>> You agree to tutor your crush of almost a decade, and there are some rather unexpected consequences
or
Hinata discovers your biggest secret during a tutoring session, and then he realizes he's the only person who knows <<
series status: [ongoing]
tags: college au, college hinata is HOTTTTTTT, hopelessly in love reader, sunshine shouyou, erotica ghostwriter reader
a/n: this was posted YEARS ago on ao3 but im finally continuing it so please enjoy hinata shouyou who burns like the sun
masterlist. ||
[feel free to buy me a cup of coffee!]
---------------------------------------
That is the prettiest boy I have ever seen.
The first thought that crosses your mind when you lay eyes on Hinata Shouyou, on your first day of high school.
He’s small, and his hair is so orange and his face is so round. His smile is so large, and his eyes are so intense, so full of life. He’s so excited – for what, you don’t know. But the way he enters the classroom that day, as nervous as any other first year but somehow still so sure of himself. You’ve never seen anything like it.
It doesn’t go away, not even when you learn how loud he is. How energetic. How terrible at academics. Your eyes just continue to find him, in every room he enters. He catches your attention, again and again, even on the rare occasion when he isn’t drawing attention to himself at all.
He makes friends easily, much easier than you. He’s easy to tease, you notice, that taller boy with dark hair constantly pushing his buttons. Two other boys start to appear more often after a few months, a tall one with blond hair and the one who’s always with him, with the freckles.
You somehow avoid their detection, despite the fact that you are all but incapable of taking your eyes off of him.
Hinata Shouyou.
The name that bounces around in the back of your mind, even when you make an effort not to think of him. A pretty name, you think, to match a pretty boy.
The pretty boy whose smile – bright and wide enough that his eyes disappear into half-moons – never fails to make your heart skip.
The pretty boy who’s always the first up out of his seat for lunch, practically skipping to the door and dragging your classmate – Kageyama Tobio – along with him.
The pretty boy who pouts when he’s being teased for his size, that face so puppy-like and that frustrated blush so soft on his skin that you can’t help but stare.
You fall for him before ever realizing what that means.
What it means to fall for a boy like Hinata Shouyou.
–
“Shouyou? Yeah, I know him! Why?”
You just stare at Yachi, unseeing. You’d met her at the beginning of your second year, and the two of you had become fast friends. She’s sweet and kind, and her sunny disposition makes you smile more than you ever had before, when it had been difficult to make friends.
However, you had just watched her wave at Hinata as he was racing past with Kageyama, and you simply cannot comprehend the interaction.
“I-Uh… We were in the same class last year. I don’t think he knows my name, though…”
It’s not a lie. You’d been assigned to the same group multiple times over the year, but he had always failed to remember you. He’d ask for your name every time, just so he could write it at the top of his assignment, but it would be gone from his mind by the time the day was over.
You’d never minded. His head was always elsewhere – on volleyball.
“Oh, he’s quite sweet! He’s on the volleyball team I manage.” Hitoka pushes food around her bento, spooning rice into her mouth. You’re about to mention that you know he’s on the volleyball team, and then you physically glitch.
“T-That you… manage?”
She just nods, not seeing your expression.
“Yep! He’s really good.” She looks at you, excitement filling her eyes. “Oh! You should come to practice with me today! I’m sure he’ll remember your face!”
You start to shake your head, because no, that’s the last thing you want. You’re perfectly content to exist in the background, unnoticed by him.
He’s such an intense person, you’re not really sure you would fare well if you caught his attention.
“No, that’s… I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
Somehow, you end up standing in the gym after school anyway, arm interlaced with Yachi’s.
She’s introducing you to the third-year manager. Kiyoko.
The older girl is sweet, her voice soft but self-assured. You immediately look up to her.
“Y/n is going to start coming to practice with me!” Yachi is far too excited about a plan that she hadn’t discussed with you.
You look at her in alarm. “Since when?”
Her giggle knows something that you don’t. “Since today, silly!”
You just look helplessly at Kiyoko. The girl smiles down at you sympathetically. “Sounds like you’re stuck with us.”
“I-” You look around. The gym is full of boys you don’t recognize – except that group. Tall Blond and Freckles. Kageyama Tobio.
Hinata Shouyou.
You look away quickly, as if you’re less likely to be noticed if you pretend they’re not there.
You meet Kiyoko’s eyes. She squints at you, like she’d just witnessed the moment you had.
“Is there anything I can do to help…? I don’t want to just be here .” You smile nervously, and it grows when she just hums and looks around her.
“You know the second-year boys, right?”
She definitely saw the moment you had.
“Would you mind getting them their water bottles?” She points at a pile of identical water bottles, and you see that they each have a strip of tape with names written on the side. Then she points to a stack of towels not too far away. “And some towels, please.”
You hear the coach – a blond man with piercings and a rough voice – blow the whistle for break, and you fumble to find the right bottles.
Hinata. Kageyama. Blondie-
“Oh.” You look up at Kiyoko in realization, but she just grins knowingly. Seeing that you know only two of their names. Noticing which two.
“Tsukishima Kei. And Yamaguchi Tadashi.”
You try not to blush, wondering what she’s thinking. Finding the right bottles easily and then reaching for towels, you juggle the items and stumble over to the group of four where they stand across the gym, bickering.
Please, don’t notice me for too long.
It’s a useless prayer. Obviously.
“Oh-” Freckles notices you first. “Hey, you’re…” He frowns, trying to place you.
You hold out the bottle labeled Tsukishima , hoping to get this interaction over with quickly. He glances down at it and then snickers – somehow, he makes it look kind, even though he’s clearly laughing at you. He passes the bottle to the blond, who only spares you a glance and a confused furrow of his brow when you mumble ‘ Sorry ’ and hand him a towel, the correct bottle and towel going to Yamaguchi.
You do the same for Kageyama, and you’re almost clear of Hinata’s attention – he’s arguing loudly with Kageyama and reaching blindly for his water and towel, not really caring who’s on the other end of it. But then Yamaguchi realizes who you are.
“Oh! You were in Shoyou and Tobio’s class last year!”
The small boy and his tall companion finally turn to you, their fight long forgotten.
Well, shit.
Hinata tilts his head toward you, and you feel yourself physically warm at his direct attention. He squints, leaning in to stare at you. You can almost hear his thoughts, his memory working overtime to locate your name.
You tear your eyes away to meet Kageyama’s gaze. He doesn’t even bother pretending he knows you, his face blank while he waves at you.
“Y/n-”
Your eyes snap back to Hinata. His face splits in a grin when he realizes he was right, and you shrink under the intensity of his gaze.
It feels like staring directly at the sun.
He’s too much. Too bright.
And now, you have his attention.
–
You go from having one friend – a cute blonde with a bright smile and a sweet disposition – to having seven. A group of hyper-active, endlessly energetic friends who always seem to find you and drag you into their nonsense, even when you’re not looking to be found.
You take to Yamaguchi Tadashi quite easily, the boy not all that different from Yachi in personality. He’s kind, and he regularly appears at your desk with snacks and a happy grin. He’s the first to invite you to any and all social gatherings, even racing Yachi around the building to see who can find you first. You grow used to hearing his playful giggle in the hallways.
Kageyama takes a bit of time, and you find yourself happy with the amount of distance between you. Your conversations are short, and you’re respectful of each other’s social boundaries, but he gives you his full attention when you speak, so you do the same with him. It’s easier than you’d thought it’d be.
Tsukishima is quick to tease you, realizing early on that you’re shy and can be targeted. He pushes your limits, and then he learns that you bite back, your tongue just as sharp as his when it needs to be. He never relents, though, because bickering with you is satisfying and because you’re not the fragile thing he’d thought you’d be.
Kiyoko mothers you often and effectively, draping herself over you like an older sister and going toe to toe with Tsukishima when she feels he’s getting a little too out of hand. She’s also under the impression that you have a crush on Kageyama, for some reason, but you let her believe it, because the alternative is… Well, it’s not something you necessarily want anyone to know.
You meet Tanaka Saeko at a Karasuno game, about halfway through your second year. She’s loud and energetic, and you see the resemblance between her and her brother with little issue. You sit beside her and nervously introduce yourself, and she claps you so hard on the back that she spends the entire game laughing maniacally and rubbing the sore spot on your shoulder to soothe it. She takes your phone number practically by force – she likes you, apparently – and you realize after the game that she knows Kiyoko well. You can’t seem to get rid of her after that.
You do your best to avoid Hinata Shouyou’s attention. It’s fairly easy, because you always hang out in group settings. He’s always talking to someone else, always excitedly telling some story to the whole group and never just you. You’re thankful for it. He never locks onto you directly, but his eyes always skim over yours during his passing comments to the group. He’s aware of you, but the full weight of his existence never bears down on you, never burns through you. You might survive him yet.
Second year passes by in a blur, and you’re saying goodbye to Kiyoko and Saeko, and then third year does the same. Before you even realize it, you’re staring up at the gates of your university, full of the knowledge that all of your friends – Kiyoko, Saeko, the volleyball boys and your precious Yachi – are all here, too. That things had changed – that they would continue to – but that your friend group wouldn’t.
You’re relieved. It had been hard to make friends, and you had grown fond of them.
You’re excited to see where you go in the next four years.
–
“I’m going to fucking kill them.”
There are pebbles being thrown against your living room window, in quick succession and off-tempo, so you know it’s not just one person. People are yelling outside, screams of joy echoing down your quiet, residential street. It’s the last night of summer, just hours before your third year of college is set to start.
You stare down at your laptop, trying to ignore the tapping of rocks on your window. There’s an email open from your client, asking for updates on a draft that you’d wanted to get to them by the end of this week. There are a still a few days left, but this client is new and a bit jumpy, so they’ve emailed you every few days for the last two months.
You try not to sigh at the wording.
‘-coming up on the deadline-’ ‘-just a bit concerned about your timeliness-’ ‘-other half of your payment-’
You’d never missed a deadline, and – probably to their surprise – you never will. That doesn’t mean this kind of thinly veiled threat isn’t annoying.
You’re about to email back, a progress update that hasn’t changed all that much in the 24 hours it’s been since they last contacted you, but there’s a particularly large rock smacking into the glass just over your head, and you’re losing patience.
You stand, yanking the window open just in time for a smaller pebble to be launched though the open space. It clatters onto the floor behind you, and you turn to glare down at your uninvited guests.
“ I said I’m not going! ” You call down the four flights to the ground level, where Yamaguchi is loudly apologizing for almost giving you a concussion and where Tsukishima is grinning wildly, his arm still cocked back in preparation to launch another projectile at you. He cups his mouth and yells up at you.
“Yes, you are! Get down here!”
You glance back at your laptop. You’d wanted to get the draft done tonight, so that you can focus on class this week. But it seems they’re intent on dragging you to one last party before you all crumble under the weight of homework and commitments.
You sigh, recognizing the look in Tsukki’s eye – there’s a reason he always gets what he wants.
Closing your laptop, you text him, begging that they stop trying to get your security deposit taken away, and run to your room to get ready. It doesn’t take long, and you’re meeting them out front before you can fully regret your decision.
“Yay, party!” Yamaguchi giggles into his hands, and the flush on his cheeks tells you he’s already had a few drinks. Tsukishima just shrugs when you shoot him a glare.
“I tried to get him to slow down, but he made his choices.”
“Yeah, and you never learned to say no to him, did you?” You mumble it under your breath and then stumble to catch yourself, because Tsukki is shoving you off the sidewalk and into the street. “Hey! I could have been hit!”
“Good. You deserve it.” He says nothing else about it, just supporting Yamaguchi’s weight when the freckled boy leans on him heavily. “What were you even doing up there that’s more important than this?”
“Minding my business. You should try it sometime.” You never figured out how to tell them what you do to pay the bills. You’re not sure they’d even understand.
It’s not like it’s really all that common to ghostwrite erotica for money.
You can’t really explain how you’d landed on that. You’d always been good at writing, your grades in English and composition a lot higher than your math and sciences in high school. Your intro writing courses a couple years ago had been interesting, and you’d started enrolling in creative writing classes without really meaning to. By the end of your first year, you’d declared the major and settled into your life as an aspiring writer.
The money, of course, wasn’t in your department. It was in Econ, with Hinata, or in Physical Therapy, with Kiyoko. Hell, it was even in the Music Department – Saeko had had funded summers and paid yearlong internships in things you could never really understand. But what you did understand? Creative Writing never had the budget to hire a summer intern, and the TA and RA positions only go to students intending to pursue grad school.
So to pay the bills, you’d started writing for clients online. Shady characters who only wanted to pay you after your work was done – you’d been ripped off quite a lot with the first few projects you’d applied for. Marketing jobs and manuscript editing, which had high demand but never seemed to pay off. You’d almost given up, and the tear-off flyers hanging on the bulletin boards in the student union were starting to look more and more appealing by the day. You could always pay rent on a barista’s salary – if you were willing to go without dinner 6 days a week, that is.
And then you’d stumbled across an odd listing on your regular writing job boards, and the number that first client had sent you… well, it could certainly pay the rent, and maybe you wouldn’t have to starve in the process.
You had honestly thought that they would rip you off. The number was too high, and signing a ghostwriting NDA had been kind of intimidating.
But, to your massive surprise, a few days after submitting your final draft, your phone had buzzed with a notification from your bank of a rather sizeable wire transfer. You’d been even more shocked to find your book selling fast in stores, under a name that you obviously had not realized was that well-known in the Spicy Romance genre. Your next client, upon a quick search, was even bigger.
That had been over a year ago. You haven’t had to worry about rent or groceries or anything since.
But that doesn’t mean you’re ready to tell your friends what you do – not even the barest details that you actually can tell them seem plausible.
“Oh, my God-” Yamaguchi leans into Tsukki’s side and covers his mouth, whispering scandalously. Tsukishima just shoots you a look of confusion but leans down to Tadashi anyway. “Tsukki, I think she was watching porn -”
Tsukki throws his head back, laughing loudly at Yamaguchi’s so-called gossip. Your face burns, and you’re reaching over to whack Tadashi on the arm. “I was not !”
“I think she was!” Yamaguchi’s eyes light up, and he starts skipping down the street chanting ‘ She was watching porn! ’. Tsukishima bends and puts his hands on his knees, cackling even when you start to hit him on the back repeatedly.
“Can you get your boyfriend- ”
“Aw, don’t be so sour, babe-” He stands to full height and pulls you into a headlock, dragging you the rest of the way down the street and toward Kageyama and Hinata’s shared apartment. “He’s just having a little fun.” He tightens his grip marginally, leaning to whisper menacingly in your ear. “ And he’s not my boyfriend .”
You just roll your eyes and ignore that part. One day, he’ll admit his feelings, but today is not that day. “The last thing I need is him telling all our friends I’m some nympho porn binger.”
“Ooh-” Tsukki thinks it over with a tap of his pointer finger on his bottom lip. He’s having a little too much fun, in your opinion. “‘ Nympho Porn Binger ’ – good group chat name-”
“ No -” You protest, barely managing to get his phone out of his hand as he’s moving to change your name in the 8-person text thread. “- not a good group chat name-”
“Come on, slowpokes!” Tadashi’s at the door to the apartment complex, dancing cutely to the music that’s blasting through the open window on the second floor. “All the good drinks will be gone!”
You let Tsukishima pull you up the stairs, Yamaguchi already lost in the crowd by the time you make it through the door.
“Chug, chug, chug, chug–”
You glance up in alarm at the blond, but he just shrugs and leads you into the living room, where he leaves you to witness the growing crowd while he gets drinks.
Hinata’s at the center of the room – because he always is – having some kind of drinking competition with Saeko. They’re standing on top of the coffee table, which looks like it’s going to give out at any second, especially when he ends up winning and starts bouncing up and down with an excited yell. The crowd joins him, and you wonder, as the room is starting to shake a little, if Kageyama’s prepared to deal with a potential eviction notice in the morning.
You’re looking around for Tobio, planning on standing with him and commiserating, but there’s a finger being pointed in your direction. Hinata Shouyou’s on the other end of it, his tangerine eyes locked right on you.
“ You made it! ”
You wave lamely, your face flushing at the wave of celebratory cheers being directed at you, by people you don’t even know.
Hinata hops off the coffee table, and you beam at Saeko while he makes a beeline for you, because she’s blowing kisses at you from across the room and no one can really ever resist Tanaka Saeko’s charm. You manage to spot Kageyama over Hinata’s shoulder, standing with a hand pressed to his face in exhaustion, but then there’s a warm body all but tackling you to the floor.
“ I’m so happy you’re here! ” Hinata’s voice is barely audible in a room this rowdy, but it doesn’t matter. You feel it, the words traveling in a low rumble from his chest to yours, his arms tight around you. Your face is tucked into the crook of his neck, and you feel it there, too – the bass in that voice that’s been burned into your memory over time.
You barely manage to pull your head back, your skin warm with a heat that’s almost unbearable. He’d grown over the years, and, while he’s still on the shorter end of your group, he’s certainly taller than you now. It shows in the way you have to tilt your chin up just meet his excited gaze, your own wide and nervous.
“Y-Yeah… Hey-”
“Where have you been all summer?” He leans into your face, as if he’s not keeping you physically attached to him right now.
Hiding in the back of a different cafe every day, writing smut .
“Uh… working… I guess…?”
He seems to accept it, his smile easy and his eyebrows raised with interest. “I can’t wait to hear about it. Writing jobs?”
You have no idea, dude.
“Y-Yeah. Pretty boring stuff.” You can see the haze in his eyes, that cloudiness probably coming from the beer he’s just chugged and the unknowable number of drinks he’d had before that. You know that’s why he’s paying you so much attention right now. He’s as bright as ever, but even after all these years, you’d hardly ever been the direct recipient of it.
You are woefully unequipped to receive Hinata Shouyou’s attention.
“I can imagine-” He giggles, and you have to stop yourself from staring at his mouth in wonder. He lets you go, finally, and just reaches to ruffle your hair affectionately. He must be really drunk. “-but I’m glad to see you. It’s gonna be a good year!”
You find yourself smiling, because he just has that effect on people. He makes people smile, even when they have no idea what they’re happy about. It scares you, the way he makes you feel.
“Yeah, I guess it will-”
“ Holy fucking mother of shit, it’s crowded in here-” There’s a shadow cast over you suddenly, and a red solo cup full of mysterious liquid is being dangled in your face. It’s not hard to know who’s holding it. “Take this before I change my mind.”
You take the drink from Tsukki’s hand, sipping cautiously and then wincing. “ Tequila ?”
“Oops-” It’s taken from you again, and then an identical cup is placed in your waiting hand. “That’s mine.”
Tsukki’s arm makes its way around your shoulders while you sip the new drink. Good to know he remembers your preference for vodka.
“Shortshit.” The blond tips his drink in Hinata’s direction – a greeting, apparently. “Overwhelming turnout.”
Hinata just laughs humorlessly, glaring up at the man. “Good to see you, too, Tall and Uncoordinated -” He barely manages to dodge the swipe of Tsukki’s foot in his direction with a yelp. You lift the drink to your mouth, hiding your smile behind the lip of the cup. Hinata’s about to say something else – something that would provoke Tsukishima further, probably – but there’s a shatter somewhere in the kitchen, and Kageyama’s yelling his name in irritation.
Hinata just winces and waves at you as he’s scooting past the packed bodies in the direction of the recent accident.
You hear a call of your name and turn just in time to see Yachi’s excited face. Tsukki disappears, mumbling something about finding Yamaguchi.
–
You find the blond again about an hour later, barely managing to get away from Yachi and the girls. Kiyoko had shown up not long after you’d decidedly glued yourself to Hitoka, and Saeko had been easy to locate, the chaotic woman dancing her way to you – spinning and bopping and knocking drinks out of people’s hands with her sudden movements.
‘ Maybe we should come by tomorrow and help Kageyama clean. ’ You’d said, watching yet another drink hit the floor, the wooden floorboards immediately sticky. Kiyoko had nudged you at that, whispering that maybe just you should come over and help.
One day, you’ll let her know just how close she is to being on the right page.
For that moment, you’d chosen not to comment, just clinging to Saeko and dancing with the girls to a few of the better songs, the others spent convincing Kageyama not to start a fist fight with Hinata in the middle of the party and pulling Yamaguchi off of any and all surfaces that could cause him harm.
When you finally find Tsukishima’s hiding spot – one of the couches that’s been pushed into the corner of the room – you almost sigh in relief. He grimaces at you when you flop down and jostle him.
“Are you also waiting for someone to inevitably call the cops?”
You laugh, leaning your head back against the couch. “We’re all going to get arrested.”
“That’s super inconvenient – we have practice tomorrow.”
You look at him in disbelief and then point across the room. Yamaguchi and Hinata are hanging off of each other, giggling and stumbling in circles in what can only be an attempt at dancing.
“Your boyfriend looks like he’s gonna spend all day tomorrow with his head in a toilet.”
Tsukki just shrugs, lifting his cup to his mouth. “ Your boyfriend looks like he might need that toilet now .”
You nod in agreement, because Hinata isn’t looking so hot, but then you realize what Tsukishima’s just said.
You turn to face him slowly. He doesn’t bother meeting your eyes – the smirk he’s hiding in his cup tells you everything.
“What are you… talking… about…?”
His golden eyes find yours, all too knowing. That smile grows when he says-
“Should I repeat myself?”
His laugh is loud in your ringing ears, louder still when you latch onto his wrist with a death grip and drag him off of the couch. There’s nowhere in this room that you can speak to him privately, and there’s even less space in the kitchen and hallway. Hinata’s room is full, Kageyama’s room is fuller , and the patio is-
You end up shoving Tsukki into the shockingly empty bathroom, slamming the door behind you.
You turn to him with wide eyes. He’s leaning against the sink, laughing into his hand.
“Who told you?”
He just shakes his head, taking a torturously long sip of his drink. “No one told me. I just happen to have eyes that work.”
You scoff and point at his glasses, meaning to tell him that his eyesight is, in fact, shit. But he’s shooting you a warning glance, his gaze full of mischief.
“Careful, babe.”
“Alright, what do you want?” You resign quickly, leaning heavily against the door. “You want me to do your homework or something?”
He scoffs. “Please. I’m trying to graduate.”
“Rude!” You stare at him, wary. “So? What do you want?”
“I don’t want anything-” He smiles when you just glare. “I just thought you might like to know that you’re not as slick as you think you are.”
You pout, kicking your foot uselessly. “Damn it. Do you think everyone knows?”
“No. They’re all idiots.” He just shrugs when you roll your eyes. “And Shimizu thinks you’re head over ass in love with Kageyama , of all people-” He clicks his tongue and then points at you with his cup, brow furrowed. “So, are you just gonna keep letting her think that, or…?”
“Yes.” You have no reason to hide that from him anymore. You thought that you’d been careful – not even Yachi knows how you feel about Hinata. If Tsukishima Kei knows, then there’s nothing left of your dignity, anyway. “There’s no harm in it. Even if it gets back to Kageyama, he’d never do anything about it.”
Tsukki just nods, knowing you’re right. You watch him, hesitant.
“You’re really not gonna say anything?”
“Not a word.” He smiles. You don’t like how loaded it is. “But…”
Oh, no.
“…you have to tell him.”
You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “No fucking way. Absolutely not-” You point at him, scandalized. “The nerve of you, Tsukishima Kei! You haven’t told Yamaguchi-”
“Yes, I have. Just before we picked you up, actually.” He tilts his cup into his mouth, emptying it simply, as if he hadn’t just dropped that bomb on you. And then he smiles innocently. “Your turn, coward.”
“Tsukki-” You blink, stunned. There was nothing about his behavior tonight that could have clued you into the fact that he’d just confessed to his childhood best friend. You actually feel a little bad for teasing him all night. “You told him?”
The blond nods, sticking his hand out for your cup. You hand it to him silently, still shocked. “Yep. He’d already started drinking, so he said we should talk about it tomorrow.” He lifts his eyebrows with a scoff as he’s bringing your drink to his mouth. “But I get the feeling he’s gonna be too hungover, and he’s kind of been avoiding me all night, so…”
You can see the bitterness in his smile, in the way he won’t meet your eyes. You frown, moving to stand next to him, both of you leaning on the sink. You nudge him with an elbow. He nudges you back.
“He’s not gonna reject you, Tsukki.”
He doesn’t respond, just staring down into your drink. Then he downs the rest of it and tosses both cups in the trash, directing the conversation back to the topic of Hinata.
“So? You’re really not gonna tell him?”
You shake your head with a grin. “He barely knows I exist, dude.”
“Not true.” Tsukishima points out toward the living room. “You two seemed pretty friendly earlier.”
“That’s because that’s who he is, Tsukki.” You sigh and tilt your head back, smiling lamely as you stare at the ceiling. “Hinata Shouyou is everyone’s friend.”
The blond doesn’t respond for a moment, and then he’s clapping his hands on his thighs decidedly.
“Well, then, you might want to tone it down a bit if you really don’t want him to find out.”
You look up at him, confused, and he just meets your eyes in disbelief. And then he pouts and gives you a rather convincing puppy-dog look, batting his eyelashes for emphasis and pitching his voice up dramatically. “ O-Oh, hi Hinata. I hope your summer was good- ”
“What is that-What are you doing?” You step away from him, a gasp of horror leaving you when he snatches your wrist up and drags you close, just to torture you.
“ Oh, Hinata, you were so good at that game last night– The way you spiked that ball was so sexy–”
“I do not sound like that !”
“ Oh, Hinata - ”
“ Tsukishima Kei- ”
He throws his head back, laughing loud enough that he has to cover his mouth to muffle it. You manage to land one good smack on his chest with your free hand before the bathroom door is slamming open.
Hinata Shouyou’s on the other side.
Your heart drops, and then it drops again when Tsukki mumbles ‘ Oops ’ under his breath, because that means even he knows that this is awkward.
Hinata just stares at you both, his eyes cloudy and his cheeks horribly flushed.
“What’re you two talkin’ about in ‘ere?” He tilts his head and blinks hard to clear his vision when you both just shake your heads silently. And then he shuts his eyes, groaning. “ Mm … I don’ feel s’good.”
“Oh, God-” Tsukki lifts the toilet seat as you rush to pull Hinata into the room. The ginger drops to his knees and hunches over the toilet, emptying the contents of his stomach into it.
You and Tsukki both groan and look away. And then you walk around Hinata and sit down on the edge of the bathtub, running your hand soothingly over his back.
“You’re doing great, Hinata…” You shoot Tsukishima a glare when he just eyes you with a smirk. Hinata hurls again, and you rub circles in between his shoulder blades.
“It’s gonna be okay. Maybe we should get you some water…?” You give the blond a pointed look, but he just crosses his arms over his chest with an innocent grin and settles back into his seat at the sink, like he has no intention of going anywhere.
And then his smile is dropping, because Hinata is lifting his head from the toilet and thinking about something.
“‘d I hear my name earlier…?”
Tsukki stands suddenly, refusing to look at you as he leans over to push Hinata’s head back down into the toilet bowl.
“Go back to vomiting.”
Hinata complies, and Tsukki meets your burning glare with a pitiful smile as he mentions something about water and all but runs from the room.
–
You flop down into one of the lecture hall chairs, sighing heavily and letting your backpack fall to your feet.
You haven’t slept yet – you’d left the party around 2, after making sure Hinata was tucked into bed with water and pain killers on his bedside table, and then you’d sat in your living room and finished the rest of your draft. You still have to edit it, but you’d barely been able to stop at a cafe for a triple shot of espresso and a pastry before running across campus to this very lecture hall – just in time for your 10am class – so the editing can come later.
It’s a core biology class, a general education requirement. You’d put it off for as long as you could, because this is simply not your field of interest, but the prospect of taking this next year and being the only 4th year in a room full of incoming freshmen had hurt too much, so here you are.
It’s an introductory class. You should be fine. It should be simple enough, and it might even be a nice break from your other three classes this semester, which are extremely writing-heavy. Your plan overall is to make this class the least of your worries.
A body slumps into the seat next to yours, in a similar state of exhaustion. You’re not surprised – half of the student body was out getting trashed last night.
What you are surprised about is the finger that’s pointing at the coffee cup in your hand.
“Can I have a sip of that?”
You freeze, that voice all too close and all too familiar.
Turning slowly, you find honeysuckle tangerine.
The prettiest boy, with the prettiest name to match.
You hand over your precious espresso, wordless and utterly dumbfounded.
Hinata smiles gently at you, lifting the cup to his mouth. You don’t bother to stop yourself from watching its path to his lips. He tilts the drink back-
-and then immediately winces in disgust and shoves it back into your hand.
“Jesus fuck , Y/n-” He covers his mouth with a hand, shaking his head. He looks you over, alarmed. “Are you okay ?”
You blink, only managing a noise of confusion as you cradle your cup into your chest. You try not to think about the fact that he’s just had his lips on it.
“Only psychopaths drink espresso straight like that.”
Your sleep-deprived state fuels your immediate response, a defense mechanism built after years with the menace that is Tsukishima Kei. “Why hasn’t Kageyama kicked you out yet?”
Hinata’s eyes go wide, and his jaw drops as he watches you. You realize belatedly that you’ve never shown him that side of you before.
Just as your brain is starting to catch up and you’re looking for a way out of this moment, he’s leaning his head against the back of his chair and giggling to himself. The sound sends a shiver down your spine.
“God, I’m so glad you’re in this class, too.”
You turn toward the front just as the professor is calling for attention, and it hits you like a truck that you’re sitting next to Hinata Shouyou, in a class that doesn’t end for months.
Maybe taking it as a 4th year wouldn’t be such a bad plan, after all.
Are You Going My Way? | Complete | John "Bucky" Egan
5 parts + epilogue, 45k words
Lost and found in fourfive parts.
John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader
Warnings: 18+ smut, mentions of blood, wounds, operations, hospitals, war
***
Hitchin' a Ride
Part 1
Or two times you told John Egan no, and the one time you said yes.
Words: 7k | Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, hospitals
***
Follow Me Where I Go
Part 2
Or how you stopped worrying and learned to love trouble.
Words: 8.5k | Warnings: smut, 18+
***
As I Walk Through The Valley of The Shadow of Death
Part 3
Or how hell could not keep you away from each other.
Words: 10.5k | Warnings: war, blood, graphic descriptions of war and wounds, angst, 18+
***
I'll See You on The Dark Side of The Moon
Part 4
Or how John Egan really needs to learn how to shut up already.
Words: 9k | Warnings: smut, war, blood, graphic descriptions of war and wounds, angst, 18+
***
Lights Will Guide You Home
Part 5
Or how losing each other was never an option.
Words: 9k | Warnings: war, blood, graphic descriptions of war and wounds, angst, 18+
***
A Lovely View of Heaven, But I'd Rather Be With You
Epilogue
you’re too good to me (and you know it, too) pt. 1
pairing: peter parker x fem reader
summary: For some unknown reason, Peter Parker cannot stop finding new, inventive ways to humiliate himself in front of you.
And for some reason, you keep helping him up anyway.
Or, the 5 times you save Peter— and the 1 time he saves you.
a/n: binge-watched the entire rom-com catalogue on netflix and now its everyone's problem. also literally my first completed fic, pls be kind.
wordcount: 1.6k
tags: 5+1 fic, slow burn, friends to lovers, reader is annoyingly oblivious, peter is a sad dork, no use of y/n, sarcastic peter and an even more sarcastic reader, multi part, past gwen and peter, not canon compliant
(one)
The only thing Peter feels right now is the searing cold of linoleum against his cheek as he lies sprawled in a random frat house bathtub, gangly limbs bent every which way.
The room is spinning. Makes sense — he did just drink half his weight in shitty beer handed to him by some guy named Brian. Or Ryan.
Whatever. It doesn’t matter.
What does matter, though, is that his girlfriend– ex–girlfriend, love of his life, the sun in his sky, Gwen Stacy, is three thousand miles away in a cozy apartment in London.
Very much not here.
They finally broke things off. Mutually — he likes to clarify — because long distance just didn’t make sense.
Different priorities. Different goals. It was the logical decision.
Which, Peter thinks, is exactly why it hurts so much.
There was no dramatic fight. No screaming in the rain. No broken dishes or slammed doors. Just talking. Calm, quiet talking, with the occasional tear or two. But it was all so civil.
So reasonable.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
Maybe he wanted a fight, for her to throw everything to the wind and just jump into his arms. But that didn’t happen.
He groans, vaguely convinced he’s going to throw up, until the bathroom door creaks open.
He doesn’t have enough self-control — or, honestly, any dignity — to announce that this hiding place is currently occupied.
So he keeps lying there. Wallowing. Face pressed to the cold and probably filthy bathtub.
“Oh my god.”
Yep. That tracks.
He can feel his face flush. Not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the sheer mortification at the fact that someone just caught him mid-existential spiral in a frat house tub.
“Are you… Okay?” the voice asks again, tentative now.
Peter twists his head awkwardly–still not bothering to lift himself from his slumped position– in a way that he thinks is probably going to give him a stiff neck in the morning.
What he sees when he finally blinks the world into focus is... unexpected.
A girl, a college girl– you.
You look reasonable, at least more put together than he is. You’re holding a Solo cup in one hand, and in the other a pair of heels dangling by the lacy straps.
Your face is twisted in concern. Genuine concern.
That, somehow, is the most embarrassing part.
Peter attempts a thumbs-up, but in his drunken state, it misses– his hand goes limb flopping back onto his chest.
“Right,” you mutter. “You’re, like, three bad decisions away from alcohol poisoning.”
He squints up at you, eyes straining against the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights.
They wrap around your head like a halo, he chuckles to himself.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I’m going to get you some water. And maybe an Advil, also maybe like some wipes– I’m pretty sure that bathtub floor is housing at least three different types of STD’s”
Peter groans. “Do you have a time machine instead? I’d rather go back six months and break up with Gwen first, or at least stuff myself in her suitcase and be smuggled into London.”
You pause in the doorway, looking at him as if you're trying to figure out if he’s kidding or just terminally pathetic.
“Okay, bathtub boy,” you say, “try to stay alive for the next five minutes.”
And then you’re gone.
Peter closes his eyes again, hoping the spinning will stop if he just lies still long enough. Though, for some reason– tucked under the haze and the fog–he wants to follow you, but his limbs are heavy like they're being weighed down with sandbags.
He lies there for what feels like a millennium.
You’re realistically only gone for around five minutes– but it feels like it stretches into forever.
The door creaks open again.
Peter peeks one eye open and groans dramatically, just in case it’s the Grim Reaper coming to collect his soul.
It’s not.
It’s you. Backlit by LED lights, holding a bottle of water, a crumpled paper towel, and something that looks suspiciously like a granola bar.
“Wow, you’re still alive,” you observe.
“Barely,” he croaks, reaching feebly for the water in a way that reminds you of a sad cartoon mouse. “Is this heaven?”
You ignore that.
Instead, you hand him the water and crouch beside the tub with a quiet sigh that says you didn’t sign up for this, but now it’s your problem anyway.
He cracks open the cap and downs the entire bottle in a few desperate gulps. Then leans back against the cool porcelain, eyes fluttering shut.
You hand him the granola bar.
He blinks at it.
“I’m not sure I remember how to chew,” he says gravely.
“You’ll remember,” you say. “Or you’ll choke. Honestly, either one would be kind of on brand for tonight.”
Peter grins at that. It’s weak and crooked and way too pleased with itself for someone curled up like roadkill in a tub.
“Are you always this nice to strangers, or am I just special?”
You laugh — short, incredulous. “Actually, I came in here to hide from the hivemind of frat boys outside, but found a catatonic college boy whining about his ex, face down in a disgusting frat house bathtub.”
Peter winces. “Low blow.”
“You earned it.”
He takes a bite of the granola bar and immediately regrets it. It tastes like cardboard.
Still, he chews.
You sit on the toilet lid, elbow perched atop your knee and cheek pressed against your fist, like you're holding the world’s most reluctant intervention.
The party thumps distantly through the walls — muffled bass and sloppy laughter, like the world didn’t just end because Gwen Stacy went on that plane.
Peter swallows, then leans his head back again, sighing. “This was not how I imagined my Friday going.”
“Yeah, me neither. I just came here for the free booze and ended up playing Florence Nightingale to a boy in a bathtub.”
Peter lifts a finger. “Man. I’m technically a man.”
You stare. “You’re drinking lukewarm Bud Lite and crying about your ex. You are, at best, a man-shaped boy.”
He opens his mouth to argue. Stops. Nods.
“Fair.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then–softly– “She’s really gone, huh?”
You look at him. “Your ex?”
He nods. “Gwen. She’s in London now. Doing grad school. Being brilliant, changing the world– without me. I told her it was okay. That we’d both move on. And I meant it. I still mean it. It just…”
“…still sucks,” you finish.
He looks at you. Grateful. Like maybe the bathtub isn’t the loneliest place in the world anymore.
“Yeah,” he says. “It really does.”
You smile, gently this time. “Well. At least you’ve got granola.”
Peter chuckles, the sound rough but real. “You’re not going to let me live this down, are you?”
“Oh, absolutely not.”
The next morning, Peter wakes up to the smell of coffee.
Which is wild, because he was fully prepared to never smell again. Or move again. Or be alive, really.
He blinks one eye open. Immediately regrets it. The sunlight coming through the window is way too aggressive for someone whose blood-to-beer ratio is still questionable.
There’s a blanket draped over him– suspiciously soft, and cozy– and a pillow that definitely didn’t belong in a frat house, actually, he’s pretty sure the frat boys in Delta Kappa Tau didn’t own any form of pillow covering whatsoever.
Also, the couch beneath him smells like vanilla fabric softener and, thankfully, not frat boy sweat.
So not a frat house, nice solve Peter.
Panic sets in.
He shoots upright way too fast and instantly regrets it. The room spins.
From somewhere behind him, a voice says, “Easy, Nosferatu. You’re safe.”
Peter turns– slowly this time– to see you, standing in the doorway, holding two coffee mugs– one with “World’s Best Dad” printed on the side.
You’re wearing an oversized ESU hoodie that looks way too comfy on you, and fuzzy socks that make an unfortunate squelch as they hit the floorboards.
You hand over the warm mug like it’s a peace offering.
He blinks down at it. “This is…?”
“Coffee,” you deadpan. “It’s what people drink after nearly vomiting in a stranger’s bathtub.”
Peter groans and slumps back into the couch, cradling the mug like a life preserver. “I didn’t vomit, though.”
“Sure. But the vibe was there.”
He exhales a slow, embarrassed breath. “Right. Uh. Did I, like… sleepwalk here? Or did you drag my unconscious body across campus?”
You grin. “Neither. You walked, basically crawled. I gave you water and sustenance, and you turned coherent enough to tell me you lived ten blocks away, and then immediately fell asleep mid-sentence. So, no, I wasn’t about to let you wander the streets like a hungover Bambi.”
Peter stares at you. “You took me home?”
You gesture around. “I took you to my home.”
He groans again, rubbing his hands down his face. “I’m so sorry. This is… probably peak humiliation for me.”
“Honestly? You weren’t even the worst part of my night.”
He lowers his hands. “How could anything possibly top this?”
You sit across from him, sipping your coffee like it’s no big deal. “I stepped in a puddle of beer, glitter, and unidentified bodily fluid in someone’s hallway and ruined my favorite heels.”
Peter winces. “Ouch.”
“Tragic,” you agree. “But you did call me a ‘wise and glowy bathtub angel,’ so I guess my night was somewhat salvaged.”
He groans again, dragging the blanket over his face. “I’m never drinking again.”
“Sure you aren’t.”
A beat of quiet stretches between you, broken only by the soft hum of your air conditioner and the occasional traffic outside your window.
Peter peeks out from under the blanket. “Hey… thanks. For not leaving me to die. And for the granola bar. And this couch. And possibly saving my life.”
You smile. “You’re welcome, bathtub boy.”
“It’s Peter, actually.”
“Bathtub Boy has a better ring to it.”
(Former-141 SpecGru Reader) - last update: 9/23/24 Banner by @sentientcave
You were part of the 141. And then a mission went wrong. Maybe you didn’t follow orders, or you just made a stupid mistake. Maybe both. You woke up in the hospital room alone. By morning, you were meeting your new team.
Content:
Light Angst, Polyamory, Injury, Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy
(Specific warnings at the start of each chapter)
✧ tags : gender neutral reader, canon divergence, a lot of author liberties, alcohol, fluffy, pre-relationship, mildly suggestive but sooo mildly lol.
✧ wc : 3.4k (this is ridiculous lol)
✧ a/n : the thing to get me out of my writing slump being sdv fanfiction is hilarious.
hi! this is the first part to a silly little alternative first kiss series i have planned for the stardew romanceable characters. i think the other ones will be shorter (hopefully but lol).
i will link the rest of them as they get posted. i hope u like. rbs appreciated. also tagging @antique-remains (hi this is fang on my side blog lol)
✧ synopsis : sebastian wants to do anything but think of you. he's failing miserably on that front. sam and abigail are not helping.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆
“Earth to Sebastian,” Sam snaps his fingers in front of Sebastian’s face. Sebastian jumps in his skin. “What’s with you today? If you’re not gonna take our pool playing tradition seriously, I’m not playing.”
He swipes a hand over his face, cursing under his breath. Half-empty Joja-Cola can sits directly besides his pool stick, the faint air of smoke and liquor in the air. Right. He’s here to play pool.
He pinches the bridge of his nose with exasperation, shaking off the feeling before scratching the back of his neck.
“No, sorry. I wanna play, just…give me a sec.”
“Got something on your mind Seb?” Abigail prods, unfortunately intuitive. Sebastian scowls at her. She stands to her feet to get closer, sitting on the edge of the pool table with her cheek turned just enough to look at him. Her smile is coy. “A certain someone, maybe?”
His scowl deepens, lip curled in distaste. “No. Move. You’re in my way.”
“You’re a bad liar.” Abigail says with a resigned sigh, arms crossed. “You weren’t this spacey last time you dated someone. ”
“Fuck off,” Sebastian sighs. “It’s not like that yet.”
Abigail grins before Sebastian can correct the slip up. “Yet. Yet, he says.”
Sebastian feels himself blush. “Ugh.”
He sighs as he stands back up, leaning against his pool stick. Sam stops whatever he was doing (messing with the pool table deliberately, Sebastian assumes), taking newfound interest in the conversation.
“Oh, you two talking about our new neighbor?”
“Not really new. It’s been like… what a year or two almost?” Abigail adds. Sam shrugs.
“That’s true. But it feels new to me anyway.” Sam says. He gives up on pool it seems like, abandoning his stick on the table in favor of navigating to the box pizza balancing on another table nearby and his drink. Sebastian watches him shimmy a slice of the pie, not bothering to blow on it as he eats. “Oh is that why your heads in the clouds? Figures.”
“I didn’t say that. Abigail said that.”
“And you’re saying she’s wrong?”
Sebastian huffs. “…Yes.”
Sam laughs good-naturedly. “Pfft. Uh-huh, yeah. I super believe you.”
“Fuck you both.”
“Come on, Seb. It’s not like everyone in town doesn’t know.”
Sebastian’s frown deepens. “Not everyone.”
Sam seats himself on the couch again and Abigail joins him. It creaks under the weight of them as they get comfortable together. Sebastian stays where he is, sitting on the tables edge with a drink in his hand and an itch for a cigarette.
Sam counts on his fingers. “Your mom knows. My mom knows. Abby’s mom knows. If they all know then our dads definitely also know. Who else does that leave? Our towns tiny dude. Like I’d say Elliot doesn’t, but he’s here on Friday’s and he catches up with gossip all the time. So basically everyone.”
“…Shit.”
“See? Told you.”
Sebastian doesn’t need everyone to know what’s going on between you. He doesn’t even know what’s going on between you. It’s taken him longer than he cares to admit to even acknowledge that there was something there. And he didn’t know it was mutual until recently when Abigail came dropped by to tell him she overheard her dad explaining old Pelican Town traditions on dating and romance.
(Abigail always describes things in excruciating detail, adding all the bells and whistles. This makes her great to play the Solarion Chronicles with.
It also makes her good at artfully recounting interactions. He can easily picture you the way she said she saw you, overalls half unbuttoned, dirt covered and leaning over the counter just slightly giving Pierre your rapt attention.
The thought of it is enough to trigger some sense of affection he’s never entirely felt before.)
It’s not like Sebastian is against the idea of dating you, it’s just—
“I think you should go out with them Seb. I like ‘em a lot more than your exes.”
Sebastian sighs. “You guys know why I’m on the fence.”
Sam shrugs. “Does they even count though? They’re not actually from here. They live here sure but they didn’t grow up here.”
“Right? That’s what I think too. Might as well go for it.” Abigail shrugs, glancing at Sebastian. “I really don’t get why you’re hesitating. Something else has to bugging you.”
“I thought that too.” Sam adds.
A faint blush creeps up his neck. He loves his friends and sometimes, he appreciates how well they know him. Times like this, he thinks it wouldn’t kill them to be a little less perceptive.
They’re not wrong. It is something of a flimsy excuse to try not to think about you. Sebastian has always had a not dating policy about people he grew up with. He nearly dated Abigail in highschool and it was a shitshow. So he’s vowed to never do it again.
But that’s not the real reason he’s been rejecting the possibility in his head. He uses it more for himself than anyone else. It’s not like he can give them the real answer because he thinks it’s one hundred times more embarrassing.
How the fuck is he meant to tell them the reason he keeps hesitating to define your relationship is because he feels like he likes you too much?
That’s the real reason he’s going in circles about it. It’s so cringe it makes him want to break out in hives but well, it is true. Sebastian likes you—like really fucking likes you—and it’s freaking him out because he thinks it’s the first time he’s really liked anyone.
Dating has never been all that fun for Sebastian. It wasn’t something that felt meaningful. He dated mostly in college and only one of those relationships lasted a significant amount of time. And even then the relationship was never all that genuine. They ultimately broke up because Sebastian realized they were fundamentally incompatible. As bad as it sounds, there wasn’t a real sense of attachment there, not once. It was just convenient for both of them. He realized at that point he should probably just focus on himself.
That was about when he moved back home to the valley to live with his family in his post graduation.
And he had honestly expected it to be another few mundane years, akin to his early adolescence. He was so sure that he would spend it with the same restless feeling in his stomach, the same longing to be somewhere else. If he could never feel any belonging, at least he wanted to be somewhere he could blend in. He thought for sure moving back to Pelican Town was going to be nothing but dreadful and boring and existential. That he would come back and remember why he wanted to leave in the first place.
Until one day, someone from the city moved into the old, overgrown farm and turned the entirety of the valley upside down.
When you met for the first time, Sebastian honestly didn’t care. Nothing goes on in Pelican Town, so he figured you’d be the main subject of gossip for a few weeks before ultimately blending into the background of his life just like everyone else. He also didn’t think you’d last long living here. You were part of the corporate rat race he so detests and you didn’t grow up in the valley. It’s a hard place to get used to after living somewhere more populated.
Against all odds though - you did stay. And you’ve integrated yourself so much with the people living—himself included here it kind of baffles him. He doesn’t entirely remember what it was like before you came here.
Sebastian couldn’t have predicted in a million years that that stupid help wanted sign in front of Pierre’s store would start actually being useful. But lo and behold, at least three times a week he finds you with full pockets - jogging after whomever last posted to give them what they need. And you do that without anyone really asking you too.
You’re just so… helpful. And social in a way he can’t describe. Everyone in town has nothing but nice things to say about you. You’ve given everyone a gift on their birthday thus far. You’re keeping the entire economy afloat with your farm right now and you regularly clear those mines out for monsters. You even paid for the bus to get repaired, too - so now it’s up and running again.
You’re full of surprises. And easy to adore, himself included.
What surprises him most often is how easy it is for him to be around you. He doesn’t turn you away even when you visit his room sharply at 9am and hover over him in bed. He doesn’t get even the slightest bit upset when you have a mundane and disruptive conversation hours before he usually gets up. He keeps everything you’ve ever gifted him, and he often thinks of inviting you to things he does with his friends. He smiles when he sees you running around doing some chore, frantic and covered in muck - all mess and sunlight.
You’re… nice. Honest, hard-working, and cheerful. Kind. Sincere in wanting to know him. You should completely and utterly exhaust him given those are your main characteristics. You should be someone he’s simply fundamentally incompatible with.
But more than anything, you’re thoughtful. And it disarms him so utterly he feels overwhelmed by the thought. From the start, you put in a lot of effort into maintaining connections and he was no different. It’s just impacted him so much more than he thought it would. If he lets himself think too far on it, he really won’t stop thinking about you.
To the point he’s been picturing what it’s like to live on the farm. He’s in deep.
Despite all of your idiosyncrasies, you really seem to give a shit about things in a way that feels utterly foreign to him. This extends to anything and everything. It extends to Sebastian, and it shows in the ways you don’t undermine him. Little things. You take his work seriously and apologize for disturbing him, you don’t immediately take the side of his family when he talks about them despite being friends with them too, you don’t interrogate him about what he is or is not comfortable with. You show up and linger in his life, and then you go off to your own thing.
More and more, he gets the urge to stop you before you go. It’s too much. It makes him act…lame and he’s not too fond of it. He’s never really felt this strongly about anyone before and he’s a little bit of a wreck about what it does to him. So it’s not that he doesn’t want to date you, but more that he does so bad he doesn’t even want to admit it.
But well.. He isn’t sure it’s even working. As soon as you walk into a room it’s like—
He’s lost in his thoughts for a while, only to get pulled out of them by some big commotion happening in the main part of the saloon.
“Ah, you’re here. What perfect timing kid,”
Shit. Shit
Only somewhat obscured by the distance and wall separating their space from the bar - Sebastian catches a glimpse of you and feels something uncomfortably warm in his chest. His friends both make little oooh sounds, no doubt planning to do something stupid. He should intervene but he gets too caught up in pretending he doesn’t see you. Turning away stiffly, he pretends to be looking at something else while he listens on your conversation. It’s not too hard to hear, anyway.
“Hi, Pam.” He can practically hear the smile in your voice. “Here’s your ale. Managed to grow a hops plant indoors this season so the brew is pretty fresh. It’s strong, fair warning.”
A beat of muffle conversations follows up with a a loud sigh. “That’s exactly what I needed. Your pretty good with your liquor and spirits, huh kid? Thanks for the drink. Here’s what I owe ya.”
“Selling alcohol under the table at my establishment? Tsk tsk.” Gus adds.
It’s at this point Sebastian lets himself look at you properly. You lean with your elbows against the counter. You look a mess like usual, but you’ve got on a cowboy hat today that Sebastian finds ridiculously cute. You smile at Gus sheepishly.
“Sorry. Can I buy myself a drink to make up for it?” You offer.
“I’ll do you one better and give it to you on the house.”
“Aw, what? Can’t let you do that Gus.”
“You can and you will. You’re always looking out for everyone. Here, it’s a nice imported IPA. Nice and cold. Have a drink and go relax. Some of your friends are here too tonight I think.”
“Oh?”
On cue, you turn your head to the group of them. When you and Sebastian meet eyes, you brighten visbly - all smiles. He’s so caught up in it, he doesn’t even catch Sam next to him until he throw an arm around his shoulder and waves you over.
You weave through the tables until you cross the threshold of their little hide-out. Abigail greets you first with a short sidehug before you go over to him and Sam.
“Hey,”
“Hi Sam.” You pause, tilting your head. “Did you cut your hair? It’s shorter than usual.”
Sam beams. “I did! And you’re the first one to notice, other than my mom. Goes to show who my real friends are,”
Sebastian nudges him, pulling away from his grip. “I see enough of your face everyday. There’s nothing for me to observe.”
“It looks nice,” You add. Charming and genuine. Sam smiles at you.
“Thanks,”
Sebastian is weirdly jealous until you address him in conversation. “Hey to you too Sebastian.”
His heart thumps. This is ridiculous. He swallows. “Hey. Uh. How have you been?”
Awkward. So awkward. You smile a little and lean on the pool table besides him with your drink, taking a sip. “Good. Busy as usually getting ready for Winter. Renovated our coop recently so I’ve got a whole bunch of baby bunnies I gotta take care of. Went and bought another heater, some extra hay. Just farm stuff. Not very interesting,”
“I find it interesting,” He replies quickly. You lip twitches in a smile.
“I’m glad.”
“Baby bunnies sound so cute,” Abigail adds. Sebastian glances at her as she joins the rest of them. “What else have you got in there?”
“A little of everything. Chickens, ducks. I’ve got a void chicken too, kinda freaky. Oh and these little dino looking guys.”
Abigail looks bright eyed. “Would it be like… weird if I asked to go over? I kinda wanna see them?”
You laugh. “Not at all. I don’t mind. You could honestly go over whenever but it’s hard to navigate the farm if I’m not there, though I’m trying to fix that this upcoming winter.”
You glance then at Sebastian, eyes almost sparkling. “You should come over sometime, too. You’d like the void chicken I think. And I’ve got a slime hutch.”
Sebastian sputters at the obvious invitation only barely managing to cover up the shock to his system. You don’t seem put off, but it’s obvious you know what you’re doing. He’s going to explode.
Abigail and Sam make not-so-subtle eye contact before Sam clears his throat.
“Well, uh, me and Abi are gonna head out. We’ve got some stuff to catch up on, but there’s still a few hours until the saloon closes so you two should stay here and finish up our drinks and stuff. Uh… yeah. See you again,”
Sam nods, quickly rifling for his things. Abigail follows in his foot steps.
“Mhm, yep. See you,”
Sam gives him one last encouraging look before turning around and leaving. The two of them scurry off in a blink of an eye, before Sebastian can get a single word in about the situation or tell them to stay. And now he’s alone with you, quietly wondering if it’s as awkward as it feels.
You’re the one to break the ice. “Do you have anywhere you need to be tomorrow?”
Sebastian blinks. “Uh no. Not really.”
“Me either. We should stay back then, for a little while.” You offer with a shrug. “Why not, right?”
Right. Sebastian is being really chill about this entire interaction. “Right.”
“I’m glad I got to see you tonight,” You say, out of the blue. Sebastian nearly jumps in his skin at the admission. “I’ve been pretty busy with the growing season ending so I haven’t been you know, able to come by as often. I don’t know if it made a huge difference to you but—“
“It did.” He blurts out. Your mouth opens then closes again, a blush crawling up his neck as he tucks his chin in embarrassment. “It was uh, weird for me. I know you’re busy and I like my alone time but I did… miss you.”
“Yeah?”
He’s almost too afraid to meet your eyes. When he manages - you’re smiling fondly, sweetly with a sense of amusement. It rolls off of you in waves and it becomes clear to him in that split second that you don’t really intend to hide how you feel despite him being so hellbent on making sure he does. You’re not hiding that you like him. It feels stupidly warm and fuzzy.
You look like you’ve been working all day and you smell a little like grass and rain in a way that makes him want to draw that much closer to you. So he does, leaving into your space.
“Yeah.” He manages, barely getting the words out without being a complete wreck. “It’s new for me.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder or whatever they say.” And then, even more sweetly. “I missed you too.”
Fuck. You’re… fuck.
Sebastian pretends to wipe something from his face just to cover it and make his blush less obvious. This is embarrassing. He likes you so much and for what.
There’s a million things he wants to tell you but he can’t find the words for any of them. So he tucks in on himself and wonders how the fuck he would ever go about actually dating you.
You inch closer to him. Tentative, until your thighs are touching. He doesn’t move away.
Suddenly, you’re close to him than you’ve ever been. Looking from the corner of your eye, Sebastian turns his head to meet your gaze. You’re an inch apart, and he’s looking at your lips - slightly chapped from the weather. The faint scent of alcohol on your breath makes him dizzy. Your smile is what does him in ultimately. A subtle tug at the corners of your mouth, a little teeth. Something about it precious.
“Hey,” You mutter.
“Hm,”
“Can I kiss you?”
He responds with leaning forward to do it first. It’s chaste and easy, and he does it because you’ve already taken so many first steps and he should, at least, take this one. So he leans into kiss you and it feels like his whole body is melting. It’s brief and light and he pulls away before it feels like it should be over.
You part for a breath, a single heartbeat - before your hands go up to cradle the side of his face. You kiss him deeper that time. A real kiss where he can taste you enough to know that you drank - one he would only want to do in the privacy of this confined spaced. He feels you in your entirety - returns your gesture with a careful hand on your waist that you don’t pull away from.
And it doesn’t stop. Like neither of you want it too, despite everything else. Despite the fact he’s doing this in the bar of his hometown where everyone will gossip about it without doubt, and despite knowing that - the drive to kiss you is stronger than his usual sensibilities. So you kiss and kiss and kiss, short presses followed by long, firm ones. A slight brush of tongue, the soft nip of teeth as you tease and tug. All mirth and amusement and fondness and bravery and god he is so into you it’s ridiculous.
You manage to pull away from each other after a while. His lips are tingly. And there’s a sheepishness to you both that makes it hard for him to look your way.
“Hey, Sebastian.”
He clears his throat.
“Uh. Yeah?”
“I’m gonna ask you out tomorrow. Properly.”
He blushes. “…I’d be cool with that.”
You grin. “Yeah?”
Shit he’s happy. He is not gonna get a lick of sleep tonight. He smiles a little to himself.
You mull over your captain’s words in the hours before dinner. Sitting behind Nova in her temporary room, Doctor Who’s opening theme warbling from your laptop’s speakers. You gently work oil into her scalp, following the precise alleys formed by her braids.
It’s a soothing ritual, not just for her, but for you. An act of care for a woman who’s been so kind and patient with you. Who always stood her ground on your worst days, and never allowed herself to be goaded into a useless argument. She’s warm beneath your fingers, soft against your chest, the scent of coconut and cinnamon sweet in your nose.
Slowly, you begin to card through memories you put great care into neglecting.
The day you left the hospital, feeling more pathetic than you ever had in your life. A packet of care instructions folded over in one hand. You remember the way Gaz hadn’t quite looked you in the eye, mouth tight and regretful at the corners. Almost guilty. Even when he handed over a bag of fresh clothes, saying he was glad to see you on your feet.
Did you know then? Was there some twinge of foreshadowing in your gut? Did you hear a foreboding whisper in your mind, of how the following twenty-four hours would devolve?
Maybe you did or maybe hindsight is a liar.
What really stands out, even after all this time, is how betrayed you felt (still feel) when you reflect on that interaction with Gaz. That the best he offered was a weak warning that Ghost and Price were pissed off at you. The hurt that he didn’t even ask how you felt before disappearing for the rest of that awful day. You never saw him after your initial discharge, he might as well have borrowed his lieutenant’s namesake.
And then there was Johnny.
Soap, who made himself perfectly visible, if only to express how pissed off he was. He never bothered to ask how you were doing either – didn’t even seem relieved to see you conscious and in one piece. He was tight-jawed and tense; the few times he deigned to speak to you was clipped and terse.
When you finally left, you remember how your chest ached, knowing (intending) you’d never see his thousand-watt smile again. A fair few of your tears on that flight had been in self-deprecation for expecting anything but his total, unwavering loyalty to Simon. It stung that for all his crowing about being a team, looking out for each other, no one left behind – he couldn’t spare you a crumb of forgiveness for a mistake in the field.
Price and Ghost had almost made sense, really. But Gaz and Soap had been a peculiar sort of pain. Your fellow sergeants, who had made you feel welcome and comfortable in the beginning – who had been the bridge and buffer between you and your intimidating superiors. And maybe it wasn’t their fault that you never quite felt like you had a seat at their table, but they’d tried.
Still… at least you can look at them. You can’t imagine opening your mouth to face Price or Ghost and anything but acid pouring out.
“What’s on your mind, babes?”
You blink, palms automatically cradling Nova’s head as she tilts it back to peer at you. On autopilot, you dip down to kiss her forehead, then the gentle curve of her lips.
“Hmm?”
“Don’t get me wrong, the massage is nice,” she teases, “but you’ve gone over my whole head at least twice now.”
“Oh,” you intone, swiping your thumb behind her ear. “Just thinkin’ is all.”
“I can tell,” she giggles, “there’s practically smoke comin’ outta your ears.”
You grimace a bit, arms lowering down to circle her shoulders in a hug. She curls her clever, slender fingers around your forearm, tracing soft patterns with her blunt nails.
“Sorry, love,” you mumble, flicking your eyes to the screen. Realize you’ve only got a vague idea of what’s going on. “I’m being a bad date.”
“You’re not,” she insists, squeezing your wrist. “This s’all been a lot, yeah? I just don’ want you being on your own in there.”
She taps two fingers against your temple. You used to spend all your time alone in your own head. Not because it was safe – it wasn’t – but it was familiar. It took her and the rest of the team concerted effort to pry anything of value from you.
Now, you muster up an appreciative smile as you nuzzle into her hand.
“I’ve just been trying to decide…”
She pauses the show and wriggles to get a better look at your face, hums for you to continue.
“If I should try talking to the 141,” you continue. “Cap said I should consider it. See if we can put all that old shit to rest.”
“Do you want to put it to rest?”
“I should.”
“But do you want to?”
The question brings you up a bit short. Being mad is easy. You’ve been mad at them for so long, one step short of loathing, that you’ve settled into the feeling. Dug your heels in. It’s an easy way to put a stopper on all the complicated hurt lying beneath.
“I want to talk to them the same way I want to go to the dentist,” you muse.
She picks up what you aren’t saying.
“You don’t want to, but you know it’s healthier if you do.”
You grunt, still too proud to admit it outright.
“The wound closed over, but it never healed properly,” she says. “Maybe you’ve got to reset it, yeah?”
You sigh. “Yeah. Just not sure where to start.”
She shrugs. “Wherever you want to. Do it on your own terms. Only way you’ll be able to stomach them.”
You chuckle. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“’Course I am,” she chirps. “I’m used to navigating bad weather.”
You nip at her fingers, prompting a bright peel of laughter as she tries to squirm away. As you wrestle her back into your lap, your nerves soften and settle.
Even if you excise this wound, you know you won’t be left bleeding alone. Not ever again.
You haven’t come to any concrete decision after dinner. Not that anyone asks. Nova isn’t one to push and your captain has already said his piece. You haven’t told Nikto or Keegan about your dilemma yet, and you’re not sure if you will.
Nikto’s take on the situation isn’t obvious – though if you had to guess, it would be similar to Nova’s. But Keegan? You already know what his answer would be.
Of anyone in SpecGru, he had to work the hardest to earn even an iota of warmth from you. He reminded you too much of Ghost – and how could he not? The perpetual mask, the sharp one-liners. Gruff and closed off, frighteningly capable, and a crack shot with a sniper rifle to boot.
It used to take everything in you to pull your punches during spars. The rare instances that you would agree to eat with your new team were never if Keegan was present. And more than once, you walked into the rec room, saw his looming figure, and turned right back around.
The only time you could stand to look at him was during missions, but your captain was always sure to receive a killer glare if he paired the two of you together.
Keegan was your partner on the mission that changed things.
It had been a week straight of shit sleep and bad memories, sick on loneliness and anger. When boots hit the ground, you stormed right in, eager to prove to yourself (but really, to them) that you were valuable. Didn’t wait for Keegan, but that had never stopped him from keeping pace with you before.
You didn’t clear your corners, got sloppy and hasty.
Took two stab wounds before Keegan shot the hostile in the temple. When he tried to call the others, you demanded that he finish the mission first. Would have rather bled out than be the reason another mission failed.
The pain and blood loss dragged you under as soon as you choked out the demand.
Then, Keegan’s face was the first thing you saw in the hospital room. Not the mask, him.
Even with dirt and black paint smudging his face, you could see the dark, worried circles beneath his eyes. Could read regret in his angular jaw, relief in the slant of his scarred mouth. For the first time, you looked in his eyes and saw more than an echo of your former lieutenant.
You saw your teammate. The partner you’d left to fend for himself because you’d been handicapped by your own pride. You saw Keegan.
“Did you finish the mission?” you rasped.
He frowned, but your captain stepped forward. “He did – once we were there to stop the bleeding.”
You never saw Ghost in the weave of his mask again.
And soon after, Keegan was the first person you opened up to about the 141.
It was that very same week. You’d been sick on shame and embarrassment, using your injuries to nurse your wounded ego. Skipping meals in exchange for raiding your snack drawers and moping in your cot.
Keegan hadn’t made himself scarce after your discharge. None of your team had, really – but he’d made a point of checking on you. And lacking your usual sharpness, he hadn’t been deterred by your comparatively mild standoffishness either.
Which was how you found yourself stubbornly tucked into the corner of your cot one night, while Keegan sewed the holes in your shirt. He kept shooting you amused looks – probably because you hadn’t taken your eyes off him once. Half wondering why he was there, half waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You gonna say something, or you just glare all night?” he drawled eventually.
You narrowed your eyes. “Do you plan to stay all night?”
He shrugged, but his eyes flicked to yours, the corner of his mouth ticking up. (No mask. He hadn’t worn one around you since the hospital. Not unless people outside your team were around.)
“If you’ll have me. Been meaning to get you caught up on the show we’ve been watching.”
You huffed, frustrated. “Why?”
He arched his brows at you, needle paused. “Because I like you, despite your best efforts.”
You stared, a little appalled, a little touched. Keegan just chuckled and went right back to mending your shirt. You drew your knees up tighter and hid your quivering mouth with your arms.
“Cap says your last team was shit to you,” he said into your sullen silence.
You scowled. He put a hand up as if in surrender.
“He hasn’t said more’n that, don’t worry,” he continued, “I’m just sayin’… I don’t take any of it personal. You’re a good teammate, I trust you with more than my six.”
Why, you wanted to demand, flabbergasted and all the guiltier because you knew you didn’t deserve it. Why did he trust you? Why was he so patient? Why was he there at all?
You sniffled, but he just kept talking.
“I want to return the favor, ya know? I’m not askin’ you to trust me after the mission, but you don’t gotta be on your own either.”
You were crying quietly by that point, face so hot that your tears felt cold, stomach aching from more than stab wounds. He finally looked up, saw how you were falling apart. But he didn’t shy away, didn’t close himself off. It wasn’t pity or sympathy that softened his eyes.
“The shit you and I carry, we’re not meant to do it alone, sweets.”
And what else could you do, but spill your sorry guts?
You remember the expression on his face when you got to the part about Ghost. Remember how tightly he held you on your cot, all the distance (emotional and physical) closed between you two. Remember waking up the next morning, Netflix still open on your laptop and flopped gracelessly over Keegan’s stomach like a childhood sleepover.
You couldn’t have iced him out again even if you wanted to, after that.
No, there’s no question what Keegan would tell you, if you asked about talking to the 141. He would say there’s no good reason to waste oxygen on a single one of them.
So, you don’t ask.
You climb into his lap in your temporary room that evening, peeling his mask up and off with slow hands. His eyes are already half-lidded, the corner of his mouth curved fondly. His hands spread across your thighs, warm and rough. The scar twisting across his left palm is sweetly familiar when he draws it along your skin.
“I’m going to try talking to the 141,” you admit.
His jaw twitches, eyes flickering. “Now why the hell would you do that?”
You sigh, curl your fingers into the brassy crop of hair he’s been growing out. He’s got a quick temper, and a habit of misplacing it when it’s been triggered by something out of his control. You don’t take it personally, you never have – it’s gratifying to see how much he cares.
“There’s no good reason to waste oxygen on a single one of ‘em,” he growls.
“There might be.”
He sits back, skeptical but waiting.
You continue, “I’ve got a lot of shit to say to them, and they seem eager to hear it.”
“Why give ‘em the satisfaction?” he asks.
“Maybe it’ll help with the nightmares.” That gives him pause. You draw your thumb soothingly across his temple – a bullet graze from saving your life. “We’ve got too much shit to carry, you and me. Unloading some of it is as good a reason as any.”
His hand drifts up your side, grazes the tattoo coiling down your arm. (The second you ever got – a big piece that took hours, Keegan never leaving your side. Nikto, Nova, and your captain periodically dropping in to provide snacks and water.)
He cups your jaw, guides your face down until your foreheads touch. You stay there, breathing him in. He smells like yours.
“What if they make it worse, huh?” His thumb caresses over your cheekbone the way it has a dozen times before, wiping away tears. “I’ll have to kill ‘em.”
You huff softly, amused. “Then kill ‘em. But I’m stronger than I was, Kee. There’s nothing they can weigh me down with that I can’t carry.”
“I know,” he whispers, tilting his chin to drop a sweet, aching kiss on your lips.
“Besides, I wouldn’t be carrying it alone anymore.”
His expression lightens, pride shining from his eyes. “Damn right.”
It’s nearly midnight when you wake from a light doze. Keegan is snoring softly, an arm and leg each hanging over the side of the bed. Your mouth is dry, but you realize it’s your stomach that woke you – pangs of hunger from picking at your dinner earlier. You need to eat.
Quiet and careful, you crawl out from beneath the sheets. Keegan is a heavy sleeper compared to the nearly supernatural senses of Nikto; he hardly stirs as you pad for the door. The hall lights are dim, but you only open it a crack to slip out.
The hall is quiet, no lights on beneath any of the other doors. You hope that means the rest of your team is sleeping peacefully. If you remember right, Nikto and Nova crawled in with your captain this evening. They’re all in good company if nightmares creep in; you pray Keegan doesn’t have any while you’re up.
Thankfully, the rec room is only two halls away. Light is spilling out as you turn the corner – there’s a sensor that shuts them off if no movement is detected for a while. Someone is either in there now or was recently. You half hope it’s the latter, but that doesn’t deter you from entering.
Your surprised to find Soap leaning against the kitchenette counter, a steaming mug in hand. His expression is flat, grim. Tired. You pause just inside the doorway.
“Might as well come in,” he says, voice low and rough. “I’ll clear out in a mo’.”
Even from where you’re standing, you can see that his cup is mostly full.
You exhale and shake your head. “Don’t have to.”
“How gracious,” he rasps, brows twitching like he wants to scowl. Like he can’t quite commit to being as bitter as he should be.
You’re too tired for your usual acid, as well. Just sigh and reach for the fridge door.
“Is that how you want this conversation to go?” you ask.
“Is this a conversation?” he replies.
You pluck out a yogurt cup. “It can be.”
He’s glaring into his coffee now, index finger tapping at the ceramic. Thinking. Or maybe just leashing all the things he wants to say but knows will drive you right back out.
“Why now?” he says finally.
You shrug. “Because I’m ready now.”
A tendon in his jaw twitches. “That’s not fair.”
A hot flicker of anger ignites in your chest. You tamp it down with a spoonful of yogurt, measuring out your words and tone.
“How do you reckon?” you inquire.
“You left,” he says. It’s been a while, but you can detect the hurt underlying the accusation. You suspect it’s something he’s wanted to say for a long time. “You left us behind.”
You click your teeth off your spoon, take a deep breath. It’s factually true. You are the one that left but—
“I wasn’t going to wait for you all to kick me out officially.”
He finally raises his eyes, a dark storm of emotion swirling within them.
“We wouldnae have.”
You tilt your head, cynicism in the flat line of your mouth. “Didn’t seem that way to me.”
“I ken you and Simon were—”
“Don’t.”
His mouth snaps shut, brows furrowed. You point at him with your spoon warningly but bite back the sharp remark on your tongue. Arguing isn’t the point here.
Settle instead to say, “Don’t speak for the others.”
There’s a beat of silence as he digests that, then finally nods. “Alright. Just you ‘n me then.”
You turn back to your yogurt, swipe up another spoonful as you reorganize your thoughts.
“I didn’t leave because of Ghost,” you begin. “Not entirely. I left because I was never part of the team. And what happened after that mission just… made it all very clear.”
Soap frowns, opens his mouth like he wants to deny it, but you hold up a finger to stop him. He takes a long sip of coffee and waits.
“You didn’t check on me at all. You weren’t there when I woke up. You never asked if I was okay,” you continue. “You were too busy being angry on Ghost’s behalf.”
“You almost got the both of you killed,” he argues.
“But you cared more about Ghost almost being hurt than the fact that I was,” you say. And dammit, you feel your sinuses burning, but your eyes stay blessedly dry. The anger disappears from his face all at once as realization sinks in. “I mattered to you less than Ghost.”
His hand tightens around his mug, knuckles blanching. “No. No, lass, tha’s no’… you were always… you survived.”
“I felt the worst I ever had in my life, but you didn’t care because I crossed the almighty Ghost,” you insist.
“I cared about you,” he denies.
“But not more than you did about Ghost.” You drag your gaze up to his. Even his eyes look a little wet now. “And that… that wasn’t enough for me.”
You suck in a shuddering breath, trying to loosen the tightness in your chest. Clear your throat once you feel the threatening prick of tears subside.
“I didn’t… it wasnae that,” he rasps. “I ken you think I’m full of shite, but ‘s true.”
You do think he’s full of shit. Maybe not on purpose, maybe he really does think he cared about you as much as Ghost, but you know better.
“I was just… so angry wi’ you,” he explains. “You could have died. Nearly got Simon killed, all because you thought you knew better.”
You exhale hard. “You’ve never made a bad call?” you challenge.
“It wasnae your call to make. You should have listened to Ghost. Instead, you—”
“I what?”
Your fingers tingle, numb. Can’t even feel the spoon, or the chill of the yogurt cup anymore.
Sorry this took so long (and that it’s a bit short) I have trouble with scene switching sometimes, and it makes me cut up the story into pieces.
No Content Warnings For This Chapter
Somewhere between your pride and the numbing passage of time lies the way you really feel about the 141. It's undeniable that you're still deeply hurt by what transpired; a chronic ache like a mended bone, only noticeable in the cold, or when you sleep on it wrong. For them, it was easy to reach inside your chest to extract your heart, sternum soft and malleable. It was harder with SpecGru, the bone grew back harder, thicker. You had to crack your ribs open and scraped the chambers on bone shards, but at least they stopped the bleeding.
You don’t miss the 141, not really. It wasn’t just those final, brutal days spent lying alone in a hospital bed that filled those transfer papers. The culprit had been the time that isolation had afforded, to think more deeply, to analyze your position through a less-optimistic lense. Those last conversations had just been your signature on the line.
You don’t blame the gun for firing, you blame whoever pulled the trigger.
Bitterness seeps onto your tongue sometimes. Masochistically, you let it linger. It has no purpose but to raise your hackles and press on that knitted spot until it bruises. It’s your pride, that’s all, lamenting the blood you chose to spill in sacrifice only to have it wasted.
The present is a much sweeter wash for the taste of the past, sticking to your lips and curling your tongue. Honey-balm for resentment, syrup cutting through salt. You focus on the flavor as you stride into the briefing room.
Your captain is already there, a sly smirk for the flush to your faces as Nova follows you in. He’s speaking to Laswell, arms crossed but shoulders relaxed.
Nikto is leaned up against the wall, a shadow without anyone to cast it. He comes to you and Nova as you take seats, angled to face the only exit. He knee presses to yours as you settle in, eyes flicking around.
Nostalgia is a complicated tide rising and ebbing around your ankles. Memories of your time with the 141 in this very room, planning and strategizing, learning where to support your teammates and where they would support you. Jokes made with Soap and Gaz, loaded glances between you and Ghost, a reassuring nod or shoulder squeeze from Price.
That, you think, is where the ache is. Not in missing those moments; you have them with SpecGru now, and without that lingering sense that you don’t quite belong. But in those rose-tinted relationships you’ll never get back (and know you don’t really want again.)
It was never as good as it is with your team now; they were still the team you thought you belonged with. You’ve learned better since but that doesn’t appease the naive 141 operative that put everything into those four.
Your captain has taken the seat you used to have, and he belongs there, a buffer between his team and theirs. You press your thumb to one of the bruises he left on your thigh and settle in.
“Sunshine,” Keegan greets, brushing his knuckles over Nova’s cheek. “Sweets.”
You tilt your chin welcomingly as he nuzzles his nose against your temple, fabric of his mask itching along your jaw.
“Smell good,” he rumbles, low. Just for you and Nova.
“That’s what happens when you shower,” you answer, playing dismissive.
“You should try it sometime,” Nova adds, smirking.
“Only if you join me,” Keegan coos, drawing a spare chair up close. For as tough and distant as he is towards others, he’s long opened his ribs for you and the rest of SpecGru to crawl inside. You admire it now for as much as you distrusted it then.
“Too late,” you say, sharing a look with Nova, “already helped her wash up for the day.”
She whacks you in the knee, startling a laugh out of you. Keegan scoffs, throwing an arm across the back of your chair.
“Nothin’ says we can’t take another,” he drawls, “if I get you dirty enough.”
Beside you, Nikto snorts. Keegan shoots him a teasing look, arching his eyebrows invitingly. The captain is watching, as always, pride and affection smoldering in coal-dark eyes.
And you’re right where you’re meant to be. With them, always with them.
At the front of the room, Laswell politely clears her throat. All eyes turn to her - though you only just notice that the 141 has filed in, perched on the other end of the briefing table, a collective storm cloud.
Laswell kicks off the meeting with a recap of the ongoing mission - basics that all of you read in the docket before shipping out. It’s a big operation, delicate due to hostages. The 141 needed manpower with comparable skills; enter SpecGru.
“One of our best specialists has patched in to explain the parameters in greater detail.”
The big screen at the front of the room lights up. A familiar puff of curly blond hair and green eyes blink into view.
“Gooooood mornin’! Or is it evening? Either way, I hope it’s good.”
Your captain lets out a long breath, trying (and mostly failing) to hide his amusement.
“This is Duke,” Laswell says for the 141’s benefit. “She’s one of our best technicians. I put her on this assignment when I reached out to SoecGru.”
“And you should be glad she did!” Duke chimes in. Her tongue flashes blue as she speaks, and it’s not just the light of the computers surrounding her. Her love of raspberry candies is practically a calling card. “They’re actually pretty decent at keeping communications to a minimum, but porn bots always get ‘em.”
The captain sighs, running a hand down his face. Nova pats his arm sympathetically. Poor guy.
“Anyway! I have their plans for the hostages all drawn up - check this out.”
One loud click of her mouse and the screen flicks to a map with colored circles and wiggly lines. Locations and routes, with little time stamps above each.
“They plan on taking the hostages in waves. If one transport goes down going in or out, they can cut their losses. Lucky for us, they’re super dumb, so I’ve found a 12 minute window where all their teams are out in the open.”
Another image, the transport routes now sporting little icons of angry faces with their tongues sticking out. They're all at various distances along their colored paths, but none of them have made it to whatever the destination is.
“If they’re hit all at once, no group will have time to warn the others,” Duke explains. “Hostages safe, bad guys caught, we all go home and pet our dogs.”
She babbles through the rest of the plan in that controlled chaos way she has, concise and insightful around a casual tone more fitting a high school presentation. The building where the hostages will be taken, every route, down to the vehicles and guns the terrorists will have.
Eventually, she runs out of pertinent information, there are no questions because she’s covered just about everything short of the humidity. Her face pops up on screen again, eyes always a bit glassy from staring at screens too long without blinking. “Lastly, don’t get shot, or I’m telling ma.”
Your captain huffs, that grin finally cracking across his solemn face.
“Do that ‘n I’ll tell her you drop f-bombs like it’s your job,” he replies.
Her mouth drops open in outrage. “It is my job!”
“Yeah? How about that stipend, huh? How much’a that ‘s going to your candy habit?”
Duke’s face flushes, but she’s got that wide smile beamed up to eleven. “Your girlfriend likes me better,” she sing-songs.
He snorts. “Which one?”
“Both,” you and Nova answer at the same time.
Her eyes narrow smugly before she signs off with a little finger wave and a “toodaloo!”
“Your sister, I take it?” Price drawls in the characteristic silence of Duke’s absence.
Your captain shoots him a sideways look. “What, you can’t see the resemblance?” he replies, dry as desert.
You cough into your arm to hide your giggles but Nova isn’t nearly as polite.
As you’re filing out with the rest of the team, you’re surprised that there aren’t calls from your former team. No overtures to justify themselves or half-assed apologies that still somehow make it sound like everything was your fault. You’re almost tempted to check over your shoulder, but you won’t give them the satisfaction of seeming interested. You just don’t trust the sudden silence, even if the captain alluded that there’s some sort of ceasefire in place. You’ve never known the 141 to bend knee to anyone but their own.
A glance at your captain and he’s noticed it too, satisfaction flicking across his face before he catches your eye. He jerks his head. You follow him back to his room, leaning your shoulder in the doorway as he loosens his belt.
“Talked to Price,” he begins.
You arch your brows. “And?”
He blows out a sigh, hands on his hips. “And he wants to talk to you. Him and the rest of the team.”
You groan. “About what?”
He shrugs. “Hell if I know, it wasn’t exactly circle time, doll.”
You roll your eyes. Those useless, cryptic…
“Hey.”
You blink, face going hot when you see the stern look on your captain’s face. Whoops.
“Sorry, sir,” you say. “That wasn’t meant to be at you, I’m just so fucking… ugh.”
“Look, I got ‘em off your back during working hours, but anytime after is outta my hands.”
You puff up, annoyed all over again with the whole situation. It couldn’t be enough for them to ostracize you back then, or try to distract you on-duty now, derailing drills. No, they want your free time too.
“I’m not gonna tell you how to handle this, alright? But maybe getting some of this shit off your chest will do you some good. Let ‘em blow smoke, say whatever you gotta say, and put all this to rest.”
You deflate, giving him a weary scowl that does nothing to deter him from closing the distance. (Not that you wanted it to.)
“Isn’t that telling me what to do?” you mumble, letting your forehead thunk against his broad chest.
“Nah, if I was tellin’ you what to do, you’d be doin’ it,” he chuckles. “If you don’t want nothin’ to do with ‘em, you can spend every night in here for all I care. Up to you.”
You’re only putting up resistance because you know he’s right, it’s just not what you want. It’s easier and simpler to be pissed off and short-tempered with the 141. Safer, in a way.
But there’s no getting any safer, in any sense of the word. Worst thing any of them can say is something you already know, or something that isn’t true. You’ve got your own team for support regardless.
“I hate when you’re right,” you grump.
He smooths a hand through your hair. “If that were true, you’d hate me all the time.”
You nip him in retaliation; he tugs a lock of hair for the trouble.
This is home, you think. Your captain. Nova, Nikto, Keegan. Doesn’t matter where in the world you are, they’re your present and your future. Knowing that, the pain and uncertainty of the past are just ghosts. It’s time to put them to rest like one.
Pairing: Simon Riley/Fem Reader/Johnny MacTavish
Content warnings: Masturbation, brief play-acting DV, PIV sex, oral (f-receiving), fingering
Word Count: 3.7k
Service Dog Johnny Part 17 (full part list here)
C’mon, just one orgasm.
You shift your shoulder down in an effort to get a better angle with your hand, but that was a mistake because it makes the shower spray wash down the front of your body, turning the spit between your legs into unusable, dry wet. Frustrated, you curl yourself away from the water again and spit on your fingers, giving it one more go because you need it.
It’s not even that you’re particularly horny, although it has been a week since you’ve been touched. It’s that you need to feel something good. You need to get your mind flooded with something other than sadness, and an orgasm is cheap and easy, even if it’s only for a handful of seconds. It’s like a little promise that pain isn’t forever. You could use some of that right now.
It’s been a week since Johnny left. You’ve had a whole entire week to come to terms with it, so you should be happily crawling into bed with your boyfriend now, looking forward to sleeping in tomorrow. You’ve been stressed and paranoid at work, so you really do need a relaxing weekend for recovery.
But instead you’re in here, desperately touching yourself in the shower, because a week has gone by without Simon showing any sexual interest. It’s like you’ve gone right back to how things used to be, except now you’re routinely crying in your car over another man.
You got a little too used to getting fucked, that’s the problem. You got your pussy spoiled a few too many times, and now that’s what it wants — fingers and mouths and hard things, but all you have is a bit of spit and an uncomfortably small shower.
With a frustrated groan, you rest your forehead on the white plastic and cling to that last little bit of slickness on your clit, hoping you can make it be enough. But it soon dissolves into uncomfortable nothing, and you can’t get your foot up on any sort of ledge, and Simon’s probably getting suspicious by now with how long you’re taking, so you just give up.
You drop your hand away from your pussy and automatically lift it to your upper arm, focusing on the memory of the last time Johnny touched you.
He liked your body, you’re pretty sure. He seemed to enjoy having sex with you, so it was something else that you did wrong. It was some kind of personality trait or habit that got to be too much for him, and he could no longer tolerate it, so he left. You know it was you, because he’s never had a problem with Simon.
You’ve practically memorized the last text you sent him, with how many times you’ve gone back to reread it:
Simon told me you’re done. Just wanted to thank you for everything, and let you know how much it’s meant to me. If you’d ever want to hang around again just as friends, we would love to have you.
And then the only reply, a short, unpunctuated, thanks
The way you’d cried and cried over that. It hurts so fucking bad, missing him the way you do, while knowing there’s really no legitimate reason to feel sad. There was never any expectation of feelings between you, or even exclusivity — in fact, it was pretty much the opposite. It was literally just whatever he felt able or willing to give you each day, and a lot of it was sex.
But a lot of it wasn’t. A lot of it was listening, and understanding, and being patient when you needed it. Johnny made you feel seen in a realm that Simon couldn’t enter, and that made it feel like more than sex. He gave and gave, and in a weird way, it left you feeling used. It feels like he stole something from you, by not opening himself up in return.
It’ll be fine, though. You and Simon just need to give each other a little more time to be sad, and then you’ll talk and work it out. He said Johnny hasn’t been acting all that different at work, so you just need to focus on taking care of yourself, and being less conspicuous tonight with a too-long shower.
So you dry off, and brush your teeth, and focus on the things you have control over. You can be present with your boyfriend, who you love. You can keep going through the motions until they become reality, and you’re once again settled into—
You practically walk right into Simon’s chest, on your way out of the bathroom.
“Oh— hi!” you squeak, stumbling backwards a step and clutching the towel a little tighter up under your arms.
Simon blinks slowly down at you, taking in your bright eyes and suspicious fidgeting. “Do you need some touching tonight?”
“Wha?— No, of course not,” you lie. You refuse to make your pussy his problem when he’s obviously hung up about it.
“Have you been doing it alone, or going without?”
You huff indignantly. “It doesn’t matter.” But when you go to shove past him, he doesn’t fucking move, and that pisses you off even more.
“Have you been jerking off?” you accuse, finally meeting his eyes to glare at him. “Or going without?”
“Going without.”
“Oh.” Something about the frankness of his answer makes you less upset, and you just mumble out, “Well, me too.”
“Why?”
“Why?” you laugh in astonishment. “Because I don’t exactly have another option, Simon. You and Johnny always talked to each other about what was going on, but for some reason I was never a part of that, and now he’s not coming back, and you don’t want to talk about it - which is fine - but I’m having to figure things out on my own, and I don’t appreciate you judging me for it.”
He seems a little caught off guard by your tirade, taking a step back to let you by. “I’m… not. I’m not judging you. I’ve just missed you.”
“I haven’t gone anywhere,” you mutter, going to get some underwear out of your drawer.
You try to shimmy on your panties under the towel, but you end up getting your toes caught in the stupid thing, so you just drop your privacy screen to the floor because you’d rather look stupid and naked than stupid and clumsy. The weight of his gaze is heavy between your shoulder blades, but you ignore it. You throw on a sleeping shirt and gather up your towel without looking at him, because if he wants to finally open up and talk about it, he has a fully functional mouth to do so.
“You’re angry with me,” Simon reasons. “And I think you’d better say it, because all this quiet is fucking killing me.”
“Alright.” You hold the damp towel to your chest and stand there with a few feet of distance separating you, and give him the truth. “You don’t feel safe with me if Johnny’s not in the picture, and I don’t understand why.”
There. It’s exactly the thing he doesn’t want to talk about, all out in the open. He’s this massive, actual soldier, and he’s scared of you. It makes no sense.
His shoulders are so still, you think he might be holding his breath.
“Simon, I’m not going to hurt—”
“I’m going to hurt you,” he cuts you off in an uncharacteristic rush, his chest starting to heave. “I’m going to do something you don’t like, and you’re not going to tell me to stop. You never tell me no, and it scares the fuck out of me, because it’s going to build up, and I’m going to become something— f– horrible to you, FUCK.”
You’re pretty sure he’s starting to tear up, because he’s getting mad at himself about it. He turns his face away and blinks through a heavy scowl.
“That’s stupid,” you hiss.
“Yeah, sure it is.”
“Do you realize how insulting it is that you think I’ll become some kind of… victim unless I’m supervised? Come on, dude, I’m a fucking adult.”
Finally he whips his head around to look at you, and before you can even brace for it, he plants his hand on the middle of your chest and shoves you backwards until you hit the hard edge of the doorframe.
“Ow, what the fuck, Simon!” As soon as you regain your balance, you whack him with your towel in retaliation. “That hurt!”
You’ve got your weapon clutched in your hand, braced instinctively to fight, but Simon just stands there, and fucking… smiles at you.
“Sorry,” he offers, covering his mouth like he’s trying not to say something.
“You’re being an ass.”
“I know.”
You reluctantly relax your position, slinging your towel over your shoulder. “You don’t get to do things to me that I don’t like.”
“You’re right.”
What’s he playing at? He’s just standing there, looking at you like you’re something new and interesting. Like he’s redrawing some kind of perception in his mind, and enjoying the outcome.
And then he snags the towel straight out of your hand and tosses it on a nearby chair.
“I know what you’re doing,” you warn, frowning at the warm look in his eyes. You refuse to let him off that easy.
“Sure you do.” He takes both sides of your shirt in his hands, tugging you closer, and you let him because you’re a sucker.
“You’re trying to turn me on, but tough titties, I’m already wet.”
“Are you, now?” He lets go of your shirt just to run his hands up under it, along the bare skin of your waist.
“And it’s not because you’re being mean to me, so don’t get any ideas.”
“‘Course not.” One of his hands slides around to your back to push your body up against his, and you have to tamp down your gasp when he squeezes your breast under the shirt.
You’re starting to breathe a little faster with your racing pulse. “I actually really like you, believe it or not, and I get wet sometimes when you’re around.”
He makes a sympathetic noise, trapping your nipple between a finger and thumb. “Poor little thing.”
“Bastard,” you breathe, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you smile, even though he is being kind of cute.
But you must give something away in your face, because he decides it’s the perfect time to sweep you up and deposit you down onto the bed. And, okay, you are not exactly opposed to things going in a touching sort of direction, as long as you don’t have to ask for it.
So you lay there on your back, and can’t help smiling a little as he moves into the space you offer between your legs. And to your delight, he strips his shirt straight off and drops it to the floor. The floor. What is he on tonight?
“Oy.”
Your gaze snaps straight to his face, abandoning your rapt inspection of muscles and tattoos. “What?”
He sighs, glancing over your enthusiastically spread knees, and shirt that’s all bunched at the top of your stomach. “Might keep the light on.”
“That sounds fun.” His hips are pressed so close to yours, you’re able to get a little friction on your pussy when you wiggle against him. You’re still somewhat aroused, and there’s only your underwear keeping you covered.
Simon plants his hand on the bed to lean over you, and then grinds heavily into you.
“Oh—” your eyes flick back up to his face, trying to think past the sensation of having your panties smushed into your sticky cunt.
“I want to keep the light on,” he tells you quietly, “because I want to see you.”
“Okay,” you whisper, which turns into a pitiful sound when you feel his hand find your inner thigh, his thumb stroking the edge of your damp underwear.
“I’d like to be the one in control. Don’t touch me unless I say.”
You just nod up at him, because his thumb has slipped beneath the material, nudging up against your clit, and that’s the most compelling argument you’ve ever felt.
“You’ll tell me if there’s anything you don’t like.”
“I will,” you promise.
He brings his mouth down to give you a kiss. “...Even if you think it’s something I want.”
“You don’t get to have fun, only me,” you recite with a smile.
“Good girl.” You get rewarded with another soft kiss, and a firm circle over your clit. “Might have to fool around a bit, it’s been some years for me.”
“I have my appointments cleared for the rest of the night.”
“Mmmm.” He takes in a long inhale, curling his finger around the gusset of your underwear to start tugging it off. “I like you.”
‘I like you too, baby.”
You go ahead and strip off your shirt while he takes care of your panties, so then you’re just sort of exposed below him, lifting your knees back up in an invitation to be touched or fucked.
Simon’s lashes flutter, watching his own hand frame your pussy. You should probably be watching too, but you’re mesmerized by the expression on his face, the way he tilts his head as his fingers dip into your opening.
“I’m going to cum in about five seconds,” he tells your pussy, sliding his wet fingertips over your clit. Then his eyes raise to your face, as he tugs the front of his sweatpants down. “And then I’m going to fool around with you, and then I’m going to fuck you again.”
“Okay,” you gasp, trying to keep your eyes on his face, forcing yourself not to look down when you feel the length of his cock sliding against the outside of your pussy. “That sounds nice.”
It becomes a non-issue, when he lowers his mouth to yours. You close your eyes and kiss him, and you feel fingers again. First two, and eventually three, pushing and stretching inside you, to get you ready for something big. You’re not allowed to touch him, so there’s literally nothing for you to do except close your eyes and allow yourself to relax. You go soft around those fingers and melt into the mattress, giving him back some of the same lazy kisses he’s giving you.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” you murmur, unconsciously squeezing your pussy on his fingers when he starts massaging into your g-spot. “You know, what you were afraid of.”
He makes a noise of discomfort in his throat. “I don’t think you realize… I— love you.”
“I know.” You try not to laugh, rubbing your cheek against his. “We actually say it to each other sometimes.”
“Yeah, stuff it. What I bloody well mean is, I thought we’d have time. Because you and me, it’s… it’s going to be a long thing. And I thought we’d get there eventually, and we have.”
Maybe he wasn’t ready to bring it up until now. Maybe the fear of losing you was stronger than the discomfort of being misunderstood, even after all this time.
“I’m ready to fuck now,” you tell him, curling your arm around his neck to bring him down for another kiss.
“Maybe don’t look, just yet.”
“I won’t,” you promise, running your thumb across the scars on his cheek that you have to consciously notice to even remember they’re there. “I’ve got something pretty to look at up here, anyway.”
“Yeah, you smooth talker,” he mutters, and you feel his fingers get carefully replaced by his cock.
He’s just so beautiful. It’s not an opinion, or something you’ve talked yourself into, it just is. Some people will look the same however long you know them, but every now and then you meet a Simon Riley who’s just so wonderful that their face turns into something perfect in your eyes.
Simon curses into your neck when he bottoms out the first time. You’re doing your own little gasps, eyes unfocused on the ceiling while your insides send up thunder shocks at every slow movement.
Oh, that feels nice. That’s— shit.
He must have given up trying not to cum, because suddenly your back is arching with it. He’s not going fast, but he’s going deep, groaning into your hair and making you endure this merciless, bam, bam, that has you seeing stars. It hurts so good that the sound of your pleasure starts coming out of your chest without the conscious decision to express it, and then, just as you acclimate, he cums.
It does something to you, that pained gasp that begins with the first sound of your name. You get your feet up on the bed and angle your hips just right, hoping to cum just from the last few movements of his orgasm.
But you can’t, of course. You have to give it up with a sigh, turning your head to kiss his cheek. He said there’d be more, and you believe him. Besides, you got his cum this time. It’s already leaking out a little, just from not having much space to go anywhere else.
“How do you smell so good all the time?” Simon finally asks, nuzzling his mouth against your ear. Apparently he’s staying verbal today.
“It’s probably love hormones hypnotizing you.”
“Pfft. Post nut clarity cancels it out, and I could fucking eat you right now.”
“I sometimes enjoy being eaten.”
“Mmmn.” Simon gives your earlobe one good nip, then pulls himself out of your pussy with a gross gush of wet. And then to your horror, he starts crawling down your body, apparently without any intention of going to clean up.
“Simon, there’s cum!”
“Is there?” He gives you a sarcastic look before getting right down to pussy-level and holding your leg open wider. “Shocking.”
So apparently post-nut clarity Simon is fucking annoying.
He only pauses to put himself back in his pants, and then to your absolute astonishment, he bends his head down and fucking licks your clit.
Your whole body twitches in shock, after being programmed for so many years to believe your pussy is too dirty even for fingering after it’s had cum shot into it. This is the part you’ve always had to for yourself, so it’s all you can do to clamp your jaw shut and try not to protest his mouth so close to his own cum.
“Shut your eyes,” he tells you, running a thumb and finger up and down your outer lips in a slow massage. “I’m going to be shit at this for a bit.”
You sigh, closing your eyes and relaxing your head back. “I don’t believe it for a second.”
Simon, it turns out, is a hands-on pussy eater. He uses his fingers to get you comfortable with him, getting your pussy used to the warmth and the contact, almost to the point of distraction. So when you do feel lips on your clit, a tongue sliding against it, its amidst a storm of other sensation. There are fingertips tracing your opening, smoothing over the crease of your thigh. Then he’s spreading your labia, just to give you a different sensitivity to what’s happening to your clit.
There’s so much going on that you can’t focus on one thing, and just have to process the sensations as a whole. Your pussy is getting loved on by strong, patient fingers, and a mouth that’s hesitant at first, but persistent.
When he hits his stride, it happens all at once. Your clit is getting sucked, there are fingers caressing your outer lips again and pressing into the root of your clit at the top, and two more sinking into you, nice and deep. By the time you’re even aware enough to warn him, you can already feel the heat in your legs. It just feels heavenly, and you’re so afraid he’ll change it up if you tell him, you just selfishly lay there and let yourself cum.
Your heels hit the bed and you grind your pussy into his mouth, gasping and panting through every wave searing through your flesh.
Finally, your body says, going limp and shaky when he gives your clit a break. Finally everything feels good.
You don’t open your eyes, as he hooks his arm around your back and pulls you to the middle of the bed. You’re too blissed out to give it a thought, you just keep your legs open because it’s comfortable. Simon wraps you up in his arms again, and pushes his cock back inside.
“Oh— baby—“ you whimper, fluttering your eyes open to get a look at him, just as he stops moving.
“D’you not want to?”
You slur out something unintelligible at first, in your haste to assure him that you would in fact be devastated if he stopped now. But he doesn’t understand your garbled nonsense, so you manage to get out a few coherent pleas for more fucking.
It’s wet and gross and wonderful, with cum from both of you still in there. He pets your hair and tells you nice things about how you feel to him, how soft and pretty you are.
And he fucks you for ages.
Your body is exhausted by the third orgasm, but it feels too good to stop. All you have to do is keep your legs open and let him interact with your body, so you give yourself up to it. The attention and the touching have got their claws in you, and you’re so hazy with endorphins that when he cums again, you almost register it as your own pleasure.
No one’s crying. Everything is sticky and sweaty, and you probably should sleep in the spare bed tonight because the blanket is all gross. But you just had sex with the light on, and with no Johnny. And your boyfriend’s hands aren’t shaking.
It makes you wonder if something inside him died tonight. Something other people put there, that you both just decided to kill, because it was time.
Mint the people must know; does Eri feel guilty that you broke up just because she doesn’t like you or is she happy to finally be rid of you 🎤
Wednesday rolls around and she's more excited than she's been in a while. Instead of date night, the household has reverted to television night. Aizawa had even ordered food in-- something he never does.
"I recorded the episodes you missed-" Eri bounces on her toes, up, up, up, up. "I recorded them and. and if we start right now we can catch up before-"
"Not tonight, Eri." Aizawa is leaned back in the couch, hand over his eyes and a sigh on his lips. He hasn't eaten anything, or looked at the television once.
She stops bouncing. "But you won't know what's happening."
"it's fine."
"No, it's not fine," Eri says. "Sanji is-"
"Eri, I said no//."
He says it so roughly that it scares a flinch from the girl. She holds her own hand as she processes this new development, this chance from the normal.
"Are... are you mad at me?"
Aizawa's hand falls away from his head. His expression is neutral, normal. "No."
"It feels like you're mad."
"I'm not, I'm-." He watches the middle distance. "I don't know."
The theme song starts and they watch in silence. When it ends, Aizawa flips the television off.
Eri isn't supposed to be up and out of her room right now, but frankly, she thinks it's a dumb rule. She isn't a toddler anymore, she's practically a teenager! If she wants to walk around her house, she can.
...Besides, she's pretty sure Aizawa only has that rule so he can sneak you over.
"It'd be for the best."
Your voice catches her attention. She knew it. Eri presses herself to the wall and sneaks through the hall. You kitchen light is on, flooding the darkness, and she can watch your shadow dance against the wall.
"Eri isn't a normal kid, she needs more," you continue. Anger flushes Eri's face; she knew you were bad, but she didn't think you were evil. "This would be in her best interest."
Aizawa is hunched over the counter, head in his hands.
"She's been through so much, I don't know if changing her circumstances like this would be the best thing--"
He groans, then sighs, shoulders sagging.
"...you're right,' he says. "I don't want to do it, but you're right. It's for the best."
Your shadow embraces his, head resting on his shoulder.
"It'll be lonely," Aizawa says after a long silence. Eri's been chewing what this could mean. Are you trying to send her away? Out into the world so you and her dad can smooch without getting interrupted?
"Only for a little." You kiss his cheek. "You'll get over it."
"It's going to ruin me."
"I know. Me too."
Eri doesn't sleep that night. She stays up, thinking about boarding school and homelessness and a life without Aizawa in it. Mostly, she thinks about you and how she loathes, loathes, loathes you.
The moment she hears Aizawa come home from his shift, she's out of bed and down the hall once again.
"Please don't send me away," she blurts. Her caretaker almost looks fatherly as he kneels, arms open for her to run into.
"Eri, a nightmare? It's been so long since the last one." He rubs her back, just like always. "I signed the papers, remember? You're my daughter now. Legally. Forever. You aren't going anywhere."
"Then why are you going to be lonely?"
"You heard that?" His expression goes soft as he strokes her hair, then hardens again.
"Me and, uh- we won't be seeing each other anymore."
your personal space has never really truly been yours since you’ve started dating him. his muscled arm around your waist when you wake up in the morning, has become as familiar as the sunrise itself. it used to be cute, his warmth a cozy start to the day. but now, it's suffocating, like he can't bear to let you go, even in his sleep.
you shift carefully under his weight, not wanting to disturb his sleep. his breath keeping its steady rhythm against your neck, and you wonder if he dreams of you as you lean in to kiss his forehead gently. he smiles in his sleep, a small, contented expression that almost makes you want to slip right back into his arms.
the sheets rustle softly as you slip out from his grip. you slowly tiptoe across your shared bedroom, craving the simple pleasure of being able to enjoy making coffee alone. the smell of freshly ground beans fills the kitchen, and you lean against the counter, enjoying the quiet morning.
but as your coffee brews, a twinge of guilt creeps in and you can almost imagine when he'll wake up and wonder where you've gone. despite enjoying the well needed alone time, you knew the longing to be close to him will pull you back into his embrace sooner than you'd planned. almost as if in complete sync with your thoughts, you hear a mumble approaching the kitchen, and then his voice, thick with sleep, calling out softly,
"angel cmon back to bed with me, you know i don’t like sleeping without you"
there's really no reason to help her -- Bisa was a bully in high school, even more insufferable in college. She's always gotten everything she's ever wanted, from men to jobs and anything in between-- it should have been a pleasure to refuse her when she asked for help getting her little 'modelling career' off the ground.
But, frankly, Margo couldn't pass up the chance to see her like this.
"Lift your skirt just a bit," Margo orders, camera still pressed against her face. The lens is focused on the silk hem of the nightie and where it hangs, just under the swell of her mons. The white contrasts against her brown skin, sultry and innocent all at once. She stands above her photographer, the angle making her look even longer and leaner on camera.
"Like this?" She drags it up with her whole hand and Margo gets a peek of pussy, freshly shaved. Disappointing, but her cunt still squeezes at the sight.
Like Bisa was known for good things in high school, Margo was known for the opposite. She was offputting, shy--
And aggressively gay.
It's why Bisa ever offered her the job. I'm trying to appeal to perverts, she had said, and you're the biggest one I know.
"Nah, just the edge with a couple fingers-- like you're rubbing your clit."
Bisa raises a brow, skeptical.
"Your middle and ring fingers, gently." Margo obliges, trailing the fabric up just a hair, until only a sliver of her hip's crease is visible-- a tasteful little tease of skin. "Just like that. Move your hair to your other shoulder too."
Click, click, click. She catches an array of pictures.
"Fuck, that's really sexy."
"You're a freak." Bisa cocks a hip and there's a spattering of camera shots as Margo tries to catch the pout on her face. "I bet you're gonna jack off to this later."
okay but hear me out on this; cowboy aesthetic on your faves makes them 10x more attractive idkidkidk like frontier man aizawa, cowboy atsumu and rancher kita, vaquero sero u feel me ?
so I was a Horse Girl for a long time and I always wanted a Cowboy/rancher x prissy show jumper/dressage reader
"Now miss," Ukai flicks the brim of his hat, popping it up out of his eyes just enough to really watch you. With knee high boots and tight riding pants, you certainly don't look like anyone else he's ever leased a stall to. "Lemme ask you a question real quick."
You barely spare him a glance as you hoist your smooth, black leather saddle from the wall. It's so tiny compared to the others that hang there -dusty western ones, meant for work and leisure more than competition, but it's still big in your arms.
"Hold on, lemme get that for you." Ukai holds his arms out and you happily pass the tack off to him. It smells of Murphy's oil soap.
"Thanks, cowboy," you walk around him, bridle hanging off your shoulder and reigns threatening to drag on the ground. Ukai has no choice but to follow you back to your horse's stall, where the beast in question is peacefully nibbling his evening hay.
Ukai sighs as he leans against the metal bars of the stall, still holdinh your things. "Why are you here?"
You have the audacity to look at him like he's stupid. "To ride my horse."
"Nah, I mean here. On this ranch." he clarifies, "There's some pretty prissy stables in town that specialize in all... show nonsense. They gotta be closer to you."
The tranquility is suddenly cut by the hoops and hollers of the boys outside, a cluster of eight voices- some happy, others annoyed. Hinata, his youngest farm hand at only 18, laughs loud enough that your horse starts, jumping a bit before settling back into his meal.
"Plus you wouldn't have to deal with those bozos."
"Those places charge a lot more than you do." you reply as you slide open the stall door. When you click your tongue against your teeth, the bay perks up and eagerly pads towards you." "And don't have the same size paddocks as you do. Fat Boy does better when he can run around before he works, but honestly? We're happy as long as there's a ring to ride in, right Fatty?"
"Fat Boy?" Ukai could come up with a lot of names for him, but fat boy certainly wouldn't be one of them. If he remembered correctly from your paperwork, the horse was some sort of warmblood mix from some sort of nice bloodline-- and it showed. Western breeds are compact and sturdy, made for long days of work, while this horse was all leg, built lithe and almost too tall for the stable door.
"Yeah, well, his show name is Father Boisterous," you roll your eyes at that, "Fat Boy fits him better."
You quickly get "Fatty" ready, brushing him off and throwing on your helmet. Ukai's forgotten about the saddle he's been holding until you gesture for it.
"Besides," you smile, "There's no gentleman at the other barns to carry my things for me."
Clueless Alpha Bakugou not realizing that his Omega coworker is being a brat because they're broody as hell because their heat is coming up and all they want to do is nest and prepare for another heat and instead they have to work with him and his stupid scent that sticks to everything and isn't helping their situation
Man watches her treat the interns like pups with how she fusses after them, confused because if he so much as breathes near her she snaps at him, notices her sneaking off to buy soft items like pillows and blankets, and still has no clue because why would he speculate on an Omega’s personal life.
Than comes the day she isn’t in the office and he finds out it’s that she’s called out for the week and it still doesn’t quite click.
He assumes she’s sick and worries if she’ll be ok because she lives on her own and that’s when it clicks. When he heads over uninvited with food and medicine and is confronted by the overwhelming scent of heat flooding his senses and, he’d have left if told to, but now he’s calling out of work too.
The only complaint is that even in the middle of her heat, she’s still snapping at him when she wants something.
You live in a human town in a fantasy world. In recent history, werecreatures enlisted to fight alongside humans throughout a bitter war in the territory. The result of that alliance is a (sometimes tense) tolerance between these two species who generally do not get along.
In the wilderness near your town, a werebear veteran has made his home. Bearish in appearance and manner, he vastly prefers solitude and is actively hostile to visitors. Sometimes he comes into town to sell meat and pelts from his hunts. The other humans are frightened, but you find him fascinating and peculiarly handsome.
A slew of livestock deaths precede an emergency town meeting. There's no question who the culprit is, or why. The town elders understand that a werecreature in heat is aggressive and dangerous. The town's interspecies liason officer, a veteran who fought beside the werebear, explains that it's not a deliberate attack on the town's livelihood, but even so, the maulings cannot continue. It may only be a matter of time before a human is injured.
The liason suggests hiring one of the workers at the town brothel to act as a "heat soother," but the brothel workers don't want the job. There's still a stigma over non-human creatures. The werebear is dangerous, violent, monstrous. Who knows if a human mate would even survive.
Tentatively, you volunteer for the role. You have no living family that could be shamed, you're naturally infertile so there's no concern over cubs, and... Well. You like the idea of it, though you keep that last point to yourself.
You are escorted to the werebears cabin by the eager liason officer, who's just glad the precarious human-werebeast alliance is no longer in jeopardy. Answering the door, the werebear looks surprised to see the two of you...
Then annoyed.
I told you, he growls at the liason, I will not take a forced mate.
The officer coos and assures the bear that you are here voluntarily, which he seems to doubt very much. He throws you both out of his cabin and slams the door.
Right, then. Good luck! Calls the liason as he hurries to the horse and carriage without you. You stand on the porch, embarrassed and confused, wondering what about you must be so undesirable.
After a few minutes the door opens again, and a gruff voice orders you inside. He knows you're not there by choice, he says, he knows the town elders probably forced you there to settle him. You try to explain that's not the case, but he doesn't believe you. He says you can stay for the night, as the sun is going down, but he expects you to fuck off in the morning.
You try to talk over dinner, but he's defensive and quiet. You try to convince him that you want to be there, but he scoffs that you have no idea what soothing a bear's heat even means.
Over the evening, you try different techniques to tempt him. Using his bath, undressing a few layers by the fire, sleeping nude in his bed. He expresses total disinterest the entire time, a steely lack of any desire towards you.
Disheartened, you're about to give up. You have no idea the reason he's being so aggressively stoic is because the moment he opened his cabin door, the moment he saw and smelled you, the beast inside him said Mine. Only mine. You have no idea that every breath he's taken since has been measured and cautious, every effort he's made not to pounce and claim you. Gods, he can barely stand to look at you without the saliva filling his mouth, the feral lust clouding his thoughts.
There's no way you're here by choice, he reasons privately. No way any nice, pretty human would volunteer for the social ostracism that would come with mating a werebear. And whatever those fuckers in the elder council did to leverage you into coming here, he can't let himself take advantage.
Because once he let's his control slip, once he let's the beast inside know that yes, you're his for the taking, nothing will be able to stop him. Not reason or conscience, not if you're kicking and begging, not any ounce of moral goodness in him. Once the beast has you, it's not stopping until it's filled you up over and over and over again.
So he can't let it slip. He has to remain cold and stiff and rude, and just pray you leave him alone and then leave in the morning.
Little does he know, you have one last attempt at seduction up your sleeve. Little do you know what the consequences will be.
i couldn't resist and i can't write short things, so please be patient while i retread some of what @snowkissedmonsters set up.
“Good luck!”
You stare after Anton, the liaison officer, as he rides away, at a complete loss of what to do now. You’ve felt a headrush of sorts, like sliding down a hill in winter, since you first resolved to volunteer to help Temar and his slamming of the door in your face was an abrupt stop before you even reached the bottom. You cross your arms, telling yourself its because of the mild chill, not out of anxiety or embarrassment.
But you are, so so embarrassed. You don’t know exactly what you thought his reaction to you might be, but stonewalled indifference and complete refusal to even entertain the idea of mating with you wasn’t one of them. Heat licks at your cheeks from the way he’d looked at you, his lip curled in a snarl, something more than even just annoyance in his eyes. You’d felt the urge to shrink right then and there and only surprise kept you frozen upright.
You know you weren’t as young as the other unaffiliated women in town, weren’t as pretty, weren’t as agreeable, but surely he couldn’t smell your infertility or whatever made you feel so out of place with everyone else. What about you had been so offputting he’d not even considered you for a mate? You’d almost hoped that whatever made you so unappealing as a human mate might make you more appealing to a werebear. So much for that.
You’re not one for much dignity as it is, no one to stand on high graces, and you try not to let others’ opinions bother you, beyond where they interfere with your own ability to make your living. But even you can’t bring yourself to try to convince him to mate with you when he so clearly has absolutely no interest. Did you sacrifice what little standing you did have a reasonable and respectable person by volunteering for this only to not even be able to manage it? Was it for nothing?
You had only found the courage to approach him because of the surface-level reason of slaughtered livestock and fear for a person’s injury, but now, now you felt almost responsible for not being able to prevent such an occurrence. All because Temar found you unappealing.
You can’t leave without even saying more than a hasty word to him though. Maybe there’s some other way you can help. You’ve wanted an excuse to get to know him better for years, since you first saw him. Even before that, when someone stopped by your shop with some of the pelts they’d bought from him.
Beyond his attractive appearance being more than enough to draw your attention, he’s lived such an interesting life. The liaison was liberal with his stories and his own accomplishments in the war, but he never short-changed his friend. You also found the stories of people who have crossed him or questioned him entertaining more than scary. His refusal to play along with the petty etiquette of the town was funny, as were people’s puffed up reactions. Perhaps you should have expected this reaction after all, maybe he just doesn’t like humans.
The thought against brings embarrassed heat to your face once more as you remember how he’d looked in the doorway. His beard and mustache, short but full, the scar across his nose, those dark brown eyes. His hair was shaved on both sides, but long in the middle, pulled back into a loose bun and peppered with gray like his beard. Tall as you remember, but stockier—his frame particularly broad in the narrow doorway. You’d always found him especially handsome. There was no question what sort of were he was.
Before today, the closest you’d been was at the general store, behind him line for some flour, putting to rest the rumors that werecreatures only ate meat. His presence had fascinated you, large but contained. Wild but settled. Immovable, but not aggressive. Deliberate. You’d found your mind drifting to thoughts of him that night. Your mind liked to turn the idea of him over, half speculation, half pieced together clues from overheard gossip. When you were particularly lonely or even just particularly cold, it was comforting to know he was on his own too. He seemed to prefer it even. You preferred your solitude most of the time as well—half caught between feeling like an outsider for the inclination, half relieved since that’s where you ended up. You wouldn’t mind another friend who felt so, a bit of company you didn’t need to perform in front of. And it would be nice, to be useful to someone else who had no one.
You know he needs help now, more than ever. The liaison had assured them at the meeting that Temar was making every attempt to contain himself. Which reassured you that you’d not missed a callous trend in his nature, but also made you want to help more—not help with the abstract problem, but help him. The next best solution that had been discussed—and would likely need to be implemented now that it turned out you’d failed, you realize with a sinking heart—was to institute a town wide curfew until this ran its course. But maybe there is still some way you can aid him, even if not by soothing his heat directly.
You stand up straight, pushing off the railing you’d been leaning against, and resolve to at least try to talk to him. After all, you understood his continued solitude, but it felt silly during the meeting, that he wasn’t there to lend his own input. Surely he had the most insight into his situation. He must know what he needed.
You raise you hand to knock on the door when it opens before you even get the chance.
“If you ain’t gonna have the sense leave, then get in,” a gruff voice orders.
Your feet are moving before you fully register the words. Relief floods your veins. Well, that was easier than you expected. Perhaps things were turning around.
-/-
per this lovely post, i combined the two in the second set of sketches, but feel free to imagine whoever you'd like ^^ i'll see if i can keep my momentum going if people are interested lol
have i done anything more than the bare minimum for what i should actually do today? no.
have i written more of this story instead? absolutely.
/
They were not. Any hope you had for some softening of his attitude was quickly dashed.
It had seemed promising: the smell of cooking food, the heat that filled the main room from the large fire, the sound of crackling logs. All ease some of the tension in your bones immediately—not to mention that same deliberate air Temar had, the one that made you feel steady and safe. Safe enough to want what you want, without your usual instinct to hide such thoughts and feelings until you were alone lest others use them to hurt you.
You try to focus on the room itself, from the handmade furniture—you’d have recognized Ben’s work if it was—to the scant decoration. The cabin was simple, unadorned, but solid. It suited him. It made the few personal items he had stick out all the more. The large blanket and rug to make the room feel lived in. The well-cared for hunting gear in the corner. The collection of copper kitchenware, clearly used often.
Nearly as soon as you finished your preliminary survey of his home, he makes it very clear he still did not want you. “No notion of what’s going on in that fool Anton’s head, leaving you on my porch like bottles of milk,” he sighs, looking disgruntled and you fight the urge to apologize. He tucks a strand of hair that escaped his bun behind his ear and your fingers itch to do the same. You clench them tighter behind you, upset at how wild your thoughts are in the face of his rejection. “Fess up, what did they tell you? I don’t know what those old fearmongers at the counsel did to make you come here, but I’ll not hold it against you—only them.”
You tilt your head as you watch him pace over the fire, trying to keep your eyes on his head, not how well he fills out his trousers. You realize belatedly that you must still need to clarify. “There was a town meeting, but I volunteered, like Anton said,” you reply tentatively. He’d heard what his friend said. Right? Maybe that was why he’d refused? Not because he found you so abhorrent.
Temar scoffs. “Anton wouldn’t recognize subtle coercion if it stabbed him the back.”
You frown, starting to get a little frustrated with his seeming inability to hear you properly. “Be that as it may, I can. It’s the truth.”
Temar raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Right,” he says flatly. “Just like five years ago, when I moved here and Miss Ketevan was left on my doorstop around harvest time. She just wanted to offer some apples before high tailing it out of there once her grandfather was out-of-sight. Must have been crying and yelling for some other reason.”
Your frown deepens. The last of your family had died around then and you’d not joined a town meeting for a full year, plenty busy with grief and figuring out how to run the dye shop without any guidance. Keti was a younger than you but had a reputation as a troublemaker so she had been in the gossip plenty. Her grandfather, Carlos, was on the counsel and had seemed to consider her something of an embarrassment.
You thought she’d run off with the milkmaid, not because she was a failed sacrifice to the new werebear neighbor. It does throw into relief some other statements at the meeting. Like Anton’s emphasis on volunteers as he’d stared Carlos’ down, which had led to no one but you speaking up—not even the brothel workers. They’d not said but you knew they feared clients shunning whoever they sent, let alone however they felt about the stigma and fear associated with werecreatures.
“I have no idea what did or did not happen five years ago, I wasn’t at any of those meetings nor at your house,” you say with a shrug. “Keti’s moved to the other side of the river, according to her sister, and is quite satisfied there. None of which was brought up at the meeting today.”
“What do they have on you?” Temar asks, squatting to stoke the fire, as if you just didn’t want to tell the truth his face. Ignoring everything you were saying while still trying to get answers from you. You liked tell about how stubborn he was in gossip. You liked it less at this moment. “If I can aid you and you can go on home, you’re welcome to ask.”
“They don’t have anything on me,” you reply slowly, trying to match his even tone so he doesn’t think your lying. The embarrassment that comes with volunteering so plainly to mate with him comes and goes in waves, but having to repeat it to him is a different flavor all together. “I am here of my own free will.”
Temar scoffs and huffs. “If you don’t want to tell me then fine.” He heaves himself back to his feet and peers out the window. “Sun’s going down. You can stay here for dinner and for the night. That better satisfy them, because you’re leaving first light in the morning.”
You turn away from his back, staring blindly at the countertop covered in ingredients for dinner. The one you interrupted with this piss-poor intrusion. He was likely just trying to give you an out, an excuse to save some dignity. You should’ve known you’d have no skill at seduction, not that you’d believed you’d need it. You’d hoped he be satisfied enough, in need enough that you’d suffice by being willing and not unattractive. Or so you thought. How pathetic. “I just wanted to help,” you say softly, more to yourself than him.
You sigh before walking over to the counter and picking up a knife. “Thank you for your hospitality,” you manage, your voice stiff with discomfort, but unwilling to completely give up yet. “Allow me to assist with the food.”
-/-
why does this keep getting long? why am i cursed?
thanks for the lovely tags everyone, at least someone's enjoying to chokehold this story has on me now lol
i tried sleeping on it, but no luck. still possessed by this idea. oh well
/
Dinner preparation is tense, quiet, but a relatively smooth affair. Temar’s already got the chicken dumplings nearly done so you leave that to him and handle the rest.
He only speaks to point you toward where things are when you ask. You’re happy he’s letting you do this much as you’ve more than got the message he’d prefer to do it all alone. You try to concentrate hard enough not to think about anything else.
“These dumplings are delicious,” you say belatedly, after you’ve already scarfed down two of them. They really are, hot and flavorful.
Temar grunts in response and you can’t help but pout, wondering if he thinks everything you say is a lie. You try at some other small talk, but nothing gets more than a yes or no out of him—after the first few, he just makes some vague noise of acknowledgment as he steadily eats through three times the portion of food you got, which had been more than generous. You’d been skeptical of how much he was making until you’d seen how much he was eating.
Did he also have to eat more before winter, like a normal bear? Was he going to sleep through it too? You swear he still came in with pelts, but you don’t really know. You’re more than aware that he’s not likely to give a straight answer if you ask. You ask anyway.
He gives you a look like you’re touched in the head. “No, I don’t hibernate. I stay in more, sleep more since its dark more, but I’m not actually a bear.”
“I know!” you protest, blushing, “but I’ve heard there’s overlap of some kind, forgive me for not being an expert. You’re the only werebear I know by name.”
“You know nothing,” he retorts, words finally bursting from him in a fit of frustration. You’re taken aback, but eager for any information given his recent impression of a clam. “You say you volunteer and yet you don’t know the first thing about werebears, let alone heats. You expect me to think you know what you’re saying you got yourself into when its clear no one explained anything.”
“Well, then you tell me,” you bat back, fed up by now with being treated as a criminal for even entertaining the notion you might be a suitable mate for him. “And don’t act like you wouldn’t have called me a liar even if I’d written a book on werebears and their heats.”
As his way seems to be, he ignores you to keep focus on whatever incorrect train of thought he has stuck in his head. “Even if you’re ignorant, didn’t your family object? Doesn’t someone have sense or self-preservation?”
You glare. Of all the—. “No—” you reply hotly before he cuts in.
“I thought that was something y’all paid attention to,” he drawls, waving with his fork. “ Fraternizing with the werecreatures is still a no-no right?” He leans forward, eyes bright, like a predator finally spotting their prey. “Is it them that the council is leaning on?”
Unfortunately for him, its a false sighting. “Don’t have any,” you reply bluntly, crossing your arms over your chest. “They died. About five years ago.”
You wonder if he’ll make the connection and to your surprise, he seems to as his brow furrows. “I see.” He leans back in his chair as if surrpised to notice he’d moved at all.
“Besides, I’m grown,” you’re annoyed you even have to remind him. He’s treating you like a child, ignoring you, calling you ignorant, making you out as a liar. Like a fool. You’ve long resolved not to let anyone treat you like a fool. “I make my own choices.”
He scoffs in that same manner that’s truly getting under your skin. “Right. How could I forget.”
“I don’t know,” your voice is sharper than its been all evening. “Seeing as I keep reminding you.”
Discomfort creeps into his frame and he looks down at his plate to mutter, “What even made them come up with this plan? Was this Anton’s idea?” He warms up to this new wrong idea—it was Jessaly on the council who had mentioned “heat soothers” seconded by Carlos. Anton only stepped in to mention volunteers. “Because if so, I’ll be having words with him next chance I get, strong words. I anticipated an order to leave town or to be taken to jail or a fight. I’m surprised the council even risked the chance for cubs.”
That last part completely derails you from your planned support for Anton. “Oh,” you can dismiss that concern easy, so you don’t hesitate to, “I can’t have children.”
That stops him completely, freezes him in his chair. “What?”
His reaction surprises you. “I thought…” You thought he could smell the infertility on you. You thought that was part of why he’d refused, like the others. If he couldn’t tell, you still didn’t think he’d have a reaction like this, like everyone else. “I can’t. My monthlies stopped only a few years in and a doctor confirmed the nature of the issue. It’s noted in the records because my engagement to—” You don’t even want to say his name, for all you don’t blame your former fiance. You hadn’t even been that excited about the marriage, but the reality of no marriage ever, well, that had been more of blow the coming years dealt to you. You manage a shaky smile. “No risk of children with me.”
You meet his eyes valiantly and he stares back. You hope you’re right when you don’t see any blooming realization that you’re broken, that you’re any more undesirable, but you’ve long given up trying to tell. Still his focus makes you babble, “I don’t want children anyway.” That at least is the truth and the reminder steadies you. You thought you’d gotten over the worst of this self-recrimination years ago. You were happy not to have that burden, that expectation, that danger in your life. You just want Temar to think well of you, and this always changes how people perceive you, no matter how much you wish it didn’t. That is what truly gets under your skin. Your shoulders drop some tension as your smile softens, becomes more genuine. “Better me than someone who did. It worked out for the best that way.”
If only it meant no partner, no chance for sex beyond work at the brothel—which you were not interested in despite them asking—or visiting one, which you have in years past. Or the affairs some of the less reputable had tried for in the past. They always made it clear in the end, even if you were alright with the infidelity—it was only because you were ‘safe’ that they wanted you.
“Neither do I,” he says, causing you to look up at him. His expression turns defensive as he clarifies, “That doesn’t mean anything anyways. Still the most foolish idea I ever heard.” He stands up abruptly to refill his plate with a fourth helping.
managed to get the next part down before bed, enjoy!
/
Finally, you plate is clean and your belly is full. You manage to take Temar by surprise by snatching up his plate in addition to yours, bringing them over to the wash basin before he could do some himself. You’re determined to do something useful while you’re here and he’s feeding you.
Maybe all lack of eye contact was for him and not you. Maybe you’ll have better luck staring at the water. “So, is there anything you’ll actually let me do to help?”
Another huff, almost a growl of frustration, and Temar replies, grit in his tone, “I told you I ain’t taking a mate just because the town’s made my heat their business this year.”
You don’t even bother arguing the point again and consider his words. You hadn’t thought about other years. There’d never been notice of it so you assumed it wasn’t actually an annual event. What made this year so different? Instead of asking, you return his own volley. “I heard you. I didn’t mean that, though I must mention that the town is only involved because it has become their business this year.”
Temar doesn’t answer, but you can feel his gaze on your back. Being the focus of his attention is electrifying. “Other than having a mate,” you remind yourself outloud. “Are there other things that I can help with? Measures to be taken, information to be shared. Anything?”
There’s silence behind you before he stands up from the table, the scrape of his chair loud. You hope to the gods he’s actually doing something, thought of something in response to your question rather than just leaving. Although technically, you suppose, that would also be a response to your question.
You methodically scrub the dishes while you listen to him move about the main room of the cabin. He sits back down at the table, bringing something with him. You can’t dry this tankard any more thoroughly so you turn around to see if he’s simply ignoring you or not.
He’s bent over something on the table, a piece of paper? You frown and walk over to get a closer look. As if he can sense you, once you’re close enough he points one thick finger at the paper. “Who’s land is this?”
You frown as you study what you realize is a map of the town. Unlike most you’ve seen, it doesn’t have roads or even real buildings on it. Abstract symbols represent structures—you think—and the town center and main street buildings are one big marker. Nothing indicated for individual stores. It takes another minute to realize the outlined shapes covering the map are the property lines, not buildings, roads, or rivers, though some overlap with where you know those to be. Leave it to a werebear to have a map of the town by territory.
“If you don’t know—” he says, huffing per usual.
“Apologies if I need more than a minute,” you huff back, more than fed up and far more assured after the time spent with him that he has no plans to kick you out tonight. “I’ve never seen a map like this.”
He quiets down and you manage to follow your memory of the road out to… “The Meskal’s Farm, Evanna and Leon.” You also manage to make the connection, although you’re not sure he meant for you to. They’d been the most recent farm that had suffered from slaughtered livestock.
Temar brings over a slate with some notes in chalk already written out. He’s got shorthand notes, similar to those on the map, but all unlike any you’ve seen before. He jots down what must be their name above some already existing notes. You squint, trying to make sense of the letters and numbers. “Two ewes and one lamb,” you correct, hoping you decoded right.
He freezes and you hold your breath for annoyance or anger, but instead he merely erases one number and writes in another. “I assume this was discussed with the council?”
“Yeah,” you see no reason to beat around the bush. As you continue to squint at his notes, leaning over his broad shoulder to see better. “The Oche’s steer had to be put down, but they salvaged the meat. Anton reassured them it was edible and bought some himself so the rest of the town followed suit.”
“Still, I’ll be paying my debt, it just might take some time,” Temar replies gravely. “I’ll not have anyone say I don’t pay what I owe or think I don’t owe it, like some uncivilized beast.”
“I can pass that along,” you offer, still reaching for some way to contribute, to help. His integrity touches your heart, makes that urge to give aid stronger. Anton had something vague to the affect, but the town had little confidence in Anton’s assurances. You have confidence in Temar’s.
“I would appreciate that,” he sounds a little belligerent, a little abashed.
You smile, happy to have found anything useful to do and lean in again, to study his map more closely. You mentally map out the other families who had damage and notice they’re all in a line from his property west and against the forest. He does seem to be attempting to keep to limited area. How much control does he have? Could you help corral him somehow?
You reach to point. “Is this the river or—” You start to lose you balance from the awkward angle you’re at. Your other hand reaches for the next closest thing to steady yourself—Temar’s shoulder.
Next thing you know you’re knocking into the table and he’s standing several feet away, a snarl on his face. “Don’t.”
You’re stricken by the vehemence from a such a small, almost-touch of his person. It had been too easy to forget he disliked you so, is so offended by your very presence. “I’m sorry!” It’s as if he thinks you were attempting to trick him. You hasten to clarify, hands raised in surrender. “I wasn’t trying—”
Temar leaves the room before you even finish speaking.
/
spoiler alert: the next part will be from Temar's POV so stay tuned
who ordered Temar's POV? everyone including the original prompt? fair enough
/
Temar braces himself before he goes back in the main room, his forehead pressed against the solid wood of his walls.
He’s hoping he’s gotten used to your scent, built up a tolerance, but knows it’ll only have gotten stronger for each moment you’ve been here. Gods know he’s only become more susceptible to it. How anyone in all his life has such a bewitching scent, he’ll never know.
The second he’d opened his front door, he’d wanted to drag you inside and never let you out. The beast inside instantly proclaiming Mine. Only mine. He’d barely heard anything Anton said over the roaring in his ears. The slam of his door had been as much panic defensiveness as it had been frustrated aggression.
The line between those two does seem to blur most during heat.
You stayed out there, looking so lost and somber on the porch, lip caught between your teeth as you thought. He’d had to get you to stop before he took over the task for you. An early sign of heat madness surely because of fucking course it was far worse having you in his home. Where his beast said you belonged. Where you could say all the words he was salivating to hear as truth even though he knew them to be false.
Those council assholes would pay for putting him through this torture. Temar knew he was a werebeast and yet this was inhumane even for his kind. He tried to find a proper target for his aggression, but you’d given him nothing to work with, persistent in your tale. As if a kind, quick-witted, pretty thing like you would ever subject yourself to a beast like him unless you felt you had no other option.
Distractions haven’t been helping, trying to keep his eyes off you was impossible to sustain, and stonewalling didn’t ever seem to deter you for long. It’s as if you were perfectly designed to get past all of his defenses. There are still so many hours until sunrise—if Temar’s even going to last that long, even be able to let you go at that point. After you’d seeped into his home, his life. You seem to fit so well.
You play at being kind like a master actor and he hopes that’s not all a front. You’re smart, independent, but oh so willing to help. Duress, he reminds himself, you’re here under duress. The fuckers in town must have forced you here somehow. He can’t believe how low they’ve stooped, taking advantage of your lack of family, of your infertility to make you into a sacrifice. The perfect sacrifice.
His beast still wants to try to breed you, undeterred by logic, but it’s his human head that’s unfairly tempted by the knowledge. When he’s in his rational mind, he stands by what he said. The risk of children, others with his condition, his ostracization from society is something he’d never condemn an innocent soul to suffer. Not mention he likes his solitude, likes only being responsible for himself and only answerable to himself. It’s why the council involving itself is so frustrating. Its why the idea you might be here of your own free will is so appealing. Lack of such a child-bearing risk is even more appealing, more alluring than he’d ever realized it would be. Than it had any right to be. Why are you so damn perfect for him?
Clearly distance was not helping. Perhaps it was even making his beast stronger, without you to look at him and, for all your knowledge of his nature, expect a rationale man to look back.
Temar walks back into the main room, feeling like a man condemned, only to immediately regret his choice as he rigidly locks every muscle he can to prevent his beast from pouncing. He’d thought you’d stopped trying to seduce him with your faux willingness and pretty eyes. Your soft, steady kindness…
Even he’d admitted to himself once alone that you likely hadn’t meant anything by hovering so close, by trying to steady yourself on him. Your fall onto the table, not to mention the complete startlement on your face from his reaction. But what the fuck is this?
“What are you doing?” he asks through clenched teeth, hoping the beast inside isn’t giving away the feral lust coursing through his veins.
“What?” You look up, surprised he’s back, but there’s no embarrassment in your face. If anything, your expression smooths back to usual faster than he feels it has a right to. “Oh, I hadn’t realized how wet my apron had gotten from the dishes, sorry about the wasted water.”
“Why have you removed it?” Temar’s voice was strangled as the words passed through his lips. Ordinarily, he knows it would barely register with him, but you removing any article of clothing has his beast pulling at the chains he’s trying to use to keep it inside where it belongs.
“Well, I didn’t know how else to dry off,” you reply, brow furrowing in confusion as you dab at yourself with part of the folded-up apron. Temar can see the damp stains where the water had soaked through the light green fabric underneath. “Besides, I don’t want to catch anything, sitting around in wet clothes. It’ll be dry by morning if I leave it by the fire.”
Temar’s mind is already overrun by the reminder he’d invited you, like the numbskull he is, to stay the night. You’re unlikely to sleep fully dressed. You’ll take more than just your apron off in his home. You’ll strip down to your chemise. He can see the edges of it under your dress—white cotton poking out. Nothing more under that except soft skin—skin he isn’t allowed to touch.
Temar tries to combat the pleasing images of you splayed naked in his bed with images of your bruised and bloody from his claws, his strength, his carelessness. They’re impossible to sustain with you so hale and unbothered in front of him. The comfort of his den discourages such violence from his thoughts, his heat poisoning his mind against him. You aren’t here by choice, he reminds himself.
It’s hard to believe when you cross his room with self-assured confidence, bending down to arrange your apron by his fire, acting as if you’ve no fears to worry you. Your hair is ruffled from either the dishes or taking off your apron and you pat at it absentmindedly. Temar wants it spread across his sheets, his pillow, mussed and messed by his hands while he claims you for himself. The town clearly doesn’t appreciate you, doesn’t value you what they have. He’d treat you right. He’d make sure you loved being his.
With a shake of his head, he blinks and the image before him resolves to you seated on a chair, delicately rebraiding your hair. He can’t keep his eyes off the swift movements of your fingers. Temar imagines what it would feel like if you did the same to him, this simple careful, everyday task. You look up at him from under your full eyelashes, looking perfectly innocent and not a creature pulled from his greatest nightmares and most sincere dreams. “So do you have a plan for managing however many days are left? Have you gone into heat in previous years? How did you manage then?”
The flush that blooms on your face is endearing and attractive. Temar wants desperately to know what you’re thinking when you say ‘heat’. You’ve avoided saying the word nearly the entire time you’ve been heard. Temar knows the rumors that fly about the human population about werebeasts, about heats, he’s overheard it all. From eating human mates to potent fertility and everything in between. Which ones have you heard? Which do you believe in? Likely none of the violent ones or you’d find the prospect far more intimidating than whatever bullshit the council is using to coerce you.
“Temar?”
“You’re right, I’ve already managed to work out a solution on my own, making you presence doubly wasteful.” You flinch at his words and every instinct screams at him to sooth you, to take it back—whatever is needed to make his mate stay. Temar turns rather than continue to watch your reactions to his harsh words. Despite knowing its necessary, it hurts to see your hurt and only encourages the beast to want to soothe, to steal your mind from any hurt by drowning it out with lust and heat. “Follow me.”
/
split this in two so the next part will also be Temar POV, hope u lik it!
dedicated to @snowkissedmonsters poor burnt pizza - sorry lol
/
“You’ll sleep here,” Temar points out, continuing to refuse to look back at you or his bed for that matter.
His control would surely shatter if he saw you so close to it. He imagines how easily he could push you down on the furs and sheets until he had you spread out like a feast for him and him alone. How he would savor you. How he wouldn’t let you up until he was more than satisfied. A glutton of lust.
The cold metal of the door knob jolts him out of his thoughts. “I’ll be out back.” The crisp air, the brisk breeze, blow your scent from Temar and clear his head. He nearly sighs with relief as he walks off to the right, purpose in his steps, a reminder of his duty as he follows the familiar path.
“Here.” Its clear no matter where you thought he was leading you “pit” was not on the list. Your eyebrows lift nearly to your hairline as you stare down, allowing him precious seconds to gaze at you without a mask of stoicism or frustration, only naked hunger.
“You asked where I weathered heats of the past?” Temar neglects to mention that the first couple years in town rendered his heats short and taxing. Just a handful of nights around the late summer full moon, when the first chill to the air heralding the coming winter. Between his beast’s discomfort with new territory and his own war memories haunting him, his heats were not a concern. It’s only last year that his heat was how it used to be in his youth.
Wild. Hungry. Enduring.
This year is worst yet, not only because of the tight grip it has on him and how he can tell, despite more than a week in, that he has days to go, but also due circumstances outside of his control.
You’re smart enough to spot it. “Did something happen to this…?”
Temar puts you out of your awkward misery. “There was a flood after that storm a couple weeks ago. It dislodged that tree and a wall collapsed.” He’d hoped his heat wouldn’t return with the vengeance it did and so had put off excavating. “In the end, the den took longer than I thought to rebuild, to dig deep enough again. Still not sure I have,” he confesses when you look at him with such open, receptive eyes.
You frown and squint down at the den and Temar doesn’t like the reminder of how dark it’s getting. This entire evening has been a distraction, from the knock on his door, to the meal, to now. He ought not neglect the den any longer, not let his beast draw this out until it can overpower his conscience.
He puts down the ladder, hands grateful for something to do besides itch to settle on your hips. “I’ll be needing to get everything out of here, before the moon finishes rising.” Temar descends as quickly as he can, jumping the last few feet and turning to survey the den.
It was nicer before, he thinks with some dismay, some shame at you seeing such a bare hole in the ground. It’s primarily filled with tools for digging and fortifying, none of the minimal furs and blankets that should be givens for a den. The roof had been damaged when the tree fell in so he hopes it doesn’t rain. Temar resigns himself to waking up covered in dew. It’ll still be better than waking up covered in blood, even after verifying it was all from livestock.
“Temar?” His name on your lips draws his attention back up, like a flower to the sun, like a fish to water, like blood to a bear.
“Can I help you clear it out?” Temar just stares at you, part of his mind still surprised you’re here. Still here. Still offering to help. Help him. You cross your arms again and Temar wishes it didn’t look so good on you, the way it pushes up your chest, makes your arm muscles more prominent. What sort of shop did you say you had again? “Look, I’m another pair of hands, ain’t I?”
“Technically,” he allows, speaking without thinking. All his thought concentrated on your form above him, ripe for the plucking.
You seem to take that as permission and start climbing down the ladder. Temar turns so quickly to avert his eyes from your ass that he forgets to forbid you from coming down. You touch down lightly and Temar reluctantly faces you again, a puppet on the strings of his inner beast, to soak in the sight of you in its den.
The cabin belongs to Temar, the man. The den belongs to Temar, the beast.
Something of that must come across on his face as you pause, one hand on the ladder. “Does it break a rule, for me to be down here?”
A den is a personal, sacred space, with only those closest allowed entry. The beast does not allow you to lie. “No.” A prospective mate is more than a natural allowance. It’s expected.
You nod with satisfaction. The beast preens in approval at your persistence, at your ease in its den. “Then I’m helping. What’s next?”
Wordlessly, you point to the table with the hand tools.
“All of these?” you ask, even as you begin to gather them.
Temar turns away, unable to watch you ascend, and focuses on the final wheelbarrow he needs to move out, the planks he’s using as ramps he’ll need to remove. “Gotta get everything out of here so it don’t get broken.” Also so he can’t use it to escape. When he’s more beast than person, the use of tools doesn’t come naturally, but he’s relentless. Safer to keep them out of reach. That’s the real challenge—keep himself out of reach.
“Right.” There’s a pause while you move around behind him. Temar tries to focus on the feeling of the smooth wood of the wheelbarrow handles, the shudder of the wooden planks below as he moves it out of the den. “How come the walls are like this?”
You must be gesturing to the flat stones embedded in the dirt walls. “Harder to climb, although I haven’t had time to finish the back wall that collapsed yet. Claws don’t do well on smooth stone. A lot if the grout needs to be redone. Something for tomorrow.”
“Smart,” you say, sounding impressed.
Temar grunts in response, trying to focus on pulling the crude ramp out of the den and not on puffing up at your approval. Not seeing how else he might earn your esteem, might otherwise impress you.
“What’s it like,” you ask, quietly but clearly. Temar had been wondering if you’d ask. Waiting. “When…”
You trail off so he’s not sure if you meaning being a werebear or being one in heat. He supposes the answer isn’t terribly different. “Simpler, harsher, more vivid,” he says, “Less control when in heat than the rest of the time. In the army, we were trained to control the transformation, taught how to keep our minds more intact—it doesn’t work like that for heat. Getting locked up is how it was dealt with even there.” Not that they lasted long back then for anyone.
“I’ve heard of the loss of control.” You don’t specify if you mean in general or in heat, but Temar supposes it doesn’t matter either way.
Perhaps this would be a good time to remind both of you what’s at stake, how dangerous Temar is in heat to anyone vulnerable around him. “Just a beast at that point.” Temar doesn’t look you in the eye as he keeps talking, heading back down into the den now the planks are out and it’s the only way down. “Can’t understand human speech. Can barely tell human from animal. No reasoning with me. I’ll do what I want when I want to. Damn anyone else.”
Not that you’re as intimidated as he wishes you were. “What about other weres?”
“Aye.” Temar doesn’t mind confirming that, not when he knows it can’t encourage you. “Thats a mite different. We can handle each other better, can find that sliver of common ground. Family can calm you, your own territory, and of course, if you’ve got everything you want, you won’t go roaming for it. Won’t get angry and frustrated you can’t find it.”
“That all the time, or just in heat?” He can still hear the shyness in your voice whenever you say heat, but its obvious your curiosity is too great. Temar surveys the den while he considers his answer, hands you left over plates and cutlery from his noontime meal, eaten down in the den while he worked furiously to get it ready for tonight. He’s careful not to let his fingers brush yours, not to look you in the face, lest he see some fear there that hadn’t been before. Lest the beast see a lack of such fear. Temar truly felt caught between a rock and hard place.
He can see the question you’re dancing around and cuts to the quick, praying you’ll be sensible and leave since he wouldn’t be able to make you anymore. He’s not sure he even could back on the porch. “Its dangerous for any human to lay with a werebeast. Injury from strength or claws or teeth is impossible to prevent. Even if you’re mates.” He reminds himself as ruthlessly as tells you. It was rare, but it happened. Heartbreaking accidents. “Even if you’ve known each other for years. Someone in my troop had killed their husband in a heat frenzy once.”
“Not always though,” you reply, too hopeful by far, too logical not to notice the exaggeration. “It can’t be or weres would have died out.”
“No, not always,” Temar allows. “The tendency towards multiple children in a litter helps. But usually longer held relationships fare better. If the were isn’t in a bad mood, isn’t stressed—if the partner cooperates right.”
He hands you the last item that needs out and once you get to the top, he says, “Pull up that ladder, now.”
You pause, standing stock still and for a second he wonders if you’ll even listen. Temar’s not sure he has the strength to ask a second time.
“Sure.” You pull up the ladder.
His human mind eases at that, at the sight of you more than seven feet overhead, out of reach. His beast disagrees, seething in displeasure and unfulfilled lust. Naturally, you can’t leave well enough alone and sit down, legs dangling into the den. He knows he could grab your ankle at this, yank you down and—
Temar turns to study the den once more. It won’t stick in his mind with you clouding his judgment the way you are. He narrows his eyes, forcing himself to assess if its deep enough, the walls defended enough. “I still need to get the cover fixed, if that damn blacksmith ever manages to be around when I stop by. The back wall needs to be stoned, but if I try to climb it like it is, it’s just as likely to crumble which’ll keep me in just the same. It’ll do. It had better more than satisfy those bastards on the council.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose it will.” You shrug, as if you’d forgotten about them. “Will you let me visit? After I leave in the morning—” you add swiftly as if to cut off a correction Temar for once wasn’t offering. “In case there’s anything else I can help with? I meant it when I said we could help each other out. I admit I do not relish the chore of fetching all fuel for my fire in these coming months and perhaps I can provide something for you? I’m a skilled weaver in addition to my work with dyes. If you would not be opposed?”
How can you forget the council so easily? Dismiss them offhand like that. Why do you speak of ‘after’ so lightly? As if you expect to see him again, as if that’s something you might want. Temar’s thoughts turn in circles once more over your duress. He must remember you cannot be here by choice. It’s getting harder by the minute. By each minute you sit on the edge of his den, not a care in the world. Not a notion of his steadily deteriorating self-control. His lack of giving any indication of his growing need has gone from helpful to sinister, a wolf in sheep’s clothing no longer trying to reassure, but to lure closer its prey.
“Perhaps,” he manages to say.
You continue to talk, but the words’ meaning slip through his fingers. The change is pushing itself on him while he wiles away a few more minutes in your presence. Just to try to burn off excess energy, Temar turns to push one of the stones in better, to align it flat with the rest of them. Except… he can feel your eyes on his back while he does so.
Your scent to spikes.
He wheels around, wildly, and belated realizes the height you’re at, brings your loins far more to a height with his nose than ever before. Did his display of strength inspire something of lust in you? His beast roars for you once more at this indication of receptiveness.
The moonlight colors your hair, emphasizing your etherealness, the wonder at your very presence. How much Temar wants to hold you in his hands, claim you for his own. How much he wants to bring you down to earth, push you under him and take his pleasure from you.
He takes a step closer and it feels like the first sprung leak in a dam. The first domino to fall. The spark of fire on dry, dry tinder.
“R-un.”
/
i think there will only be one more part, but we'll see how far i get tomorrow
andulkaphoto
annaxmalina
prguitarman
stormborns
gummygunk
baratheonpilled
ellievsbear
snowghoul
