"X is the biggest Byler proof" - me all the time about everything
But it's this. It's this. Because this is what converted me. This is what made me go "there is heterosexual explanation for this" without even realizing it until I had a homosexual one. It's this shit.
Nathan and Ruben share a bond more powerful than most; mutual understanding through past experiences no one should ever have to go through, and through past actions so horrible they cannot be spoken of. Their grief and the blood on their hands binds them to the STEM technology they created, which has alienated them from the rest of the world— but they give each other the comfort they have both longed for so desperately for years, and that is all they need.
They are each other's counterpart; you cannot imagine one without the other, like two sides of the same coin. Through their pain, their grief, their desire, and their regret, they have become one.
anna akhmatova, the guest // bones; equinox // 'i won't become' by kim jakobsson // agustín gómez-arcos, the carnivorous lamb // by oxy // achilles come down; gang of youths // czeslaw milosz, from 'new and collected poems: 1931-2001' // 'extended ambience portrait from a resonant biostructure' and 'migraine tenfold times ten' by daniel vega // a little death; the neighbourhood // marina tsvetaeva, from 'poem of the end' // by drummnist // katie maria, winter // 'nocturne in black and gold the falling rocket' by james abbott mcneill whistler // micah nemerever, these violent delights // body language; we are fury // 'the penitent' by emil melmoth // chelsea dingman, from 'of those who can't afford to be gentle'
⋆˚࿔ ㅤ― " i need a doctor, oooh!" dispatch x gn! reader, all fluffy/sfw, yes this is inspired by those old animatics if you wanna know the title inspo! || robert, blonde blazer, invisigal, sonar, royd, flambae, malevola, prism, waterboy, punch up, coupe, x gn! reader
⋆˚࿔ cw: fluffy stuff & character has a huge crush on reader, blood/scar mentions, reader is a doctor/nurse!
⋆˚࿔ synopsis. they're head over heels for the doctor who saved their lives. literally.
⋆˚࿔ wc: ~4k ; not proofread, might be ooc!
robert didn't know what it was about you, but you know, bandages and all- he was just another stupid idiot in love. your first encounter? was... um.. very awkward, as awkward as those cheesy highschool romances.
you were carrying a large stack of medical supplies to a point where your arms were a little unsteady with your grasp barely holding onto the eighth first aid kit while trying to transfer it all towards your clinic that was right next to the cubicles.
"you uh... need any help?" he was refilling coffee when he peered around the corner to see where the small grunts were coming from because it was not someone he recognized... at least by name. because he knew who you were; just never got what he needed to call out to you.
"uh... huh? n-no! it's okay, thank you." you politely decline, not wanting to bother any of the other of his colleagues or heroes with work as simple as carrying bandages and aid kits back and forth.
"here wait, lemme get that for you." you hadn't noticed a few rolls of bondage fell to the floor, but when it got to your attention it was on the floor, so was everything else―
"wait, no ne- oh fuck!" you exclaimed under your breath, picking up everything you could, but he already had a whole bunch sitting on his arm without effort, lifting it up slowly as he collect the cones on the floor, accidentally brushing his hand against yours,
...
"i.. err.. sorry for... for―" "it's nothing, you're the only nurse around aren't you? might as well help when i can." woah, he sounded so confident. total opposite of what he was thinking. honestly the type to accidentally bump into the wall beside the door of your office and plays it off as a joke. spoiler: it wasn't, he was just staring at you. proper name place name backstory stuff ahh
blonde blazer was the first person you bumped into while trying to find your way around. but.. was it normal you got to bump into each other so often during work hours?
...
was she dodging her hours to eat strawberry shortcakes with you?
...
maybe...
"oh my gosh, this one is made with french dough! it tastes amazing... don't you think?" you were delighted as you lifted a spoonful into your mouth, strawberries, cream, and all. you were eyes closed humming in happiness, but where was mandy looking? you of course.
her mouth was slightly agape, watching how ecstatic you were discussing the different flavors you could taste in each dessert made her feel all warm inside.
she couldn't help that feeling grow, even whenever she dropped by your office with a 'severe injury' (a few scratches and a bruise made by the boxes she had to carry) from her oh-so hard labor job... of course she needs the very nice cute cool and great doctor of the workplace....
"you've been getting hurt a lot recently, are you sure that you're getting enough rest?" you shook your head in disapproval while wrapping her arm in white thin cloth. hopefully covering up anything that might cause her too much trouble to rest for the moment. "huh? oh... yeah got it."
you arched a brow, listing 'spacing out more than usual' as a note to your in-the-progress diagnosis due to suspicion she was coming down with something mental.
well, she kind of was. i mea, her eyes were under hypnosis whenever a certain somebody passed by, you just never noticed who...
but lovesick wasn't an illness you've studied before.
invisigal tended to hang around people she 'disliked' more than the ones she was on okay terms with. and one of those she didn't have her taste accustomed to was you; you never bothered with her, but still made time to keep an eye on her own injuries, small and big. what is with you, are you weird?
"you.. don't have to do that or whatever you know." her eyes rolled as you tugged her arm near, letting a hiss out at your grasp. "fuck! not too hard, doc!" exclaiming with anger in her tone, laced with sincerity... you knew your knowledge well enough she was just putting a strong output to keep her input together.
rolling you eyes, you could care less about 'formality' in terms of calling heroes by their hero names, you were used to calling patients by their actual names, and the higher ups gave you said sobriquets- make use of it why don't you!
"..." "..." the silence between you was extremely awkward, at least for her, with tension building as you go. her voice comes out as hostile when you apply ointment onto the open wound. your fingers were gentle, she chatted in malice. was it even a conversation if you didn't reply?
"there, all better." you blow on the bondaged part of her arm, sighing of relief. "i didn't... i didn't need your help." "well it's my job to."
and that's what she liked about this, about you. about this chase... it's the fact you weren't afraid to give back the same energy, is that what made her dream about you all the more than she already did by default?
sonar's words always lingered for a little while longer than usual, especially since he never even hung around people enough for them to last a good amount of time to process what he does speak.
"hey, doc. you mind?" he was simply taking a sip of coffee, unlocking the door with ease as he took a seat on the couch in front of your desk. your head tilts to peer over your desktop computer— ah, it was sonar.
"hello, victor. is it the wounds on your back?" you questioned like it was the simplest thing in the world, and although in pain; he nodded to confirm, trying to play it off as just nothing (even if you saw right through it).
maybe that's what made him magnetize towards you, your presence in it as itself... you were one to keep up, and he liked that. he wanted that.
badly.
"hey, doc. again—" "new ones? my god, maybe I should tell them to assign you less dangerous acts." your concern was genuine, like it was for everyone else, but come on, who doesn't feel a little fuzzy inside when someone shows care for another.
and the chance you both get alone time..? it's all for your nerdy yap about all that science-y shit he learned back at harvard... do note that he is aware how to fix all his wounds easily, maybe even better than you—but he chooses to not.
maybe you know why now.
you weren't even sure how he had gotten hurt, royd is not an easy man to scratch, especially with all the muscle built around his own frame. biceps enough to crush your average human, and probably could've become a great hero if given the chance..
"aye, doc. is it alright if ya know.." he nudges your arm as he slides over his palm, a large scratch that extends from below his index finger over to the very edge of his wrist.
"now how did this happen?" — "well ah, you se-" — "again. you better be careful around those fax machines, royd, otherwise you'll be here for the rest of week. or worse: at home."
you had a slight tease in your tone as he shook his head, playing into the whole ordeal—"you believe so? I guess I must stay on bedrest, since doc says.." he laughs loudly, while you return his chuckles all the same. you felt a smile naturally grow around him, he could say the same about you.
he knows he was pretty social, but he never got the chance to nerd out this much to anybody... and maybe that was the first thing that made him start to slip, and fall (into your arms).
you listened, you always listened. not to mention how you made sure to take care of everyone else all while keeping everything in check for every heroes' health.
it was just in his nature to fall for someone who cared. even if it was in their job description to.
flambae made often trips to your office, I mean, he started finished fights that just magically happened inside the bars he went to, catching on fire was normal, whether or not it was him or the other person in the heat.
usually it was him BUT he did not do anything to trigger anyone! (or so he claims).
"chad... you cannot keep getting into fights." you simply stated, not a question, not a suggestion, it was you setting out rules for him disappointedly like a parent to a child.
"says who? fighting is in my blood, aziza." — "if you burn your eyebrow hair off one more time you won't grow them back anymore." — "are you serious?!"
the utmost seriousness left your throat before snorting into a series of laughs. shrugging it off as no, "no, but please reduce your quarrels. it adds onto my work... when it could be easily avoided."
"I guess since doc said so, I'll try my best, yes?" he hums jokingly, nodding along before slouching more onto the couch.
he was more forward than the others, he was fine with you knowing he was a little more than just into you, and was completely fine with it. you were adorable, you cared, and you were funny. you could match him,
and fuck you couldn't just find that shit anywhere. especially in this economy!
malevola felt naturally attracted to you, like it was the easiest thing in the world. the portal opening up in your office? seems like she just got off work, in fact! most of your regulars greeted malevola as if she was apart of your clinic.
talking to you felt like honey dew, it just melted into the moment, she didn't have to pretend or try too hard to impress you or anything. god she didn't even have to be impressive, she could just be herself with you in the room, and she really liked that.
#needthat LOL
not even like she needs to get anything to wrap her wounds up―because she didn't gain any. but she did love to help you in times of supply restoration! yes she was already carrying the five boxes mentioned in the delivery truck's invoice,
"you sure you can carry that, vola?" you didn't even look up from your checkboard as you ticked off supplies she had already moved in. "all good, love, just check the shit off―i got it." confidence and softness mixed in her cheeky grin as she ran off to place it into the storage room.
"she's been at that for an hour or two now, you sure she ain't tired doc'?" colm asked with accent decored through his words, a hand on his hip as he watches the demon sprint back and forth from the truck towards the main building while alice, mandy, and colm watch nearby you.
"...i mean, her body doesn't seem to tire at all at this pace. besides, this contributes to her endurance training."
all she asks for? well, a cup of coffee or two would be nice.
prism felt at ease around you, not having to hold back her words, knowing you wouldn't judge anyways. you stayed quiet, nodded and listened, then added on a few of your own 'judgements' too.
"i mean, i just don't get it! all them people out there talk about me being too loud as if they don't do the same." — "people are just hypocrites, be as loud as you'd like here." and that? that was what caused a small, very subtle show of teeth to be seen for just a single moment. you get it, she loved that you get it!
whenever she had to rant, she always went to you, face on her knuckles as she gazed up to seeing you... wow were you always that cute?
"and then she like..." ... "—alice? hello? i'm still listening." "sorry what?"
you stared for a bit, deadpan before stating "you paused, i hope you are aware i am still avidly listening even if it is not as clear as i'd like for it to be." she... she's never been told that to be frank, and god did it feel good to know she had someone to be an ear for her.
i mean, no, she's totally normal whenever people said they loved her music, as they should—but... it was different. people always just left her on heard, or let her talk for more than ten minutes without them needing to talk as well.
yes she loves herself a good listener, thank god you were.
so, just know her next release just might, MIGHT, be titled after an inside joke you two made up about one of your clients/her coworkers :)
waterboy... well it was pretty often herman would get hurt while on the job, he was prone to it, so he ended up your regular, and THE regular who came by the most. whether it'd be from a cat scratching him, or literally his own power... yes, he gets hurt by water. no i don't know how but what happens, happens.
and no judgement in your clinic, especially when you were the one cleaning up his skin before it gets any worse. but what could be more attractive than someone who could nonstop talk about how he should be more careful when out on the job, AND can tie a tie. i mean, you were the whole package (his standards are low, he just wants to be loved).
"s-sorry, i know you're busy, i didn-" — "herman, you tried your best, do not apologize." your tone was stern, and set on allowing him to feel fine about getting damage, not everyone is immune to pain, and that was fine.
he knows its your job to, but god you looked amazing when you did. was it so bad he found someone working hard as fuck, and was damn good at it attractive? no, not at all,
"did you take the meds i prescribed yesterday?" — "yeah! y-yes! i did!" he smiled whenever you talked to him first in your clinic, yes he knows its in your job description but let a man dream!
and you know what, he did stop getting hurt so much, yet... still made the same amount of trips he usually did.
but so what, it was in your job description right!
punch up was pretty helpful around your office. especially on things that needed heavy lifting; like clients that were gravely injured- he would carry them over to you, and act as an assistant to most cases you had. like he knew every single tool... he wasn't even a doctor!
but you know what he was? a yearner.
spent a week gathering information on each tool, and spent a month helping you out to get used to it, but something he wasn't accustomed to? being the one on bedrest.
he hadn't even realized how much he cared when he saw you did.
"what is wrong with you?! you think you can just throw your life away?!" you yell as you worked onto a very open wound carefully, taking out the bullets gently out his arm—"fuck! i said i was sorry,"
"sorry won't cut it! can't you see i care? your team cares? we all care! don't you dare just leave because you feel the need to—" you went on and on about how he should not be freely giving death another soul to take, but him? he was just stuck in a trance,
stuck staring at you.
"you're amazing, doll..." "what the hell did you just say colm?!"
coupe had ended up becoming close to you while exchanging a few glaring, sarcastic insults to one another, sparking more conversations between you both all while assisting you in your office, whether it'd be arranging your things for you,
getting coffee... andddd... keeping an eye on your sleep schedule. she knew more than anything that sleep was important, one night she discovers how true her feelings were in spite of the sarcasm that followed when she spoke to your face.
"name..." nudging your shoulder using her wing as she stood a little further from you. "name..." another hushed whisper enters your ear, thinking it's just apart of your dream... "doc!" - "—whuh.. what?"
you had nodded off while making a diagnosis on one of the office workers who were looking for a reason behind the voices in their head, the coffee cup beside you had been finished over, and over, and over again.
"jan... what are you doing here so late..." — " doc, it's morning already. office hours up." — "well, shit."
her hand was already massaging your scalp as she sighs turning to a smile, a small scoff paired with it. "i know just a bit about first aid, if you'd like i could take over for a while." "i guess that'd be great."
before she knew it, you already passed out onto the desk once more, giving coupe a chance to bring you over to your couch at the very least... tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear,
Playing a prank on the blue lock men by leaning down when they're manspreading as if you're about to give them head but you're really just picking something off the ground.
Featuring: isagi yoichi, rin itoshi, kaiser michael, sae itoshi.
Itoshi Rin:
After seeing this trend, you puckered up your lips and squinted your eyes, glancing at your boyfriend who sat on the bed of his apartment watching a soccer game on television. You had acquired your target and locked up.
Rin was very focused on the TV screen, his eyes didn't move from there and he tapped the remote every once in a while to pause and write something down in his notebook, whilst munching on some snacks on the table infront of him. He's so focused it's almost cute. Then there was you, you had noticed one of his pens down right next to his foot.
Your plan went into action, you stretched very nonchalantly and got off your place on the couch. He didn't pay you any attention, continued writing, you took it as a sign to keep going.
You went down on your knees, he turned his eyes down and he froze for a moment when he saw you right in between his legs, your hair tickled the cloth on his thigh. His breath hitched but he prepared himself, leaning back slightly. "Y/n.." he breathed out. He even closed his eyes.. but he didn't feel your hands anywhere or.. your mouth so he flickers his eyes and peeks but when he doesn't see you down there anymore he blinks in confusion and slight irritation.
"Sorry about that, you dropped your pen." And you placed it down to his desk. He blinked slowly, "right.." murmured but he'd never admit he thought you were going to do something else.
Isagi Yoichi
He's sitting on his bed while he's doing something random. He said he wanted to cure his boredom and get interested in anything small that doesn't involve soccer. It was an experiment of his to see if he's really obsessed with soccer that he won't play or involve soccer in everything.
You were sat beside him, helping him out with the art he was doing, applying paint on his brushes as he tried to paint on a canvas for the first time and yes it looked like shit. You were.. increasingly bored. You didn't want to watch paint dry, literally. Do you came up with a plan. A master plan.
You accidently drop the paintbrush right next to isagis manspread. You lean down, and isagi flinches but he looks down at you "whats wron-" the words die in his throat when you pull your hair back and glance up at him.
"O-oh okay.. um.." He immidently turns red, leans back and places a hand on top of your head but he almost whimpers when you lean your head south. And you grab the paintbrush. He freezes. In embarrassment.
"Uh- you- what--" He stammered unable to form coherent words. And you just smiled innocently "I dropped this." You hung up the paintbrush.
Sae Itoshi
Sae was really tired, he had countless meetings with different managers to arrange different matches with him. So when he returned home to his cute girlfriend he just sat down on the couch like a dead body. An exasperated sigh leaves his mouth but he doesn't calk you, he's too tired to.
You return to the living room, offer him some water as you glance at his dead body. You knew he was tired and exhausted but.. you really wanted to have some quality time!!! So you tried everything.
From "how was work?" And he replies with a deadpanned expression "don't ask." And you smiled because you had no fucking idea if you were supposed to ask him again after that. "Want some water?" You asked him with a slightly concerned expression and he blinked "no.. thanks." WHAT NOW?!
SO you pulled the ultimate move.
The ultimate attention giver.
You had a piece of food under the bed from the takeout you ordered when sae was out. So you decided to do it. You got on your knees right infront of him and he gave the subtlest of a reaction but he spread his legs a little bit more.
His eyes were half lidded as he undid the first button of his shirt. "You couldve given me a warning or something, love." He murmured in a deep voice but you just looked up after collecting that piece, "Huh? What?" You acted all confused and sae seemed just as confused.
"Drop the act." He would urge you as you got on your feet again. But he pulled you closer by the collar, "really? A prank like that after I'm so exhausted?" He sighs. "Get on your knees" He shakes his head in slight annoyance but a little bit cocky. Your cheeks turned pink but you complied anyway.
We all know what happens after that.
Michael Kaiser.
He had his glasses on as he read some book with full attention.
When the attention should really be on you!!
He didn't even compliment you after you dressed up so prettily to come and visit his apartment. So naturally you had to resort to other means.
While he's distracted by the essence of his book, his hand circles around your head like he's patting your head, just enough to let you know my book is important so I'm gonna only pat your head.
You decided its time to use the onlt way you could to get his attention. You bent down, kneeling before him, pulling your hair back and he raises a brow, "mm? Such a good girl I didn't even have to ask--" and not even in a moment you got up and sat back down with a normal expression except with an eraser in your hand. "Huh?" You tilted your head "what are you on?" You asked again.
Kaiser blinked once twice "I thought you..." He licked his lower lip. "Nevermind.." He didn't wanna bruise his ego by mentioning he expected you to suck. But after this prank he got a lot more touchy with you. In the end, he got that blow job anyways.
a/n: four months later... except so much stuff has happened in those four months for me that i can't even be sorry fr a bitch has been very busy
songs (not previously) mentioned: actually romantic by taylor swift, von dutch by charli xcx, everytime by britney spears / also, for the sympathy performance i imagine it as a more visceral variation of this idk if that makes sense but yeah
taglist is closed!
18+ please <3
[ one week after mean girls drop / NYFW day one ]
Vulture — CAN A GIRL BE TOO GOOD AT BEING BAD?
Teen Vogue — HOW TO LOOK EXPENSIVE WHILE BEEFING: YN AND SUGURU GETO, POST-MEAN GIRLS EDITION
i-D — WHO RUNS NEW YORK FASHION WEEK? SUGURU GETO, YN, SUKUNA RYOMEN, AND SATORU GOJO MAKE IT A SPECTACLE
the city slides by behind tinted glass.
you watch your reflection as a stylist reaches in from your left, snapping the last clips from your hair with deft fingers. a makeup artist leans in from the right. lipstick. blot. a final press to make it perfect.
an assistant you've never met sits across from you, phone held at chin height.
"the von dutch press line is packed," she says. "expect… uncomfortable questions."
it sounds like a forecast: rain likely. wind advisory. bring a jacket.
"suguru's car is right ahead of us. you'll enter together, like always."
like always.
you keep your face still. if this were like always, you wouldn't be in separate cars. the makeup artist blots your bottom lip again, gentler this time. the assistant glances up at you carefully, and you almost feel bad about how intimidated she looks.
"uh, the label wants you softer. play nice," she adds. and when your eyes snap to hers: "their words, not mine."
you almost laugh.
softer, after the bloodletting of the past three weeks. after the think pieces and diagnoses and the slow-motion pile-on that keeps building no matter how many times you refresh your timeline.
"and, um—trends are getting a little wild," she says, clearing her throat. "there's a lot of buzz about sukuna ryomen and mila hart and stuff, but you can skip it if you're asked. they're telling suguru the same."
your lips curl, just barely.
mila. suguru. sukuna. the label. the press. the public.
everyone has something to say.
you tap a glossy nail against the leather seat once, twice, and say nothing.
the car slows. outside presses closer, noise building on the other side of the glass from excited paparazzi and fashion week sidewalk dwellers.
the driver is still reaching for his seatbelt when your door swings open from the outside.
suguru.
he's there like he's always been, haloed in white flashes. the cameras are brutal after the safe darkness of the car, stuttering light across his face, his jacket, and the rings on his hand as he offers it to you.
it annoys you—the silent request to play along, in public, right now—but you place your hand in his anyway. you're hyper-aware of everything: curb height, the weight of your shoes, the warmth of his hand around yours. then you're standing side by side, and the world snaps into focus.
you fall into step with his hand at your lower back, exactly where it's always gone. the touch was familiar enough to ignore once, but it lands differently now. protectiveness, as always. possessiveness, misguidedly.
paparazzi surge forward, shouting your names over each other, voices blurring into a single demand. cameras tilt and clatter. someone yells for you to smile. someone else screams suguru's name like he might bless them with a glance.
neither of you does.
you continue straight ahead, expressions smoothed into that shared, impassive calm—the version of yourselves that gives them nothing to print.
inside, the roar drops into a dense buzz of overlapping press voices, equipment shuffling, and handlers steering attendees toward the press line, chirping about timing and placement.
they don't even pretend to warm you up.
the first question is already halfway out of someone's mouth when you're positioned under the lights. you shoot a reflexive glare at the handlers who've stepped back just far enough to look uninvolved.
"—about angel of my dreams—"
"—mean girls just dropped—"
"—and skin, obviously—"
you both wait for something audible. suguru's hand is still at your back, lighter now, almost cautious.
a reporter with a too-bright smile and a death grip on her mic angles forward.
"some fans say your chemistry with sukuna in your latest music video was on par with, if not more intense than, your chemistry with suguru." a beat, then the smile. "thoughts?"
you clock the bait.
"that's a wild thing to say with suguru standing right there," you reply, glancing sideways just enough to acknowledge him.
you're met with a ripple of surprised laughter, cameras tilting to catch his reaction. there's something faintly amused in the set of his mouth that tells you he still likes it when you're difficult on purpose.
"is that a no comment?" someone presses. you shrug lazily in response.
the next question comes just as audacious.
"mila hart’s first single under the label you all share, skin, was seen as a response to sympathy is a knife. suguru, you were credited on both tracks. what’s the story there?"
you expect him to skip it. it's unusual for him to say anything at all in these interviews, but he surprises you.
"skin wasn't written about anyone in particular." it's rehearsed enough to be safe. your eyes narrow.
"but i should've handled it differently."
the honesty is wrong for the space—too inward, like he forgot where he was for a second.
you're irritated. not at what he said, but where he chose to say it: under lights and lenses, when you don't want to fucking do this here.
a different voice cuts in.
"there’s a line in mean girls—'you say she's problematic and the way you say it, so fanatic'—was it an implication about mila?"
you smile slow. a wink for the cameras. "mean girls wasn’t written about anyone in particular."
they eat it up.
"and where do things stand between the two of you now?"
you don't even look at each other.
"we're good," you say at the same time.
an obvious lie, mirrored perfectly between you.
the handlers finally step in and herd you to your seats: front row, dead center.
assistants dressed in black dart backstage with garment bags folded over their arms. the press line breaks into editors, buyers, and celebrities settling into their assigned places. photographers crouch for outfit shots. suguru leans in to speak—then stills when a hand lands on his shoulder.
he closes his eyes and exhales. "i'll be right back. you need anything?"
he waits for the small shake of your head before he stands to join a cluster of industry faces, important and vaguely interchangeable. you're not even done crossing your legs when a streak of pink cuts through your peripheral vision.
sukuna doesn't bother with the side exit. he cuts straight through the center curtains and across the runway from backstage. you smile when you see him, caught off guard because you hadn't known he was walking tonight, and then a little wider when you realize where he's going.
he drops to a squat right in front of you like it's a locker room and not a fashion show, elbows resting on his knees so you're eye level.
"hey, trouble."
you squint at him, amused despite yourself.
"didn't think i'd see you here," he continues with a smirk.
"yes you did," you reply, and there's a grin attached because you both know what this is. suguru's ten feet away. sukuna wants him to catch it.
"you love to stir shit," you tell him.
he shrugs, unapologetic. "'course i do."
his hand settles loose around your ankle and his eyes sweep your face, slow and slightly indulgent. "you look good."
you laugh, shaking your head. "you're gonna get me in trouble."
he snorts. "you've been in trouble all month."
someone calls his name from backstage. he glances over his shoulder, then gives your ankle a single squeeze. you're grateful, you decide, that sukuna isn't angling for anything more than pissing off suguru.
then he's up and gone, ignoring everyone else as he disappears the way he came.
you still have a faint smile on your face when suguru slides back into his seat. he hands you a glass of champagne he lifted from a passing tray, jaw set just a touch too tight.
"what'd i miss?" he asks.
"nothing."
he looks at you. at the small grin you haven't bothered to hide.
"looked like something."
it amuses you, the way he can't help himself. the way he notices everything but now, suddenly, doesn't know what to do with it.
you shrug, eyes already shifting to the curtains as the lights start to dim. "don't worry about it."
the show moves as expected: applause, movement, music. then a coordinated rush toward the exits before anyone can linger too long.
the flashes are harsher and less coordinated on the way out, and you find yourself missing the order of the press line. people yell without waiting to be acknowledged, cameras crowd your face, hands reach where they shouldn't.
suguru steers you through, protective by instinct. you keep walking, spine straight, heels clicking faster than before.
someone shouts your name. another shouts his.
another voice cuts through, cruel and gleeful: "are you still mad he picked mila over you?"
the camera flashes quicken when you laugh, instinctive and bright, like it's really funny. like it didn't just slice you. you keep moving, pace just a bit too quick for someone who doesn't care.
you don't stop until you find the narrow pocket of quiet on the side of the building, hidden by a row of SUVs and a temporary barricade. your hands are shaking as you fish a cigarette from your bag. you fumble the lighter and miss the spark once. twice.
"fuck—"
before you can chuck it at the ground, suguru's taking it from you silently. he sparks it in one clean flick, steadying the flame with a hand cupped around it to block the wind. the gesture is automatic, one of a thousand other small rescues neither of you thinks to name anymore.
you inhale too deep. the smoke burns.
he just watches, his eyes somewhere past you.
the question left you exposed. the truth you'd been keeping under control isn't cooperating anymore. you see how it landed on him, too. he looks… guilty.
you exhale smoke. "you let it happen."
he looks away briefly. "i didn't write it," he says. "i didn't mix it. it was just an empty beat."
you nod once. "you could've told me."
"i know."
silence stretches. a hand scrubs down his face before he finally breathes out the rest of it. "i should've said no. i should've told you when they asked." a pause. "i fucked up."
your lip trembles before you can stop it. you bite down hard.
god, you're tired.
too tired to cut him open here. too tired to admit how bad you want it to stop hurting. too tired to confess your stupid, reckless wish for everything to return to some version of fine that never existed.
if you say more, you might beg for it.
you take another drag and let the smoke fill your lungs, then release it slow, pretending it clears some of the build-up in your chest.
"we don't have to keep talking about it," you say. and you hate the amount of relief that flickers across his face when you do.
[ instagram ]
@/balenciaga (slides)
📸 : you squatting in full balenciaga, le cagole bag slung over your shoulder as you look up at the camera / archived sketch of the original purse
💬 : first edition
@/cultgeto — reposted
@/gojos — reposted
@/ryomensukuna — reposted
@/gojos (story)
📸 : selfie of him grinning with you blurred in the background, mid-argument with a PR person, gesturing animatedly
💬 : she’s sooo normal actually
@/nylonmag (slides)
📸 : suguru front row at issey miyake / sukuna walking for rick owens / you front row at grace ling / satoru (for some reason) walking for prada / mila second row at khaite
💬 : Brat extended universe (NYFW day three)
@/cultyn (post)
📸 : suguru taking your hand to help you out of your seat after jean paul gaultier
💬 : can’t sit with us @/cultgeto
@/papermagazine (slides)
📸 : satoru and suguru leaning over a dinner menu, mid-disagreement about what to order. suguru’s finger on the page, satoru talking with both hands / you and satoru popping a bottle at the schiaparelli afterparty, both laughing as champagne spills over the bar / sukuna with a drink in hand at the same party, leaning down to hear you talking
💬 : New York you will always be famous
[ Billboard Hot 100 ]
1. Angel of my dreams, YN →
4. Sympathy is a knife, YN ↑
7. Skin, Mila Hart ↓
8. Mean girls, YN ↓
[ twitter ]
@/luvyn: mila hart can sit second row forever she will never be mother
@/getoangel: who tf told sukuna to crouch at her feet like that at von dutch 😭 suguru looked READY
@/gojoupdate: yn and satoru running fashion week like their personal birthday party as usual
@/deuxmoi: new york fashion week’s most memorable moment so far wasn’t on the catwalk, it was thom browne’s front row: mila hart, sukuna ryomen, satoru gojo, yn, suguru geto. in that order. family dinner vibes?
@/ynsupremacy: the suguru/yn tension this week could power the east coast @/conedison pack it up
@/torupreme: everyone so focused on yn/suguru when we should REALLY be pushing satoru/suguru and yn/sukuna. walk with me
[ nyfw day 4 ]
mila drops actually romantic halfway through fashion week.
it's glossy and intentional. a careful misconstruction of everything you've put out since this storm started. where sympathy was self-aware, she flattens it into fixation. where mean girls was defiant, she softens it into flirtation. the whole thing carries a soft, patronizing thesis: this isn't rivalry, it's unrequited love.
you're in love with me, the song insists. thanks for the attention.
it climbs halfway up the charts on momentum and curiosity, then wobbles there. critics are polite but noncommittal. empty. underwritten. her fans argue louder than usual, insisting it's misunderstood. the industry starts to whisper the thing no one wants to say out loud.
maybe skin only worked because suguru touched it.
you watch it happen with a strange, distant calm. you find it kind of funny in the way things are funny when they don't feel real.
actually romantic comes and goes without you or suguru so much as mentioning it. the song does what it was written to do: publicly collapse the damage he caused into a joke. he knows that. you know he knows that.
it fades fast, and in that quiet failure, it hands the narrative back to you. if there was supposed to be a triangle, it never materializes. if there was supposed to be rivalry, it fizzles. the public shrugs and moves on, deciding that whatever exists between you and suguru must be bigger than a diss track that couldn't stick.
it's not said so much as it's felt: this is the real story.
fashion week blurs.
front rows, afterparties, and hotel lobbies all look the same by the fifth night. his hand steadies you when you stand. yours rests on his chest for cameras. what's fractured between you doesn't show. you move together easily, and it unsettles you. you both look flawless. they're the kind of images that will harden into narrative, circulating long after the context falls away.
still, most of the words between you are shallow. where to stand, who to look at, how to pose. and sometimes, when the cameras are behind you, your hands stay tangled a beat longer than they need to. or you both laugh at the same stupid joke, then cut it off at the same time.
satoru says it a day later on your way out of a runway show, probably desperate to break the tension that hums when you and suguru share space too long.
"you two should do a set," he says as he lights a cigarette. "surprise everyone."
suguru smirks, sidestepping it. you roll your eyes and keep walking. it gets filed away under shit that's not happening right now.
except later, when you're alone in your bed, it comes back.
your mind drifts back to lollapalooza. the heat, the way it felt to share a stage with him before everything went to shit. back when running into his arms in front of thousands of people felt unremarkable.
you wonder, idly, if he'd even consider it.
his text comes through that night.
suguru:
you want to?
there isn't much to talk through. standing still hasn't helped. you both need an outlet that's not press lines and cameras. and pretending things are normal, even just for the week, has been far easier than admitting how far you've drifted.
the label hates it.
they talk about containment, timing, optics. underneath it all, you know they want the grit of sympathy and mean girls sanded down before the two of you turn it into something they can't redirect. they warn you again to play nice, as if that's ever stopped anything.
mila's the one who stoked the flames, but that never seems to matter.
but it's you and suguru, so the plans move fast anyway.
a warehouse with minimal staging, no VIP or velvet ropes. personnel who know how to keep their mouths shut. it's announced in a vague post that the show is less than a week out, and it still sells out in minutes.
and for the first time all month, it feels like the pressure has somewhere to go.
for the rest of the week, you send stems back and forth. you have half-serious fights over the setlist. there are little scraps of banter that almost feel like before, old habits settling into place, but with an edge neither of you has named. jokes land a millisecond off-beat and messages get left on delivered half an hour longer than they need to be.
you notice it in him more than he probably realizes. his jaw works more than usual and his fingers are restless. there's an edge in his voice when an assistant asks a question he's already answered. where he's usually the more patient one between you, he snaps at people and doesn't apologize. you tell yourself he's tired. it's been a long week.
still, you pull together a setlist in the margins of fashion week, typed into a shared note and constantly rearranged between shows, fittings, and parties. a few days out, you rush a run-through in a styling lounge while assistants whisper around you and someone steams fabrics in the corner. suguru's laptop is balanced on an armrest, volume set just loud enough for the two of you to hear.
"it doesn't work," he says. "it needs teeth. more fuck you."
you watch him and understand immediately. he's correcting. for him, the show is about drawing the line where he should've drawn it the first time.
it's about motion for you: staying in it and keeping the party alive. and, more quietly, staying close to him in the most distant way you know how.
you nod instead of naming all this, because you agree that it needs to say fuck you. and then the lyric exchanges get sticky.
why you lyin’, you won’t fuck unless he famous
do that little dance, without it you’d be nameless
malice under banter, poking at bruises to see which ones still hurt while he cuts a beat that could probably work as a diss all on its own. you fire lines back and forth, smiling even as something acidic flickers underneath. when you add the loop—i'm your number one—it lands on him as much as it does on mila. he exhales a short laugh and keeps working.
the public's already on your side, so this isn't strategic. whatever mila was trying to do burned out all on its own. you've already won. this is about excess—about saying it just because you can.
he sends a chorus late that night.
i'm just living that life
von dutch cult classic, but i still pop
the song gets done the next day, muscle memory taking over where trust used to live. you're both too good at this to pretend otherwise.
von dutch is born that way—between fittings and traffic and late phone calls—not because mila needs acknowledgement, but because the two of you still speak most fluently when you're being a little conceited together.
neither of you says out loud what it might mean that it comes so easily. or what it might cost.
[ setlist ]
— suguru's set —
-----------------------
sympathy is a knife
mean girls
360
club classics
angel of my dreams
i love it???
von dutch
[ setlist ]
@/cultgeto and @/cultyn (post)
📸 : a still of suguru’s tattooed hands over a mixing board, her voice on loop (i’m your number one).
[ Billboard Hot 100 ]
1. Sympathy is a knife, YN ↑
2. Angel of my dreams, YN →
3. Mean girls, YN ↑
10. Skin, Mila Hart ↓
14. Actually Romantic, Mila Hart →
[ twitter ]
@/pop2muse: 3.5k capacity for their first show since lollapalooza they hate us omfg 😭
@/saintgeto: ticketmaster servers on fire rn because yn and suguru wanna roleplay as underground artists
@/midnightyn: von dutch runway was the first time we saw them together since lollapalooza one hundred years ago and now they're doing a show. if anyone even cared.
[ nyfw day 10 ]
someone should've bled the tension out of the room during soundcheck.
you haven't said a word to suguru all day. you barely looked at him when you waved hello on arrival, immediately setting your stuff down and finding somewhere else to be. now you're perched alone on the edge of the stage in satoru's tour merch hoodie, sleeves pulled over your hands, mic loose in your grip. your phone rests on your lap with song lyrics pulled up and he thinks you look self-sufficient, like you might not need him for this show at all.
you're singing other people's songs, stripped-down and quiet, softer than anything you've ever made together. more vulnerable, somehow, for not belonging to either of you at all.
and everytime i try to fly, i fall
without my wings, i feel so small
suguru lowers himself to the concrete where the crowd will be in a few hours, back against a road case, laptop balanced on his knee and pretending to prep. he listens instead of looking at his screen, savoring the sight of you when you don't know he's watching.
the crew skirts both of you. cables get laid in wide arcs and levels get adjusted with hand signals instead of voices. everyone moves like they're working around a fault line.
soundcheck dissolves into logistics, and whatever was fragile about it gets reset with the stage and pulled out of suguru's hands as the doors open and the crowd rushes the barricade. the room fills fast, loud and impatient.
he steps away before it can get away from him.
the bathroom mirror is unforgiving under fluorescent light. his pupils are blown. he rolls his shoulders once as he ties his hair back, cuts three neat white lines and leans in without ceremony. they steady him the way he needs them to. the noise settles. everything snaps into focus.
the first hour of the show belongs to him.
the warehouse isn't big enough for the crowd or what he's asking of it. suguru leans into it, tightening screws until there's nowhere for the energy to go but up. on the surface he's measured: hair out of his face, focused, movements exact. a study in restraint against the chaos he's stirring.
sweat drips. the bass rattles the floor. the coke rides his bloodstream like a rail, keeping everything obedient.
except you.
you won't stay where he can see you. you're sipping something, dancing through the pit like you belong to it rather than the other way around. you're close and carefree with this crowd in a way that makes him nervous. he watches you drift along the barricade, holding hands, taking selfies, hugging fans who look like they might explode.
you still haven't looked at him.
all week it's been like this: close enough for photos, for a flawless track, but too far for anything unscripted.
the distance grates.
they scream for him. you laugh and jump with every drop, but it's not for him. the sight burns. this is how you've always worked—you burning, him steady—but tonight it feels less like balance and more like absence.
relief hits when it's finally your turn. at least you'll be back onstage. the nerves catch up to him at the opening notes of sympathy is a knife, once he realizes watching won't help.
the crowd screams at the song choice, but your voice cuts straight through. there's no easing into it, no softening the edges. you sing like you mean to get through it intact.
you don't.
halfway through, you drop to the floor.
suguru can't tell if you planned it or if your knees gave out, but it doesn't matter. the desperation in your voice is unmistakable, raw in a way he recognizes instantly and wishes no one else did. hearing it now feels like being gutted in a room full of witnesses.
this—the near-scream tearing at your throat—would've been impossible not long ago, until he fucked up and broke the seal. the rush that's been holding him together goes thin and useless. stimulants aren't enough for this.
you're still on your knees. one hand braced against the stage, the other locked around the mic. your voice wavers just enough to scare him.
his weight shifts instinctively. one foot moves forward before he catches himself. every part of him wants to get you offstage, to put you somewhere dark and quiet and let you fall apart without an audience. he locks his knees hard and swallows the urge.
why is all this sympathy a fucking knife?
yeah, all this sympathy is just a lie
the words land like blows. he wants to prove—stupidly, desperately—that he could hold you steady through this if you'd just let him.
knowing he lost the right, and the illusion that he could've fixed this, is unbearable.
there's no time to sit in it. the cue for mean girls is already there, and he catches it just as you pull yourself up. pink strobes flood the room and he slides his shades on against them.
you duck under his booth. from above, he watches you pull a tiara from wherever you stashed it and set it on your head—the one from the mean girls single cover. it makes the corner of his mouth lift despite himself.
you don't come back out right away.
beneath the table, invisible from the floor, you brace a hand against the metal frame for balance with trembling fingers. you inhale like you're counting. it almost looks like you're hiding.
it passes quickly, but he noticed.
then you're moving again—up and out just as fast as you came, tiara scattering light as the crowd welcomes you back. a minute ago you were folded under the weight of your own song; now your chin is up, your spine straight, and he's watching armor click shut in real time.
he feels the pull of it low in his gut.
the room chants the words back at you loud enough to rattle the boards under his hands, louder than the speakers themselves. he kills the track for two bars just to let you hear it.
this one's for all my bad girls
this one's for all my break-your-boyfriend's-heart girls
they're with you.
so is he, whether you want him there or not.
you grin as you sing calls him daddy while she's fingering a gold cross and his grip falters on the fader. he corrects it fast, but he's destabilized. you're singing about tearing shit apart and his mind is betraying him, imagining the wreckage you could make if you turned that heat on him instead of the room. he'd let you. even here, in front of all these people, if it meant you'd finally look at him. especially here
he should be mixing. keeping time.
instead, he's staring.
staring and feeling something twisted bloom in his chest. pride first, at how sharp you are, how completely you've taken over every room you've ever been in. hated and loved and feared and adored in the same breath.
and the cold thought underneath:
it's taking everything you have.
and you're doing it without him.
there's no room to sit with that, either. von dutch is the closer.
suguru cues the loop in slowly, dragging the transition out from mean girls until it becomes something unrecognizable. the lights drop, and the warehouse hushes. everyone holds their breath.
it's foreplay.
he lets it sit there—one more second, and another—until it's unbearable.
then your voice cuts through.
"new york, you begged for this one," you say, cool and clear. "let it be a reminder: if i ever write you a love song, you'll know."
it's okay to just admit that you're jealous of me
yeah, i heard you talk about me, that's the word on the street
you hop down from the edge of the stage on the first bars. security reacts instantly, shifting to carve a path through the crowd you're already moving into. you don't slow down.
you're obsessing, just confess it, put your hands up
it's obvious i'm your number one
hands reach out as you pass, voices shouting for you, but the path holds. you walk through the first verse and phones start going up, the room rushing with the audacity of it. they hear the lyrics for what they are: a final, pointed measure to scorch the earth behind you.
suguru, as much as he wants to scorch it with you, can't even think about that right now. his grip is tight on the edge of the table, eyes tracking security and crowd density and everything that could go wrong in a room of overexcited fans on party drugs.
i'm your number one, i'm your number one
i'm your number one, yeah, it's so obvious
it's a spell. they chant it back at you.
suguru doesn't move. he's running the track, posture loose, pretending to focus. anyone with less experience would've fucked it up, because all his attention is on you and none is on the boards.
then you're turning.
one calculated step after another. the crowd clocks your trajectory before he does, screaming louder, closing in, surging toward the booth like they know it's not just performance anymore.
security tightens. suguru stares. you keep coming.
by the time you reach the booth again, he's convinced you can see straight through him. the light catches the glitter across your lids, the glint of something resolved behind your eyes.
he mouths the line back to you once, involuntarily.
i'm your number one.
your eyes narrow, but you don't break eye contact.
you didn't write it for him, not outwardly, but he feels the thread pulled taut between you and knows it for what it is: an invitation disguised as antagonism.
he knows you want him to fold.
he knows he will.
every repetition drives it deeper until the only thing left is a pure, shattering recognition.
you've always been his number one. he just never said it out loud.
the song peaks, the lights flare, and the crowd loses it completely. suguru barely hears any of it. he's already made himself a promise: he won't last the night without you in his hands if you'll let him close enough.
[ twitter ]
@/sojulia: she did sympathy on her knees suguru geto when i fucking catch you
@/gojostrackjacket: YES BABY CALL HER BROKE AND OBSESSED AGAIN
@/clubclassicradio: did anyone get the video of suguru mouthing "i’m your number one" back at her he’s SICK
@/ynbabyyy: bro was ready to risk it all right there onstage while she dragged that girl for two full songs he is not a serious man
@/satorulovr: yn and suguru’s names in writing credits together again all is right with the world
@/threesixty: say what u want about suguru and yn but they WILL close a set with a new song every time
@/suguintern: she walked through the crowd and was not afraid of their fans hurting her or harming her welcome back jesus
1) buck comes back to abby's place from dropping her off at the airport. takes off his shoes, lets out a massive sigh, and then jumps because someone is knocking on the door he just closed
2) at the door is like. a geometry textbook of a guy, all kinds of angles and shapes pieced together in a way that surprises buck, who stares at this guy for several silent, awkward seconds. guy crosses his arms over his chest and asks, "does abby clark still live here? i'm 95% sure she does, so who the hell are you?"
3) buck puffs himself up. "i'm her- friend. buck. who are you?"
"i'm tommy. the ex-fiancé."
buck had asked about him a couple of times and abby gently, but instantly and firmly, shut him down every time. he's in the past. let's not, okay?
"she left," buck says. "she's going on a trip. a long trip."
tommy raises his eyebrows. "okay, try answering my question again without sounding like a serial killer: is abby here?"
she's not, buck thinks, and he sags like a marionette whose strings just snapped.
"she's not. do you want to come in? i promise i'm not a serial killer."
4) once tommy gets a look around the apartment, which is still very much abby's but devoid of- well- abby, and most of abby's things, tommy turns back. "she really left. i missed the funeral. of course her mom dies while i'm on my first vacation in years." he looks at buck. "was it nice?"
buck nods. "yeah, it was nice. i can tell her you came by or something, if- i guess you guys don't talk anymore. so. i don't know."
"yeah," tommy says, then asks, "are you okay? she's coming back, right? it's just a trip."
buck clears his throat and touches a faint line on his neck. "i think so but the more i explain it to someone else. um. i don't know."
5) and the next few minutes and hours are so, so weird: tommy asking if buck wants water or something stronger, and buck following him into the kitchen where, yeah, he knows where everything is. the two of them sitting down being kind of sad about this woman they both know/knew in very different ways.
the way tommy talks about patricia make buck understand why abby left: she was like a better version of tommy's mom, but not in a you're-my-son-forever way, but this older lady who cared about him and texted him crossword puzzle clues because she didn't want to cheat on the crossword and asking tommy wasn't cheating. tommy had the good memories and bailed before it got bad; abby had to live with all those good ones and then everything that came after. buck tried to share that with abby, as much as he could, but looking at tommy he kind of gets how much was there- how much she didn't want to let go.
6) "she's a great lady," buck says. "why did you leave her? you find someone better?"
tommy looks uncomfortable and buck feels kind of shitty saying it like that when they're like. being nice to each other. sharing their feelings.
"sorry, i know it's not my business, even if i'm staying here," buck jokes.
"she is a great lady," tommy says, "and i'm the big gay liar who led her on for two years before i finally broke it off."
and buck. did not. expect. that.
"sorry, was that too heavy?"
"maybe for you," buck says. "i'm sorry."
tommy shrugs.
7) it's weird how that kind of kills the conversation, which buck thought they were both enjoying, even if it's been bittersweet and way too deep for strangers. buck says, "listen, i'm sorry i- like i didn't mean for you to- out yourself, i guess? i'm sorry. that's- i get-"
tommy shifts in his seat. "no. uh. we broke up about a year ago when i finally, you know, couldn't live a lie anymore. but it's been a year and you're maybe the… fourth? person i've come out to."
buck tilts his head. "tommy, you just told me you were a big gay liar and if that's coming out, then. i don't know. maybe that's why you're having a hard time doing it more than four times, like not even a full handful of times." and tommy laughs and buck feels better- for tommy, who looks 1% less miserable than he did.
"alright," tommy says with a big sigh. "i'm queer, i'm here, but it's getting late so i'm out of here."
"don't use that on anyone else, okay? please keep that to yourself. to this room. please. you deserve to get laid and find love in whatever order you want and it's not going to happen like that."
there's a split second where buck thinks tommy looks Intrigued by that, but then it's gone. they get up, rinse their wine glasses, and hug by the front door. buck feels even more wrung out than he did when he came in, but it feels cathartic now. it feels good.
tommy gives him his number and says, "if you ever need help moving out of this place, i've got a truck and tips on getting stuff out of here. secret freight elevator, for one." buck shakes his head and laughs, and closes the door behind him, and he doesn't lose tommy's number.
warnings. some grinding, tickling session, major pussy behavior
a/n. bye i decided to make a pt two to this randomly, but this might just be a little series with only three parts sooo... this is fun!!
୨ৎ
matt didn't attempt to move once. after you had fallen back to sleep and somehow melted into him even more than before, it was like he died and went to heaven about fifty times. how else would he have been so lucky to have this angel sleeping right in his lap, practically straddling him as your head rested on his shoulder? it was everything he'd dreamed of and more.
of course, his brothers weren't very angelic when it came to their teasing.
“i’m just sayin’, kid, maybe it's time to actually do something instead of sittin’ back like a bitch—”
“chris, hey! he's not a bitch… he's a pussy, there's a difference.”
“oh, wow, thanks for the help, nick,” matt sarcastically replied as he simply rolled his eyes, no longer focusing on the game as they all just talked. he noticed you wiggled slightly, but didn't think much of it.
“just the truth, bro. only pussies have their crush—” “—not my crush—” “—sleep on their laps without making a move. y’know, not while they're asleep, but y'had the opportunity to do something when she woke up.”
“she was tired and was gonna get off me, me asking her to stay was me making my move.”
“damn, matty, your moves are weak then.”
“shut up, chris.”
“i’m just sayin’, matt. when the opportunity presents itself, y'can't be a pussy and back out. get her, dude.”
again, he felt you move against him and at first, he wasn't going to question it. maybe you were just having an intense dream or you were stirring around on his lap to get more comfortable. that seemed obvious, right? but it wasn't until he felt your hips roll against his thigh that matt thought to himself, okay, a little strange, but whatever.
and then it happened again. and then once more. now being both incredibly confused and slightly curious, he pulled his head back enough to look at your face, and it was no surprise when he saw you were still soundly asleep. both your eyes were closed and for a second, you looked like the perfect essence of peacefulness.
and then it happened again, this time a bit more firmly, and your eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, followed by the smallest whine. matt was positive if he was still entertaining chris and nick, he wouldn't have even been able to hear it.
oh.
oh.
so you were having an intense dream
it all clicked right there for matt. his eyes widened a bit and his body tensed up, and he could practically feel the blood rushing to his dick. in his defense, nothing could've prepared him for this. here you were, the girl he's been secretly pining after for months, having a wet dream right on top of him, your body subconsciously grinding against him for some relief. yeah, he knew getting hard at the scene was probably extremely wrong and disrespectful in many ways, but he just couldn't help it.
he could no longer hear chris or nick teasing him about his poor flirting skills or even pay attention to the trio on the screen about to kill him because before he knew it, you were rocking your hips again. he bit his bottom lip in order to suppress a groan as his brain was currently racking up ways to get out of this situation. at least before you woke up and it got really awkward.
“matt, hello? y'there?” in that moment, he didn't really want to be.
“y-yeah, um, i’m here, uh,” he stumbled over his words for a second, his hand leaving his controller and moving to your hip, softly holding it so he could get the courage to stop you and toss you onto his bed. okay, maybe not toss, but to stop you definitely. “actually guys, um, i-i’m gonna get off, ‘kay?”
“kid, we’re in the middle of a game right now, are you serious?”
“yes, chris, ’m serious.” was all matt responded with before leaving the discord call, his hand still firmly on your hip as you occasionally rocked your hips, his other working fast to exit out of everything on his pc.
the dim light from the monitor plus the sound of your shorts rubbing against his sweats was starting to become a bit too much for him. matt wasn't dumb, any longer and his dick would be rock hard and then that'll definitely be awkward if you woke up. so, with much restraint and strength and now holding onto both of your hips, he stiffed your movements, bringing you to a stop. he couldn't just get up, he wasn't that strong. plus, matt was a bit nervous he'd drop you before he could even reach the bed despite it being a foot away.
he could feel your body trying to protest the halt, your hands around his waist tightening slightly, more little whines escaping your mouth and matt honestly wanted to die right then and there. of course, the first time he gets you like this, you're not even conscious of it, and there was no way he'd take advantage of you. not like this.
he was going to do it the right way.
suddenly, your body stopped and matt could feel you tense up.
now, to say you were horribly mortified was an understatement. when matt stopped you in real time, it was like your dream came crashing down. the mysterious faceless man in it stopped his ministrations and you were so incredibly pent up, so pent up that your body refused to find solace in sleep any longer. it didn't take an idiot to figure out what the hell happened, especially when you woke up with soaked panties sticking to your folds and matt's hands on your hips. did you…? no. surely not. right? no, there's no way.
but it was hard to deny when you could now feel matt's dick through his sweats and suddenly, you were shooting your head up from his shoulder, no longer tired. “oh my god, matt! i am so– i'm sorry!” you were speaking with a raspy voice, both from the ridiculous amount of exhaustion and humiliation you just experienced.
he quickly shook his head, trying to hide his flustered expression while also finding the strength to take his hands off you. it’ll come eventually, he was sure. “no, no, i-i mean, it happens, right? you're cool, it’s fine!”
“i can't believe i did that, matty, i am so sorry!” you shrieked again and hid your face in your hands, shaking your head at yourself. you were sure your cheeks were now tomato red and, with the way his hands were on your hips, it was getting worse.
matt stared at you as you tried to shield yourself from his gaze, trying to save yourself from the embarrassment. he thought it was downright adorable, the way you got all flushed and shy. he knew it was for good reason, and he so badly wanted to tell you that it truly was okay, that he didn't even mind. but something held him back and instead of making a move, or charm you into having him ease that ache of yours, he chose the safest route.
and maybe he just wanted to see you smile again.
he took one last moment to look at you perched on his lap, all self-conscious now and guarded up before slowly moving his hands from your hips to your sides. you were confused when you felt his hands move, but before you could even question it, his fingers were tickling the most sensitive part he knew would get to you. your hands immediately moved from your face, moving to try and grab him to stop as laughs and giggles left your lips.
your predicament of getting yourself off on his thigh was momentarily forgotten, now focused on getting him to stop making you squirm in a new way.
“s-st-stop, m-matt!” was all you could express as you flailed on top of him, your face burning itself in his shoulder.
there it was. he could see your lips stretched wide across your face, your smile making him forget about his own arousal as he continued to make you laugh. “not until you promise to stop actin’ embarrassed about it,” he chuckled, the teasing tone in his voice making your stomach flip.
“i-it-it's an emb-barassing thing!” you tried to defend yourself through the forced involuntary giggles that were escaping you. as he tickled you, you slowly but gently began to fall off his lap and onto the floor, but that didn't stop him.
“it is, but it's normal!” he rolled his eyes, his hands now moving under your arms and to the back of your neck. god, who needed grinding and sex when just the sight of you rolling around in laughter was enough to get him off then and there. “y/n, babe, i promise— i don't care. i’d just prefer that next time, you're conscious for it.”
his words made your brain freeze. ‘babe’. ‘if next time, you were conscious for it’. next time? he wanted there to be a next time? you tapped his arm twice, the silent but serious “enough” signal the two of you created and he took the hint almost immediately, his hands leaving your body in an instant as he looked down at you.
you were on your back on the floor, all flushed, chest heaving and your hair sprawled out beneath you. you looked gorgeous. and matt was glad he didn't follow any of his brothers advice. and as you looked up at him, you didn't know what to say. thankfully, matt didn't waste time before continuing, his voice now a bit unsure and hesitant as he realized what the hell he just said.
“i mean, y’know, if y’want to. i wouldn't want to make things weird between us or ruin things or make you, um–y’know what? forget i said anything, actually–do y’need some pajamas or anything, wanna go in the living room—”
“matt,” you cut him off once you caught your own breath, a small smile now on your face. “stop worrying. next time, i’ll definitely be conscious for it.”
it was if you took your fist and physically hit his stomach. he thought he was being too straight forward, but knowing that you were agreeing, that you seemed into it... it was doing things for him.
as you got up from the floor and moved to the living room, as matt's brain caught up with the intense beating of his heart and as he ignored the countless texts from chris asking “what the hell was going on up there”—there was a silent understanding.
I started answering a different prompt and this grew into its own monstrosity that I couldn't reasonably shoehorn into the other ask. So have Kiss #1 - kiss on the cheek
Tommy still doesn’t know how he got here. Here being Howie and Maddie’s house while Evan babysat their two munchkins. Actually, that’s a lie. He does know.
Evan called.
Evan called and when has Tommy ever not picked up?
Before he could get out so much as a 'hello' there were immediate ramblings of gratitude and bargaining. One long breathless string of I'msosorryIdidn'tknowwhoelsetocallIhavethekidsandwater'sgoingeverywhere.
Somehow the thought didn’t really cross his mind to suggest a plumber or using common sense to shutoff the water supply. Because apparently all of his common sense disappears when it comes to Evan.
So he said, "Be there in twenty."
And that's how he found himself across town, faced with two littles covered in mud and gleefully patting it into little cakes, while Evan directed him to the shutoff valve in the basement. Thankfully, the setup didn't require shutting off everything, leaving the majority of the pipes available.
A fact, he remembers as he steps into the backyard, that will be vitally important.
He points to the matched set of mud demons still happily slopping about. "Do you want help with them? Guessing bathtime is gonna be kinda rough."
“O-okay,” Evan stammers, soft and hesitant, cheeks turning pink. "I'd like that. A lot."
His traitorous heart, with the overgrown soft spot for one Evan Buckley, trips in his chest.
"Let's get to work then," he says, instead of something stupid like 'I miss you'.
Together they manage to get both kids bathed, shampooed, rubbed down with lavender lotion, and into fresh clothes for a nap. It pokes at an ancient domestic ache, something he stopped believing he could have, that he doesn’t want to examine too closely right now.
After the kids are down, conked out with treasured stuffies in their tiny arms, he starts to excuse himself for a hasty--and very necessary--exit. Before he can, Evan grabs his wrist.
"Stay?"
So, Tommy stays, wordlessly joining Evan on the porch, each of them with a glass of water.
It doesn't take long before the silence becomes too heavy, breaking through the tenuous connection.
“Why am I here, Evan?"
"What do you mean? I needed help and-"
"I know that you, as a trained member of the LAFD, know what to do in a situation like this. You didn't need me to turn a handle.”
Evan ducks his head and nervously rubs at the back of his neck. He even has the decency to look sheepish as he admits, “I didn’t want to leave the kids alone and I guess I could've just taken them inside. But I kept thinking how I wished I had someone else here with me. How I wished I had you. Because that’s who I always want with me.”
The confession hits Tommy like a Mack truck, considering their last interactions. The most conversation he ever expected them to have again involved transfer of care.
“Could've fooled me.” It's harsher than he intends and maybe he'll feel bad about it later. For the moment, he's wondering how many times he'll allow himself to be called back like a dog.
“Oh," Evan says quietly. "I, um, I don't know if this means anything but I am sorry. About before. When you said- I was caught off guard and let my emotions get the best of me. I never should have said that, about not having feelings for you.”
He weighs the apology in his mind. It's not that he doesn't believe it, or doubts that Evan believes what he's saying. But if they're going to do this he wants to do it right. Wants to put some work in on himself and stop trying to change the tires while the car is moving.
“I need time,” he says simply.
“Uh, yeah. Of course.” Evan turns away, trying and failing to surreptitiously swipe at his eyes.
“I should, uh,” Evan gestures towards the house. “Thanks for your help, Tommy. I mean it.”
“Hey.” It’s his turn to stop Evan and make sure everyone is using their words for once. “I mean it too. I want to have my head on straight next time. Don’t you think we deserve that?”
Evan softens, answering with a watery smile. “Yeah, actually, I really think we do. And for me to do the same.”
It's sincere and feels like a turn out of the muddled darkness.
"I'll see you around, Tommy?"
He nods, takes a step in Evan’s direction and presses a kiss to his cheek. A promise.
