift your face, looking at him curiously. He’s already peering down, and the glow of the distant street-lamps makes the onyx of his irises morph from jet to a rich blue. For a long breath both of you simply stare, content to watch the other, waiting for some kind of advancement in this stalemate.

You cave first. “Um, you alright?”

“What are we?” he asks pointedly, large palms running up the sides of your arms, his head tilting, dropping raven curls over his brow.

“Friends?” you reply, but it feels more like a question than an answer and you let the word hang, unsure what else you can say, what else he wants to hear. You feel a bated breath leave his lungs. It dips you back as his chest falls, slipping you minutely closer even as his hands droop limply from the curve of your shoulders. His eyes shift from yours and his lips fade into a thin line as he steps away, letting you slip from his grasp. The air between you changes, hardening back into that early uncertainty, and by the time you turn to face him fully, his hands are re-tucked into his pockets and his slouch has returned.

“What’s wrong?”

You know, but you don’t want to assume. You’d warned him after all; you’re not good at being blunt.

He gives you a frank stare, dark brows creasing, furrowing his expression. “Friends means I can’t kiss you.”

For a moment you can’t feel your heart. You know it’s beating, still diligently pumping blood through your body, but as that declaration leaves his lips it’s like your entire world has narrowed. He wants to...how can he just say that? Just blurt out whatever comes into his head and not care what happens after. Where do you find confidence like that?

You flash your gaze upward and he’s still looking at you, his unmasked face open as he stares, dark eyes watchful, half veiled behind his lashes.

He waits. He’s good at that, you think, feeling a smile creep across your face as your tongue passes over the swell of your lower lip. He instantly tracks the movement and takes a shallow step forward. You can hear his fingers coiling and uncoiling inside of the slick lining of his pockets, but that simple, near silent admission of his nervousness makes up your mind.

“Well,” you begin, eyes lowering, easing closer, pressing until you can almost feel the heat of him against you. Your hands lift tentatively, passing over the flat, honed planes of his chest until they come to rest against the top of his stomach. His nostrils flare at the tempered stroke but the rest of him remains stock still, wholly rooted to the spot, listening, observing, a glimmer of distant hope cresting against the back of his mind.

[ Yes. Keep going. Don’t stop. ]

Then, those final, all important words are leaving you, cast into the air.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Before you can look up at him, his hands are hovering beside your ears, the ghost of his touch urging you upward as he lowers himself over you.

His lips meet yours with a gentle tap and you can feel his unsteady exhale pass over your mouth as he allows himself to linger against you. It’s more like a press than a proper kiss, but you indulge him, gripping your impatient hands against the thin material of his jacket, giving him time to adjust. He’s featherlight, his lips scratchy, but the lubrication that your swiped tongue has left behind eases the touch and he gasps when you lift to meet him, your lips gliding over his.

Then he’s wavering; like he can’t decide.

He shifts away, only to return moments later, lips never fully leaving yours, caressing until you’re doggedly chasing after him, a poorly concealed groan slipping from your throat. He hums appreciatively at your enthusiasm and steps impossibly closer, his fingertips tapping under your jaw and down your neck.

On one of his shuddering pulls you slip your tongue over his lips, tracing the seam, wordlessly asking for him to deepen the kiss. The sound he makes in return is garbled, caught against his throat and lost in the shuffle of his hands, his breath, his want.

His arms are like steel cables as they twine around your waist, holding you to him as he finally opens, his teeth clattering against yours in his rush. You smile against his eagerness and pop onto the tips of your toes, hands releasing his jacket, sliding up his face before you let your fingers coil into his obsidian curls, your teeth nipping against his dampened lip. He lets out another hushed gasp, the flat of his palm warm against your shoulder blades as he urges you upward.

“You’re — mmm, you’re too tall, Sakusa,” you complain, finally easing away from his greedy kisses, and grinning when he follows.

“Kiyoomi,” he insists, hands cupping, thumbs tracing the edge of your jaw, dropping another kiss against your upturned lips. “Call me that. I want to hear it.”

You laugh and he huffs impatiently against you, brows folding into that deep crease. “Not joking,” he grumbles, lips and breath hot against yours, “I want to hear you say it.”

When you manage, at long last, to pull away from him again, your eyes bright, lips kiss shined and swollen, he knows this image of you will be etched into his mind for weeks to come. It’s perfect [ you’re perfect ] and all he can think about is that he wants so much more.

“Kiyoomi,” you call, head canted at his staggered expression, eyes glittering with fond amusement. “You’re kinda bossy, aren’t you?”

He scowls at your question and tugs you back, kissing you until your laugh fades away and his name comes a little easier.

[ You: 9:18am ]

You sure you want to go there? I don’t care if we do something else instead, your call.

[ Kiyoomi: 10:54am ]

Got the tickets. See you after your shift.

“Bringing your phone onto the court–ballsy move Omi,” Atsumu leers, dropping his bag beside Kiyoomi’s, a troublesome smirk on his face.

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi snaps, darkening the screen with a click and placing the device beside his trainers. “At least I know how to keep it hidden. And you’re the reason we’re banned from bringing them out here at all. You and your stupid snapchat stories.”

“Omi! Ya’ big jerk! Be quiet, ya’ know yer’ not supposed to mention that app where the coaches can–”

“Miya!” a booming voice calls from across the gym, “You better not be doing what I think you’re doing! If I catch you on that phone, you can expect to do a hundred serves at the end of this practice match! Got it?”

Kiyoomi scoffs, a lackadaisical grin ghosting over his lips as he neatly dodges Atsumu’s elbowed jab. “See? I’m not the problem here.”

“Such a jackass. It’s a miracle (Y/N) is even giving you the time of day.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kiyoomi bristles, heavy brows creasing.

“Means I don’t know what she sees in ya,’ you big dummy. Where you taking her this week?”

“Why do you care?”

“Damn it. Why do I bother? I mean really, am I some kinda masochistic or something? Yer’ terrible to talk with, but here I am, attempting some harmless small-talk. Cut a guy some slack, would ya’?”

“What are you talking about?” Kiyoomi stares, onyx eyes narrowing at Atusmu’s haggard expression.

“You! I’m just trying to have a conversation, you know, checking in, seeing how yer’ doing. Making sure you haven’t screwed things up yet. Ya’ know, being polite!” Atsumu glowers, golden hair falling over one umber eye as he flashes Kiyoomi a fixed glare.

“What would I screw up?”

Atsumu lets out a heavy sigh and shakes his head. “Tell you what, ask me that question again when you do, how’s that sound?”

“Miya–”

“Bringing your phone to practice, coming in late, or right before things kick off, yeah, you got it bad, don’t cha’? You better watch yer’self Omi.”

“The hell you talking about?” Kiyoomi sneers, chin lowering, steeling himself for one of Atsumu’s long-winded tangents.

“God, yer’ so dense, especially with shit that’s not volleyball. Come on, Omi, use your head. The coaches, the managers, they’re all gonna try and make you pick. That’s what they do. She’s a nice girl, and I’d hate to see her get caught up in all of that bullshit. Stop gaping at me like that! Like I’m not making any sense! I’m trying to look out for ya’! Not that you deserve it, being such a prickly asshole, and all...”

Kiyoomi sighs, lips pursing into a sharp point, his shoulders slumping forward, arms hanging limply against his sides. Fine, he’ll engage. Whatever. If it’ll get Atsumu to explain whatever the hell he’s talking about before the practice match, he reasons, then it’ll be worth it. “We’re going to the museum in Tennoji Park.”

Atsumu stares. “Damn. You agreed to go to a public park? In the daytime? That’s real big, if true.”

“I’ll serve every ball directly at the back of your head, don’t think I won’t.”

“Alright, alright,” the setter laughs, propping his hands against his hips. “Shocked yer’ not just staying close to that one restaurant. You seem like a, ‘this is what I like and I’m sticking to it’ kinda guy. Not one to branch out. You know, boring.”

“How do you know about the restaurant?”

“She told me about it?”

Kiyoomi curls his lip over his teeth. “When did she do that?”

“The other day, went by for a coffee.”

“Ugh,” he huffs, swinging one arm across his chest, stretching out the muscles of his biceps. “What else did she say?”

Atsumu grins, bracing his forearm against Kiyoomi’s shoulder, waggling his brows mischievously. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Fine. I’ll just ask her.”

“Ughhh, zero fun. That’s what you are. Tell me, ya’ got a mode that’s not: ‘Sakusa Kiyoomi, ‘the world’s most boring man’,” Atsumu groans, head dropping as he lets his body hang limply off of Kiyoomi’s stiffened form.

“Shut up. What we do isn’t your business anyway, so enough with the questions. You’re just poking your nose in shit that doesn’t concern you,” Kiyoomi accuses, shrugging Atsumu’s heavy arm off of his, glaring.

Atsumu straightens, a quiet scoff puffing between his smirked lips. “Fine. So touchy today. And you think this crap ain’t gonna bleed into your playing? Yer’ way–”

“Line up!” the assistant coach booms, silencing Atsumu’s bristled retort. Kiyoomi opts to hold his tongue, letting the setter pace away from him, eyes narrowing while sucking in a steadying breath before he follows.

Damn it. He got so caught up in––Atsumu never told him what he meant.

It’s early afternoon and the broad concrete pathways of the park are mostly empty. The spring flowers are in bloom and the ginkgo trees sway in the crisp breeze that dips in from the sea. It’s a beautiful day, but Kiyoomi can’t shake himself out of his head.

He’d stared dutifully at the portraits in the museum, read the placards that rested below the painted screens and pottery, and listened when you asked him questions, or answered his own. He shouldn’t be like this, he fumes, adjusting the ear straps of his mask as the two of you step out into the bright sunlight once more.

Who cares what Atsumu was trying to imply. It was vague and unhelpful; likely meant to get under his skin, something that–

“You alright?” Your voice shakes him out of his thoughts and he looks down at you, brows unknotting, eyes softening as they rake over your curious face.

“Yeah. Miya said something at practice that I’m having trouble forgetting.”

“Oh? What?”

He tells you, and it feels like some of the tension leaves his shoulders. It’s nice.

Usually he’s guarded, quiet. Sure, he’ll let others know what he’s thinking with little finesse, but that doesn’t mean they know the truth of what’s on his mind. This is different. With you it’s easy to disassemble, unexpectedly so. It’s only been a month since the two of you started seeing each other, but in that time he’s opened up more to you than he has to anyone, outside of his family, and he’s still not sure if he likes that.

[ That’s a lie. He likes it; he does. He’s just not used to it. ]

“Make you pick?” you ask, skimming your hand over the red railing of the bridge, head cocked thoughtfully to the side. “He actually said that?”

“Mentioned it. Like I said, Miya talks in circles. I usually just tune him out, but this felt...different.”

“Hmm,” you ponder, easily keeping up with his long strides, your body close to his. “Well, maybe he means they, the coaches that is, don’t want you to be distracted? I could see that. I mean, you are playing at an extremely high level and next year is the Olympics. Damn, it feels strange to say that. I know someone who’s playing in the Olympics…”

“I know that. And I’m not distracted,” his tone is clipped and his chin ducks, his side swept curls fanning over his left eye.

You look over at his tensed expression and puff out an exhale of air. “Well, maybe he’s just messing with you? You said he likes to do that.”

“Told you, this felt different.” The words are sharp, punctuated by his clenched jaw and the forward roll of his shoulders, and you suck your teeth softly, staring across the shimmering surface of the pond as the two of you cross the last stretch of the bridge. You’re on the back foot here, a little unsure of how to reassure him, but you can tell he wants to shake this off, so you press the issue, hoping it’ll help ease that stiff tension that’s building in his shoulders.

“Okay, it felt different. How so?”

The words come without hesitation. [ This isn’t normal for him, but it’s also so damn nice to know that he can be this comfortable with someone. ] “Miya usually babbles. Goes on and on about the most inane things. But he also loves to chatter about his reasoning, and this time he didn’t. Instead of answering my question, he gave me that shitty smirk and changed the subject to something he knew would distract me––why else would he say he’d gone by the coffee shop?”

“I mean, I don’t know him as well as you do, but he seems like the kinda guy who likes to provoke–to see if he can get a reaction out of you and...I know it’s not much of a reason, but maybe that’s all that it was?”

Kiyoomi gives you a curt nod and picks up his pace, his hands coiling into clenched fists within the confines of his pockets. You follow him, unsure if you should strike up another line of conversation or let him simmer for a bit. You opt for the latter and turn your attention to the scenery of the parklands, quietly studying the picnicking couples and laughing clusters of children that jostle beside a nearby set of monkey bars. No matter his mood, it’s a lovely day and you’re still glad he’d agreed to come with you to the park.

But when the trail reaches the main street, you pause. “Hey, you wanna call it a day?” you ask, a soft smile on your lips. If he needs time, you rationalize, then you can give him that.

Kiyoomi jerks to a stop, his heavy brows furrowing as he stares down at you. “What? No,” he grumbles, voice muffled by the fabric of his mask.

You raise your hands in a gesture of supplication, palms facing his looming form. “It’s just...you seem like you’re upset...”

“I am upset,” Kiyoomi answers frankly, his breath heavy.

His honesty never fails to catch you off balance, and you laugh cheerfully at his stoic expression. Kiyoomi promptly fixes you with a perturbed stare, his eyes narrowing. “Kiyoomi, if you’re upset, then we should head back. You don’t have to stick around me if you want space, I totally–– ”

“I don’t want space. I want to be here, with you,” he bites, stepping closer, watching as your grin fades into a perplexed gape.

For a breath you’re flabbergasted, lips parted, eyes wide, but with a shake of head you step forward, your arm twining with his, and dipped forehead pressing against the sleek material of his jacket. “Alright, then stay with me,” you smile, hands squeezing against his coiled muscles, a pleased warmth spreading up your joined arms before flowing downward, into the pit of your stomach.

The contact, as muted as it is by the shell of his track jacket, makes him shiver and he can feel the thump of his heart speed up. It presses against his ribs and makes his chest feel tight and his head light, and when your fingers slip into the warmth of his pocket, your smooth digits tracing the knuckles of his hand, he lets out a contented sigh before lightly brushing his chin over the top of your bent head.

“Come on,” he murmurs, the rich tone of his deep voice dampened by the stretch of his mask, but you can still hear the creep of his smile within the clipped words, “I’ve got an idea.”

You’ve walked past the training facility plenty of times, so many that it’s a blip on your radar now, its jagged silhouette falling into the category of mundane, but never, not in a million years, did you ever see yourself actually passing through those glass doors.

It’s a massive space.

The blazing down-lights scatter brightness over the finely polished elastic flooring. You’d worn comfortable shoes to the park, but they still scuff loudly against the unfamiliar material so you stop gawping and look toward Kiyoomi’s arched shoulders.

“Uh, are you sure we can be in here?” you ask, trying to keep your voice down, but it reverberates around the vast space and you wrinkle your nose at the sharpness of the sound.

“Yes. I work here,” Kiyoomi answers simply, tugging his mask down and stopping just short of one of the white lines, cocking his dark head at your question.

“Okay,” you snicker, rolling your eyes playfully at his static features, “let me rephrase that, are you sure I can be here?”

“Why would you being here be a problem? Practice is done for the day. It’ll be fine. Worst case, Bokuto or Miya might show,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders, a faint smile passing over his lips. “So what do you say, you wanna try to play?”

A full-throated laugh bubbles out of you, and you shake your head frantically. “No way! You’ll either kill me with one of those terrifying spikes, or be bored out of your mind trying to teach me the ropes. Besides, I haven’t played volleyball since middle school, and even then, I’m, uh, not sure a quick rotation in a 40 minute P.E. class counts as playing. It was more like all of us kids screwing around and testing out how many times we could annoy our teacher.”

He snorts at your explanation and strides over to a dark red cart, digging one of his long arms into the depths before straightening and returning with a yellow and blue Mikasa ball that’s perfectly balanced within his broad palm. “Humor me,” he smirks, one brow quirking upward.

“Tch, I’m not wearing the right clothes...or shoes,” you bemoan jovially, but you’re already letting your purse slip from your shoulders.

“So whiny,” Kiyoomi tuts, stepping away from the cart and tossing the ball rapidly between his spread hands. “That doesn’t matter. Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” you tease, a beguiling smile lifting your lips. He looks so good in here, you think, admiring the flex and bounce of his hands, the lean coil of his powerful neck that peeks from underneath his track jacket, so different from the stoic man who walked beside you in the park.

As soon as he touched the ball, his entire demeanor changed. Within the space of a few seconds he’d gone from hunched and brooding to dauntless and firm, all of his early agitation and uncertainty forgotten as he slipped into the comfort of his element.

“All right, coach,” you sigh with mock dejection, “where do you want me?”

“On the other side of the net. See that line? The first one past the netting? That’s the attack line. Stand there.”

He’s clear-cut in his instruction, telling you where to plant your feet and how to stand with the correct form. You listen intently, nodding or asking one or two clarifying questions, and he’s patient with your queries, answering you swiftly and thoroughly, obsidian eyes keen as they follow your movements across the net.

“Alright, that looks good. We’re going to do a simple drill, the catch and throw. Don’t worry about setting the ball, or receiving it with your arms, see how it feels to position yourself under it, just make sure it never gets behind you, and catch it with both hands and toss it back to me. Try and keep it in an easy arc.”

You blink at him, pulling your lips into an exaggerated frown. “Just catch it? That sounds too easy…”

“It’s meant to be. It teaches you how to see the ball. If you’re wanting something harder, I can always up the speed as you get better at it. Now, you ready?”

You nod and the ball lifts from his fingers in a flash, gliding over the net cleanly, and you shift back, arms outstretched, feet planted firmly against the slick flooring. You catch it neatly and mimic his overhand toss, sending it back to Kiyoomi’s half crouched form. But the arc isn’t controlled and the ball paps against the tape of the net, screwing up the trajectory and sending it shuddering toward the gym floor.

“Shit,” you curse, wincing at your clumsy return, but he’s already moving, his form a blur. He slides under it easily, back curved under his well-muscled legs, all ten fingers spread, as he neatly catches the ball, sending it prettily back to your side.

You’re so mesmerized by the fluidity of his supple form that you completely ignore the returning ball and it slaps against the floor with a crack. Always the professional, he’s intently watching the ball’s trajectory and doesn’t notice your open stare at first, but once his dark eyes flash back to yours a faint blush seeps across the well-cut apples of his cheeks and he ducks his head, obscuring his flush with a cascade of onyx curls. “That’s one point for me,” he sighs, his voice low, tone gruffly catching over the words as he studiously avoids your awed expression.

“Points?” you repeat dumbly, snapping your mouth closed before popping your hands on your hips, forcing yourself out of your stupor. “Hey! You didn’t say anything about points.”

“It’s a game,” he counters with a shrug of his broad shoulders, “of course there’s gonna be points.”

“Pfft,” you chortle as you walk toward the discarded volleyball. “What happened to this is just a drill?”

Thirty minutes later your hands are aching and you move sluggishly as your feet squeak over the polished flooring of the court. Kiyoomi, on the other hand, looks perfectly at ease, his eyes hungrily stalking the track of the ball as it flies to his side of the court. When you miss the next lightning quick toss that he sends your way, you drop your head and lift your hands, palms flattened and facing toward him, signaling your defeat as a heaving exhale leaves your straining lungs. “I think that’s it for me. I’m about to collapse onto the floor, like seriously. This is not a joke.”

Kiyoomi huffs out a bemused laugh and ducks under the netting, pausing beside your half crouched figure. He peers down at you through the lazy waves of his hair. You look staggered from the constant shuffling and overhand tosses, but you smile up at him and he can’t help but return it.

“I may be down for the count, but it looks like you wanna keep going,” you say coyly, eyes shining under the brilliance of the lights. [ You’re so pretty ] He [ wants to kiss you again ] sucks in a shallow breath and mutely nods at your assessment. [ Don’t go. ]

“Well,” you begin, lips falling into a thoughtful pout, arms twisting behind your back, “In that case, I’ve got some things that I need to finish up, anyway.”

[ No. Don’t go. Not yet. ]

“I left my laptop at the cafe, so I’ll head that way. Maybe I can see you–”

“Use mine.” The words leave him with a sigh, his voice hushed, but you hear him and your head whips up.

“What–I’m sorry, what?”

“Use my laptop. It’s here, in my locker.” [ Should he have said, please? He’ll say it, if that will get you to stay a little longer. ]

“You don’t...that’s not necessary–– ”

“I know. I want to,” he closes the distance between the two of you, his hand ghosting up the line of your arm. “Stay. If you want to.”

You contemplate his request, tapping a finger against your bottom lip, the flicker of a grin catching at the corners of your mouth. Finally, you nod.

[ Good. ]

He can feel his pulse against his eardrums and he feels jittery now but through that excited haze he tells you he’s going to change into his gym clothes and grab it, that there’s an outlet under the scorer’s table that sits at the edge of the court, and that he’ll be right back. He’s not sure why he feels the need to elaborate, that’s not like him, but he’s doing a lot of things that don’t feel like him these days.

He likes you; he thinks as he steps toward the double doors that will take him into the locker room.

He likes you so much.

When he returns, he’s wearing a dark pair of shorts and a bright yellow shirt emblazoned with the words Itachiyama VBC across his left pectoral. The laptop is propped under his muscled arm and he walks slowly toward you, dark eyes watching you thoughtfully. But you’re not meeting his gaze. No, your regard falls to the curve of his calves and the sharp jut of his ankles before you track back up to his thighs and linger over the ripple and pull of the corded brawn that peeks from under the line of his shorts, and it takes him clearing his throat to lure your eyes back up to his burning face.

You’ve seen him in his MSBY uniform, and you’ve seen him in various outfits over the last month, but the way you’re watching him right now makes his skin prickle and the air around the two of you feels charged, like the smallest push could create some kind of reaction.

He pauses beside the table and waits for you to sit before he leans down, one leg shaking restlessly under him as he clacks his passcode across the black keys. He’s lifting his right hand to click ‘enter,’ when you cup your hand under his jaw.

Kiyoomi quavers under your touch, a low shiver slipping up his spine as he twists to face you, his heavy brows arched and onyx eyes wide. He’s perfectly level with you and so close he can faintly smell your lavender shampoo. It’s a nice scent, lulling and woodsy and he wants to shift closer, but before he can act on his instinct you’re already leaning upwards and using your fingertips to dip his head forward, your lips pressing a chaste kiss against his topmost mole, breath warm against his heated skin.

“Thank you,” you purr, delicately resting the tip of your nose against his curled hair.

It feels like his body is sputtering to a halt, his arms heavy, his head desperately following your touch as you shift back, a half groaned sigh tight against his split lips. His fingers are twitching against the cool surface of the table and he knows he must look like an absolute idiot when he lifts his eyes back to yours, but he doesn’t care.

He’s glad you’re going to stay.

“Question for you,” you ask from your perch on the scorer’s table, your fingers flying over the computer keys as you clatter out another email. “How the hell do your hands do that?”

Kiyoomi smirks at your curious amusement and flips his wrists deftly upwards, easing onto his haunches, flicking his fingers out and rolling his newly stretched wrists as he finishes his final cool down routine. “It’s called joint hyper-mobility. Most lose it when they get older, I’ve been lucky.”

The two of you have been at the training facility for hours. You’d dutifully finished up some last-minute work enquiries and partially outlined the basics for your upcoming grant proposal, while Kiyoomi worked on his spin rotation and spikes.

You’d watched him intermittently, teeth plucking at the swell of your lower lip each time he lept into the air for a jump serve, or dropped low to the ground as he dug another ball up from his hit to the nearby wall, so you’d noticed when he’d finished his first water bottle. He’d set the plastic down, the tap ringing hollowly over the quiet gym, and rose from your folding chair, making your way over, already asking him where a water station was.

When you’d returned, passing the newly filled bottle back to him, your fingers stroked up his arm and swirled faint patterns against his clammy skin as he steadied the plastic in his grasp. And later, when you’d refilled his second water bottle, you’d pushed some of his raven waves back, lifting onto the balls of your feet to tuck the dampened strands behind the shell of his ear.

He was a sweaty mess, but that didn’t bother you.

Usually he didn’t like for others to touch him when he was like this. Something about the sheen and prickle of the salty perspiration bothered him, [ disgusted him ] so he actively shunned his teammates when they sought high fives during a game, but this was different.

The instant your fingers alighted against his skin he’d felt a jolting lurch of electricity, but instead of pulling from it, he’d leaned into it, draping his broad palm over your tracing digits, or resting his warm cheek against your open hand, eyes half lidded as they watched for your reaction.

He liked this.

“Hey, Kiyoomi? Uh, hello, Earth to Kiyoomi! You listening?”

The sound of your voice jerks him from his musings, and he glances at you. “Hmm?”

“I said, how do you feel about a low-key dinner?”

“I’d prefer it,” Kiyoomi replies, easing from his haunches to his feet, rolling his long arms over his head as he stands.

“Yeah, but I mean...low-key, low-key.”

He fixes you with a flat stare, his face falling into that well practiced blankness, obsidian eyes dimmed. “What does that mean?”

“Well, I’ve got some things that I’ve been meaning to cook and, uh, I guess what I’m trying to say is...did you want to maybe have dinner at my apartment? I know you’re picky about how your food is prepared, so if you wanna go out instead, that’s fine too. I won’t be offended. I just wanted to– ”

“I’d like that, but...can you cook?” he rumbles, a teasing smile coiling against his lips.

“Oh, I see. No, you got me. Totally can’t. I just wanted to know if you’d suffer through burnt rice, and then lie and tell me you’d liked it, or some shit,” you threaten, sticking your tongue out and scrunching your face at his blatant leer.

“Don’t worry, I’d definitely tell you.”

“Pfft. You’re the worst, you know that? Now go shower. If we wait too long, we’ll hit rush hour at the station and I bet that’s pretty high on your list of things to avoid at all costs.”

Your apartment is small.

Well, compared to his. But his place is an empty shell, brittle, almost sterile in its vacant emptiness. He’s not there often, so why fill it with more than the bare essentials? It’s got what he needs, and he’s never been bothered by the Spartan coldness of the tiles and dark wood, that is, until he steps into your space.

There’s so much color.

The living room is blanketed in a mix of cheery yellows, warm reds, and deep purples. It’s not displeasing, but it makes him pause within the confines of the genkan, onyx eyes wide under his raised brows. It’s a difference. Now there’s an unexpected worry that’s pricking at the front of his mind.

“You coming?” you ask, poking your head around the cut of the wall that divides your living room from your kitchen, peering curiously at his tense expression.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, easing his trainers off of his feet. This place reminds him that there’s still so much about you he doesn’t know.

So, to alleviate himself from his lingering trepidations, he peers curiously around the apartment.

Most of your furniture is Western. And while there is a traditional chabudai beside your kitchen and a familiar kotatsu that rests beneath the glass doors of your balcony, the rest of the room is decorated with cushioned couches, stiff-backed chairs, neatly organized shelving units, a large tv and stand, and several side tables that hold a mixture of lamps, artfully stacked books, picture frames and candles.

He’s still gazing over the plethora of things when you appear beside his elbow. “I’m going to shower. Make yourself at home. The remote for the tv should be on the kotatsu. You alright with soba stir fry and okonomiyaki for dinner? It’s easy, well, quick...”

“That’s fine,” Kiyoomi breathes, voice muted as his eyes rake over one of your bookshelves. “You could have taken one at the gym, you know...a shower.”

“Oh-ho, sure! Like a shower at your gym doesn’t come with the awful possibility that one of your teammates or, god forbid, coaches could have walked in. Yeah, no thanks,” you chuckle, shaking your head as you pad over to the small hallway that separates your kitchen and living space from the rest of your apartment. “I won’t be long. Please do not rob me, kay’?”

Kiyoomi blatantly scoffs at your remark but doesn’t look up until he hears the click of your bathroom door. Instantly, his feet carry him toward your collection of books and miscellany, one long finger tracing up paper spines. He will not miss this opportunity.

He’s curious, ravenously so.

There are small bowls that are filled with a mismatch of silver and gold jewelry, peeling bound novels with English titles printed down their spines, and asymmetric jars that carry the weight of seashells that gleam translucent and bright against the dimming sunlight.

Beaming smiles radiate from your collection of pictures. Some are snapshots of you and others who look enough like you he assumes they must be your family, while other images are older, with people dressed in vintage clothing, the photos sheened in dull greys and time blown sepia rather than vibrant, modern colors.

Then there are the books. The room is littered with them. Most are organized within the confines of the shelves, but a few are stacked on the kotatsu and he flips open one cover, eyes scanning the orderly lines of Japanese that dart down the pages.

There’s just so much here, so many little pieces of you that are scattered about, and he wants to see...no, he wants to ask you about all of it.

Dazed, he leaves the open space of the living room and steps toward the kitchen. It’s less cluttered in here, and he can smell the faint tang of bleach and lemon as he moves onto the dark tiles. Clearly, the fastidious habits you’ve displayed at the cafe are ingrained into your daily routines.

Cleanliness and routine. You’ll always have that in common.

His roving observations falter at your fridge. It’s covered in a scattered array of playful magnets, pinning down lists and newer Polaroids and he steps closer, index finger extended once more as he glides the digit down the faded ink and shine of the photos. Resting atop one of the larger check-lists is a crisp slip of cardstock. It’s clearly been given pride of place and Kiyoomi curves himself downward, somber brows wrinkling as he reads the print.

The departments of Anthropology, History, Languages, and Education invite you to attend:

The Deans Meeting

10th Annual Conference & New Faculty Welcome Event

Thursday, April 23rd

6:30 - 9:30 p.m.

Graduate School of Human Sciences, Osaka University

(Number Attending: ____ *limit of one guest per invitee)

Kiyoomi straightens, raking a hand up through his loose curls. The 23rd? That’s a month...no...almost five weeks away. He slips his cellphone out of his jacket, thumb tapping over to his calendar. It’s a Friday...but good, there’s no game that day–however there is a team meeting. If he asks now, he should be able to be excused from the meeting and maybe the mid-day practice as well. You haven’t mentioned this event to him, he muses, fingers rapidly tapping the date into his reminders, but it looks important and he wants to go with you, if you’ll let him.

He hears the telltale shudder of your shower’s cut-off valve and he turns, ready to walk back to the neutral safety of your living room when he spies a haphazardly cracked doorway that clearly leads into your bedroom. His feet are carrying him around the low base of the chabudai, and before he can justify his impulsive [ curious, hungry ] reasoning he’s already leaning in, unabashedly looking over the space.

The room is dark; the dusky light of the sunset is muffled by the curtains that drape over the large window, but Kiyoomi marvels, obsidian eyes whisking over the small space, greedily taking in the neat folds of your downy comforter, the soft pillows that nestle under the headboard, and the fan that sits atop the tatami mats. It smells like you in here; the chilled air holds the gentle scent of rich florals and spice and he wants to step closer, but then his hand is catching against the doorframe and he jerks back, hurriedly gulping down a sharp breath as his black hair slumps over his hooded eyes.

It’s...it’s not...he shouldn’t have looked. It’s not polite, but damn, he almost doesn’t care.

What would it be like to step past that threshold? To walk into something that’s so saturated with you? He feels like his skin is too close, too heavy, and he wants nothing more than to stretch out on the cool sheets of your bed to ease that simmer that’s thrumming under his heated flesh.

Wait. A bed. You have a bed.

Shit.

Kiyoomi’s always been content with his futon, satisfied with the simplicity of it. He’s always considered beds to be a waste of space, unnecessary, after all, he’s just sleeping on it. Why did it matter?

Unanswered questions whir around his half cocked head. What if you don’t like futons? If you think they’re uncomfortable, or inconvenient? Besides, now he’s picturing laying with you on a bed, [ this bed ] not a futon. Kiyoomi wants to see you stretched out beside him, comfortable and happy, with that tantalizing smile and those playful eyes watching him, waiting for him. What side do you prefer? Right? Left? And then? What happens when you’ve picked your spot and settled in?

Would you want him to shift closer? Could he run his palms past your arms and down the sloping curves of your hips? Would you do the same for him? What would your nails feel like as they scratched faint lines along his sides, over the muscles of his abdomen, or down his back? You’d be so close. So close that every sigh that passed between your lips would be shared with him and he’d inhale every sound, his lips rough against yours. And if you arched into him, your hands urging him to straddle himself over your intoxicating softness, your thighs spreading as he lowers his hips––

The bathroom door clicks and the fevered daydream fades, his feet cumbersome and tangled as he lumbers back to the living room, his heart pounding in his ears. He doesn’t like this breathlessness, doesn’t like that his hands are trembling as he stuffs them into his pockets. Any second now you’ll be in front of him and he wants to hold you, to let the pull of your hands and the sleek drag of your lips satiate the feel [ throb ] of his unexpected [ visceral ] arousal.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to take that long, I just–– ”

The distance between the two of you is closed within a heartbeat, and his outstretched fingertips glide down the smooth line of your neck. You suck in a sharp breath, your body rigid under his hold, [ damn it, too fast ] and he drops his hands, easing you into the suddenness of his movement with lazy kisses against your warm cheek and neck, grinning when you lean into him at last.

[ Yes. Perfect. ]

You want him to kiss you properly, and you do your best to chase his lips, your arms folding around his bowed neck as you tap a few impatient kisses against his lowered forehead. But he ignores your temptations, not ready to move away from the intoxicating fragrance of your freshly cleaned skin. That soothing smell of peppermint and fresh lavender is near ambrosial, and he greedily digs his nose against you as his muscular arms drape over your sides, and his broad hands pause against the small of your back.

His sharp exhales against your shower dampened neck make you shiver but he maneuvers you closer, rubbing his lower lip against the dip of your shoulder before lifting to catch his teeth on your pulse. He knows just what you like now; he thinks smugly, tracing the flat of his tongue over a line of gooseflesh that bursts over your slicked skin.

In the last month he’s gained a steady mastery of your preferences when it came to his kisses. You preferred to start things slowly, to have him cup your face and stoke you up steadily, but once he eases down the intricate line of your neck, well, all that softness and coy sweetness would bleed into something else entirely.

You liked it rougher then; liked for these caresses to be charged with lightning fast pushes and pulls, your fingers alternating between the sides of his jaw or the coiled thickness of his hair as you swayed him closer, and that shift never failed to set his heart racing and often sent his tightly reigned control spiraling. But that’s not what he wants, not right now, so he’s careful to keep you at bay, distracting your breathless twists with a fresh set of nips and unhurried pecks against your throat.

He wants to lose himself in you; to blank out all the other worries. The differences don’t matter, not when he can hold you like this.

“Hey, Kiyoomi,” you gasp and only then does he stop his incessant assault, arms tensing as they clutch you to the broad slope of his chest, his dark waves falling heavily against your kiss glistened shoulder.

“Hmm?” he murmurs, his voice reverberating against your wet skin.

“What...what’s gotten into you?” you falter, distracted by the hum of his low tone and the soothing pass of his hands as they curve along your spine.

“Dunno, just felt like kissing you,” he lies impassively, lifting his head from you, obsidian eyes shielded by his mussed curls, the tops of his cheeks aglow.

You exhale a tight laugh at his serious, but utterly flushed expression. “Okay–so why did you stop?”

“Liked it that much, huh? I’m hungry,” he clarifies, a smirk curling his erubescent lips and you laugh, melting that jaunty grin into his usual straightlaced frown. “Tch,” he tries again, sliding his dark eyes away from your open bemusement, a pink blush staining the bridge of his nose. “It’s not that I...hmph, come on, don’t act like you’re not hungry, too...”

You were an excellent cook. Not that he’d fully meant his droll quip at the gym; after all, why offer to do something if you’re not good at it? But he’s glad he agreed to a home cooked meal.

Besides, there is something soothing about the whole thing.It was nice, watching you deftly maneuver around your tiny kitchen, turning on burners, setting timers, and arranging the ingredients in simple bowls and plates; it reminded him of the coffee shop. And he’s always liked watching you work. Your movements were always smooth [ elegant ]. You kept your hands close and your elbows in, so confident in the motions of your ingrained routines and the tidiness of your space, that you could easily carry on a conversation with him, your eyes careful to meet his over the top of the espresso machine.

But this is better than watching you in the coffee shop. There’s no divider now. There’s just you and him. It’s comforting and he wants to experience it again and again.

You let him set the plates out, chop the vegetables, prep the soba, and asked him to pick out some beer from your fridge, saying you trusted his choice and chuckling good-naturedly when he padded back to your side, four cans sticking icily to his palms as he asked a few [ five or six ] clarifying questions about the brews.He enjoys your cheerful teasing; he thinks as the two of you sit at the low chabudai; it makes him feel like he fits in, like he can be part of this side of you. You tuck your legs to one side as you sit, your shoulder gently bumping against his as you ease into a comfortable position on the tatami mats and Kiyoomi leans closer, indulging himself in the press long after you’ve picked up your chopsticks–a shared meal of of cabbage and onion okonomiyaki and salmon stir fry resting between the two of you.

It’s a simple thing, all of this touch, but Kiyoomi can’t get enough of it. Every time your arm brushes against his, or you ask him to pass you something from his side of the table, he wants to prolong the contact, to keep his fingers beside yours, or feel the warmth of your thigh and the jut of your hip as he shifts nearer.

He didn’t think he enjoyed being touched.

He always did his utmost to avoid it, shunning the clapped backs and constant high fives that always seemed to be prepackaged and expected in the contact heavy sport of volleyball. Not because he didn’t like his teammates [ sure, sometimes– eh, most of the time ] they were too much, but he genuinely liked playing with them. But he didn’t enjoy the balmy heat of skin on skin contact, or the worry of shared germs. Touching meant weakness. It allowed things to spread from person to person; it created variables, and more variables always meant things could slip out of his control. No, Kiyoomi valued the predictable, the known, the cleanliness and routine, and touch threw most of that out of the equation.

He doesn’t like touch.

Yet he’s craving yours.

It’s another thing that isn’t like him, he contemplates, passing his empty bowl to you, already missing that pleasing closeness you’d shared with him as you walk back into your kitchen and that stark absence makes him stand. It’s an urge, a compulsion, and it’s not something he wants to question so he listens to his instincts, feet planted firmly beneath him as he follows you, his hands lifted, reaching for you. When he tugs you against his chest, his dark head dropping beside yours, jet curls fanning beside your cheek and along your neck, he feels the ache within him settle and he lets himself wallow in the familiarity of crisp peppermint that sits against your skin. [ There. He can worry about the rest later, right now this is all he wants. ]

“I should go,” he whispers, the tip of his nose cool against you. He locks his forearms around your waist and sighs when you rest your temple against his.

He [ doesn’t want to ] should go.

“Yeah,” you echo, cupping your fingers over his crossed arms and stroking them over his goose-fleshed skin. “I work in the morning. So I need to be up early.”

His steady breaths match yours and he pulls you closer, humming contentedly as the curve of your back falls into the hollow of his chest. “I’ll go,” Kiyoomi stalls, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the slope of your neck. He really should. There are only a few more trains tonight, but he can’t let go.

So he lingers, his heavy body leaning against yours, full lips dragging along your pulse as his arms loop tightly around you. You twist your head and he lets you return his caresses, groaning against the sweet pressure of your lips. You’re gentle with him, your kisses filled with restrained desire, and the gossamer touch makes him reach for more. When you pull away, your eyes shining in the gleam of your kitchen lights, he brings you back, his broad palms turning you to him as his chapped fingers tilt your chin, his arms cupping you so close he can feel the thud of your heart against his.

He [ doesn’t want to ] should go.

notes: @kugutsuu made me these lovely lines. aren’t they pretty! (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

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prouvaireafterdark · 3 years

Text

Casual Affair

AKA the “Anti-Forlex Smut”

Technically not a cheating fic, but it kind of has that vibe for a while so if that’s a dealbreaker for you then you might want to skip this one. If you’re looking for unrepentant filth, though, I’ve, uh, got you covered.

Also on AO3!

***

Open Mic Night at the Wild Pony tends to draw a crowd of all sorts: rowdy undergrads from the local community college, older folks trying to recapture their youth with some spirited karaoke, and even soulful academic types like Forrest looking to share their angsty emo poetry. Tonight, as Alex soon discovers, it’s also drawn in Michael Guerin.

Alex doesn’t need to look to know Michael’s staring at him. He can feel his eyes on him like a caress, heavy on the side of his neck before it slides hot down the length of his chest to settle low above his belt buckle. If it wasn’t for the blue-haired historian sitting next to him he’d already have done something about it.

He takes a deep swallow of the beer he’s been nursing for the last ten minutes and tries to ignore him. Maybe if he pretends the restless energy thrumming through his whole body isn’t there, it’ll go away.

Luckily, he’s got a decent enough distraction; A pair of tone deaf townies are currently massacring “Under Pressure” on stage, a spectacle awful enough to hold his attention like a six car pile up. Alex takes another drink and tries not to laugh behind the rim of his bottle.

The performance—if one can even call it that—is over in minutes and as the next musician takes the stage, Alex’s gaze finally wanders over toward the bar. Through the crowd of people drinking and laughing with their friends and partners, he catches sight of Michael immediately.

He’s sitting at the bar, but he’s facing out toward the crowd and Alex can’t help but notice how good he looks. With the way his elbows are tucked behind him and resting on the bar top, his chest hair is on proud display through his indecently buttoned flannel and the worn denim of his jeans is pulled tight over his spread thighs. He’s even got his fingers wrapped suggestively around the neck of the beer bottle in his hand—non-alcoholic, Alex registers with no small amount of pride as he catches sight of the label. However messy and complicated things are between them now, he’s glad to see that Michael is making some better choices these days.

Michael notices him staring, because of course he does. He cocks his head and smirks, not subtle at all about what he wants. That look cuts right through him, sending heat down Alex’s spine.

Alex takes a deep breath and turns to face the stage, desperately hoping whatever top 40 hit the new girl on stage is singing will calm his growing erection. Its mindless beat helps him relax, but not enough that Forrest doesn’t notice something’s up.

“You okay?” he asks him, moving his hand off the table to rest his arm along the back of Alex’s chair. Alex tries not to flinch when his fingers comb through the hair that curls along the base of his neck, long enough now that it’s not quite regulation anymore.

“Yeah,” Alex smiles encouragingly, hoping Forrest doesn’t see through him. He shifts in his seat, leaning forward until Forrest’s fingers slip away from his collar. “You want something to drink?”

“Uh,” Forrest starts, looking at his half-empty beer before shrugging. “Yeah, I’ll have another.”

“Great,” Alex says, already standing. “Be right back.”

He makes his way across the bar, trying his best to ignore the way Michael smirks and spreads his thighs a little wider where he sits perched on the edge of his barstool.

“You’ve gotta stop looking at me like that,” Alex chastises him once he’s close enough. He slides into the space at the bar beside him, facing forward with his elbows on the bar top. He catches Michael’s easy smile out of the corner of his eye, and he’s relieved he isn’t hit with the full force of it.

“I’ve been looking at you like this for over ten years, Alex,” Michael replies. “I’m not gonna stop now.”

Alex tries to ignore the way that makes his heart feel somehow light and heavy at the same time where it beats frantically behind his ribs.

“Why are you even here?” Alex asks, chancing a glance at Michael’s face.

Like the demon that he is, Michael chooses that moment to bring his non-alcoholic beer to his lips and take a long sip. Alex watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and tries desperately not to think about how fucking tight his throat had felt the last time he’d gotten Michael on his knees.

He doesn’t quite manage it and either it’s written all over his face or Isobel’s taught Michael some new tricks because he can see smug satisfaction in the way his eyes sparkle in the neon glow coming from behind the bar.

Alex shifts his stance, dutifully ignoring the tightness in his jeans, and tries again. “You hate Open Mic Night.”

“You don’t,” Michael shrugs, like that explains anything.

Alex kind of hates that it does.

“I’m not performing tonight,” Alex tells him.

“No, you’re not,” Michael agrees, and then adds a beat later, “but your boyfriend is.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Alex bristles. Sure, he and Forrest have been hooking up now and then, but he isn’t—he’s not—

“Does he know that?” Michael asks skeptically, interrupting his thoughts.

Alex rolls his eyes, uninterested in explaining the intricacies of his not-relationship with Forrest. He doesn’t really see how it matters now, after everything they’ve gotten up to in the last few weeks.

Michael just licks his lips and gives him that infuriatingly sexy grin before he leans in and says, “Well, if he’s not your boyfriend, then why don’t you meet me in the bathroom in five?”

Heat once again rushes through Alex at Michael’s proposition, pooling low in his gut. He turns to look at him in disbelief, but Michael’s smile just grows more smug.

“See you soon,” he whispers, and stands up from his seat, his drink left abandoned on the bar.

Alex resolutely does not stare at Michael’s ass as he saunters off toward the bathroom. It’s a good thing too—the bartender steps in front of him not two seconds later.

“What can I get you?” he asks, drying off a clean pint glass with a checkered dishtowel.

Alex clears his throat before he places his order and fishes a twenty out of his wallet.

He lays it on the bar with every intention that this time he will stand his ground, get his drinks, and rejoin Forrest at their table, but the next thing Alex knows, he’s pushing his way through the crowd and into the small, dimly-lit bathroom.

He finds Michael leaning against the sink, arms folded across his chest. He smirks when he sees Alex enter, but Alex doesn’t give him long to gloat before he’s crossed the distance between them and has the front of Michael’s soft flannel bunched up in his fists.

Michael’s eyes flash to Alex’s mouth, his tongue peeking out to wet his own lips in anticipation, but he doesn’t make a move to kiss him. He won’t—not while Alex is obviously out with someone else. It’s an absurd line to draw at a moment like this, but Michael told him once that if Alex wants him, he can come and get him, so it’s Alex’s move now.

Alex thinks it’s more complicated than that, that they still have a lot to talk about before they try to do this thing for real, but what he thinks more is that he wants to remind himself what Michael’s mouth tastes like.

He surges forward to kiss him, slotting their lips together easily. Michael pulls him closer the moment Alex lets him know he can, blunt nails biting softly into his skin as he slides his fingers under the edges of Alex’s shirt. Alex deepens the kiss almost immediately, Michael’s teasing leaving him desperate and wanting. Michael opens for him so sweetly when he licks along the seam of his lips, just as eager for more as Alex slides his tongue into his mouth.

They kiss like that for what feels like ages but can’t be longer than a minute, Alex losing himself for the moment to the scent of petrichor in the air around him and the taste of it on his tongue. He isn’t sure who pulls away first, but the next thing he knows both of their chests are heaving as they gasp into the narrow space between their mouths.

He opens his eyes to see Michael looking back at him, his pupils blown wide, lips red and wet. He’s so fucking beautiful Alex’s heart aches in ways he can’t describe.

“Mm,” Michael hums low in his throat, nudging his nose against Alex’s cheek. “What would Forrest say if he knew what you were up to?”

“Fuck you,” Alex grumbles, more on principle than anything else.

“Not tonight, baby,” Michael drawls. “It’s your turn.”

With that, Michael spins them around so it’s Alex with his back against the sink and Alex is fairly certain that it’s only by the grace of Michael’s telekinesis that he doesn’t trip over his own feet. He groans when Michael presses in close, as his thigh nudges its way between Alex’s legs for him to grind his hard cock against.

Michael watches him with singleminded focus, his hands on Alex’s hips encouraging him to keep moving against him, until Alex threads his fingers into Michael’s riotous curls and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s desperate and hungry, filled with every ounce of longing he’s felt for Michael just about every fucking day for the last eleven years.

Michael meets him in the middle, his hands on Alex’s hips tightening their grip hard enough to bruise, and in that moment Alex doesn’t even care if Michael leaves a mark so long as he doesn’t stop touching him. Michael rocks against him as they kiss, grinding their hips together through the rough denim of their jeans until the tease is too much to bear.

“Fuck, I want you,” Alex gasps when they part, wishing he was steadier on his feet so he could wrap a leg around Michael’s body and pull him in closer.

“Good thing I have lube then,” Michael says, dipping down to mouth along the sensitive skin of Alex’s neck, careful not to leave a mark. He reaches into his front pocket and pulls out two single-use packets of lube.

Alex’s cock throbs as he stands there, consumed by the thought of Michael working him open in a goddamn public bathroom where anyone—including Forrest, fuck, he’s a terrible person—could hear them.

Alex is turning around in Michael’s arms and grinding his ass back against the bulge in his jeans before the part of his brain still capable of higher reasoning registers that there’s something missing from Michael’s hand.

“Wait—condom?” Alex asks, eyebrow raised at Michael’s reflection in the mirror in front of him—not that Michael can see it where he’s reattached himself to Alex’s neck, his hands dipping low on his belly now that he’s left the lube on the edge of the sink.

Michael shakes his head with a low hum. “All out. We used my last one yesterday.”

“Already? Fuck,” Alex whines, unable to hide his disappointment. Michael just keeps kissing his neck, seemingly unperturbed by this revelation. “We really need to stop doing this.”

That gets a reaction from him.

Michael’s grip on Alex’s hips tightens instinctually, but his voice is carefully light as he retorts, “You don’t mean that.”

God help him, he doesn’t.

“Well then you need to learn to stop at fucking CVS before you make a promise you can’t keep,” Alex argues.

“Who says I can’t keep my promise?” Michael purrs in his ear.

Alex’s breath catches in his throat as he realizes what Michael is suggesting and Michael’s grin widens as he watches Alex start to flush in the mirror.

“You sure seemed to enjoy yourself the last time I fucked you raw,” he continues, voice low and rough as gravel. “You remember?”

Alex huffs an incredulous laugh. Of course he fucking remembers—He’d been twenty two, fresh off his first tour, and just impatient enough to say fuck it after Michael told him he was out of condoms when he showed up at his Airstream unannounced. He came three times that night; twice on Michael’s cock and once more on his tongue when Michael decided he wanted to clean up the mess he’d made himself.

Alex wouldn’t necessarily call it his finest moment of judgment, but it had been terribly, unspeakably hot.

“So, what do you say, Alex?” Michael asks him when he doesn’t respond right away, grinding his hips suggestively forward. “You gonna let me fuck you?”

It’s a terrible idea. Alex knows this. Michael knows this. It’ll be messy for one thing—What’s Alex supposed to do when they’re done, go back to sit with Forrest while Michael’s come leaks into his underwear?—not to mention unsafe, even with how regularly he gets tested and that Michael’s alien biology makes it extremely unlikely that he could catch or transmit anything.

But even in the face of all the reasons Alex should say no, he would be lying if he said he wasn’t fucking desperate for it.

In the end, he lets out a shuddering breath and nods, “Yeah, fuck, do it.”

“That’s my boy,” Michael whispers, and Alex tries not to whimper as Michael dips down once more to press a tender kiss to the edge of his jaw.

Without another word, Michael’s hands slide that little bit further down Alex’s front to find his belt. He makes quick work of the buckle and drags the fabric down his hips to the middle of his thigh.

Michael’s hands are surprisingly gentle as they encourage Alex to turn around to face him, and once he does, Alex rests his lower back against the sink, hands braced on either side of it. Michael presses a soft kiss to his mouth before he drops to his knees, and when he looks up at him through that thick mop of curls, Alex wishes he didn’t look so goddamn pretty down there.

His eyes stay on Michael’s flushed mouth as he leans in toward his bare cock. He watches Michael roll his tongue over the head, already sticky with precome, watches his eyes flutter closed as he groans at the taste. There’s a rapturous look on his face as he softly begins to suck him, the way there always is when Michael goes down on him, but, as good as it feels, they don’t exactly have the time to indulge Michael’s oral fixation right now.

Alex releases his hold on the sink to thread his fingers through Michael’s curls, gripping just tight enough to tug gently on the loose strands.

“We have to hurry,” Alex reminds him. “Forrest’s set starts soon.”

Michael rolls his eyes. He looks like he’s about to complain, but then he’s opening his mouth wider to take him deeper and Alex sort of loses the plot after that.

Lost in the wet, sucking heat of Michael’s mouth, Alex distantly hears the crinkling of a wrapper as Michael tears open the packet of lube and spills some onto his fingers. He doesn’t waste time warming it before he nudges Alex’s legs as far apart as he can and slips his hand between his cheeks.

Alex jumps at the chill as slick fingers find his hole and the corners of Michael’s mouth curl upward around his cock. Alex tightens his grip on his hair just a little in retaliation.

Michael rubs his finger over Alex’s hole, massaging it gently before he tries to breach it with his finger. He slips one inside him as he works his throat around his cock, and it’s not long before Alex’s rim is stretched tight over three of Michael’s fingers.

“Fuck,” Alex keens as Michael crooks his fingers just enough to brush his prostate, his cock throbbing where it sits on Michael’s tongue.

Michael hums and sucks him harder, sending Alex’s eyes rolling back into his skull.

“Michael, stop,” Alex whines, fingers tightening in his curls again. As much as he would love to chase his orgasm in the heat of Michael’s mouth, he’d rather do it on his cock. “M’ready, come on.”

Michael pulls off of Alex with a pop and gently removes his fingers from his ass before he gets up off his knees.

“Turn around,” he says, voice low as he fumbles for the other packet of lube on the sink without taking his eyes off Alex’s face. The intensity of Michael’s attention makes Alex’s heart race with anticipation and he’s helpless against the impulse to surge forward and kiss him again, quick and dirty—just long enough for him to get a taste of his own precome on Michael’s tongue before he’s turning around on unsteady legs and bracing himself against the edge of the sink.

Michael doesn’t make him wait for it. In seconds, he feels the insistent press of Michael’s cock against his hole, slick with lube and precome. Alex bears down on it, gasping as the thick head of it finally works its way passed his rim.

“That’s it, baby, let me in,” Michael murmurs against his ear as he pushes in deeper, his palm charting a soothing path along his flank as Alex tries to relax into the stretch.

Michael’s cock feels so hot inside him without a barrier of latex dulling the sensation, and Alex can’t help but let out the whimper building in his throat as he presses back against it, encouraging Michael to sink in deeper.

“Fuck, ‘Lex,” Michael moans into his neck as he bottoms out, his hips flush against Alex’s ass. “You always feel so fucking good.”

Michael lets Alex adjust for a moment, dotting his skin with soft, wet kisses until he feels him start to shift his hips restlessly. Taking the cue from Alex, he pulls out halfway and snaps his hips forward in one quick movement.

Alex gasps again, pleasure lighting up his spine, and arches his back for more. Michael is all too eager to give it to him, increasing his thrusts in power and speed until Alex is a panting mess, bent over and mewling quietly as his hips bump against the edges of the sink.

Alex doesn’t even realize his eyes have slipped closed until he hears Michael whisper, “God, look at you.”

Alex opens his eyes and catches sight of his reflection in the mirror. He can see every ounce of pleasure he’s feeling reflected back at himself, his brow drawn tight and beaded with sweat, his eyes nearly black with how blown his pupils are. A sudden, sharp moan bursts from his parted lips as the thick head of Michael’s bare cock brushes over his prostate and his eyes jump to Michael’s face in time to watch his mouth spread into a smug grin.

“Right there, huh?” Michael teases, angling his hips to hit that spot again a little more intentionally. Alex groans, his white-knuckle grip on the sink tightening even more. “Bet that feels good, doesn’t it? You want more?”

Alex nods his head, not trusting his voice as he pushes back to meet him thrust for thrust. He’s so close already, and when Michael starts moving faster, his hips slapping against the swell of his ass, Alex has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from crying out.

“Your boyfriend fuck you this good, ‘Lex?” Michael asks him suddenly, something harsh and maybe a little bitter creeping into his tone. When Alex doesn’t dignify that with a response, he continues, “I bet he doesn’t. You wanna know how I know?”

“Michael,” Alex warns, not wanting to hash this out now, but Michael doesn’t listen, only leans in close until Alex can feel his breath puff against his cheek.

“‘Cause that All American Reject is out there on stage right now,” Michael pants into his ear, “and you’re in here, fucking yourself on my cock like you’re dying for it.”

Alex feels a heady mix of shame and arousal as the garbled sound of Forrest’s spoken word registers distantly in his ears, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Michael is reaching between his legs and wrapping his hand around his cock. He slowly drags his thumb over the sensitive head, through the precome dripping steadily from his slit. It’s a dizzying counterpoint to Michael’s frantic thrusts and Alex finds himself on the edge in a matter of seconds.

“Oh god,” he moans, the back of his head connecting with Michael’s shoulder as he throws his head backward. He can feel it building inside him, his gut coiling tight with pleasure. “Shit, I’m gonna come.”

“Me too,” Michael gasps, the rhythm of his hips growing less coordinated as he desperately chases his own release. “Where do you want it?”

“In me, fuck, Michael, don’t stop,” he replies, too strung out to give a fuck about the consequences.

“Fuck, ‘Lex, I—“ Michael cuts off suddenly as he comes, and it’s the feeling of Michael spilling hot inside him, groaning low in his ear, that sets Alex off, whimpering as he makes a mess of the cracked tile beneath their feet.

As he’s coming down, Alex slumps forward and tries to catch his breath, his forearms braced on the sink in front of him the only thing keeping him from melting into a puddle on the floor. Michael stays a warm weight against his back, as if reluctant to put even an inch of space between them, and Alex can’t say he minds one bit.

Just as Alex is admiring Michael’s sated reflection in the mirror, applause suddenly breaks out from beyond the bathroom door, signaling the end of Forrest’s performance. The two of them flinch back into reality, the spell around them bursting like a bubble.

Alex feels the brush of Michael’s lips against his temple before he stands up straight and slowly begins to pull out. With the high of his orgasm now dissipated, the sensation of Michael’s come leaking out of him when he does is deeply unpleasant and Alex is quick to clean himself up.

By the time Alex refastens his belt around his hips and turns around to face him, Michael is still trying to tame his chaotic curls—a futile effort after all the tugging Alex did when Michael was blowing him. Alex can’t find it in himself to be anything other than charmed.

Michael catches him looking and abandons his work with a smile as he pulls Alex into a kiss, soft and sweeter than Alex is expecting.

Alex sighs into it, his fingers catching Michael’s jaw to keep him there a heartbeat longer, even as he murmurs, “I should go,” when they part, his face still a scant few inches from Michael’s.

Michael lets out a deep, ponderous sigh that Alex feels against his mouth. “You don’t sound like you want to.”

“Do I ever?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Michael pulls back enough to look at Alex’s face. He stares at him for a long moment, eyes searching for something, and Alex feels exposed, like Michael is looking right through him.

“What are we doing, Alex?” he asks at last, voice no louder than a whisper.

Alex looks away, cowed by the question.

He was trying to give Michael and himself space while they figured out who they were now and what they really wanted from each other, but that went out the window weeks ago now, the second a narrow escape from a Project Shepard black site drove Alex to Michael’s doorstep, a USB full of classified research on alien technology held tight between his shaking fingers.

One moment of weakness had turned into many, many more, but with Michael still on the road to sobriety and Alex still running himself ragged trying to take apart the rest of Project Shepard, it just didn’t feel like the right time to try to chart out their future together. They agreed that keeping things casual and non-exclusive was the safer option for now, that they could give each other something of the closeness they craved without adding in the pressure of being in a real, committed relationship just yet.

But even as he has that thought, Alex can’t help but hear how ridiculous it sounds. There’s nothing casual about the way Alex brings Michael dinner when he knows he’s too wrapped up in an experiment to remember to feed himself, or the way Michael fixed the automatic setting on Alex’s temperamental espresso machine last week so he could get a few extra minutes of sleep in the morning. They might have told themselves they weren’t ready for a relationship, but, if he’s being really honest with himself, they’re already halfway there.

And as Alex looks at Michael once more and sees the twin hope and trepidation in his whiskey-toned eyes, he can’t help but think, What the hell are we waiting for?

“Alex?” Michael asks again, head cocked to the side, still waiting for his answer.

“I don’t know,” Alex tells him honestly. “But… I think I’m ready to have that talk now.”

Michael takes his meaning immediately. “Really?” he asks, his eyes lighting up.

“Yeah,” Alex answers, and the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth is quickly smothered when Michael surges forward to kiss him again. Alex is happy to let him, his heart swelling in his chest with emotions he’s no longer afraid of feeling.

“Just not here, okay?” Alex continues when they part. Public bathrooms really aren’t the best place for long overdue love confessions and Alex is pretty sure he’s got an angry not-boyfriend to deal with outside. “Meet me at my place in an hour.”

“An hour?” Michael pouts dramatically. It’s unfairly adorable.

Alex laughs in spite of himself before pulling Michael closer. “We’ve waited eleven years for this,” he reminds him. “I think we can make it another sixty minutes.”

“If you insist,” he sighs, but he’s smiling as he presses another kiss to Alex’s cheek. “I’ll see you there.”

Alex watches him leave, nerves buzzing in his stomach as he anticipates the conversation he’s about to have with Forrest.

His worrying turns out to be for nothing, though—When Alex finally exits the bathroom, Forrest is nowhere to be found. A little asking around tells him he put his drinks on Alex’s tab and left as soon as his performance was over.

Alex can’t help but feel a little bad about hurting him, but as he pulls up to his house twenty minutes later to see Michael’s truck already parked in his driveway, the man himself perched on the edge of his tailgate with his feet kicking restlessly at the air, he knows he’s made the right choice.

Because so what if he wakes up in the morning to a few angry texts from Forrest? He’ll also have the love of his life snoring softly beside him and another thirty minutes to kill before his coffee is ready, and Alex is determined to never take either of those things for granted ever again.

#malex #malex fic #malex smut #michael guerin #alex manes #aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh i hope you guys like this #it's not exactly how i imagined it in the beginning but i got tired of angst so lol here you go #my fic

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