Simply put, you had a crush on your best friend. No, actually, not just a crush, a fat one. It's sickening—his smile turns your stomach into a warp-y mess, his touch a fiery one, and his laugh borderline cruel.
So, when you paid a hefty sum to the best apothecary in town for a love potion vetted by numerous excited reviews and a popular talk show, you expect it to be nothing short of the best. Tasteless, colorless, and tactless, you slip it into Gojo's lemonade as you two sit outside on the balcony of Geto's apartment. You watch intently as he sips, guilt settling in under your tongue—you knew that you shouldn't be meddling with other's feelings like this, but how else will you soothe the ache in your heart each time he's in view?
Again, as expected, the drink doesn't taste any different. Gojo leans dangerously far back into his chair and lets out a relieved ahh, smacking his lips at the tang of the lemon. His long legs rest on the railing. "That's good. Store-bought?"
"No," your lips graze the side of your crystalline glass, "I made it."
"Always the best." See? There. Things like that. You feel your ears begin to heat up as you lean back in your chair too, rocking it back and forth.
"Why were you looking at me like that?"
You dig your fingernails into your palms. "Like what?" You don't turn your head to look at him—you fear that maybe the look on your face culpably screams, "I laced your lemonade with a love potion I got for half of my savings."
Gojo just snorts.
You check your phone, tilting it out of available view as you scroll through the directions once more for clarity.
1. Allow for prospective lover to consume.
2. Wait five to ten minutes for effects to kick in after ingestion.
Alright. It seemed to have only been a minute or two. So, you waited.
And you waited.
And you waited.
Through hours of board games, twenty questions, truth or dare, and selfies, not one aspect of Satoru Gojo's demeanor changed.
On the third round of Connect 4, you nudge Gojo with your shoulder as Geto holds his head in his hands in reaction to a very obvious loss.
"Do you... like, feel any different?"
Gojo scoffs and cocks an eyebrow. "Different? You really did lace that lemonade, didn't you?"
Your stomach flips. You can't tell if it's out of fear or if it's out of the quick glance you got at his smile lines. "No, I—"
"Well, I'm not dead, and I don't feel nauseous." He holds a hand up to his heart as if to feign pain, "were you trying to kill me, doll?"
You frown. "No. Just something I got off the internet. Doesn't matter. I got scammed."
Geto, the sore loser he is, having put the whole set of Connect 4 away to avoid admitting his loss, absentmindedly adds to the conversation. "Did you read the fine print? They usually put things in tiny words for legal purposes, but to still trip people up. You bought like, one of those really popular turn-into-an-animal-for-a-day potions, didn't you?" He tuts. "Sucks it didn't work. I would've loved to finally get rid of some of the cat food in my pantry."
Gojo throws something at him. You mumble the words, "something like that," and look down at your phone to squint at the tiny words at the very bottom of the page.
Will not work if subject is already in love! NO refunds.
Gojo looks up from your phone at the same time you do, and shrugs with a laugh. "I can pay you back."
author's note: i was never planning on writing something THIS short like ever but i'm not even gonna lie ao3 author curse got me & it got me good bruh i'm so sorry for not updating my recent fic i will get on it soon!!!!!!! i have just been itching to get something out so have this huhu
Gojo doesn’t know why he’s allowing Geto to move him like a toy, but he’s pliant as ever when Geto takes a soft hand to his and shows him how to hold the thin blunt. Knees together, Geto is comfortably close. Slowly, he lights it.
“Inhale.”
[ 3.2k words — nerdjo, stoner!geto, college au, more tags tba (never) — warnings: drugs, gojo does drugs for the first time, could be interpreted as peer pressure ]
ac: 6enesiass on twt
author's note:
hello,,, i wanted to make this a one shot so bad. i still can't decide. so it's... just going to be the secret third thing shhhhh until i make a decision many moons later. have fun with this. its my first non x reader and i HATE it i feel like i never write enough </3 (the use of nervelessly in here is not a malapropism btw)
“Excuse me,” he lightly grazes the surrounding table next to the unread organic chemistry textbook, “this is my seat.”
The man before him does not raise his head. Too far into his studies, a pale fingertip traces the printed words on the glossy paper, unclipped nails making a quiet tshh sound. He smells like smoke and nothing in this textbook is registering.
Gojo stands there and looks around for a minute, moving white tufts of hair from his face and scratching his pink cheek. “Hello…” He coughs, a bit louder this time. “Hello?”
Sitting at a cluttered desk adorned with a comically large monitor, the librarian quiets him with a harsh shh, and Gojo raises a hand in remorse. He groans under his breath and taps the forearm of the reading non-reader.
Geto looks up, annoyed, and tears an airpod from his right ear. His countenance screams, “Can I help you?” but instead, he says, “Who are you?”
“I’m—doesn’t matter—um, you’re in my seat, so I was just trying to—”
Almost immediately, Geto’s scuffed wooden chair moves against the carpet, dirtied and dulled with time, and he pulls the thick organic chemistry book up with one hand, the other reaching for his beat and battered backpack with numerous pins and patches. Gojo cranes his neck and tries to catch a glance at them inconspicuously, but Geto turns to face him fully, making an elaborate show of moving to the seat beside Gojo’s.
He motions, slightly pestered, to the newly vacant seat. “There.”
Gojo nods wordlessly, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, “Thanks.”
Geto does not respond. He already has an airpod in, refocusing on his textbook. This time, he’s not even on the same page—Gojo wants to pity, but that’s not his place, so he instead pries open his art history book and tries to zone in on the Manchurian paintings and sculptures.
He just can’t stop looking at Geto.
Well, not looking, but maybe angling his neck just right so that his peripheral vision can capture as much of him as he can.
And it seems that Geto is on a similar wavelength because he set his AirPods to Transparency rather than Noise Cancelling just in case the cutie in glasses wants to bother him one more time. The hum of the library’s ceiling fan pollutes his once “peaceful” atmosphere, and the sudden lack of Pierce the Veil in his ears disconcerts him.
But he just can’t risk missing another conversation with the boy beside him.
So when Gojo clears his throat and asks him what his name is, his heart leaps in his throat from joy.
But he can’t know this, so Geto calmly removes one very useless AirPod and ushers Gojo to repeat himself, one more time.
Just so he can hear his voice again.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Geto.”
Gojo looks at him with a quiet, quizzical look, so Geto does his due diligence and fills in the gaps.
“Geto Suguru.”
“Okay. I noticed that you’re studying O-Chem, but I also noticed that you’re, um, looking a bit lost, and I,” he points to his chest, a divot in his standard white tee, “happen to be a tutor.”
Geto allows him to finish this soliloquy, and then he lets the silence in the air sit for a few beats.
“And you are?”
Gojo flushes a deep, uneven shade of pink. “I’m sorry. Forgot.”
And it’s cute.
Geto bites the inside of his bottom lip to keep from laughing as Gojo stammers his name. He leans back, testing how far he could push it. “That’s a pretty name, Gojo.”
Gojo feels like he’s going to throw up.
“Um—so, anyway, I’m a tutor, and the first lesson is free, so just let me know, okay?”
With a slide of a brightly decorated business card and a drying of sweaty hands on denim jeans, Gojo is out of there just as fast as he came in.
Geto hums to himself to keep from dry heaving in his seat as he drags the card along with an index finger.
Gojo Satoru
Tutoring Services
XXX - XXX - XXXX
First lesson free!
Tell a—
“Friend?” Shoko reads from behind Geto, a smile ghosting her lips as she fills Gojo’s empty spot. Geto wants to tell her to move, but then he’d have to explain why, so he instead opts to press his lips together and scratch his head.
“Telling you about it now,” he flatly says, pushing the card towards Shoko, “I know you’re failing physics.”
Shoko eyes the organic chemistry textbook sprawled out in front of Geto. “No. The professor just doesn’t like me.”
Geto snorts and zips up his bag, taking the card back. He clenches a quiet fist in victory. The library is much colder than it was before, and even his thick jacket does little to defend against the high-speed fans. The scrawny librarian’s lips are tinted blue, but she lazily refuses to get up and fix the climate. “Are you coming?”
“To what?”
Geto makes a smoking motion with his two fingers and laughs, turning his back on Shoko and expecting her to follow. It’s truly a beautiful thing that she did because she offers conversation about the cutie’s business card.
“So you know Gojo Satoru?”
Geto stays quiet for a minute, scrolling through a mental list of what to say as he crosses a forearm over his chest and pushes through the heavy library doors, into a much warmer environment. It reeks of freshly cut grass and the only thing shielding him is the overhead shade. “He came up to me in the library. Complaining about his seat.”
“Obviously. That’s where he lives, probably.” Shoko’s marked-up Dr. Martens kick cut grass out of the way as she completely disobeys the sidewalk. “He’s like, running valedictorian or something. I forgot. First in our class.”
Geto takes a deep breath, trying not to gag from the prominent grassy smell. “He wanted to tutor me. Said I suck at O-Chem.”
Obviously, he didn’t say that, but Gojo’s sweet rambling seemed to pass through one ear and out the other.
“Okay. You do.”
“You’re taking physics right now.”
“...Okay.”
Geto, now mildly sweaty, pushes the door open to their dorm building, navigating the way towards his dorm room. Shoko is silent, with just a tapping noise coming from her phone, as she follows suit. But Geto just can’t stop thinking about the way Gojo blushes, speaks, and moves.
And when he turns the doorknob to his room, he finds himself wishing for Shoko to poof away so he can ring pretty boy Gojo’s number and tell him to come get high with him instead. He’d probably mumble something about his number being strictly for tutoring purposes and how he’s never even touched a blunt—and Geto already feels woozy off of that fact alone.
His face feels hotter.
What a terrible friend.
Shoko is ruffling through his things—disregarding boxers, band tees, and socks. When she throws a sock to the side, Geto opens his mouth, and then closes it again, pulling open a thin drawer under his loft bed and tugging a small baggy out of it. “Here,” he says flatly, tossing it to Shoko and collapsing onto his desk chair.
“Nice.” The Ziploc bag, somehow sticky, hits Shoko’s upper arm before she picks it up and does a corny fist pump. She produces rolling paper out of her bag and tries to make conversation. Geto stares at the ceiling, and he’s thinking.
“Utahime’s wondering where you’ve been.”
Geto, habitually, allows her sentence to be punctuated by his silence.
“In class?”
Shoko licks the paper, eyeing him through thick lashes. “Um, more like a lack thereof. Is that how you say that?”
Geto cocks his head to the side and rises slightly. He lifts the black hair tie from his wrist and makes a delicate updo of his long hair. “All of the material is online,” he uses a hand to signal come here, “pass me that.”
Shoko gives him a disgusted, almost offended look. She stretches her limber body across the floor and, albeit very hesitantly, gives up the blunt anyway, and from the same drawer that the weed came from, Geto flicks a lighter on.
“You’ve only been to two of your classes since the semester started, like, forever ago.” Shoko’s palms are resting on her crisscrossed lap, on the floor of Geto’s dorm room.
Geto dismisses her. “Roll that quickly. Haibara’s classes end in three hours.”
Shoko flips him off with one hand, her other working fast. She licks the paper and taps the wooden floor to ask Geto for the lighter. He hums, sliding the red, scuffed lighter across the floor. He takes a long drag and holds his head as if he has a headache. Twenty minutes later, the pungent reek of weed seeps into their clothes and bedding as Geto and Shoko giggle (yes, both) about the terrible dining hall food. Geto rubs a hand over his face, composing himself, and takes off his jacket.
And he has a terrible idea.
His head hurts—it thumps, with the thought of him. And his mouth is so dry. So, so dry.
Gojo is leaning back in his chair, frustrated and tired from a particularly demanding essay, when his phone angrily vibrates from across the room. Nanami perks his head up from his bed after the third ring. “Get that.”
Gojo holds a hand up, slides his rickety swivel chair to the other side of their dorm room, and answers. “Hello?”
The person on the other end is quiet for a beat. “Is this Sa—Gojo?”
He recognizes the voice. Organic chemistry bo—no, let me think, Geto. “Yes! I’m available for a tutoring session if that’s what you’re calling for.” If that’s what you’re calling for? Why else would he call?
“Humm,” Geto drones on the other side of the line, “well—yes—no—yeah. I’m in dorm 32A right now. Thinking about… organic chemistry. Think I need you. For tutoring.”
Gojo’s cheeks singe and he checks the time on his open MacBook. “Uh… I can be there if you give me maybe fifteen minutes.” He begins to gather his things, grateful for a reprieve from this essay. He looks at Nanami, mouths something, and opens the door to his hallway.
“Yeah. That’s great.”
“...I’ll be there. I wasn’t really expecting you to call, really.”
Geto looks at Shoko, and apologizes internally to her, pushing her along the small of her back to her neighboring dorm with his phone pressed in between his shoulder and ear. “Yeah?”
Gojo coughs. “Yeah.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Seemed like you had organic chem all figured out, big man.”
Ha. Geto chokes out a dry laugh. Big man? He talks like this over the phone?
“No,” Geto slurs his words, “not really sure what a carboxylic derivative is.”
Gojo, out of sight, raises an eyebrow, approaching Geto’s dorm room. A faint scent of weed lingers in the hall. “A compound formed when the hydroxyl group of a carboxylic acid is replaced.” Geto wants to say, “Keep talking, pretty boy,” but a knock on his door silences him. When he opens it, Gojo stands there, with his phone to his ear, still talking to Geto through the phone. “Hi.”
His glasses lay low on his face, and his skin is flushed—from their conversation or descending and ascending stairs, Geto does not know—and it has been the best sight Geto has seen in… a long time. He hangs up the call and steps to the side.
Gojo is visibly hit by the wall of weed three inches into the room. He looks at Geto weirdly, and then firms his grip on his backpack strap. “So,” he starts.
“Organic chemistry.” Geto lies.
Gojo nods and takes a deep inhale of the strong scent, willing his nose to get used to it. He steals Haibara’s chair and rolls it to Geto’s cluttered desk, hesitating to place the hefty organic chemistry book on a stack of papers. Geto sits himself down, awfully close to Gojo at the not-very-two-person college-issued dorm desk, and takes the book from Gojo’s freckle-specked hands, setting it down on the unimportant papers.
Gojo pushes his glasses up and clears his throat. “Since this is your first lesson,” he takes a pause to flip to the proper page, “I think we should first identify your weaknesses or shortcomings in the subject.” He looks to Geto for some kind of validation—but Geto’s eyes are red, low, and boring holes into the open book.
“Yeah,” is all he says.
“I noticed that you, um, found some issues with carboxylic derivatives, so we can expand that—” Gojo holds his breath, leaning a bit over to stick a post-it (scribbled “carboxyl.”) onto the vinyl paper of the textbook, “—to the whole content chapter, if that’s okay.”
Geto scratches the back of his neck. “No, yeah.”
“And then for our second point of concern, I figured, based on your… pause… back in the library, radical mechanisms and chirality can also be a starting point for us—but honestly, I think that every student struggles with that, so don’t feel so bad—I also, concerning stereochemistry, couldn’t differentiate between diastereoisomers and enantiomers, so I think that could be another good place for us to begin next session, not that I think my intelligence is superior or anything but just off of analyzation of the hardest concepts to grasp—”
“Gojo?”
Gojo bites down on his bottom lip and covers the lower part of his face using a post-it. “Sorry.”
Geto waves him off, stilling for a second. His tongue touches his top lip. “Have you ever smoked a blunt?”
Gojo looks up at the ceiling of the dorm room, popcorned with some parts smooth due to restorations as if he’s thinking about the answer. He looks back down at Geto, who’s staring at him now, low. “No.”
Geto gives him a sleazy smirk, producing the same little baggy he did an hour ago out of the same drawer. “Wanna try?”
“I mean,” Gojo gives him a smile, an awkward one, and scratches where his mustache would be if he wasn’t so diligent in shaving it. “Is it fun?”
Oh, poor Gojo.
Geto’s smile widens. “Serenity.”
So when Gojo nods, Geto begins to roll. He doesn’t try to make conversation; not only because he’s spoken enough, but also because he doesn’t want to distract Geto. He doesn’t know why—this process seems important to him. Geto’s eyebrows are furrowed as he methodically and carefully rolls it up, his last paper, all for him, and his eyes churn Gojo’s stomach when he looks up at him while licking it.
Geto’s thumb goes for Gojo’s stiff face, softly pressing on his plush, bottom lip. Geto opens his own mouth—consciously or unconsciously—to be a model, and it works because Gojo obediently unlatches his jaw and makes a slight space for the blunt, which Geto puts into his mouth with two nimble fingers.
Gojo doesn’t know why he’s allowing Geto to move him like a toy, but he’s pliant as ever when Geto takes a soft hand to his and shows him how to hold the thin blunt. Knees together, Geto is comfortably close. Slowly, he lights it.
“Inhale.”
Gojo sucks in the air. It hiccups in his throat and feels like it’s burning his lungs, and he coughs, head down, chest heaving. He takes a deep, dirtied inhale of air and rises again, Geto is looking at him with a laugh behind his lips, but Gojo tries again nonetheless. “Slow, this time,” Geto instructs, “no rush.”
“Okay,” Gojo says, but it’s much too under his breath to be rendered as anything but him mouthing some incoherency. He tries again, slow and methodical this time, and Geto looks at him through his thick eyelashes, something inconceivable behind his eyes.
He does well this time, mistakenly breathing out a steady air of smoke into Geto’s face. He goes to apologize. But something clicks in Geto’s clouded head.
Geto opens his mouth.
Gojo takes another hit, smoke filling his mouth, and then breathes it out, this time, a thinner, more directed stream into Geto’s mouth. Geto smiles, smoke wordlessly escaping through the negligible gap where his top row and bottom row of teeth meet. He takes the blunt from Gojo’s hand. “Yeah, just like that.”
“Open.” Geto hits the blunt, looking at Gojo expectantly. Gojo’s tongue feels full in his mouth, and he opens his mouth, his jaw slack. Geto newly takes Gojo’s face in his hands and blows smoke into his mouth. Geto passes the blunt back to Gojo, and the time melts.
Gojo’s muscles relax as they pass the drug back and forth, and on a particularly very tired, lazy hit, where Gojo’s body feels lax, his skin soft, and eyes heavy, he puts a hand behind Geto’s head, feeling his soft, noir locks under his fingertips and he pulls him closer, time stopping in the middle.
He’s making a bad choice.
“Do it.”
Gojo’s face lazily collides with Geto’s, lips moving anything but strategically as Geto nervelessly trails his fingers along anything that is Gojo. He rues the moment this will end. Geto bites Gojo’s lip, and that only stirs him forward, where he tries to get as close to Geto as he can, feeling starving fingertips rubbing against his side. He breathes, hot, into Geto’s mouth, low eyes closed as he hums something, a word—or maybe just a sound of content—into Geto’s willing mouth, and so, he barely even notices when Haibara knocks once, twice, on the door.
Even worse, he surely doesn’t notice when Haibara turns the key in the lock, calling out Geto’s name. His ears are dysfunctional right now, feeling like they’re stuffed with cotton as he tries to suck the life out of Geto via kiss, but when Haibara simply says “Oh,” upon seeing the scene, Gojo falls back into his seat, rolling back a bit, and staring at Haibara like he isn’t supposed to be there.
“Oh,” he unintentionally mimics. “Oh.” He looks at Geto once, erratically, and then touches his lip, a spot bleeding. He takes his bag, leaving his organic chemistry textbook where it lies, and mumbled somewhat of an apology to a shocked Haibara as he dragged himself out of the dorm room, leaving a crushed and hungry Geto behind.
Haibara’s mouth remains open. He points at the empty seat—his empty seat. “Is that—?”
Geto hums as a response, with either “yes” or “no” being up for interpretation. He just knows that his clothes feel two sizes too small, his lips still burn with the touch of Gojo, and Haibara just ruined his life. His eye twitches.
lol i never post casually but i am genuinely curious. haven't posted a fic in a while cause i'm trying to cook up something long but i feel like people prefer one-shots. idk. what do u guys prefer cause i'm writing this satosugu thing and i just feel like i never write long enough for anyone's tastes
it's my first time writing something like this, but i love caleb so i'm trying my hand at it and hoping that i get better at it. oh. and im a lore skipper so please forgive me if anything is ooc here. please listen to angel by massive attack while reading. thank you for reading!!! i hope u like
It’s Tuesday, and it’s your only day off.
Four years in an esteemed university, a marketing degree, and top-notch grades, and you’re working at the same firm as your high school ex-friends. You’d berate yourself for the pathetic nature in which you’ve ended up, but you’re much too tired often days to think much past what you’re having for dinner. Spoiler: it’s pizza, again.
On your days—sorry, day—off, you enjoy hanging out with friends or simply staying home. Something as simple as a spaghetti dinner with an extremely corny Netflix Original is enough to satisfy you. This Tuesday, your friend Caleb has offered to take you out to the pier down south. You declined, though, because you’re going on a date with your boyfriend today. Caleb isn’t trapped in the same whirlpool you are—after high school, he went to pilot school and now flies commercial airplanes for a living. You bite your lip in envy, wishing you had taken the same path. Alas, you didn’t, and your company laptop bings with an email. You decide not to check it, instead opting to lazily dip your hand into a party-sized bag of Doritos.
You met Caleb one day in the library, studying for your seemingly useless marketing degree. You spoke, exchanged your then high opinions on your paths of study and interests, and waved each other goodbye. From then on, he found you each time you were at that library, offering to study with you but instead, each time inevitably going into an unrelated conversation. This continued until you exchanged numbers and graduated—you figured you wouldn’t see Caleb after that, but he persisted in maintaining your friendship.
In a way, you’re thankful for him. You’re thankful, even though you don’t tell him, that he’s stuck around so long.
You pop your fingers into your mouth to clean the Dorito dust off of them as your boyfriend, Nate, texts you. Nate is a good guy, sure. But your relationship feels more like a friendship nowadays. You love him; you really do, and you’ve tried to mend the bond. Over-the-top Valentine’s day gifts, excessive PDA, constant love declarations—needless to say, the deterioration of this relationship simply cannot be accredited to your laziness, but rather, his. You know this, yes, but you also hope the date today will fix everything. Will make him love you again. You reluctantly check your phone, fearing an apology rather than an “are you ready?” message. Instead, it’s a simple two word message: “call me.”
So you do.
Nate picks up after two dials. “Hello?”
“Nate?”
“Oh. Yeah.” He says, as if he forgets his own name. “Look…”
You sigh. “No,” you deny hearing whatever he’s going to say, “I already made the reservations.”
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he says the baby hesitantly, as if it's a curse word, “something came up. I just can’t make it.”
You shake your head and rub your temple from beyond the screen. “It’s fine.” You mumble and respond in a tone much softer than the last. “Call me when you’re free, okay?”
Nate does not respond. He hums an illegitimate answer and hangs up, leaving you to your own devices and sticky Dorito fingers.
As if it was second nature, you take those Dorito fingers and use them to dial Caleb instead, not wanting your reservation to be completely wasted. Like he was waiting for your call on the other end of the phone, he picks up immediately.
“Hey, pip-squeak,” he chirps, “what’s up?”
You mournfully groan. “Are you busy today?”
Caleb takes a pregnant pause, as if he’s doing something right now. Something clanks in the background, confirming your suspicions. “No.”
“You’re lying.”
“Not. Whaddya wanna do?”
Selfishly, you offer the schedule anyway. “My boyfriend cancelled on me.” On the other end of the line, Caleb makes a sympathetic noise. You continue. “Had a reservation at that restaurant down at the pier today. Are you coming?”
“Abso—yeah, I am. When?”
You sigh, preparing to be met with further pities. “Three hours. I know it’s short notice, I don’t expe—”
“I’ll pick you up?”
You scoff. “Yeah. Thank you, Caleb, really.”
“Anytime, pip-squeak.”
—
Beggars can’t be choosers is the mantra you repeat when Caleb picks you up on his motorcycle again. The helmet forces your hair into an ugly shape, the speed of the bike shifts your insides, and the perilous nature of it all is an extreme deterrent.
Unfortunately, Caleb just ruffles your hair as you pout at your mode of transportation.
“It’ll be just 5 minutes,” Caleb assures you, “hop on.” He pushes a helmet onto you and flips the glass part of it down, giving you a stomach-churning smirk as he does the same for himself and pats the area behind him. You reluctantly get on, wrapping your arms around his waist as he revs the motorcycle.
“Hang on, pip-squeak!”
You yell over the engine. “I’ll try!”
He punctuates your words by letting his foot off of the brake, finally sending you two down the street. “You okay?”
You rest your jaw in the crook of his neck, closing your eyes and trying not to throw up. You hum a response, but you don’t know if he hears you. A motorcycle isn’t exactly prime time for in-depth conversation, so instead, he begins to cruise and cautiously rubs your knee to soothe you. “Almost there.”
You groan, unconsciously pinching his shirt rather than holding around his waist. He corrects your form, taking the hand that was on your knee and flattening it against your hand on his stomach.
“Hold,” Caleb concisely assulerts, guiding your hand to the edge of his waist, “nearly there.”
The movement borders on hand-holding, but he doesn’t interlock your fingers together. Your face begins to feel hot—or maybe it’s the humid weather—and you pull back slightly from Caleb, silently hoping your heart isn’t beating hard enough to be felt against his back.
The excruciating ride comes to an end with Caleb parking the motorcycle near the entrance of the pier. He dusts himself off, then adjusts his shirt sleeves and takes your helmet off, ruffling your hair up. You mumble a grievance, but he brings his finger up to his lip to hush you and he pokes your cheek.
He points to the time on his phone as you two walk the remaining distance to the restaurant. “Look at that. We’re early.” He chuckles at your annoyed expression and promises a car ride next time.
“No—it’s fine,” you quickly respond, “we can still take the bike.”
Caleb gives you an inquisitive look. “Oh?” He pushes open the door to the restaurant with his shoulder, still looking at you. “Coming around to it?” You give him a look, and he puts his hands up in faux surrender.
The restaurant’s hostess waits at the turn on a podium and cheerfully greets you two. “Hi! We’re a bit full. Do you have a reservation?”
Caleb puts his hands in his pockets and lets you do the talking. You give the waitress a warm smile, telling her your name and your reservation time.
The hostess beams with another round of performative, customer service joy. “Right! And this,” she gestures to Caleb,” is the boyfriend you mentioned?” You expect Caleb to deny the assumption, but he just glances at you.
“No, he, um, cancelled. This is just my friend.” You look away from Caleb, but out of the corner of your eye, you can see his breath begin to shallow. The hostess doesn’t notice the shift in his demeanor and offers you two a high-pitched, realizing “oh!” and ushers you to your designated table.
When Caleb slides into the seat across from you, he improperly puts his elbows on the table, flipping through the menu and looking up at you through his lashes every now and then. The waiter comes around to take your drink orders, and you awkwardly order a water. Caleb follows suit in the ordering with some tastier sounding drink, and the air is even stuffier than the preceding hour.
Why is the air stuffy?
“Water?” Caleb leans back a bit in his chair, letting out a laugh. “Are you onna diet, pip-squeak?”
You silently thank and bless him for breaking the tension, because you certainly wouldn’t. You shrug and sigh heavily, although it comes out a bit shakier than you’d like. “My stomach’s a bit flippy,” you lie, toying with the edge of the table, “I probably shouldn’t have invited you—I know you’re busy.”
Caleb leans forward and tugs at his sleeves. “I’m free now, aren’t I?”
The waiter, a tall, skinny redhead, returns with your two drinks. “Are you ready to order?” He prompts.
You look towards Caleb, who is already pointing out obscured menu items to the waiter and mumbling something you can’t hear from the other side of the table. The waiter scribbles them down, looks at you expectantly, and leaves when you tell him you’re having what Caleb is having.
You scratch your forehead, checking your phone every couple minutes to see if Nate had texted. Of course, you opened your phone each time to an empty lockscreen apart from your phone’s Settings begging you to free up space.
You decide to make conversation. “How’s flying?”
Caleb looks up from his phone, shaking his head from side to side, as if to say so-so. “Pretty boring. What do you think about me being in the air force instead?” He fiddles with the napkin. “Feelin’ like commercial really isn’t my thing.”
Images of Caleb in a well-fitted air force uniform flicker like a dull light in your head, and you close your eyes and laugh it off. He thinks you’re laughing at him, though, so he grumbles playfully and mumbles something about him being destined to do aerial tricks in the sky.
“I think you’d do great, Caleb.”
He chuckles. “Knew you’d say that, pip-squeak.”
The frail waiter comes back, balancing your two plates on one even thinner black platter. He lets out a sigh of relief when the plates find their way to their owners and tells you both to enjoy.
The dish in front of you is nothing like Caleb’s—but it’s everything like yours. You make a hmm? sound, and Caleb parts from slicing away at his way-too-well-done steak to point at your plate of pasta. “Also knew you’d say, ‘whatever he’s having,’ so I took care of that. Is that alright?” He scans your face for discontent, but you give him a smile and a heavy sigh, finally putting your phone away.
“Yeah, it is. Thanks, Caleb. How’d you know what I’d like, though?”
He simply laughs and nods, stuffing steak into his cheek as if winter is going to come and take it from him, leaving the answer ambiguous.
—
Your time at the restaurant with Caleb dragged into the late hours, and the chill of the night hits your face as you ding your way back out of the restaurant. Your phone buzzes again, for what seems like the twentieth time tonight, and again, you ignore it, rubbing your hands up and down your arms to produce some illusion of heat.
Caleb shrugs his jacket off of his shoulders, draping them over yours. You open your mouth to protest, but he promptly interrupts you. “Uber or the motorcycle?”
Your face contorts in confusion. “How’re you going to get your motorcycle back then?”
He glances at you and gestures for you to follow him to another side of the curb. “Uber back later.” He says it matter-of-factly, as if it was a given.
You breathe out an oh, the puff of air visible in the cold. “Motorcycle is fine.”
“You sure, pip? You just ate and you hate it as is.” Caleb’s face turns to one of concern.
“I’ll be okay.” You shrug, walking over to where his motorcycle is parked.
He pushes his lip up in an okay then motion, helmets the two of you, and brings your jacketed arms around his waist when he straddles the front. Your phone buzzes against your leg again, and you ignore it. “Don’t throw up on me, pip-squeak.”
You give him an incoherent sound, and he revs up the motorcycle, yelling something you don’t care for over the engine. You clench your ab muscles in pure anti-projectile-vomiting will as he swerves through the streets, navigating to your house, and your nails dig into Caleb’s side, even as he slows down near your house.
Under the helmet, Caleb’s eyes narrow at the car next to yours in your driveway. “Bought a second car, pip?”
No.
You didn’t.
You recognize that car. Your heart drops and you, at last, check your phone. Thirteen missed calls and a flurry of text messages, all from Nate.
where are you? Need to talk
i’m coming to your house
open the door. I’ll sit in your driveway all night.
You tap Caleb’s side wordlessly, and he looks back at you in concern, his lips parted.
“Go,” you mutter, “let’s go to your house instead. My, um, power’s out. Forgot.”
Caleb eyes the light that shines from the left side of your house, but he hums and revs the engine back to life again, swerving down an unfamiliar set of roads until you two reach his apartment complex. You tug your helmet off, refusing to meet Caleb’s eyes as you approach the door of the complex.
“Everything alright?”
You drone an mhm, scratching your nape.
As you ascend the stairs and open the door to Caleb’s apartment, you notice how blandly decorated the place is, and can’t help but to tease him for it. “Do you even live here?”
He chuckles, opening the fridge and pouring some cold water for you. “I’m usually in a plane.”
You purse your lips and draw images out of the condensation on the side of the cup. That makes sense.
“You staying over for tonight?”
The question catches you mid-sip, and you shrug. “I mean, if you’ll let me.”
Something in Caleb’s eye glints. “No, yeah, ‘course, pip-squeak.”
You shrug his jacket off of your body, draping it over the couch as you flop down on it.
“Is the power really out at your place, or did’ya just want to spend more time with Caleb?” Caleb leans on the back of the couch, looking down at you. You cover your eyes with your forearm, letting out an exasperated sigh but offering him at least a snort, as one would do to a terrible dad joke.
The couch sinks as your feet lift up, and when you prop yourself up on your forearms, Caleb’s lap is their new location as he clicks through irrelevant Netflix shows. He looks at you and points to the screen with the remote, asking what you’d like to watch.
You shake your head no and relax back down on the couch as he rubs your ankles. “I’m tired. Do you have another bed?”
He clicks his tongue. “You can just take my bed. My couch is big enough for me to sleep on.”
You give him a look, but he just puts a finger up to his lips and rises from the couch, offering a hand to get you up. “I’ve just gotta make the bed, though. Just took the bedding outta the washer this morning. Wanna help?”
You stretch after you get up, nodding a yes in between a yawn.
The two of you enter his room, and it is just as grimly decorated as the rest of his house is. A boring desk fills up the right space of his bedroom and an even more monotonous snake plant acts as a sore excuse for decoration in the other corner.
“Do you even know how to decorate?”
“Nope.”
The two of you work to put the silk cases back on the pillows and relocate the other bedding items so that they don’t get in your way.
When you lift his mattress to put the first sheet on, something—no, many things, fall out from under the mattress—like polaroids, or other glossy pictures. You think of calling out to Caleb, but your mouth clamps shut when you catch a glimpse of what looks like your face in one. In another, a fog-blurred photo of you drying your hair after a bath, taken from a high angle. Caleb’s eyes follow yours, and he drops the mattress calmly, meeting your newly fully-awake eyes.
“Caleb—is that—”
He hushes you, walking over to your side of the bed with a slow stride. You back up, wordlessly pointing to where the pictures still lie.
“That’s not you.”
You begin to blubber incredulously, your head starting to feel heavy. He takes your hands in his gently, as if asking for forgiveness.
“That’s not you,” he repeats, “they’re just… it’s just a project I’m doing.”
Your eyes flutter with a fatigue heavier than before. You try to say something, to call him out on such a blatant lie, but all that is left of your voice is a mere squawk.
Caleb holds you in his arms as your body begins to feel limp, muttering the same lines over and over again. In a dream-like state, you hear him say, “Promise I’ll take care of all of this. Just been waiting… It’ll be so good. For both of us.”
—
Caleb drives a sleek, black car to your address, tilting his head in mild pity when he still sees the same car in your driveway. He murmurs irritated curse words under his breath, exiting the car and tugging his cap down as he approaches the car.
He’d rather be sleeping right now, but he loves you too much.
The man in it is sound asleep, so he taps the drivers’ side and shines a rude flashlight into the man’s eyes. The man, Nate, jumps up in shock and immediately begins to back out of the driveway.
Unfortunately, he only hits Caleb’s perfectly parked car. Caleb tuts in disappointment and flexes a gloved hand, using his shirt and fist to bash Nate’s car window in. Nate yells, but the neighborhood is much too dead asleep to care.
Caleb grabs Nate by the shirt, pulling him up close to his face. “I told you last time, didn’t I?”
Nate stutters something, and Caleb uses the blunt of the flashlight to rear back and knock some verbiage into him.
Nate curses, holding his face. “I’m so sorry, man, I just—”
“You just what?”
Nate begins his useless rambling again and Caleb sighs, as if this is a waste of his time, slamming Nate’s head into his steering wheel. The honk is loud, but too clipped and still not loud enough to wake anyone up.
Caleb laughs bitterly.
“Do you think cheating on someone—” he punches Nate, holding his breath.
“So needy,” he finally opens the car door and drags him out onto your lawn.
“So kind,” he serves him a foot to the stomach.
“So forgiving,” he kicks Nate around until he’s on his stomach, bloody and beaten.
“So perfect,” Caleb tugs Nate up by his hair, straddling his back and forcing him to look up at him.
“Is something that a man of God would do?” Caleb eyes the beaded cross hanging from Nate’s mirror, then mockingly looks back at him with a faux-sympathetic look.
Nate begins to blubber a string of apologies. “I’m sorry, man, seriously. I came here just to break up, promise, but you’d do the same, you know, two beautifu—”
The gunshot, this time, still doesn’t wake the neighbors. Caleb tosses it to the side, thanking earlier him for purchasing a silencer. He drops Nate’s limp head onto the grass, dusting himself off as he looks at the pitiful body seeping blood into your freshly-trimmed lawn.
“Like hell I would.”
—
Your head bangs with an anger like never before. You try to bring your hands up to cradle your thumping head, but you’re met with the resistance of zip ties.
“What?” You mumble.
As you come to, you squint and notice Caleb in the far distance, cooking something. You’re laying on the same bed you were asked to make, and Caleb is flipping pancakes like a sitcom father. Sun attacks your eyes and you screw them shut, feeling your headache worsening. Caleb looks behind him, notices your movements, and immediately turns off the stove, jogging towards you and shutting the curtains.
“Hey, pip-squeak,” he soothes, “you’re awake.”
You furrow your brows at him, trying to move your ankle, but that too is zip tied, this time to the foot of his bed. “What?” You repeat, struggling to sit up.
He hushes you, gently pushing you back down onto the bed. “I’ll let you go in a minute, okay? Can’t just let a wounded animal free.”
The haze is finally beginning to clear up a bit more, and Caleb is double-checking if the black-out curtains are fully closed. “I saw the photos of me that you have and then you—you drugged me.”
Caleb snaps his head towards you with a look of tenderness, but also of hurt. “No, pip—well, yes—but I was planning on you just being able to hear me. Just not being able to be hurt. What I put in your water won’t harm you. I promise.”
You look around the room, and Caleb occupies the area next to you on the bed. He softly takes your face, tracing his hands down to your own hands. “Do these hurt?”
You reluctantly nod, so he cuts them off with scissors he produced from his back pocket. You flex your wrists, looking at him cautiously.
“Just calm down, okay?” Caleb takes your hands in his, facing you with his full body. The zip tie on your ankle digs into your skin, so you wince. Caleb gets up, flips the cover over, and switches the restraint with something much more comfortable. He apologizes the whole way through, then returns to his spot beside you.
“Want you to stay with me forever, pip-squeak,” Caleb mumbles, bringing his hand up to soothe, or at least try to soothe, your frenzied face. He brings his forehead to meet yours. “God… it’s like you were sent for me.”
Your mouth drops. The unnamed drug still clouds your thoughts, so you breathe something along the lines of “I have a boyfriend… you’re crazy.”
Caleb clips and his face darkens. “No. I took care—um, he was cheating on you. He broke up with you last night. Check your messages.”
He gently ushers your cold phone into your hands, and you scroll through the messages of Nate saying that you’re over and that he “never really loved you anyway.”
Tears begin to stream down your face, and you cannot pinpoint their exact, singular cause. Caleb hushes you, taking your sobbing frame into his arms as he lets you cry into his shoulder.
“I love you,” he hums, “I love you.”
He runs a hand through your hair, rubbing your back and pulling you closer.
the torture of small talk with someone you used to love
geto suguru x gen!reader
masterlist ao3
synopsis:
No, you two weren’t going to work.
It was a sick combination, really. He’s too busy, and you’re too good to him. Too busy to reply to your messages—too ungrateful and too young to cherish what he has. He didn’t deserve you, he thought, so he let you go.
Geto’s voice slurs with regret and unbridled sorrow sticks to the back of his throat as he takes the front stage for the first time in his music career.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes into the mic, “every single song is about you.”
[ 4.5k words — fluff, angst, second chance, rockstar au — warnings: i am fighting back against the geto nonchalant hc epidemic ]
author's note:
quick note: i know nothing about fallout boy, but i just wanted to use the little quote pete wentz said as inspo and the basis of this fic :-) the song i dedicate to this one is lover, you should have come over by jeff buckley. please listen while reading (if you really want to be in the story, 2:10 of lover, you should’ve come over roughly correlates with after geto says the lines). i hope you enjoy! i really liked writing this one
“How long has it been?” Your friend, Shoko, asks as you poke your strawberry scone around. The menu offered a vanilla and peanut butter one, but you found yourself suspicious of the combination and turned it down.
That’s a good question.
Your room is bare now—posters you just can’t seem to get rid of fill your closet in messy, loose rolls, rare CDs collect dust in a far corner (should you ever be in a financial bind, you’ll sell those on Depop), and faded, five-sizes-too-big band t-shirts are hung up with the nicer, store stolen fabric hangers in the darker spot of your closet.
He’s someone you’d rather not remember.
There is one thing, though. The guitar that he lent you—the one he taught you how to play on. Marks lace the middle bout of the guitar, courtesy of years of contact. The fork goes clean through your scone as you think of him with a greater lucidity now; his hands on yours as they guide you through the most fundamental songs, the vibration of his chuckle against your back when you try to play on your own, his string calloused fingertips running across your nape to pull your hair out of the way so he can scrutinize your choppy F sharp work in all of its negligible glory.
It doesn’t matter now. It never did. That worn guitar lays under your bed, never to be touched again. Never to be played again for any ear.
Suguru Geto isn’t yours anymore.
“I dunno,” you mumble, obviously out of it. Your eyes are unfocused, so you keep them low to hide their comfortable asymmetry. “Six—five months?”
Shoko sips her matcha and looks at you from over the cup. “Right. And you don’t miss him one bit?”
You shrug, pushing your plate to the side and taking a heavy gulp of your latte—hopefully long enough to signal to Shoko this conversation isn’t one you feel like having. Now or ever. Your tongue starts to feel numb in your mouth, and you can’t tell if it’s because of the drink’s scalding temperature or your sudden lack of verbosity.
Shoko doesn’t get the hint though, because she just stares at you until your theatrics are over. “Yes you do,” she teases with a haughty laugh and then leans back. She begins to grab a cigarette out of her pocket, but the café worker bussing the table next to yours gives her a glare. She promptly returns the box to its righteous place.
“I don’t.” You lick your dry lips and look up, mildly annoyed. The conversation was beginning to sound like one of an elementary schooler: “You so like Geto!” met with the exhausted rebuttal of “Not true!”
But it was true. In some deep part of you, one you have long since buried, you missed him. You missed the way he held you close even in front of whipped fans, one after another begging him to sign their boobs or bare chests—his androgyny made him a particularly strong item—you missed the way he lent you all of his T-shirts to sleep in. You missed the way he ran his fingers through your hair, still listening when you were going on about nothing in particular. That’s the thing about Geto. It’s hard not to miss him, but you figured you were doing a pretty good job at it.
Shoko pinches your cheek and begins to rise from her seat, laying down a couple of bills. “I’ll pay. Your heart’s already hurting. I don’t feel like doing the same to your bank account.” You mumble a “thanks” to the lame joke and grab your bag, stepping outside of the stuffy café.
Here, she is finally free to smoke, so she lights one and sighs after puffing it. “You know,” she coughs, “Choso said Geto’s pretty torn up about you.”
“I seriously doubt it.” You laugh bitterly, tightening your hold on your bag strap. Geto? Torn up about you? “I’m sure the millions of girl fans he adores would die for just a night with him. He has options. Probably why he ditched.”
“I just don’t think he would just give up on you two. I mean, he sai—”
“Can we go?”
Shoko senses she’s overstepped a boundary, so she nods and steps towards her car. It beeps and she opens the driver's door. She pauses for a minute before ducking her head down, though, surveying your face. Looking for something.
You don’t give her any reaction. You simply enter the passenger seat, parking your purse upon your lap, and staring out of the window into the café. The anti-smoking barista is wiping your table down. He looks left, then right, and pops your untouched scone into his left front pocket. Good on him—food shouldn’t be wasted.
The rest of the ride is silent.
—
𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑
PLAYING @ ATLANTIS SQUARE
ON 7/8 and 7/10 MIDNIGHT
𝗗𝗢𝗡’𝗧 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗦 𝗜𝗧
TICKETS ON SALE NOW
You pause at the glossy poster once again, for the third time this week. Plastered conveniently on the everyday walk to your apartment, it annoys you. It has been since last week. On it, there are three men: Gojo, the white-haired one stands at the front in a captivating still shot. You’ve met him before, he’s the singer and token—self-proclaimed, but still—comedian. He stands tall in the picture, wearing a well-fitted ROCCCKER tee and raising his hands up. Choso, a member you’re relatively closer to, has his face obscured by the way he’s moving his head to the beat of the drums he’s playing. The last member, the guitarist, has his bottom lip tucked in as he focuses on playing the correct strings. In this captured moment, he’s looking directly into the camera. He’s looking directly at you. This picture is old though, because the tattoo of a name—your name—around his bicep isn’t there.
You also know this because you took the picture.
Two years ago.
You walk away from the poster, rolling your eyes. It’s childish, you think, to keep using your pictures, old ones at that, when you have no association with the group anymore—but then again, you figured, that you were paid for your work and that you shouldn’t have had such a close relation to the group either way.
You dig in your purse for your apartment keys. When you finally enter your living room, you flop onto the couch and begin scrolling through your carefully curated, mildly fake Instagram. Beautiful, professional pictures of cherry blossoms and fairy light-decorated city alleyways decorate each corner of your page.
Five months ago, they were rudely punctuated by the occasional dark-set photo of a long-haired guitarist on a stage, glistening in sweat under dark blue stage lights and flame machines. They threw off the balance of your page, you knew, but you and Geto simply laughed at the juxtaposition of the scenario, poking fun at your contrast.
You purged your page of him—and all related photos, even if they were suggestions of him—when you were told by him, verbatim, that he “can’t do this anymore.” The only things you remember are his eyes widening as you slapped him, straying from their previously bored expression and your ears feeling hot as you turned on your heels and speed-walked out of there. You didn’t turn to check if he was following you, because you thought you didn’t care. In hindsight, you regret it. You wanted to see if he would chase after you.
If he would miss you.
Now, your page is back to being an aesthetically pleasing wonderland of tulip fields and matcha that tastes terrible but looks cute. You’ll never disturb this kind of peace and social conformity for a man ever again.
Working as a freelance photographer is nice. It’s, well, as the name suggests, freeing. As your own boss, you get to choose which clients to pick up and which ones to not. What gigs to immortalize and whatnot. In light of recent events, you haven’t necessarily taken pictures in any concerts. You usually turn them down, even if they pay well. Jobs like weddings and birthdays are much easier.
You pick your CANON camera up out of its fabric case. The personalized keychains on the zippers jingle as you open them. It was expensive—a birthday gift, so you take good care of it. Wiping down the lens and adjusting the settings, you check the reminders on your phone.
Wednesday, July 10th
Park Engagement Photos
Ruby Ten Park
3:00 P.M.
These clients of yours are one of your favorites. They’ve been a long-time customer. From first day of school photos to eccentric birthday shoots, they’ve called you each time. It’s nice to see that they’re getting engaged. Silently, you hope that they invite you to the wedding as a photographer.
Packing what you need into a dedicated tote bag, you exit your apartment again, your rest being short-lived. The park is only about a ten-minute walk from your complex, so you choose not to call an Uber. This is a choice you begin to regret as you feel your face begin to sweat three minutes in. On days like these, Geto would’ve offered to pick you up from your apartment and drop you off, no matter the distance.
You kill that thought immediately. Should’ve called that Uber.
You take your wool cardigan off, wiping beads of sweat from your hairline and adjusting your blouse. Your clients, a couple in their mid-twenties, aesthetically sit on a checkered picnic blanket. The scene is one from your Pinterest home feed. You’ve been ordered not to be spotted until the actual proposal, so you opt to sit against a tree facing a performing stage that is commonly used for indie gigs and mini-festivals. The park is nice—the trees and shrubs are well cut, the walkways are often clear of obstruction, and the benches are relatively new, save for the chewed gum under the end bars. A five-star recreational park, truly.
When your ex-boyfriend’s band begins to set up speakers on the stage you’re facing, the park shoots down three full stars on your mental Yelp site. Two stars. My annoying, ungrateful ex-boyfriend made a surprise appearance, never go here if you are looking for peace and quiet.
You stiffen, watching Choso gesture to where he wants the drums placed, presumably, and Gojo flailing his arms around for who-knows-what.
Then, it’s him.
Geto. The man you love—loved—ducks under a branch and sets up a microphone. He doesn’t seem to spot you though, because he runs a hand through his hair and pats Gojo’s back, going back to the bus to, probably, bring more of their supplies.
You take this opportunity to escape, opting to move to another tree. Thankfully, you begin to hear the starting lines of every engagement repeated ad nauseam:
“I feel so happy with you…” You begin to adjust the settings on your camera to reduce the sun's glare.
“I never want to part from you…” Positioning yourself comfortably far, but not too far, from the couple on the blanket, you scrunch your face as you bring the camera up into frame, ensuring you capture the beautiful scenery.
Your finger hovers over the shutter button, and you hold your breath. The couple rises to their feet and the fiancé-to-be (hopefully) drops to one knee, pulling out a beautiful navy blue suede box. And then…
“Hey.” You take the photo. It’s beautiful—wait.
What?
“Hey?” That’s not “Will you marry me?” You bring the camera down, scratching the left side of your face in confusion as you turn to your side, looking for the source of this unwelcome disruption.
Geto is standing there, with a dumb look on his face and a stickered guitar on his back. Definitely unwelcome. Your clients are kissing each other now, and you think you should get that, but you’re frozen in your spot. Your hands grip your camera and you don’t respond to Geto. You just stare.
It’s like your tongue is inflated in your mouth and your face is numb when you finally do respond. It’s flat, though. “Hello.”
“I didn’t know you were going to be here—if I did, I wouldn’t have interrupted your work—”
You raise the camera to your face again, taking a rapid amount of pictures to compensate for the ones you lost just standing there.
“How have you been?” Geto presses on.
You lower your camera again, refusing to give him eye contact. “Good.” You don’t bother to ask him how he’s been either because you don’t want to give him any further talking incentive. You hear him inhale, though, obviously preparing for another round of useless chitchat, and you decide to cut him off. You whip around, giving him a mildly irritated look. “It’s nice seeing you.”
Geto presses his lips together. He clenches his fist—he looks like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything further. He just stares vacantly.
The twinge in your heart intensifies as you gather your things and approach your clients, showing them the clear pictures as they fervently nod in approval of each perfectly positioned picture. Their chatter passes through one ear and through the next as your stomach churns at the interaction with Geto.
Geto is left there, staring at you in your peripheral vision, until he turns around and roughs up his hair, either in frustration or resolve, getting back to what he was doing before you.
Can he even remember before you?
—
Suguru Geto isn’t yours anymore, but was he ever?
The journal under your bed has laid empty and untouched since the day Geto left. You stand in the shower and think of things to write each day, but when you pick up the pen, you draw a blank and end up closing it.
Today, you write one sentence but don’t get much farther than that.
Your phone vibrates annoyingly on the ceramic of the bathroom sink, and you’re forced to get up from your bed and trudge your way back to the washroom. The name Choso is splayed across the top part of your phone. Your hand hesitates—considering recent events, something repelled you from picking up Geto’s right-hand man’s call.
Ultimately, you decide it’s unfair to ignore Choso on that basis considering your friendship, so you pick up the call anyway. It’s loud: Choso yells something over the discordancy of the environment, and you “Huh?” multiple times before you can decipher a “hold on.”
The sound clears up, and Choso sighs in relief when you finally return his “Can you hear me?” prompts.
Choso silently gears up on the other end of the phone. “Are you doing anything tonight?”
Your face morphs into a scowl at the realization of how this could’ve been a text. “No,” you laconically reply, “why?”
Static picks up on Choso’s end. “We’re performing at the venue thirty minutes from you tonight. Atlantis. It’d be nice if you could come—we’re going on tour after this. Just wanna hang out with you one more time.”
You sigh. “And tickets are free?”
“No—well, yes, for you. Just come. Shoko’s going.”
The mention of Shoko stirs you slightly. They obviously knew getting her there would get you to go. “Sure. And it’s in two hours?”
“Yeah. How’d you know tha—”
You hang up before Choso questions you further.
—
It’s midnight and you’re getting into an Uber you really hope is going to kidnap you before you make it to this venue. The collar of your shirt lays lazily across your shoulders, dipping under one. You decided not to wear a ROCCCKER band tee for this concert. You support Gojo and Choso, but… whatever.
The Uber hits the curb on the turn to the entrance of Atlantis Square, and it knocks the sunglasses on your head onto your lap. Seeing that it’s midnight, the driver gives you an inquisitive look in the rearview mirror. It’s a fashion choice, you mouth to yourself. You reposition them, murmuring a disdainful “thank you” to the driver and exiting the awkward car.
People are lined up at the first entrance, waiting for their turn to be either accepted or denied into the concert. The name of the venue is a grave misnomer—it resembles more of a club spot than an open park. You push your way past a particularly rowdy group of people when you spot Shoko tapping her foot impatiently at the second entrance.
“I’m surprised you showed.”
You breathe heavily. “Me too.”
Shoko shows the security guard something on her phone and gestures to the two of you before entering the pit of the venue. It is full. People holding drinks end up just handing them off to someone on the side near a trash can, people are on each other's shoulders, and the opener of the concert is being unfortunately ignored.
Shoko pushes her way to the VIP area, which you guys use to cut the pit to be able to get barrier spots. Some pretty girls holding signs that say, in crude scribble, “CHOSO BLOW A KISS” and “GETO I’M FREE 2NITE” grumble as you apologize your way into getting somewhat close to the stage. The opening act shouts her “thank you” and waves her way off of the stage. As soon as you settle in and are able to see the stage, the lights dim.
“New York, are you ready?” Gojo’s voice reverberates through the venue—fans begin to flood your space with anticipatory screams.
A guitar strum sounds through the venue, and just as much as you hear it, you feel it in your feet.
You begin to feel it in your heart when the lights finally turn on, revealing the three men. Revealing Geto. Gojo is saying something into the mic, but you can’t hear any of it. All you hear is your heart threatening to thump out of your ribcage, into your throat, and out of your mouth.
Geto scans the crowd, looking for something. His head drops to his guitar when he doesn’t find it, and he doesn’t look up from that. Shoko waves her hand around frantically, getting Choso’s attention.
Choso’s face brightens as he does a corny fist pump and waves to both you and Shoko. He steps around his drum set and whispers something in Geto’s ear.
It’s obvious what Choso told him because Geto immediately glances in your direction and the tips of his ears redden. By now, you feel as if you’re going to projectile vomit all over the hardcore friend group in front of you. He returns his gaze to the rest of the crowd. After his unheard speech, Gojo looks at Geto, as if to ask if he’s ready. Geto nods and Gojo returns to the mic.
“Everyone,” he annoyingly yells into the already too-loud mic, “this is a song off of our upcoming album.” His announcement is met with excited cheers from your section, and Shoko’s hollers in your ears nearly deafen you.
Choso begins to tap his sticks into the mic and Geto strums a low note. The song starts, and it is loud. The crowd doesn’t know the lyrics, so instead, they opt to shout incoherencies.
You can’t lie—it’s a good song. All of them are. They go through the album one by one, and the crowd further obstructs your already limited view with phones, recording videos that will definitely be on music leak pages at the end of the night. At the start of the eighth song, Geto pushes his guitar to his back. The fretboard peeks out over his shoulder and he begins to approach the mic with a slow stride.
No.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes into the mic.
No.
He looks at you—directly at you—with a mournful countenance.
“Every single song is about you.”
He’s crazy.
You’re leaving. You’re leaving, you say to yourself, but your stubborn feet won’t uproot themselves from their place. Shoko stills next to you, and you can see her glance towards you. Fans begin to pick up on where Geto’s looking, and by the time he tears his gaze from you to check if Choso and Gojo are ready to go, it is as if a faux spotlight is on you. Your body feels hot, and you’re angry he’s embarrassed you like this.
But you feel something else. Like someone has taken your heart and stomach and is jocularly throwing them around inside of you. Your breath remains held as Gojo begins to strum—you question how he’s playing the guitar so adeptly, but then you hear the loud backtrack—and Geto begins to sing. Your eyes dry, unblinking, as you stare at him.
Sometimes a man gets carried away
When he feels like he should be having his fun
You mumble an unheard apology to Shoko, still staring at Geto. The way his jaw flexes in the light doesn’t go unnoticed. You track his every movement.
Much too blind to see the damage he’s done
He returns your gaze while singing, and you tear your eyes from his, glossy and focused, swiftly turning around and pushing musically enthralled fans out of the way.
Sometimes a man must awake to find that
Really he has no one
You hold your throat and wince. You can’t cry here—not now.
So I’ll wait for you, love
And I’ll burn
Will I ever see your sweet return?
The knot in your throat tautens. He’s confessing to you via song. In front of everyone. He’s sick. You’re gasping for air now and pushing through the blurs of people. You don’t know if Shoko is chasing you; frankly, you don’t care.
Oh, will I ever learn?
Oh-oh, lover, you should’ve come over
You need to get out. Out of here. Tears break the wet film of your eyes and wet your cheeks. You’re sobbing, and now, people are offering you concerned glances.
‘Cause it’s not too late
The volume of the concert muffled your sobs, but as you finally break your way out of the pit and to the quieter, roomed bar area, Geto’s song turns muffled and your sobs fill the empty, probably restricted, room.
You fumble with your phone. Shoko is calling you. It’s only then you notice the lack of Geto’s voice in his own song—the backing track sings the filler vocals, but he is evidently gone from the stage. You can hear muffled, curious murmurs from the crowd.
Shoko is video calling you—obviously to catch a glimpse of where you are, but you deny her request. She texts—spams—you and you defiantly put your phone on silent, propping yourself up on a bar stool and sobbing into your hands.
Yes, you were angry.
Yes, you were upset.
Yes, you were torn.
But yes, God, yes, you missed him. And you hated that. With every fiber of your being but one, you hated the way Choso baited you here, the way Shoko probably knew what would happen, the way Geto knew how to get to you.
In more ways than one, because he pushes the door open, and sees you hunched back on the empty bar counter.
He whispers your name as he quietly approaches you, and you hic in response.
“Please,” Geto aimlessly pleads, “just listen.”
“I don’t want to,” you sob into your hands, picking up your phone and erratically scrolling through your apps in a teary haze, “leave.”
He breathes a sigh, cautiously seating himself on the table facing your seat. “I can’t.”
You throw your bag at him, your somber turning to rage now. Keys hit his chest and clatter against the floor. He’s only able to grab hold of the handbag, so he holds the leather near his chest. It’s greedy, but now that he has you here, in one spot where you’ll listen, he takes advantage of the setting.
“God, ‘missed you so much...” he blurts out, low. “I know. I know. Please just stay here. Just let me speak, okay?”
He takes a deep breath, surveying your reaction, and continues as he hears your sobs quiet. You refuse to turn to face him—to let him see your face, so instead, he entreats to your back.
“I thought I didn’t deserve you,” he says in a hushed tone, “you had your whole photography thing, based here—” he gestures with his arms, making a big motion to suggest your career was taking off “—and I was never around. I was always out and touring. You’d text me and I selfishly wouldn’t respond. Nothing about us mixed. I was young and high on success.” He curses under his breath, setting your bag aside and running a hand down his face.
You begin to shake your head, rising from your seat. You should’ve known better. “I don’t even know what I expected from y—”
“But I can make it work.” He stands as if his presence will make you stay. “God, I’ll kill myself to make it work. To make us work. ‘Was stupid—I’ll admit. But being with you made me feel so dumb. I was whipped. I’m serious, baby, please. Every time I was with you, I—” he begins to scratch his head in an almost confused frenzy “—I don’t even know what I felt like. Felt like flyin’.”
He inhales, preparing for another part of his ramble. You hush him before he continues.
“You could’ve told me this,” you angrily refute his pleas, “instead, you’ve left me stranded for five months. Didn’t you?”
He nods obediently at the words almost immediately, and it's as if his head is empty as he continues his begging. “I did, baby, I did,” he admits, “N’ I’ve beaten myself up every day for it.”
Something shifts in his face, and he drops to his knees. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Please,” he blubbers, “just one more shot at you n’ me?”
His bangs stick to his sweaty forehead as he looks up at you, expectant. He bites his tongue in anticipation and his palms feel clammy.
You take his face in your hands, and his shoulders relax for what seems like the first time in forever. You think of what to say. But instead, you begin to cry again, and in response, he rises to his feet and begins to wipe away your tears with a tender thumb.
Wordlessly, he allows you to cry into him—your cheek fits perfectly in the divot of his chest and for once, for the first time in five months, he feels whole. You feel whole.
The other two band members have gone back to playing their known discography. Later, on social media, you’ll begin to see circulated videos of Suguru Geto frantically leaving the stage, hopping down into a parting crowd. Fans will speculate, critique, fawn, or praise. Maybe all of the above.
how jjk men react to your return from space | jjk men x gen!reader
masterlist
synopsis: reader is an astronaut that embarks on the interstellar trans-wormhole journey and, in this scenario, doesn't return until a decade later. in these snippets, the jjk men already have an established relationship with reader. no interstellar spoilers are included.
[ 1.3k words — fluff, one shots — warnings: n/a ]
author's note:
YES choso collects figures i KNOW it and will not be participating in any related debate
taglist: @usagiarchive, @kaerotica
Nanami Kento
Nanami, who has uncharacteristically dug himself a deep hole of self-mourning in your absence, curses you for leaving—but beats himself up more for letting you go. He often finds himself, after long hours of being an esteemed sorcerer, taking time out of his busy day to stare up at the stars as if you will come rushing back down to him, blazingly seeking him out of pure wish.
So, when you do, on one disgustingly over-pollinated day in the rush of spring, he cannot—he will not—believe his own tired eyes. Your return was suspiciously normal. Just there, just at his door. He believed, incredulously, that you were merely a figment of his fatigue, even as he reached out to touch your face, one stiff with a smile, you were not real. He doesn’t speak, because how could he? What could he say? How long has it been? How much have you grown?
Do you even remember all that you were—are—to him?
He realizes he’s been holding his breath all this time, but when he releases it, it trembles. His hand ghosts just above your lip, as if to wordlessly ask you if he can touch you. If he can confirm this reality. And as he greedily grasps for you, anything of you, he silently prays, to the same gods that brought you back, that you’ll forgive him for this silent insatiability.
Geto Suguru
Geto, who has fictionally convinced himself he is well adapted to life without you, falls at your feet when you walk into the temple.
Well, not really, but if anyone ever asks, that’s how you’ll reiterate it.
His arms stiffen at his sides as he watches you approach—a futile attempt at self-preservation as he reaches for you as soon as you’re in arm’s reach. A “grown man,” he often declares of himself, begins to sob into the crook of your neck, dampening your warm, freshly dried clothing. You allow him to, biting the plush of your lip so that you don’t participate in these waterworks.
He looks up at you, vice grip on your shirt, and peppers your face with kisses, mumbling about how much he missed you, how he’ll kill you if you ever leave him again, how he hasn’t tried to find you in anyone else. You respond back, rushed in between all of his pleas for you to stay, assuring him.
But from then on, you’re silent; right now, he looks as desperate as ever, lowering his height to be one less of yours and incapacitating you with the strength of a man bulked to the heavens—because if he doesn’t, he fears the same heavens may take you away once again.
Choso Kamo
To your surprise, it takes a while, a prompt, for Choso to notice your presence. He’s far too engrossed in the latest additions to his figurine collection.
“Choso?” You call out, peeking from behind his shoulder. His fingers do not fumble as he dusts off a particularly intricate figure. Choso only hums in response. You get closer, and his hands immediately pause. You see, from an angle, his chest rise and fall with deep breaths—with confusion, the hesitation of a man who smells a fragrance that only belonged to the person he seemingly lost a decade ago. Beyond your line of sight, his eyebrows furrow and his eyes crease. He refuses to turn around, to confirm this sudden anomaly, and instead chooses to stay in the moment a bit longer, inhaling this homely scent.
You breathe lightly, careful as to not intrude on this impromptu séance Choso has going, but you eventually decide to call out for him once more, because his silence has you confusing his enamor with ignorance. A tamer “Choso?” is all it takes for him to turn around and finally reunite with the owner of his fiction.
He breathes, once, twice, and rises to his feet, looking into you with a gaze of pure adoration. He fumbles with his hands as if he doesn’t know where to put them—how to touch you. His eyebrows rise and fall in confusion of this newfound paralysis, and he swears he can feel himself drooling. His mind numbs, and his hands float up to your cheeks as his face levitates towards yours.
In this moment, nothing feels real.
Gojo Satoru
Gojo, whom you had to hunt down via outside sources, is ordering an assortment of souffles at the new pop-up shop downtown. With you not around to berate him on his overindulgent sweet tooth, he can drown himself, and his sorrows, in them.
He is elbow-deep in a strawberry souffle when he spots you. He glances at you once and immediately goes back into his confection. The action sends a momentary twinge to your heart—does he not remember you?—but he immediately does a double take. When he does, his eyes fix on yours, and they widen. His pupils blow. His left cheek is perked up with dessert, and he chews in short intervals. His face is full of disbelief (and souffle).
Gojo, surprisingly, remains composed, and he rises up from his seat, taking gentle hold of your forearm and bringing you outside of the dessert shop. He touches your face, feeling for anything amiss, then pulls you into an embrace. His cheek is still full of dessert he forgot to chew, and you two laugh over it as he breathlessly takes you in. He still refuses to chew—as if any other action in this moment will take away from the time he has with you.
“Are you here forever?"
You shake your head with a laugh. “Yes, Satoru.”
“You’re here forever,” he repeats, like a mantra, on a heavy breath, withdrawing from his close proximity to you to leer at you in all of your glory, “you’re here.”
Hiromi Higuruma
Higuruma is knocked out clean on his desk when you arrive. Papers litter the floor, important or not, and his neglected laptop lights up with the occasional notification. His suit jacket hangs off of one shoulder and the night of the city envelopes him, in all of his languor, in a gorgeous moonlight.
The knock on his door only elicits a long groan from him in response; thinking you’re just another coworker, Higuruma taps the one “clear” spot of his working space as if to say, “just put the files here.”
You wait a while before speaking. “No, Higuruma, it’s me.” In hindsight, you knew it probably wasn’t the best choice to arrive in the dead of night like this, but you were much too eager. Even the person who buzzed you in seemed to be overly lethargic—they didn’t even bother to check for any identification.
Higuruma lazily lifts his head, and his eyebags enter the room before he does. He makes a quipped inquisitive sound before raising his head further up. He begins to mumble something, taking a hand to his face to drag it down in exhaustion. He curses under his breath, and mutters something along the lines of “I’m dreaming again.”
“Higuruma.”
“Mmm,” he hums in response, “what?”
You sandwich his head with your two hands, tilting his head up to yours. His eyes lazily follow suit, and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. His mouth lays slightly ajar. As if he had a moment of sudden realization, he shoots up from his fatigue and wipes the thin line of drool from his chin.
He fixes his tie and blinks extremely hard, stepping around his desk to face you. “It’s you.”
“It’s me.”
Higuruma chuckles, dropping his head on your shoulder. He apologizes, a messy string of “I’m so sorry,” and “it’s you,” ten times over. You can’t tell what he’s apologizing for—not stopping you when you revealed your departure, or for not recognizing you.
He raises his head only slightly, careful to not part from your skin. Kissing along the sides of your mouth, he mumbles, “I’ll never let you go again,” and he boldly promises—no, vows— “ever.”
but even though you're killing me | childe x gen!reader
chapter 5: drink with me
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synopsis: Ajax is most attracted to the things that hurt him: combat, heartbreak, and you. Inspired by Chainsaw Man’s Angel, reader possesses deadly, unwanted power; to touch reader’s skin is to shorten your lifespan by an unspecified, varying amount. For this reason, reader resides in a secluded spot of Dragonspine and wears heavy, impenetrable clothing—well, up until reader’s life is impeded by a moment of weakness. Luckily for the lovestruck redhead, he’s here for a good time—not a long time.
i've been obsessed with j-hope's mona lisa & sweet dreams lately. posted this the first time and FORGOT TO PUT THE WRITING i need sleep
The Angel’s Share, placed comfortably in the main city of Mondstadt, smelled of death and divorcee groveling.
For once, you actually reveled in the smudge-y scent and heavy atmosphere—obviously, it wasn’t comfortable, but it felt normal. Something you’ve missed, even if you won’t admit it.
The less-than-decorated menu of drinks is laminated and sticky, and when Diluc, the tavern owner as you came to know, passes it to you with one scarred hand and immediately looks the other way, you are cautious not to actually get anywhere too close to it, fearing that whatever is on it will unrealistically seep through your thick gloves and into your skin.
The bar is raucous and frankly, overstimulating; drunkards stumble their way out of the room and into the next one, evidently tired employees fling open the push doors too often, and you swear that you can feel something crawling on you at all times—a suspicion that would probably be validated, if not for your layers of clothing.
To your delight, you’re not an outsider here. Everyone is too tipsy and preoccupied with their own weekend leisure to notice the person a bit stiffer than the next one.
Diluc returns to your seat at the bar with a pen and notepad in hand and looks at you expectantly. Unfortunately, you take too long to order, and fiddling with your jacket sleeve is not an answer. He sighs, quickly writes something down, and leaves you to your own devices, once again.
You glance around the bar, scratching at your arm uncomfortably.
Childe comes around the corner with two plates in hand. “Having fun?”
You hesitantly nod. “This is fine. It seems to be really busy today.”
He puts the two plates down—one in front of you, one in front of him. They both have a generic set of a burger and fries on them. You don’t know how you feel about eating such a developed meal at a place that mainly serves drinks, so you opt to mess with your hair instead. Seems like you’re fidgeting a lot today.
Childe, on the other hand, does not seem to mind the precarious nature of consuming unlicensed food and pops a fry into his mouth. “Didn’t know it was going to be this busy.” Either he’s not that bright, or he just lied through his teeth. “My bad.” He leans on the side of the counter in front of you, confusingly not taking a seat on the stool adjacent to yours. “You didn’t get any drinks?”
It’s then that Diluc comes around your way again and wordlessly sets water in front of you. He leaves, and Childe shrugs at the glass cup. “Abstaining?”
You don’t respond with anything beyond a curt “no.” Childe waves Diluc down again and orders a mojito and some other fruity-sounding drink—Diluc clearly looks annoyed at this point, but he scribbles the order down anyway, and newly mumbles an “okay.” At that, he ducks under the counter and begins to noisily shake ice.
Childe looks at you and gives you a smile, gesturing to the in-progress orders. “Try them. They’ll be good. Promise.” You nod and decide out of courtesy, you should probably make more conversation than you are right now.
“Do you come here often?” You ask, your voice intermittently raising in volume to adapt to your surroundings.
Childe semi-yells back. “Mmm, not really.” He takes a bite of the mystery burger, and your face scrunches slightly. “I come here when I’m visiting Mondstadt.”
“You don’t work around here?”
Childe laughs and shakes his head. “Absolutely not. I’m from Snezhnaya. I travel a lot for the work I do.”
You slowly nod in understanding. Diluc finally slides the drinks over to you and Childe splays a hand in their direction as if to say “go ahead.” And so, you sip the fruity, salt-rimmed one first. Childe points to the crystals on the top of the flared cup. “Gotta try the salt around the rim then drink it.” You hum in acknowledgment and lick the salt all around the rim before going in for another sip. Childe coughs, but when you look to him, he just smiles and gives you a thumbs up.
You push back off of the cracked black plastic of the bar stool and pull the other drink, the one with a visually aesthetic lime, your way, trying your hand at that one too. The condensation around this wider cup dips your hand into the lower temperatures, but you suppose you enjoy the vigor of it. Childe pokes, laughing. “Fast, huh?”
You lift your head from the drink and push your bottom lip up in approval. “They’re good. I can’t drink both, though.”
“Which one do you like more?”
You take some time to think, and point to the mojito with an ample-sized lime slice impaled on the edge of the cup. Childe nods and takes hold of the fruitier drink, taking his share of the liver-nuking liquid.
Simply to jest at him, you prompt him to lick the salt of the drink, just as you did. Obviously, you don’t expect his immediate willingness as he languidly drags his tongue around the cup. There’s really nothing to say to that, so you return to your mojito, staring into it as you feel your face warm with a thick embarrassment and your stomach begin to feel funny. In your blurry peripheral, you see his head finally lift from his—your—drink to look at you and his chest start to shake with a laugh.
—
Three mojitos later and zero suspicious burgers in—thank your refusal to try any other drink off of the tacky menu and basic self-preservation, which Childe seems to lack—Childe is airlifting you out of the bar, your arm around his neck as he ushers you into the wagon. You grumble unhappily and iron-grip his shirt collar, to which he chuckles and gives in, entering the wagon with you.
“If you ever come again, maybe try something other than a mojito,” Childe laughs, “I’m sure you can be a bit more open than that.”
You defiantly shake your head and put your back to the closed door of the wagon, fully facing him now. His side profile is pretty—illuminated and carved by the warm light of the tavern’s outdoor lanterns. “No need to stray from what’s good, you know?” You lean your head on the door behind you, and Childe attempts to turn to you in the same way you did. His long legs don’t make for as much of a comfortable fit as yours do, though, so he awkwardly abandons ship and just turns his head to face you. He’s just silently watching you as if he doesn’t know what to say.
“How are you”—hiccup—“fully lucid?” You ask, dropping your head to look at him.
He just laughs. “I’m not a lightweight. A margarita or two can’t get me started. I also think the food soaked a lot of it up.”
You roll your eyes lazily and scoff, looking back up at the wagon ceiling and you slur your next words. “You’re magical, aren’t you?” The sober part of your consciousness fought to repress this useless, verbalized thought, but the mojitos are simply too dominant in this case.
He chuckles. “My powers don’t include alcohol manipulation.” You groan at his vague answer—and truthfully, your aimless question—and drop your head again, watching barflies, one after another, file out of the tavern and into the dimly lit Mondstadtian streets.
“I thought you were cute when I first met you,” you admit, spurred on by sheer mojito bravery, “but I think you’re also a liar.”
Childe leans onto the knees of his legs and looks—no, stares—at you. You return his gaze through thin bottom lashes, but the strain on your eyes proves a bit too extreme. You instead opt to press your cheek against the cold window, looking nowhere in particular.
“Think I’m cute?” He taunts with a chuckle, but there's a detectable seriousness behind the words.
“Not what you should be”—hiccup—“focusing on.” You sigh.
He takes some time to answer. “I don’t know what you mean by liar.”
You rub your face. “I already told you about my… condition, did I not?”
He nods.
“Why are you still here, then?”
He laughs, loudly this time, and leans back again, shifting in his seat. “That’s what this is about?” He scans you, flushed and annoyed in this state, so he decides to respond instead of instigating. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?” He follows up his question with evidence. “You don’t talk this much.”
You throw your hands up, officially irritated by his keen observations. “No. I just feel”—hiccup—“a bit drowsy.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “Doesn’t matter then. If I tell you truthfully, the mojitos are just going to wipe your memory of our current conversation tomorrow morning.”
The words pass through one ear and right through the other. You scoot towards him and lightly shove his shoulder. Childe stares at you with a slight tilt in his lip, clearly trying not to laugh at you. “Tell me.”
He bites his lip in contemplation, and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through your heavily shielded ones. You watch the interaction as if you were a spectator in your own body, confused and still annoyed. His lips parted as if he was going to say something, but he just cursed under his breath and gently let your hand fall to your lap, opening the door of the passenger wagon.
“Not right now.” He exits the wagon, apologetically looking back at your frustrated expression as the apples of his cheeks bloom with a healthy pink. He looks as if he regrets speaking, but you can’t tell. “I want you to remember what I say.”
but even though you're killing me | childe x gen!reader
chapter 4: touch
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synopsis: Ajax is most attracted to the things that hurt him: combat, heartbreak, and you. Inspired by Chainsaw Man’s Angel, reader possesses deadly, unwanted power; to touch reader’s skin is to shorten your lifespan by an unspecified, varying amount. For this reason, reader resides in a secluded spot of Dragonspine and wears heavy, impenetrable clothing—well, up until reader’s life is impeded by a moment of weakness. Luckily for the lovestruck redhead, he’s here for a good time—not a long time.
TRUST me i'm updating this more often from now on pls forgive me
Three days in solitude have never felt worse.
It’s not the change of scenery, although that was a possibility you considered. Instead, there is this guilt about you that you cannot seem to shake off. Childe hasn’t visited in three days, and you’ve involuntarily thought of him all three. There are things to do here—read a book, cook (though you don't consider it fruitful enough for its timespan), and sleep. At this point, you begin to miss the ache in your foot that dwindled along with your resilience to the perpetual silence the house puts you through—pitifully interrupted by a measly thump every now and then as if the gods were checking if you were still alive and there. Mentally or physically? Maybe both.
This guilt eats away at you and you hate it, in a prejudiced manner, due to its origins. Denial is sweet up until you must face the inevitable, genuine truth. It’s connected to Childe, and you hate that.
You’re not magic—you know that to a certain degree—but when you’re sitting on the pilled, ugly green couch, willing for the door to open, for him to walk through, you channel the play-pretending eight-year-old in you and swear, through quiet resolve alone, he will remember you’re here, and allow you to prod at his brain like a dehumanized lab subject.
Yes, like a lab subject. It’s what you’ve been telling yourself to deter yourself from seeking an emotional connection with him. If the relationship is perfectly, exclusively curious, how could it ever become anything intimate?
The palms of eight-year-old you glow, for the first time in a decade, and three very hesitant knocks echo through the silence of your own. It takes you a minute to lift your body off of the bed—chest first, head next, legs follow, just over the bed. There are two other impatient knocks, but you allow yourself to savor this victory on your journey to the door. You tug your thick gloves on and turn the door handle, the plush material slipping and sliding on the metal until you firm your grip.
Childe stands awkwardly at the door, scratching the side of his neck. “Hello.”
You nod (what?) and say “hi” back. You open the door beyond yourself, and he gets the hint.
It’s only now you notice the plastic bag he holds in one freckled, red-knuckled hand. The material groans with an imprint—more than one, actually—but you’re not interested enough in that subject to investigate further.
“Albedo said I should stop by.” He drops the plastic bag on the coffee table, which weakly shifts back due to the sudden force, and he points to it, sitting down on the couch opposite from yours. “Some medicine, or something.” He grins. “Are you feeling better?”
You nod, again, wordlessly, again. Regrettably, in your eyes, he is now magic—a figment of your pure will, your manifestation. This newfound idolatry is something you realize quickly, and receive, vexed. Much to your dismay, he chuckles.
“Scaramouche told me.” His smile tugs up at your look of betrayal. Was it that easy to coerce it out of him? “It’s fine if you want to know more about me,” he pulls at his wrist cuffs, “I doubt you’re one to judge anyway.”
“What makes you think that?”
He eyes you, dissecting you. His countenance speaks, “really?” But instead, he decides to let you down a bit easier. “Maybe we’re the same.”
The words burn your ears and heat you up. Foreseeing him saying them was one thing, him saying them was another. One part of you grew annoyed, whereas the other part grew more fond of him.
“I don’t know about that,” you croak out, “you don’t really know me.”
“I don’t.” He shrugs. “But I’d like to.”
You silently laugh to yourself—you’d like to know him. Not the other way around. That’s useless. “I’d rather get to know you.” You voice.
“I figured.”
“What did Scaramouche mean when he said you lost yourself?”
The question, obviously too blunt and straightforward, caused Childe’s expression to falter in the slightest. Nevertheless, he answers it, very vaguely at best. “I’m not a person—fully, I suppose,” he starts, “I see myself more as a weapon. A tool. I’m okay with that though.”
The answer has you tightening your hands into a fist and the room falling quiet. It’s times like these when you remind yourself of sonder—someone out there isn’t experiencing this. They don’t have to. You try to channel that eight-year-old again, begging for some type of teleportation into this lucky conscience, but she’s gone off to play mermaids with somebody else. “Oh.” You itch your ear.
The awkwardness screams at you, but he hushes it. “I know you do, too.”
The shock factor of the entire conversation has you desensitized, so you give in. “Sure.”
His quiet says, “tell me,” but he just looks at you.
“I’m a murderer.” You say, forthright.
At this, Childe just laughs. “I appreciate your candor.”
“I don’t think you understand.” You sober up. “It’s involuntary, yes, but it’s embedded in me. Physically, not mentally. I’d never do that to someone if I had a choice.”
His eyebrow perks up, and he’s more curious than before. The bubbles of options dizzy you and you simply decide to lay it, flat.
“My hands,” you say, hushed, “my bare skin, I mean. Just brushing against me takes years off of someone’s lifespan. I’m a freak.”
For once, Childe’s eyes have a hint of a glow—they propose it, but don’t show it. He curses under his breath, absolutely marveled by you. “Anything but.”
Your eyebrows furrow, irked by this unorthodox appreciation. Childe’s eyes meet the ceiling, and he thinks of what next to say. You fiddle with the hem of your dense canvas trousers.
“Touch me.”
What?
You scoff. “You’re insane.”
He gets up from his couch, and stalks over to you, standing over you. “I’ve got enough life to waste. Touch me.”
The couch creaks under your weight as you push yourself further back into it. “That’s not how this works.”
Childe shrugs, dropping down onto the space next to you. “It was worth one to shoot my shot. Just…” He decides against finishing his sentence, and rolls his neck, facing you. “You need fresh air. Ever been to Mondstadt?”
but even though you're killing me | childe x gen!reader
chapter 3: himself
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synopsis: Ajax is most attracted to the things that hurt him: combat, heartbreak, and you. Inspired by Chainsaw Man’s Angel, reader possesses deadly, unwanted power; to touch reader’s skin is to shorten your lifespan by an unspecified, varying amount. For this reason, reader resides in a secluded spot of Dragonspine and wears heavy, impenetrable clothing—well, up until reader’s life is impeded by a moment of weakness. Luckily for the lovestruck redhead, he’s here for a good time—not a long time.
extremely short because i've once again gotten busy lol. i'm going to try to upload more frequently as i haven't lost interest in this series and would really like for it to play out. i now also have converted to the side of properly using em dashes and i can appreciate their natural beauty—happy valentine's day, i love you
The dull hum of the carriage and the occasional thump, accredited to possibly a rock or two, repel a restful sleep. Evidently feeling much less conversational than the preceding journey, Childe wordlessly guides the steeds back to the scratchy-quilt cabin. You supposed there wasn’t an argument surrounding the topic. Nonetheless, you sternly disputed being under someone else’s care for so long. The quarrel was momentary as the two of you came to a consensus—Childe is entirely too busy with his job, whatever he works as, keeping him out of your hair, and the cabin is your home for your provisional time of rest. The latter portion is something you steadfastly consented to, knowing the tangent option—your home—is considerably less conditioned and substanced.
You acted alone—clearly—but who passes up free warmth and food, undisturbed by the outside world? To put it flatly, denying the bid would be nonsensical.
In your time of silence and isolation—which was all of the time, at least the first choice—you’re left to think. Truly, you pity the pauper. Today’s subject of annihilation is Childe. You try not to dissect him in such an impatient fashion, but he stands as the only interesting person you have come across in about a decade. The other person… ah, you’d rather not speak about it.
Childe is, as you had crudely expressed to him, unnatural. His welcoming personality is so obviously a facade—yes, this was not anything new, yours is too—but something different was off. You didn’t want to admit it, but there was a solid chance Childe may get you. May understand you. What life experience dulls the human light, stirring a literal characteristical difference? You didn’t want to prod. It’s none of your business, just as your matters are none of his. But when you reach the cabin, you just can’t help yourself, or your insatiable curiosity.
After the ride, standing just before the kitchen-to-living-room partition, you wait until Childe himself is out of earshot, his heavy boots trudging the snow back to the carriage, and you begin to quiz his coworker. Indeed, you weren’t about to approach Childe and put him under extreme scrutiny after that idiotic, blubbering stunt you pulled at Albedo’s; therefore, you settled for the second best.
“I don’t want to speak to you.” Scaramouche doesn’t turn his head, but in stocking the fridge, slim preparations to accommodate you—not voluntary work, Childe’s orders—he quickly turns you down, before you even get a chance.
“I understand,” you lie. If you understood, you wouldn’t be pressing further. “I’d just like to ask one question.” You ponder whether or not you should add the subject of the question. If he knew it was about Childe, would he immediately clam up, or would he throw you a bone? You decide to try your hand. “I just wanted to ask you about Childe.”
Scaramouche halts his movements for a split second—a hitch in his flow, barely noticeable—and gives you a bored, “I don’t know any more about him than you do.”
Your dishonesty could be excused because, well, you’re you. Scaramouche’s lack of integrity annoys you slightly. “Has he lost someone—something?” It was a wild guess. I mean, come on. No light in his eyes? Not a single glimmer? You scrolled through the list of possibilities. Anything cruel, anything extreme… it was all up for debate.
This time, in an unusually lucky manner, you hit the jackpot. Scaramouche closes the fridge, finally revealing his face without the obstruction and illumination of a fridge door, and you stand still, waiting for an answer.
“Someone, I guess.” Scaramouche stares into your eyes, unflinching. “Probably him, if I’m being honest.”
Him? Like, he lost himself? Now, you felt as though you were crossing into private property, one that was owned by an irritable hillbilly with three loaded shotguns. When has that ever stopped anyone, right? “What happened?” You push, and Scaramouche seems to roll his eyes all around the room as if the answer would pop up in a bubble before him.
He opens his mouth, and just as he does, the rickety door creaks open. Unfortunately, and unconveniently, it’s Childe. “Stocking the fridge takes an hour?” He jokes, poking at the bubble of tension in the air. “We have to go,” Childe looks to Scaramouche, “we have a meeting with the other harbingers.” The words “meeting” and “harbingers” are emphasized to underline the importance of their attendance. It’s painfully clear Scaramouche doesn’t actually care about that aspect, but he seems newly unwilling to voice what he had begun to.
Scaramouche nods his head and doesn’t give any farewell to you. Not a gesture, a glance, or a nod. He simply leaves. Childe lingers behind for a split second, glancing at you, once, twice, and then, warmly smiling, shuts the door.
You fall limp, defeated, on the lint-filled green couch. If he had waited a minute longer…
You figured that you’d just personally ask Childe about it later. Did he lose himself? That was the only way Scaramouche could have meant it, right? Again, you return to a subject you mulled over before. Only now, you could add to your query. What experience evokes a loss of light? And how does one lose their person? You had been in a box, kicked to the side, isolated, and unusually punished, but you were still you. How was he not him?
but even though you're killing me | childe x gen!reader
chapter 2: wine
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synopsis: Ajax is most attracted to the things that hurt him: combat, heartbreak, and you. Inspired by Chainsaw Man’s Angel, reader possesses deadly, unwanted power; to touch reader’s skin is to shorten your lifespan by an unspecified, varying amount. For this reason, reader resides in a secluded spot of Dragonspine and wears heavy, impenetrable clothing – well, up until reader’s life is impeded by a moment of weakness. Luckily for the lovestruck redhead, he’s here for a good time — not a long time.
[ 1.4k words — fluff, slow burn & angst — warnings: scars around wrist area ]
ac: rainsword01 on twt
taglist: @usagiarchive
author's note:
doing an overhaul of 01 because i hated how i started it so im gonna delay 03 in interest of bettering the prologue!!! quite surprised i was able to pump this one out in 2 days. tell me if u wanna be added to my taglist just found out the thing existed :-) haha hope u like it
To breathe, to speak, to think, and to perform. The perfect pillars of your self-curated world – a gorgeous mantra of survival. It’s what got you here, and what gets you there. Life is ultimately straightforward. Live and sleep today, so you can live and wake up tomorrow. There is no end goal until it comes; your life was never yours to decide. As if you were a full wine glass, the only designation you feel in this life that is solely yours is to feed other mouths – pour sweet, red wine into other beckoning glasses, and hear the monotonous rumble of a thank you and chatter about your manufactured well mannerisms.
What do you do when you run empty, a thin red liquid left uselessly sloshing around at the bottom? Are you sure that you are the only distributive glass?
Childe – or Ajax, you learned from a couple of pastime “Are we there yet?” conversations he had with Scaramouche, another name you picked up – yanks the reins, eliciting a haughty, synchronous neigh from the two mares and pulling the carriage to a firm halt. You reach up and use the base of your palm to push into your eye cavities, leaving the area hot with irritation. You can’t fall asleep. Not now. Now, your free, around-the-clock schedule is as good as a newsboy – obsolete. Sleeping all day, whenever you want to, isn’t an option when isolation is ticked off the list. They went hand in hand, their absence simultaneously leaving you stranded, confused, and definitely –
“Tired?” Childe pops his head into the cushioned, back portion of the carriage. The seats are lined with a nice crushed velvet texture, dipping only with the flat, hard dots methodically drilled into them in measured intervals. You choose to ignore him, fiddling with the plush of the cushion and flaring your nostrils to avoid an open-mouth yawn. Already accustomed to your silence, he gives up and mumbles, “I take that as a yes.”
The minute you step out of the body of the creaky carriage, cold air bites at your lungs, threatening to freeze the two, and the crunch of your trusty boots finally awakens you – or maybe it was the other way around. You slip your hands into the sherpa-lined pockets of your coat, picking at the lint balls and feeling for runaway wood chips. You lower your gaze to the ground. It’s… nice. It’s pure white, sparkly, and clean. You take your hands out of your homely pockets – rough palms and stubby nail beds pale blue from the subzero temperatures – and stare a hole into the infinite, long scars on both hands that circle where your wrist and palm meet.
You take the mittens out of your back pocket and tug them on, treating the snow a little kinder this time as you follow behind Childe, footsteps lighter than before. How different would have life been if you weren’t this? Would you envy the cold still?
The worst thing about being shown mercy is not the cruel thievery of your independence – no, you’d already gnawed your lip clean raw over this gripe – it was the annoying constant surveillance of your savior. Childe looks back once, twice, observing your gait and making sure you don’t book it off the mountain.
The ephemeral atmosphere around Albedo’s open lab is slightly warmer relative to the mountain and harbors an inherent chemical, pungent smell. Both attributes lift your chin to meet Albedo’s inquisitive eyes.
However, the silent question is utterly transient, and he autonomously answers it. “And now?” Albedo pulls off his gloves and clears a spot on his center table amongst the clutter, motioning for you to sit.
Except you don’t. Because Childe is looking at you now – prompted by Albedo’s phrase that made it appear as if perpetual injury was but commonplace for you. Quite oppositely, it wasn’t a look of disgust, and that’s what irked you the most. He’s unnatural. It was the same look people gave you when you had told them you lost the same tooth they did, back in your fleeting elementary days. When your family wasn’t yours, but it was family. All you had known.
Now, there is none, and Childe’s eyes still ask, “Are you me?”
You tell him “no” in your head, but he doesn’t hear. Nobody is like you, no matter how damaged they may be. You silently apologize for indirectly invalidating his experiences as if you were in some trauma quasi-war (if you’re being honest, the tale of his face dictates his premature victory in this case), and you hope he somehow senses that bit. His gaze is averted from its previous position by the time you pass him by, and if not for the newfound blooms of heat on your cheeks, it almost makes you think the interaction was a hallucination – a passing hologram of sorts.
You prop up on the uncomfortable wooden table, unbuckling your tattered leather boot and allowing Albedo to examine the decorated wound. Scaramouche huffs, bored, and leans on the pillar of the entrance. You allow yourself a glance – he’s short, shorter than Childe – and his eyes are intrinsically noxious. He’s undoubtedly gutsy for his build as he meets your gaze with precision and unshadowed ire. You rip your gaze from his almost instantly. Not everyone is going to like you – and it’s something you were made well aware of very early on.
“This is…” Albedo starts, thumbing the edges of the wound. You wince. “You’re sure this is from a lone trap?” Childe nods. While you were lost in your head, they’d been talking.
You search Childe’s face, but he doesn’t want to meet your eyes any longer. Why? “That’s what we found at the tent, at least.” He motions to your foot aimlessly. Albedo puffs out a curious middle ground between a huff and a scoff, and you finally look down at your wound, having grown weary of begging for reciprocation of interaction from Childe. You decide maybe you’ve been too harsh on him. Perhaps the wolfish bite of your incessant silence finally sank deep enough to puncture something vital – something fundamental. Either way, why should you care about his emotions and what he thinks of you? You don’t care for him, his feelings, or a vestigial viewpoint on your otherwise indifferent character.
If that were true, you wouldn’t have been staring at him – no, burning a hole into his cranium – searching for answers. Searching for reasoning, a backing logic, as to why you feel that his validation trumps the greater mass of the mental and emotional training decennial isolationism had served you on an oxidized platter. Your expression soured at the thought of such vulnerability, and you returned your binary focus to the more momentous matter at hand. Childe still looked ahead, staring at your foot. He was silent, but you could tell he saw the ordeal through his peripheral. His eyes seemed remote – as if he were there only in person, not soul, and it’s only now that you notice what human aspect he’s missing exactly – that natural, luminant fleck in his eye.
“It should heal in about a week,” Albedo finalized. “In your convalescence, I advise you to stay off the foot and remain well-fed and hydrated. The wound isn’t as bad as you think – but it was festering.”
You mumble a thanks, allowing Albedo to help you off the table. You capaciously hobble and waddle your way toward Childe and Scaramouche. Scaramouche turns before you hit the center mark of the lab, starting towards the carriage early and unmistakably irritated. It seems as if Childe has snapped out of his trance, and he plasters a grin on his face – but you still notice the crucial lack of light in each eye.
You allow him to aid your journey to the carriage, desperately grabbing onto his forearm with a thickly mittened hand when he turns to shut the door of the carriage’s cabin. The touch somehow seeps through the impregnable fabric and burns your palm. You grip a little tighter as if he’s going to slip between your fingers, away from you. “You’re not normal.” You analyze, vaguely.
Childe merely chuckles and shakes his head, ignoring your candor. “Not even a thank you?” Oh. Right.
“Yeah – thank you.” You reluctantly pull your fingers up, segment by segment, allowing the sleuth to escape with your riches. It wasn’t worth pressing him over; besides, what could you subsequent such a blunt phrase with?
You let him go, but, somehow, in some curious way, your palm still felt seared through the thick glove.
but even though you're killing me | childe x gen!reader
chapter 1: prologue
prev / masterlist / next
synopsis: Ajax is most attracted to the things that hurt him: combat, heartbreak, and you. Inspired by Chainsaw Man’s Angel, reader possesses deadly, unwanted power; to touch reader’s skin is to shorten your lifespan by an unspecified, varying amount. For this reason, reader resides in a secluded spot of Dragonspine and wears heavy, impenetrable clothing – well, up until reader’s life is impeded by a moment of weakness. Luckily for the lovestruck redhead, he’s here for a good time — not a long time.
[ 1.7k words — fluff, slow burn & angst — no warnings ]
ac: rainsword01 on twt
author's note:
testing the waters here with a prologue. getting kind of busy, so i'm trying to put aside more time to write. definitely going to continue this story because i like the plot, but i just wanted to see if anyone else would like to follow the story as it goes along :') i've also discovered the art of using rich text instead of html on ao3. let's hope this goes well.
find me on ao3 under the same user!
He found you in a tent, far away from Liyue’s main city. You laid there, tense and cold, fading in and out of consciousness under the biting wind and freezing temperatures. You were but a couple miles away from Dragonspine, your destination, when you fell victim to a forgotten trap that mangled your foot, ultimately incapacitating you.
“Hey,” he pushes your shoulder around, as if you were a doll. “Are you awake?”
You feel a hand on your shoulder. If not for your thick jacket, your adrenaline would have you up and running, away from him. Yet there must be a way to warn him either way?
Mustering up the last bit of energy anyone could get from braving these conditions, you manage to strain a weak “no.” You hate that he found you in this state, but your head is throbbing, and it feels like it’s about to roll clean off of your neck.
The ginger misunderstands and tilts his head to get a better look at you. “Oh. You’re not awake?” Your thumbnail digs into the plush of your upper palm, cursing him – or yourself – out in your head for your vague statement. He chuckles, not realizing the severity of the situation. “Apologies for getting in the way of your naptime, then.” You massage the crescent you left, controlling your breathing.
He pats you on the shoulder as a farewell, and you push out a meek “stop” mingled with “help.” You manage to move enough of your foot to call attention to it. His eyes dart to the crimson painted sheets covering your foot and he tears the film away, the blood glistening in the moonlight.
“Oh,” he mutters. He curses under his breath before backing out of the tent, his hand motioning a “wait”, and craning his neck to call for someone else, maybe a friend.
The rest that is memorable fades, and your foot still aches in a cardiac rhythm…
• • •
“Did I tell you to pick up extra luggage on the way there?”
“I don’t have to be told to do anything.”
Your head has quieted, but your foot burns with the same momentum as before.
“Insufferable.” The man says it through his teeth – you can hear the air seethe through.
“It’s unfortunate you’re heartless.” The man from last night. “You weren’t raised right.”
“Mmm.” The other man clicks his tongue, possibly in faux agreement. “I wasn’t raised at all.”
Sun peeks through the blinds, and your eyes finally open from the illumination. When they do, you find yourself under scratchy, quilted covers in a wooden cabin, a fireplace lit in the near distance. Two men – one tall, one short – are standing in the common room.
You recognize the tall man’s fiery hair, and your memories begin to rush back. They stutter and cloud your mind, the air feeling funnily cloyed with a heavy steam.
Tent. Touch. Awake. No. Help. Foot. Touch. Touch.
Touch. That’s right. Your foot…
The situation begins to become more urgent now. Your neck snaps towards the icy window, in an effort to recognize your surroundings, and your headache returns. You choose to ignore it, feeling around the bed before tearing the warm cover from your body and examining your injury.
Bare and bandaged. Bare and bandaged.
Your headache is booming now. Your breath turns heavy, and you stumble to regain balance on your foot, rushing to pull on your thick clothes and get out of here.
“Hey – calm down.” The taller man rushes into the room, a firm hand on the doorframe. You now get a good look at his face. Freckled, sun kissed, and luminant. Scars litter certain parts of his face, but it only piques your curiosity momentarily. Even in those few seconds, you could tell his personality was merely a facade. Maybe he was left behind like you were. Maybe he's seen in a different light like you are. Maybe he's different - like you are. To be fair, he's gone out of his way to aid you. Why not give him the benefit of the doubt? Some leniency? Unfortunately, he’s handsome, but he’s dead if you don’t get out of here. He reaches for you, but you shriek and step back erratically.
“Stop! Don’t – get away from me, please. Just. Stop.” You put a hand up. This is a familiar situation – always feeling like you’re an ungrateful bully to those who only wish you well. Like the monster on the hill - literally. “Thank you for helping me.”
The shorter one appears now, glaring at you. His lips form unintelligible, probably condemning, words in the other man’s ear. He swats him away.
If he knew, he’d know better than to call this anything but heroic.
You wince at the ache of your foot, and he reaches for you again, but this time you launch yourself further back, onto the wall. Your back bones slam against the hardwood, the pain burning as it spreads through your back, reminiscent of a dull flame.
Not again. It won’t happen again.
The shorter man rolls his eyes at you from behind the ginger and turns his back, walking off.
You slide down the wall, watching the man from before through your eyebrows. You dig your heels into the creaky wooden floors and anticipate his every move like a cornered animal. It’s annoying to feel that way. To be that way.
“Can you chill out?”
Okay. That caught you off guard. Chill out?
You grit your teeth and hold up your hand to his face again, as if to say “stop.” If you’re going to leave him vulnerable to you, maybe you should tell him – or at least, give him a quick overview – about your full-time position as walking poison.
“Let me explain.” You sputter out, quickly, hopefully keeping him mentally preoccupied enough to not make any moves while you lay the groundwork. “Listen. I’m only going to tell you once. Don’t touch me. It’s something I don’t want to get into. Just don’t touch my bare skin. Please – trust me.”
He nods. Good. It doesn't matter what he thinks the reason behind it is. “That’s fine with me. Are you good to stand?” He holds out a hand and then glances at it. He retracts the hand with quickness and offers an apologetic smile instead. Awkward.
“I’m fine. I just need to get to this guy I know up the mountain.” Hand up again. “It’s none of your business, so I’ll be able to go myself.” You plant your palms flat against the wall and maneuver yourself up, careful to not place too much pressure on the plush of your foot. He seems to be looking at you more carefully now, like he wants to say something. For a cabin in the middle of Dragonspine, it smells awfully smoky in here.
“I’m Childe, by the way.”
You nod, being sure to keep surveillance on him tight as you trace the edges of the bedroom, collecting your belongings. You don’t really care for him – or his name.
It’s whatever, anyway. He doesn’t have to know your name. Actually, he’d be better not knowing it. Or anything about you. From… continuous research, you’ve found that a person most often has 4 moments of contact with your bare skin before it’s wraps for them. Of course, the amount can be way higher – or way lower – than that, but as a child, you saw your fair share of destruction caused by doe eyes and an underdeveloped frontal lobe. Keeping your distance from everyone is something you’ve gotten used to. You make human contact here and there – like now, unfortunately – but it’s not like you’re a townie conversing with your favorite vendor every day and hopping off to tend to your humble, centenarian family restaurant bustling with the chattiest neighbors around.
It’s a life you’d like to live, not one you can live. That’s why the image is so detailed. You learned that very early on, albeit the hard way. Now, your life is one best spent with snowflakes, papers and pens, books, and the occasional trips around the snowy beast of a mountain. Solitude is nice. Solitude is yours. It’s not living or tangible, and it won’t put you in a box and leave you on a dingy Liyuean street during your most crucial developmental years.
“I get that you don’t want to talk.”
“Then why do you keep speaking?” At this, he winces.
Childe opens his mouth, then closes it again. His tongue darts out as makeshift chapstick, and you warily follow every movement. You begin to back out of the doorframe, into the living room, and it seems like Childe has finally given up on reconciliation – up until he seems to remember something. Here it comes.
“A guy up the mountain?” This is so annoying. You hate explaining. From years of isolation and people-watching, it’s painfully obvious when someone is trying to strike up further, unwanted, conversation with you.
You decide it won’t hurt to humor him. Toss him a bone. They always run out of questions and mull over a fresh batch long enough for you to slip the other way. After a certain point, predictability gets irritating. “Albedo,” you breathe. “His name is Albedo.”
Childe’s eyes light up – but minimally. He’s lacking a fundamental "human" aspect, and you notice. Just like you noticed those hardened, deep scars. “I know him,” he backs up. Thank God. “I can take you to him.” Oh.
This is the first time anticipating another’s steps has shot you in the foot. The atmosphere turns clammy and tense, and you want to get out of here, but Childe is persistent. It doesn’t seem that “I can take you to him” was formatted as an offer. He’s going on about leaving room for you in the carriage and apologizing for something, but you tune him out in interest of a more pressing matter.
Your foot burns, and you hobble towards the bed, grabbing the pin of the footboard. It’s an unnatural pain – you’ve dealt with pain before, it’s nothing new. But this feels different. It’s as if something is trying to crawl out your foot, making it a point to touch every single functional nerve on the way. It’ll likely be fine once you get to Albedo, but you’re starting to rethink travelling solo.
Childe pops his head in the door, fine snow decorating his hair. “Are you coming?”
You huff and tighten your iron grip on the pin. Think. How far would you make it before you fall over and become frozen food for the birds?
Hello, I don't know if you are taking requests but I was wondering if you could make a female reader x Aki Hayakawa where they are both a couple (they have been dating for a while) and she moves in with him so she helps him deal with his roommates (including Nayuta because she is very cute) I don't know if I explained myself well, do what you want hahaha I only ask that it be fun and fluffy
pink cheeks and hot coffee | aki hayakawa x reader
synopsis: 8 months ago, in the cold Tokyo snow, you met him. Time-skip, and you're moving in with him, and meeting the people closest to him. Aki Hayakawa truly is a rom-com dream.
[ 2.8k words — fluff — no warnings ]
author's note:
uuuugh this took me a month to complete im so sorry to who requested this i've been infinitely busy :( changed some stuff up & left some key aspects of the request out, so let me know if you want me to continue this story rather than stop here. + not sure if this is ooc or not. fujimoto took my babies away from me so i havent seen their personality in forever dont beat me up pls
8 months ago, you met Aki Hayakawa in the café a block from your apartment. Having just moved to Tokyo, you needed something familiar – thankfully, cafés are essentially the same everywhere. He ordered his coffee black – and you only remembered because that’s weird, ew – and shot you two fleeting glances before awkwardly returning to staring out the window.
Ten minutes later, you saw him leave a nice sum of yen on the table, exiting the café with a ding as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. Naturally, cigarettes repel you – secondhand smoke, ew again – but you shrugged and slid out of your booth, leaving the money necessary to cover your meal and then some, your shoes crunching the snow as you left the warm café. To be fair, you just wanted to test your luck – he’s cute and you like to talk. The worst he could do is start running in the opposite direction.
“Hi.” You breathed, cold fog punctuating your words.
He gave you a quizzical look, almost annoyed, even, and you chewed down on your bottom lip, regretting your bold choice already. He returned his gaze to his cigarette, flicking on the lighter and directing it to the end of the stick.
“Hello. Can I help you?”
“Right. Sorry. I noticed you –” You drew a blank. What’d you notice? Quick! Lie – he’s too cute. “Had the new Onitsukas. I like the, um, colorway. Black and grey. Suits your vibe.” You gesture to his black and grey Onitsuka Tigers, laced with matching black threads.
“Oh.” Confusion settled deeper into the man’s face, but a fresh pink tint decorated his cheeks. “Right.” He looked down, kicking some snow around and checking out his Tigers as if he forgot they were there. “Thank you.”
“I’m a big shoe fan myself, you know.” What a lie. You gave him a meek smile and kicked your Isabel Marants into the air for him to see. “The viral ones. Sold out everywhere. Couldn’t get them anywhere – well, except for one place. I stood in the rain for these.” Another lie. You ordered these online on a whim, because your best friend, Lou, said they’d look good on you and you were desperate for some new fashion options.
“Uh… okay,” His ears were red by now. Are you annoying him? Why did you think he cared about shoes? Get this guy’s number and get out of here. “That’s cool.”
You scratch your neck, running out of things to say. Ugh. Whatever. “I’m kind of new here. I was hoping I could get a friend or two, so, um…” you press your lips together, digging your phone out of your jacket’s pocket. His lips curled faintly upward when he saw your Sonny Angel glued to the back of your stickered phone case, but you handed him the overly decorated phone and pulled up the keypad screen anyway, hoping he got the gist.
Thankfully, he did. Aki snuffed the cigarette out under his shoe and sniffed through his frost-nipped, red nose. “Uh, I’m Aki. Aki Hayakawa.” He finally gave you a lopsided, awkward grin as he turned your phone back to you – with his number typed in it. Score! Cute guy’s number in your phone on just week 2 in Tokyo. Seems the ¥1.7k spent on YesStyle for this new-and-hip lip tint didn’t go to waste.
You nodded, smiling as you stared at the white numbers. By now, passersby were starting to notice your awkward exchange, but when have you ever been able to keep your mouth shut? “Thank you – I’ll text you. Also, why do you order your coffee black?”
—
aki my baby: I’m going to stop by the corner store before I come over to help you pack. Do you want anything?
You roll over on your bed and pick up your phone, checking out the notification. Behind it, a picture of you and your boyfriend, Aki, on a Ferris wheel. Aki is pictured with a downwards smile and a comically large corndog in hand, while you grin ear to ear, holding up a peace sign. It’s a beautiful picture, with all the night city lights in the back and your hair blowing just right in the high wind. You stare at your room, boxes vacant of any item when today is your move-in day. You should probably stop reminiscing and get on that.
You: no ty
aki my baby: ??? Are you sure?
aki my baby: [1 Attachment]
A picture of your favorite gummy bears. Okay, it looks like you forgot that. Aki: 1. You: 0.
You: omg
You: wait
You: yes those ones
You: thank u. i love u… ( ͒ ́ඉ .̫ ඉ ̀ ͒)...
aki my baby: I love you too. See you in a bit.
It’s been maybe two and a half years into your relationship with Aki Hayakawa, and you already have a vision board in your closet for the wedding. Well, no, not really, but now that the idea has come up… you’re seriously considering it.
Aki is like a dream-come-true, rom-com movie kind of boyfriend – that boy next door, best friend’s older brother vibe. He’s almost fake. Your life right now is what 13-year-old you watched through a screen, and you love that – and him. He knows your favorite flowers, favorite TV show, favorite movie, favorite book, all 20 of your favorite songs, which lyrics you like most out of each of them, and how many times you cried over losing your favorite hoodie – which he promptly found 2 hours later because he was there, front and center, to count all of the times you cried – making him the perfect boyfriend. To top off this quintessential boyfriend act, he – reluctantly – offered you a spot at his place, since you got tired of everything breaking down at yours.
However, there is one thing missing.
Aki had previously refused to let you meet his three friends – roommates? Siblings? Children? Whatever. All that you know of them is that they cause a ton of trouble for him.
You just brushed it off. I mean, who are you to request for even more of his personal life than however much you know right now? But… you’ve always been just a little curious. Anyone would want to show off their partner, right?
They sound interesting enough from the tales Aki tells you. He only spoke of them in passing: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the bathtub, sleeping on the toilet, roleplaying as a “queen” and her lowly subordinates, and an overwhelming number of dogs. You have to meet them. It’s a risible concept really – how’d he end up with them if he’s so… reserved? Then again, how’d he end up with you?
Di-i-uhh—thunk!
Oh. Right. The doorbell is broken too.
“I’m coming!” Two and a half years ago, the doorbell made the same, ugly “thunk” sound when Aki came to pick you up for the date – or hangout, whatever you wanna call it – that made you official, so you supposed it was alright to leave it broken. For memories.
It was on the rooftop of your apartment building, so you didn’t think anything special of it – until he started dropping indirect, heavy hints like “You’re so pretty… uh, you always have been,” followed up by “You’d be even prettier as my partner.” Well, the latter was mumbled under his breath, and you had to fill in the blanks, so you’re not 100% sure if you’re quoting it verbatim. Regardless, it was cute, he was – is – cute, and his personality is cute – which checks all of your boxes. So, you said yes. And in the end, the doorbell never got fixed. He asked you about it a couple of months ago, and instead of telling him the whole story, you just told him it was important that it was kept that way. He didn’t question you any further, because you started shoving this new recipe you found on Instagram into his mouth.
“Hi, baby,” This long, yet your stomach still flips at his every word.
“Hi,” By now, you’re practically cheesing. He steps aside and invites himself into the apartment he practically shares – well, now shared – with you.
“You haven’t packed?” Oh. Too busy eating chips and watching random re-runs of your favorite TV shows, but you won’t tell him that.
“What?” You look around, feigning innocence, and throw your hands up with a smile. “Sooooorry. I’ll get on it now. With you here, it’ll be super fast.” At this, Aki just smiled and shook his head, putting his house slippers on (I told you, he practically shared this apartment with you) and shuffled into your kitchen, leaning on the island.
“I talked to my, uh, roommates today.” He said, scratching the side of his neck.
Your eyes widen. “You’re just now telling them I’m moving in?”
Aki slid his tongue over his teeth and loosened his grip on the counter behind him, watching you. “Yeah. You know Denji – well, no, you don’t, not yet – but he’s been dying to meet you for a while now, and if I told him too early, he’d never shut up about you moving in until you did.”
You smiled at him, shoving some stuff into the boxes in your living room. “Denji sounds like more fun than you are,” you joked. “Are you gonna come and help me pack, or are you here to watch me do it?”
He sighed, walking over to the empty box adjacent to yours. “This is unpaid labor. Definitely illegal.”
“You came here, willingly.” You pointed out, then leaned over to give him a quick peck on the cheek. “There. I paid you. Totally legal.”
Aki points to his lips. “That’s minimum wage. I deserve a bonus, since I’m working last minute, don’t I?”
—
“That’s the last one.” Aki huffed and smoothed out his incredible slick back and stick-up ponytail, looking over at you in shorts, the huge t-shirt you stole from him, and slippers that are definitely overdue a replacement.
“I told you we should’ve hired movers.” You sneered and rolled your eyes, sweat lining your eyebrows as the hot sun poured onto the two of you. You hopped into the van's passenger seat, immediately pulling down the sunshade and basking in the coolness.
“You have every home decor item from every home decor store in every city in Japan and probably beyond in your house. I wasn’t anticipating that.” Aki reached down to put the car in reverse, backing out of the parking spot. “Plus, I did most of the heavy work.”
You rested your tilted head on your propped arm on the center console of the car, fighting back a giggle – not gonna give him the satisfaction of a joke that actually landed for once. “You’re so sassy.”
“You like it.”
“...Whatever.”
—
Before entering the complex, Aki gave you a stringent set of rules and a rather cohesive oral rundown of how your meeting with Denji and the others is going to go. The former was on a piece of paper, written in oddly legible chicken scratch. On the top, there was a directory of sorts of all 3 of his roommates, paired with rough doodles of their images. It read as follows:
NO screaming with Denji, Power, or Nayuta.
Do NOT ask Nayuta about the dog’s personalities, names, ages, or any of the sort.
Do NOT ask Power or Denji any questions.
NO play-fighting, no sparring, no physical contact with ANY of the idiots roommates.
Do NOT talk too much with them.
Yeah, sure. You’ll follow them, but sometimes… rules are suggestions. You’ve known Aki for over 3 years; anyone who keeps him company is your friend. Any friend of yours is treated with wholehearted love. So, it’ll be justified when you break the physical contact rule. A hug should be fine, right?
Walking up the stairs with Aki, he reminds you of the makeshift contract. “You don’t want to deal with Power especially. Trust me. It’s all in your best interest to adhere to it.”
You brushed him off with a wave of the hand. “Sure. I bet they’re the coolest ever and you’re just a huge grump.” He turned the knob for you, pushed the door open, and rolled his eyes, ushering you into the apartment where the three were gathered around the chabudai, playing cards.
“YES!” The red-horned one started screaming, slamming the cards down as the blonde started to grumble in discontent, mumbling something about cheating, fluidly mixed with an impressive string of profanities. It was obvious they had not recognized your presence, but the black-haired child did, neck craned, eyes burning a hole in your skull. Dogs surrounded her figure seated by the chabudai as she fed each one a bone-shaped treat. Surprisingly, they’re oddly well-behaved for such a numerous bunch. Wow. The prophecies are true.
You stood there awkwardly, looking up at Aki for help; however, he let go of your hand and shrugged, making his way to the kitchen to wash dishes that had a substance burned and caked onto them beyond repair.
“Hello,” your voice, although naturally loud, barely overpowered the even louder atmosphere, courtesy of the red-horned and the blonde – which, by the drawings on the paper, you presume are Power and Denji – prompting the black-haired child – Nayuta? – to roll her eyes and hit her hand on the low table to get their attention, gesturing to you. “They're here.”
The blonde – sorry – Denji’s jaw drops. Aki tugs an apron on, puts something in the oven, and completely ignores the event as if it happens daily. Does it happen every day? Power immediately jumps up from the table and hops over to you. “You’re Aki’s partner?” She says, mildly judgmental.
You nod, beaming. Forget the rules, she’s adorable! “You’re literally so cute! Are your horns real?” You reach to touch them, and she slightly maneuvers her head to make it easier for you.
“Yeah. But don’t get any ideas,” she says, seemingly sizing you up. “Just ‘cause you’re moving in doesn’t mean you get to call the shots. I still do.” Power says, pushing her proud chest out.
You laugh, feeling tears prickle your waterline… from fear, or is she just funny? Okay, this one is the queen in that “queen and her lowly subordinates” game. You hear Aki reprimand her from the kitchen, and she answers with an annoyed “What?”
Denji sighed, pushing Power aside with one arm, prompting a grunt and a sudden dive of her head, mouth open and clearly aimed to snatch off the skin of Denji’s forearm. However, the fiasco is immediately stopped by a stern “Hey!” from Aki.
“Sorry about her,” Denji sighs. “She doesn’t know how to act.” He rolls his eyes and then sticks out a hand for you to shake. What a gentleman! Aki must’ve been exaggerating in those horror stories about him. You take his hand, nodding and saying hello.
It’s sticky.
His hand is… tacky. You blink once, twice, and one more time before tightening all of your facial features and retracting your hand with extraordinary quickness, clenching your hand in your t-shirt. “Your hand,” you breathe out. “It’s, um,”
“Oh. Sticky? No big deal.” Denji laughs from his stomach. “But uhh, I don’t know where from. Probably like, from cleaning up after Nayuta’s dogs.”
You look over at Aki once again. He’s got oven mitts on and sharp flour on the part of his apron that meets the counter.
He shrugs.
—
You flop down on the bed, exhausted with a raw hand – from scrubbing off every trace of … whatever … that could’ve been left on your hand.
“Are you okay?” Aki walks in, wet-haired and with a towel wrapped around his waist. He eyes your figure splayed out across the bed, with a telling look that screams “I told you so”. He gets dressed, climbs into the bed, and lets you rest your head on his chest. “Well,” he starts, but you shoot him an annoyed look, so he pushes his lower lip up in a cartoonish frown and stays silent.
“I like them,” you finally say, after 10 minutes of deafening silence, punctuated by a snore coming from a neighboring room. It seems the others are asleep. “They’re cool. Fun.” Okay – optimistic much? Your cup is half full, not half empty.
Aki laughs at you, kissing you on the head and pulling the covers up. “Okay,” is all he says, but you could tell he still wanted to declare himself right. “You’re staying?” He asks, an eyebrow up under his wet bangs.
Today, you indirectly touched dried dog urine – question mark? –, got threatened by a loud red-horned girl, and walked into what is practically a dog shelter.
You nod, sighing. “Yes, I’m staying.” You look up at him, a smile on his face, one he was very obviously trying to fight earlier. “Quit smiling. It takes a lot to deter me, so I’ll stay. I like them.”
synopsis: nanami's patience grows thin in the office, but it's not because of the project you keep putting off | (nanami x gn!reader)
[ 2k words — fluff — no warnings ]
author's note:
i miss u nanami come back home ill take u to malaysia. anyway this was more agonizing to write than i expected it would be i hope someone out there likes it
You make rational, well-thought-out, calm decisions, and always put your career first. If not, what else did you work so hard for?
If that stood true, you wouldn’t have been borderline teenage-esque awkward beside your coworker, Nanami Kento, as your boss went on and on about a new team project. In fact, maybe your mind would’ve been clear enough to hear an adequate chunk of the project so that you wouldn’t later be stuck in the sparsely decorated office of the aforementioned coworker as he criticized your contribution (or lack thereof) to said project, talking about – what again? – Right. See what I mean? Pay attention.
“Are you listening?” Nanami rumbles, causing your stomach to flip as you place a hand on your temple, nodding.
A pause. “Yeah – I mean – yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t get a lot of sleep and my car –”
However, he cuts you off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m not interested in personal matters.” Here – I’ll give you a quick spoiler. He’s lying. “Please complete this part,” – a gesture to his computer screen – “of the project by next month, or I’ll have no choice but to report to HR about this sudden lack of awareness in the office. Do you understand?” It’s clearly rhetorical because he gets up immediately after – you’re not that dumb — so you don’t attempt to respond. Nanami pops the manila folders into a wired organizer on his desk and exits his creaky seat to escort his guest out.
A nod and an uncomfortable, brief smile. “I will. Thank you, Mr. Kento.”
. . .
Eros Pour Femme. Versace.
Top notes: Sicilian lemon, pomegranate, and Calabrian bergamot.
Shocker. Looks like he is interested in personal matters. It’s unmistakable. This is not regular knowledge; however, Nanami gets mind-numbingly high off your perfume. Obviously, he searched it up on Fragrantica last night, drunk off a “pinch” of whiskey and missing you. Don’t look at him like that – he’s normal.
If you’re still unconvinced, he’s at least as normal as a guy can get watching the epitome of his standard waltz around the break room, oblivious of her deafening effect on him. Nanami spots you filling up a lipstick-stained mug at the new Keurig coffee maker – the previous one had to be replaced after Haibara somehow flipped it on its side while it was running and left it like that – mindlessly scrolling on your phone.
He only realizes he’s staring once you’re staring back.
You give a formal “good afternoon” smile and return to what you were doing, but he spots the faint red tainting your ears and the nails digging into your palm. He’d love to massage the crescent indents they left, yet he looks the other way to avoid acting on it. He looks down into his coffee and stirs it, checking his watch. It’s good to know he has that effect on you, but he soon regrets the fleeting thought after he turns his head and watches you spill at least a third of your coffee all over your chest.
If getting caught staring wasn’t enough embarrassment for the day, Nanami adds another regret to mull over tonight by getting up and offering a paper towel to you.
“It seems hot,” he muttered a faulty excuse to you (though more to convince himself) pale hand outstretched.
“Thank you,” you laugh awkwardly. “This is embarrassing. Please excuse me.” You start in the other direction, clearly humiliated. Luckily for you (and him – he doesn’t want anyone eyeing you) Nanami is gentlemanly enough to not let a lady walk cold.
“Take my jacket.” Without much thought, Nanami shrugs his pinstripe suit jacket off his broad shoulders and drapes it over yours. “It’s fine. I have a lot more at home.” He offers a tightlipped smile, keeping the professional piece together. Unfortunately, you look up and smile at him, saying something about a button-up shirt that flies past his ears and has him staring at your lips.
Again, he only realizes he’s staring once you’re silent. How’d he make it this far this absentminded?
“Is there a problem?” You prompt, and he clears his throat.
“No.” Tightlipped, formal smile again. Ugh, he’s so good at this. He needs a raise. And you. But he’d like that raise too.
. . .
This week at the office has been as discomfiting as ever. Not because you have the matter of the team project at hand – though you want to keep your job, so you’ll make good progress on it later, perhaps – but because Nanami Kento keeps looking at you. Not in a “Get the project done or I’m gonna bash your head in with my signature mug” kind of way, but possibly a different way you can’t quite seem to put your finger on. For a man who so evidently boasts a simple, straightforward life, he’s harder to read than an elementary picture book. Like, The Very Hungry Caterpillar sort.
Sorry, that level of specificity seems uncalled for. Let’s resume.
Incident Number One: The Office.
If you told your friends this story, they wouldn’t believe you. It happened on Monday, a week after the Coffee Incident. Wait – maybe that one should’ve been marked as Incident Number One. Regardless, Nanami’s demeanor seems to have changed around you. This isn’t the surprising part, however. The atmosphere around anyone will change once they see you completely dehumanized by some espresso.
Yet this atmosphere was less… tangible at first. Sitting in your fishbowl of an office, you’re conjuring up a monster of an email to the local manufacturing company for getting the fundraiser t-shirts all mixed up when you look up and notice Nanami Kento – 6 feet, one-seventy-something pounds, by the way – hiding behind the water cooler like an elephant behind a thin Saharan tree with a file in one hand and a mug in the other, taking two side glances into your office before walking off with the same, bored expression once he realized you witnessed the ordeal. Had you not seen him aggressively rub his jaw like he was bothered as he walked off, you would’ve thought you’d done something wrong.
Okay. Let’s put two and two together. Is it crazy to say Nanami Kento is irked by your presence? Are you full of yourself or just observant?
Say we go the observant route. That would explain Incidents Number Two to a Million: The Parking Lot.
Nanami is infamous in the office for leaving exactly when dismissed – no need to stay around when you’re as efficient as he is. However, you’re notorious for the contrary. You stay late often times, as you handle financial disputes – and there’s a million of them.
The sky darkened as you shut your laptop and checked your watch – nearly midnight – and popped your head outside your office. To your surprise, Nanami’s office light was on, and even if you strained, you couldn’t hear keys clacking. Okay. Weird. Packing up your stuff, you put on your shoulder bag and breeze past his office.
The instant you’re in his line of sight, Mr. Kento begins to pack up his essentials as well, shuffling behind you until you both reach the elevator, where the two of you stand in silence until you reach the ground floor, where you go to your car and unlock it, driving off as Nanami does the same. But rewind. The moment you step out into the chilly night, he lingers behind and there’s a burning set of eyes on you until you reach your car. Had this been a coincidence, you would’ve shrugged it off and counted it as a gentlemanly gesture he’d done in the heat of the moment.
But it wasn’t.
Because it happened on the next day, Tuesday.
Then Wednesday.
Then Thursday.
Now, it’s happened on Friday.
Now we’re putting four and four together. It is not crazy to say Nanami Kento is looking out for you. Obviously, you’re not complaining about 6 feet of gorgeousness stalking behind you each day, but those two incidents combined? You have a bold assumption to make, but it’s going to take a bit more evidence to assert it.
. . .
Nanami Kento is a patient man, but you prove to be pushing his limits.
For the first time in a long time, Nanami Kento felt giddy over someone. Like, he’s excited to see you. He thinks himself to be a genius of sorts, surreptitiously escorting you to your car when you stay late and sneaking glances at you when you aren’t paying attention.
He even feels nervous. Clearly, he doesn’t show it – age has refined his Herculean ability to suppress showing emotion in great quantity – but he feels nervous around you.
. . .
Remember the evidence you needed? Thankfully, Nanami Kento gave you exactly that – and more – after the obligatory employee meeting. Your boss swears up and down it was originally for team bonding, but when he begins to complain about the progress everyone has made on the team project, you realize it’s going differently this time, again.
“If we don’t get this done, we’re going to lose a couple thousand. I don’t know how much longer I have to drive the point home,” a snarky glance to you, “but no other assignment is more important than the task at hand right now.” Is he serious? A loss of a couple thousand for a million dollar company is peak stinginess. And a call out in front of the whole staff?
It only gets worse after the conference when Nanami pulls you aside and informs you, once again, about your work on the project.
“Excuse me for this, but as the subunit leader, I do have to inform you that you still haven’t made much progress on the proj–”
You cut him off, worn out. “I don’t need you on my back, Mr. Kento.” An annoying smile from you, so that you can drive the point home that the workload has been too heavy this month – and entirely too important – to be focusing on something you can get done in 2 days. “I can get it done. Please have faith in my skills.” An eloquent way of saying “Shut up and leave me alone.”
“I understand, however, external assignments cannot be tolerated right now. Please trust me, you’re not the only person in this subunit who hasn’t completed their fair share. The last thing I want is for you to feel like you’re excluded.”
Now the air feels hot and you aren’t sure if it’s because of your proximity, anger, or both, but you mumble something you regret, channeling your previous teenage energy. “Yeah, well you seem like you sure are excluding me. I told you to get off my back.” Nanami’s face hardens, seemingly mildly irritated as your mouth, unfortunately, decides to keep running, louder this time. “You and Mr. What's-His-Face can’t leave me alone. I apologize for my insane informality, but I will get it done. You cannot expect one person to juggle so many tasks at once. I’m already multitasking, and that –” you make a dismissive waving gesture with your hands, “mediocre – again, I apologize – project is the least of my worries. I can get it done. Just – please. It’s like you all want to be this needy, overbearing boyfriend at this point.” At the end of your rant, you sigh heavily and look up at him, and his expression is once again, unreadable, yet stunning. There’s not a single beat of silence before he responds.
“I do, though.” What?
“What?”
“I do.”
You throw your hands up in the air and huff, still confused. “You what?”
“I want to take you on a date. Not be needy and overbearing, though. Don’t mistake me.” He does not apologize for the bluntness, but instead for how sudden it was.” I wanted to do this in a more romantic and ceremonious setting, but it appears that you have me blurting.” He rechecks his watch like the sudden confession isn’t anything big. “And I apologize for the constant probing – on both ends.” Your heart thumps in your ears. He gives you a lopsided smirk, expectant and unnaturally awkward for Nanami Kento.
synposis: in a world without you, aki is haunted by your absence though it is never truly silent
[ 455 words — angst — warnings: self harm ]
author's note:
hiya ... this is my first fic like ever & i haven't even touched the angst topic. i just love csm. i wrote this in a day and didn't proofread any of it so don't b 2 brutal in the cmnts </3 thank u for reading - and maybe request something - i love writing off of prompts ^__^
She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s gone. She’s dead.
It’s been a year – maybe a little over it – but it’s 4 AM, and Hayakawa Aki remembers you. Every bit, follicle, scar, curve, and pore, like you were yesterday. Running a hand over his face to quiet his incessant thoughts, he, unfortunately, drifts off to sleep, the sick feeling – dread – in the pit of his stomach festering like an ugly wound. Like all of the other nights, he dreams the same dream, nightmares the same nightmare. He doesn’t need an explanation for it. After a certain point, he began to lose the hope that it isn’t just a meaningless hell.
It’s the one where he’s awfully lucid, standing in the middle of the ocean, and you’re just arm’s length away from his shivering body. But no matter how far he reaches, which angle he contorts his body, how loud he yells your name, he can’t touch you. This time, he doesn’t attempt any of his desperate antics and watches you quietly as the transparent waves crash against you and your head cranes around – but never enough “around” to make its way behind you, to see who awaits you. Who awaited you. God. Why not pick someone else to torment?
Unfortunately, you never do.
Aki drags himself out of bed and into the kitchen he shares with his subordinates, choosing to ignore the spaghetti-stained plates in the sink and the sticky spills on the counter as he grabs a mug and shuffles his way to the tap. She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead. For the past 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days, 8,760 hours — it’s been a constant loop. She’s dead. She’s gone. She’s dead. She – he gulps down his water, a bit too much of it, and it pushes against his throat and burns him as hard liquor would. To Aki, that hurt is good. An all too welcome distraction. If he digs his nails into his forearm a little more, scratches the side of his head with a bit more fervor, maybe you’ll knock on his door with that pretty smile of yours again.
But you don’t. You won’t, and never will again.
The coppery taste of blood fills his mouth only after he relaxes his jaw and relents the attack against his tongue, allowing a caring glance to the eerily silent door of Power and Denji’s room before stepping out into the balcony to light a cigarette. You hated cigarettes, he knows – but you’re not here to tell him off for the action anymore, so he flips lid on the shiny black lighter and sets the ceramic mug aside to grab one from his back pocket.
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