Your eyes flutter open, but you already know who it is, for you are intimately familiar with the pad of his feet against the carpet. With the dip of your mattress underneath his weight. With the sense of calm that washes over you whenever he graces you with his presence. And that’s the best way to describe whatever you and the sorcerer have going on. Intimate—and familiar.
You never know how to categorize it when your friends ask.
Not friend, nor foe. Maybe both. Or maybe something in between?
There’s a tug of war inside your brain that struggles between wanting to tangle your legs with his under the soft press of your duvet, and wanting to climb atop him, wrap your hands delicately around his neck, and squeeze.
Most nights with him, you do neither. Just lie flat and stare up at the peeling ceiling tile, just barely illuminated by the midnight glow of the moon streaming through your blinds.
Some nights, you do both. Yuuta never seems to mind, either way. Says he just wants to be near you, as he wraps his limbs around you and pulls you to him, snugly. You play dead; go limp in his arms and count the warm puffs of air against the back of your neck like sheep.
It’s not normal, you know.
But it works for the two of you.
It goes like this: Okkotsu Yuuta is a lonely, lonely man, with too much heart and not nearly enough sense.
It goes like this: You want to crawl into his skin, make home inside his chest.
And that’s really all there is to it.
Tonight, you sit up and turn on the lamp that sits on your nightstand, casting a muted yellow glow over your surroundings. You blink, rub your eyes, and lift your head in greeting.
“Hey,” he whispers, black eyes roving over you curiously. He seems alright—whole—though his shoulders sag with an inconceivable weight, and his eyebags speak of many sleepless nights. “What are you still doing up?” Gesturing to the clock on your nightstand that reads 3 am.
You hum. Press your tongue against your teeth. “Waiting for you,” you say, candidly. You understand he's a busy man. That he has responsibilities—'missions', he calls them. But it’s been two weeks since he last visited you. Far too long since the last time. Not long enough.
At your admission, Yuuta’s mouth melts into a cotton-candy smile. “I missed you, too.”
…
You hadn’t said all that, but you’ll allow it.
Yuuta’s hand slips under the covers, searching for yours, and gives a firm, quick squeeze. He pulls away, reaches behind him and pulls off his navy blue sweater—the soft, cashmere one that you said would look good on him one relaxed day at the mall. The ministrations expose the taut, pale sheen of his skin as the hem of his tee slides up, and you have to breathe deeply to ground yourself.
He folds the sweater in his lap while you push the covers back, then leans over you to set it on your nightstand. Something about him hovering over you flips a primal switch within you, and without thinking you flip it so that it’s him on his back and you leaning above him. Yuuta, to his credit, doesn’t bat an eye. Gets settled between your thighs and waits calmly for…
For you to inhale deeply; to breathe him in and try not to choke. His scent is a cloying, sickly sweetness. A poisonous flower, luring you to something sinister. Begging you to taste him and face the consequences.
It’s a sight to behold, his dark hair fanned out against your pillow, his darkening cheeks, and his dark, dark gaze that pins you in place.
His hands rest on the back of your thighs, flexing assuredly, and your hands rest on his rising and falling chest, then slowly trail up, up, up, to his cheek, his jaw, his neck. You pinch his skin gently between your thumb and forefinger. Feel his pulse jump in his throat.
He swallows, and you feel the lump of spit travel down his esophagus.
Intimate—and familiar. That’s what you are to Yuuta. Who else can say the same?
Not one.
Your hands smooth down to his shoulders as you slowly bend to his ear. Goosebumps prickle across his flesh as you whisper, softly, “Text me the next time you’re going to be away this long.”
Yuuta’s shudder is sinful.
“I won’t,” he croaks, then backtracks. “Take this long again. I promise.”
Your lips twist into a wry grin. “Good.”
ty for reading (๑´`๑)♡ for my lovely anon, rosie <3
details ➸ tags: modern au! humor & spice! gratuitous use of the f-bomb // cw: no smut, but a little suggestive; drinking. everyone's at least 20 & this doesn't take place in america; reader wears a dress & is called a girl at one point // wc: 2k
a/n ➸ happy halloween! 🎃 muahahaha
“We are gonna get fucked up tonight,” Nami sings into your ear with a sharp giggle. She’s sitting on your lap, turned towards you with a long bottle in her dainty, manicured hand. Fishnets run up her thighs, up, up, up into her short black miniskirt, and the fabric rides up farther as she wiggles in your lap.
“Or just fucked,” you mutter, side-eyeing your friend. You know for a fact that Nami has goals she plans to achieve by the end of the night, and they probably have something to do with a pretty girl whose name starts with ‘V’ and ends with ‘ivi’.
It’s Halloweekend, a Friday night, and you’re pregaming in the shoddy little apartment you share with Nami and Usopp. Nami’s dressed to kill as an alluring vampire vixen, and Usopp’s fiddling with the zipper of his Party City superhero costume. Knowing your friends, you expect for a little mayhem to occur tonight. Especially considering the party you’ll be attending: hosted by none other than the ASL brothers.
If there’s one things you can trust the ASL brothers to do, it’s to wreak havoc on society. If there’s a second thing you can trust the ASL brothers to do, it’s to throw a decent party.
Nami swats your thigh at your remark and thrusts the bottle into your hands. “Drink more,” she orders. “You’re not nearly drunk enough.” You fumble for your Hello Kitty shot glass and pour liquor into your glass.
“Just drink from the bottle,” Nami chides, fingers curling around the hem of your dress. You take this in stride; sink into the spotty old couch Usopp salvaged from a flea market with a sigh. Nami’s a flirty drinker: you know this. Get a couple drinks in her and she’ll get touchy and bossy—or, bossier than she already is. The girl cocks her chin up at you in challenge. “Don’t be a pussy.” She’ll also get mouthy.
You reject her protests with a minute shake of your head. “No way.” Usopp trots over from across the room with a matching Hello Kitty glass, and you tip the bottleneck until vodka pours out, to Nami’s displeasure. “I’m not a fucking heathen.”
“Cheers to that,” Usopp says, then clinks his glass with yours—Hello Kitty to Hello Kitty. He throws his drink back and immediately starts coughing.
You smile at your friend’s pathetic demonstration, raise your glass, and toss the drink to the back of your throat. It goes down a little smoother than your first had, but still lights a fire in your chest, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.
A loud knock has your head swiveling to the front door. “The calvary is here!” Someone from the other side shouts.
You say Usopp’s name, and he rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says and shuffles toward the door, probably resenting the day he signed a six-month lease with two bossy girls. He quickly unlocks the door, swinging it wide open. A boy springs through the entrance with a loud whoop, arms in the air. Behind him struts the moss-headed Zoro, who heads straight for the kitchen, determined to find the booze and drink you out of house and home, you’re sure. Hovering by the entrance lingers Sanji, who towers over Usopp.
“Are you seriously dressed as Batman?” You hear him ask.
Usopp’s pitch raises unnaturally as he defends himself. “The ladies love Batman!”
Sanji snorts. “What do you know about ladies?” He asks, stepping around the Walmart Superhero. Suddenly, he halts, gaze locking on you and Nami like a fucking aim-bot.
“Nami-Swaaaaaaan!~” He croons.
Nami grabs the bottle from your hands and takes a giant swig.
“And you must be an angel,” the blond appears at your side, sighing dreamily. A crown rests atop his head; his hair shines like spun gold. Blegh.
“A fairy, actually.” You reply, jab your thumb at the iridescent wings strapped to your back.
He nods reverently. “Ah, but of course. You’re made of faith and trust, magic and whimsy, my ethereal little pixie.”
You blink once, twice. Wonder if this loon pregamed the pregame, or if he’s just naturally this ridiculous. Nami takes another shot of vodka, and Sanji’s eyes track the curve of Nami’s neck as she gulps and sighs.
Damn it all to hell. You debate stealing the bottle and drinking from it like a heathen. Nami was right. You are most certainly not drunk enough for this.
Nami and Usopp’s friends are… Well. They’re something, alright. You met the duo in college and fell in love with their snarky energy, but their non-college friends? You pan your head from Sanji and Zoro, who are halfway to beating each other’s faces in in the middle of your kitchen, to their springy friend Luffy, who’s quite literally bouncing off the walls. Yeah… You try to avoid them when you can.
But. Tonight’s Halloween. The one day you’re legally required to make bad decisions.
So, more alcohol. You tug the bottle from Nami’s death-grip and take a healthy swig. “What happened to ‘not being a fucking heathen?’” She quotes, mirth bubbling in her voice.
You open your mouth to say something unbelievable witty and dry, but are interrupted. “Who’s fucking heathens?” Someone behind you asks. Both you and Nami turn to face Luffy, who’s leaning over the back of your couch, upside down.
“Nami,” you deadpan, at the same time she intones your name.
Luffy laughs, boyish, but also… Not. His hair’s pulled towards the ground, black curls pulled back to reveal thin brows and half-lidded eyes, and the expression is a little… Sexy. Somehow. Impossibly. Kinda lazy-like, with a shit-eating grin, and it’s...
You clear your throat, feeling a bit warm.
“Shouldn’t you be with your brothers? Y’know. Hosting a party right now?” You ask. Luffy chortles. In your peripherals you can see Nami considering you, undoubtedly smelling blood in the water.
“Nah. Ace n’Sabo threw me out ta stop me from eating all the snacks,” he says. His words aren’t quite slurred, but come out as a drawl, low and intoxicating. You have no idea how this man did a complete 180 in the span of 30 seconds. It’s giving you serious whiplash.
The front door opens once more, and Nami lets out a little squeak. Ah, that’s probably Vivi and co. Hmm. Dimmed lights, a sultry voice warbling over the speakers, intermingling with the occasional drunken shout… This is turning out to be a successful pregame.
Nami jumps off your lap, stealing the bottle from your hands one last time. Her limbs tremble before she inhales deeply, steeling her nerves.
“Have fun,” you say, shooting her a look.
“Oh, bite me,” the vampire snaps, then stalks off to go flirt with Vivi. You silently wish her luck (the amount of times you’ve had to listen to her hopelessly pine is staggering) and turn back to face Luffy again, a twinge of uncertainty in your gut.
He’s dressed like a football player, you realize. It’s a good look on him. His jersey is neon yellow and trimmed in green, but the color’s not as obtrusive as it might be in brighter lighting. And it shows off his lean figure, which is. Nice.
Appreciative as you are of his frame, you’re thinking up exit strategies by the minute. This is uncharted territory. You can count the number of times you’ve had a one-on-one conversation with the man on a single hand, and, don’t really feel like stumbling your way through small talk.
“You’re glowing,” Luffy notes. “S’pretty.”
Never mind. This is cool.
“Thanks,” you say, sheepish. “It’s the body shimmer. I’m a fairy.”
“A pretty one.”
Ah, fuck.
You don’t really feel the alcohol all that much, but there’s a pleasant buzz floating through your body, and it’s making you a little more… susceptible. To simple compliments like that. It has your heart stuttering, but in a good way. You want him to say it again.
“What, that you’re pretty? ‘Cause you are.” He nods. “So pretty,” he concludes; dark eyes sweeping over your frame.
Did you say that aloud?
You blink. Rack your brain for something coy to say. “You’re, um. Yeah. You’re pretty, too.”
Fuck.
Luffy laughs at that, and you’re grateful, because you are totally off your game tonight. But he doesn’t seem to mind, just leans in closer, still upside down, and it gives you an open view of the column of his throat. Golden brown skin, taut and firm until he swallows. You tense and back up a little to see his whole face.
He’s close, incredibly close. You can smell the Corona on his breath as he exhales. And you don’t really kiss random people at hangouts after only like, two compliments, but your brain is starting to consider him the exception.
You pull in your bottom lip reflexively, and his eyes dip to your mouth, tracking the motion. His pupils dilate. He looks, he looks hungry.
Fuck fuck fuck—
The door opens again and more people trickle into the apartment, pulling you out of whatever weird ass trance you were in, and you curse. Is this a pregame or a party of its own? The fuck.
You lean back, hands seeking purchase on the couch cushion to support you, but maybe you’re a little more drunk than you think you are, because you completely overshoot it, body tipping toward the floor. Your head spins as you realize in real-time that you’re about to eat shit, squeezing your eyes shut before impact.
Somehow, quick hands race up your body and flip you so that instead of falling on your back, you’re braced on top of something, cushioning your fall. Your eyes open. Luffy grins from beneath you.
You’re straddling him, you realize. Make to get off him, but his hands tighten on your waist and then loosen. A suggestion.
You stay.
Everyone’s eyes are on you, searing into your skin, but they’re nothing compared to the hot hands sliding down, palming your thighs. You don’t know whether to be mortified or grateful that you chose such a short dress. Luffy hums appreciatively.
Grateful it is.
Time to do some damage control.
“Mind your own business,” you hiss, looking up at the room. Everyone returns to their previous occupations, albeit reluctantly, sneaking glances out of the corner of their eyes.
You turn your gaze back to the man underneath you. “How the hell did you do that?” You accuse. It should be humanly impossible for someone to perform such complicated maneuvers—while inebriated, mind you!
He just shrugs. “Didn’t wanna hurt your fairy wings, did ya?”
That is. Ridiculously sweet.
“Fuck,” you say. It just slips out.
Luffy’s eyes sharpen. “Yeah?”
“What?” Your breath hitches. God, you sound wrecked.
Luffy waits a beat. Runs calloused hands up and down your thighs, and you just barely contain yourself from shuddering in his grasp. But it may be for naught, because you’re melting like putty in his hands.
He yawns, then licks his lips. “Wanna make out?” He asks abruptly.
It’s at this moment that you wonder exactly how you wound up here. What choices did you make in your life to end up like this? Splayed out on your apartment floor, surrounded by tipsy acquaintances, straddling the most bizarre man you’ve ever had the misfortune to come across? Fucking Halloween, man. This might just be the most humiliating thing you’ve ever experienced.
...
You say yes.
In the end, you don’t end up making it to that party.
a/n ➸ this request is so cute! i'm melting. ty kitty for asking the real questions here.
Hey. Don’t throw this away, okay? This is important.
Read this now.
Duh, Usopp says. Of course you’re reading this right now. He says he’s a very reputable source in the affairs of love—just look at him and Kaya. I dunno what that all means, but I guess he knows what he’s talking about.
Usopp says I should just tell you how I feel. I do that everyday, but he says maybe writing it down would be helpful. You're the one with the fancy words, not me, but I'll give it a try.
So! Finish reading this.
And then read it again when you start to think too much about things that don’t matter. Don’t pretend you don’t do that. I know you, and there’s no point lying to a sheet of paper. So when you go quiet like you sometimes do, and your thoughts start to hurt you, follow my instructions and read this. Then come find me and ask for a hug. ‘Kay? Captain’s orders.
HERE’S SEVEN THINGS I LIKE ABOUT YOU! YES, YOU.
1. Your smile!
Sanji could probably go on and on about how you’re gorgeous, stunning, beautiful—all those words—when you smile. And all those things are true! But you’re also the most… you. When you smile.
You have different kinds of smiles: big ones! Small ones! Encouraging ones! Those smiles that mean you know something I don’t, and you can’t keep it in much longer.
But what I like best about your smiles is when they’re just for me. It feels a bit like a secret. And I don’t like keeping secrets, but I don’t mind those secret smiles you share with me.
2. Your laugh!
Your laugh is so… What’s the word? Contagious. That’s it. You are contagious. Just like your laugh. I like it when you bite your lip to try to hold it in, and when it bursts out anyway. I don’t know why you try. Nothing in the world sounds better than your hyena cackle, trust me. You’d give evil witches a run for their money.
You like to look at me whenever you laugh, I’ve noticed. Like you wanna know if I find it funny too. I don’t think you even mean to do it. You just do. But that’s okay. I’m usually already looking at you.
3. You’re easy to pick up!
If I’m not supposed to throw you over my shoulder and run, why do you make it so easy?
4. You’re expressive!
You like to think you’re so mysterious. Too bad! You’re wrong. I know those books you like to read aren’t “intellectual” like you say they are. Pretty sure they wouldn’t make you squeal and cover your face with your hands if they were. I wish you wouldn’t cover it. I like the faces you make when you’re nervous.
You’re probably nervous right now, aren’t you? You’re so easy to rile up! I like that about you, too. You get sort of mad, sort of not when I point it out. Your eyebrows scrunch and your mouth curves up and you cross your arms, all firm. I never know if you wanna kiss me or hit me. It’s cute. And fun. But wow, do you get a potty mouth when you're really nervous. Your words turn sharp and so does your stare, like you wanna cut me open with your eyes. Like it’s my fault that you’re stuttering out a quick, “Shut the fuck up.” Yeesh. You almost hurt my feelings there!
Just kidding.
5. You’re loud!
Even when you’re quiet. Especially when you’re not.
I like your voice. I like how it sounds when you just wake up. I like it when you finally sing the song you’ve been humming all day. I like it when you organize your thoughts out loud, and when you tell me about a joke Franky made earlier, and when you get real close and whisper things only meant for me to hear.
Sometimes, when I think, it’s your voice I’m thinking in. I like that, too.
So be even louder for me. Okay? ‘Cause everything you say is special, and I wanna hear it all.
6. You’re patient!
And kind. And smart and funny and mine.
7. You’re everything.
I like you ‘cause I like you. Isn’t it obvious? It’s not like I try to hide it.
cw: short. hopeful angst? not-so-vague jjk 261 spoilers. a/n: fuck it we move (i wrote this in a state of misery).
You’ve not one to be superstitious, but. There is something about him that makes you question your interpretation of reality. In the reflection of his wide, beady eyes, you see visions of yourself—crumpled, on the floor. A shadow of a shadow. Reduced to a something that is less and worse than nothing.
What could it be, but love? Reflected in his pitch black eyes?
It is certain, then. You can either leave. Disappear. Run until you reach a place where no one knows you and no one can find you and you are no one. Or you can stay. And watch yourself be nourished, then starved.
It is too bad that you don’t ever listen to your gut.
The notion approaches you when you’re in the midst of walking to the supermarket. It’s cloudy and cold, and the wind makes you feel like a brittle wafer. One crack and you’re done.
Yuuta walks beside you, even though the pace you set is slow. You pretend not to notice his nervous glances at you, quick and needy. Just like he pretends not to notice your longer, more appreciative stares whenever you forget yourself.
But can he blame you? He looks quite striking in his black wool coat. There’s a healthy pink glow resting just above his cheekbones. It’s cute. And his hair’s a bit messy, black strands falling loosely out of its natural parting, like he’s run a hand through it a few times.
Yes, he’s nervous alright. But when is he not nervous? And when do you care what he’s feeling, anyway?
It’s only a few moments later when he’s crouched before you, kneeling in the middle of the sidewalk, deft fingers reaching for your ratty, untied laces, that you realize how in deep you are.
“What are you doing?” You ask, just to ask.
It does not bother him. “Your shoe,” he says quietly, then he looks up at you and smiles. “Let me tie it for you.”
Yes, you’re in deep. You don’t utter a peep as Yuuta works quietly at your sneaker, then unlaces your other shoe and starts retying that. Foot-traffic swerves around you both, but you don’t have it in you to be sorry. Fuck. This was not in your plans, and yet—
When he’s done, he tells you so and runs a hand lightly up and down your calf.
You blank.
“Sorry, was that too much?”
Yuuta’s feminine voice brings back you back to your senses. He’s biting his bottom lip in worry, you note, though he seems reluctant to let go of your leg. He’s started tapping mindlessly against it, seemingly in thought. You don’t mind. You’re really pondering some thoughts of your own, such as how often he gnaws his lips. If they’d feel chapped against your own. If he ever accidentally draws blood.
“No, not too much.” You eventually reply, and then unwisely, you add, “Perhaps…not enough.”
And there is a sick, sharp sound of a lock slotting into place. The final snap of a coffin lid. You just might be doomed. But then, Yuuta tilts his head, hands tightening reflexively, and you really can’t find it within yourself to care.
So what.
So what if your intuition cries thick hot tears. So what if you see the worst in his haunting eyes.
Surely, you can take it. Surely, he is worth it.
For he is kind. Far too kind for his own good, maybe. And pretty. And he makes himself small, for you. And he smells like petrichor. Or lavender. One of the two.
.
You’ll regret it. Maybe. But not today.
You are not superstitious, but. The day you fall for Okkotsu Yuuta, you light a thin candlestick in the dark and allow yourself the space to mourn.
i’m thinking of lazy mornings where the sun trickles in gently through your blinds and your sock-clad feet pad against your kitchen tiles and there’s a plate of hotcakes waiting in the microwave and your lover stands over the half-filled sudoku game on the counter with furrowed brows. and their hair is mussed and there’s sleep in their eyes and when they tell you good morning, their voice is thick from disuse.
