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divine-mistake · 3 years

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it's messy inside, let me take your coat

Summary: “I can make you a drink,” you offer, leaning against the doorframe to your bedroom with your arms crossed over your chest, staring at him, “or I can come over there and you can kiss me drunk instead, ‘cause I’m already halfway there.”

Characters: Bucky Barnes/Plus-sized (f)Reader

Warnings: 18+ (mentions of smut, female nudity), strong language, alcohol consumption, copious amounts of fluff, soft and nervous Bucky Barnes, original female character friends, one-night stand, body insecurity, anxiety

Word Count: 8723

A/N: This story was written for @eurynome827 and her 2k follower challenge with the prompt "Mimosas and Bloody Marys at brunch." Thank you for hosting and congrats again on your milestone!

main masterlist | AO3

“Cheers!”

The flutes clink together, orange juice sloshing and spilling and dripping down the glasses and onto the table as your giggles fade into the background noise of the café’s patio. You tip your head back as you drink, mimosas bubbly in your throat like your own happiness, threatening to pour out of you and dribble onto your shirt, already tipsy.

“God,” Carissa says, throwing herself back into the metal chair, “I cannot wait to have his babies.”

Beside her, Kora claps. “I can’t wait to be an aunt! I’m going to spoil them all so rotten you’re going to want to throttle me by the end of it.”

“Spoil them all you want, I’m having eight of ‘em.”

At that, you go ahead and polish off your drink, carbonation stinging your throat, and while you set the empty glass down your hand goes up in the air, signaling the waiter for another.

Sara points at you. “I’m with her.” She makes a face at Carissa. “If you have eight kids I will make like your dad and bounce.”

Kora slaps her on the knee but the four of you descend into laughter anyway, and it’s easy and light and beautiful, like always. Washington D.C. can be pretty in this way—iron-wrought fencing and fancy metal tables and red patio tiling. Good food, better mimosas, best friends. There’s a breeze in the air that’s calling for autumn, scattering cloth napkins sitting in laps and spreading the scent of fresh baked bread.

The bags at your feet carrying your new shoes for the winter wedding that’s approaching rustle. That feeling isn’t just D.C. It’s excitement and love and adoration, too.

Carissa, bride to be, catches you in her gaze. “When are you going to finally settle down, huh?” She gestures across the table at you with her half-filled mimosa. Everyone else looks at you too, waiting for your response.

You shrug. “You’re having plenty of babies, I don’t need any.”

“I don’t mean babies,” she says. “I mean a human, a connection, something that isn’t an empty apartment.”

“You need—no, you deserve—someone to take care of you!” Kora adds. “You’re always taking care of everyone. Don’t you want someone to, y’know, take care of you?”

“I have plenty of vibrators in my empty apartment.”

Sara snorts, covering her mouth. The waiter delivers another round, thank god.

“What do you want me to say?” you ask, sighing. “You’re just bothering me ‘cause it’s wedding season and you want to set me up with your weird—”

“He’s not weird,” Carissa interrupts. “He’s tall and he’s mysterious which is exactly your type.”

“She’ll find someone when the time is right,” Sara says. “Just ‘cause we’re happy with our boyfriends doesn’t mean she needs one to be happy.”

“Thank you, Sara, my one-true-best-friend-in-the-whole-wide-world.” You force your glass against hers in a loud clank, turning the heads of all the patrons on the café’s patio before taking a gulp. Your face is already getting a little hot, the alcohol hitting you. This is why you aren’t allowed to pregame before you go to brunch anymore.

“We’re not trying to force you,” Kora starts, but her mouth is pulled into a concerned frown. “We really do just want you to be as happy as we are, that’s all.”

You smile at her. “I know.”

And you do know. You understand. It’s been years now since you’ve had anything real—anything worthwhile, to be specific. At some point, the relationships slowed down. Boyfriends became friends with benefits when you were working on your masters. Friends with benefits became ignored booty calls at two in the morning when you started your dissertation, on the road to get your doctorate. Now, you’re lucky to go home with someone from the bar, and they never, ever, come home with you.

It’s okay. You aren’t lonely. The right person just hasn’t landed in your lap, and maybe that’s kind of because it’s not open, but it’s just ‘cause you’re busy. You’re busy. Passionate. Need to change the world.

Love can wait.

The next mimosa is finished and you’re feeling a little fuzzy.

“I’m happy for you,” you tell Carissa. “I’m happy for all of you, and I’m happy with my life, and I’m happy that we’re all together and we’re celebrating and I’m happy that you all care about me enough to worry but I’m perfectly fine with how things are.”

Carissa smiles, but it’s got too much teeth. “I could set you up with Kie—”

“No, no setting me up with Kieran or Harry or Josh or anyone. But especially not Kieran.”

You’d already fucked him once and it wasn’t worth the experience.

“Fine! Fine.” Carissa busies herself with her drink. “No setting you up with Kieran.”

“Good. Now let’s talk about the reception!” You pull out your phone and open the planning spreadsheet, smiling. “So I called the venue for you about the tables…”

This is easier. Planning Carissa’s wedding, helping support her, being excited for her—that’s easier than talking about your love life. If anything, this is your love life. Taking care of the people you love, your best friends, having fun and being together and romanticizing the time you spend with them. It’s not just mimosas over brunch and a green spreadsheet for wedding planning. With them, it’s the wind in your hair and the sun making your eyes sparkle and the alcohol making all your insides feel effervescent.

It’s love. It’s perfection. It’s your own brand of happiness.

And sure, maybe it’s a little defensive, but this is easier than loving someone and trying to make them love you. It’s easier.

“Whose dress are we still waiting on?” Carissa asks a little later, mouth full of avocado and bacon and looking very un-bridely.

“Mine,” Kora says, a little guiltily. “It’s at the tailor getting taken in—again.”

“I have mine,” you pipe up, wiping your mouth of jam. “And god, do I look like a full course Michelin star meal in that piece. Like, we’re talking ass for days, legs for days, tits for—”

“Excuse me, ma’am, excuse me.” A man, towering over the café table makes himself known, dressed in dark clothes and wearing a look on his visage that you can’t name.

“—days,” you finish, swallowing hard.

“Excuse me, I don’t mean to interrupt,” he says with a smile, “but I’m raising money for uh, breast cancer awareness, and I was hoping you would donate and sign up for uh, a marathon we’re doing.”

You blink. “Sorry,” you tell him, “but we don’t carry cash on us.” With a small smile, you nod at him, your eyes passing over your friends and looking around the café to see if any of the other patrons have noticed what’s going on. None of them look bothered.

“Not even for breast cancer awareness? C’mon, girl.”

“We don’t carry cash,” Sara repeats with a deadpan, but her eyes don’t meet his.

He doesn’t look at her either, content to stare at you, and your skin crawls.

“What about signing up for the marathon?”

“Fine,” you snap. Anything to get him to leave you all alone. “How do I sign up?”

“You give me your phone number and I’ll text you the details.” His grin is a little wider now, edging a little closer to where you sit at the table. You’re regretting that third mimosa. You aren’t on your game. The panic running through you is covered in a champagne haze.

You scoff. “No way.” Immediately you grab your purse, digging through it, and you slam a handful of loose change onto the table in front of him. “Here—a donation. Now please leave.”

His face twists into a scowl, but he scoops the money off the table and pockets it.

“You don’t have to be such a bitch,” he suddenly says, and anger courses through you until you shoot up from your seat, chair skidding behind you. He’s tall—much taller than your short stature. But, fuck it, the alcohol’s dimming the fear and fueling the need for you to protect your friends.

When you glance over, Carissa is already gathering the bags, eyes wide. Kora has her arms wrapped around her middle, trying to make herself smaller, ready to run. Sara’s phone is in her hand, 9-1-1 already dialed.

And still, no one in the café is doing a goddamn thing.

“Excuse me?” You glare up at the man.

“I just wanted your number, you fat bitch.” He sneers. “No wonder you’ve got an attitude, you obviously don’t get laid.”

Really, you can sit there and say it isn’t the fat comment. It’s not the insult. You’re used to that, with your overly-generous curves and your soft jawline and the fact that you’re wearing a skirt showing off the cellulite running through your thighs like a creek and a crop top that lets everyone peek at your stretch marks. You’re used to it.

And, really, you could handle this better. You certainly have before ‘cause this isn’t the first time you’ve been hustled or the first time some creep has hit on you. Old men have been slapping your ass in public since you were sixteen. You’re hot, you get it. If you saw yourself on the street you’d want a piece of your own goddamn ass, too. It comes with the territory, but it’s gross. And it’s sad but you’re used to it. So it’s not him calling you a fat bitch.

It’s the comment about getting laid. It’s sore as fuck.

You grab your would-be fourth mimosa and drench him in it, the glass slipping from your fingers and shattering upon the patio’s tiled floor in an instant.

“Slut!” The man lunges for you and you jump away, bumping into the table and losing your footing. You fall to the ground as glass comes crashing down around you, spilling sweet-smelling alcohol all over you. Ouch. Your friends scream, but you can’t take your eyes off him.

And then a gleam of black and gold blurs past you and grabs the creep by his neck, throwing him down. Now, a tall, wide body dressed in a dark hoodie is blocking you, guarding you, sheltering you.

“Try it,” Mystery Savior says.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Carissa chants, calling your name.

Your hand is sticky when you wave her away. “Get out of here, I’m fine. Just go. I’ll meet you—meet you at Kora’s.”

“We’re not leaving you!” Sara shouts, but something, maybe adrenaline or fear or fucking champagne, is running through your blood vessels at high speed.

“Just go!” you scream back at her. “I’m not fucking kidding, go!”

Because if there is one redeemable thing about you, it’s the length you’ll go to keep the people you love safe. And Mystery Savior might have just choked a creep out for you, but he also choked a creep out for you, and that’s enough to get your heart pounding in your ears. You don’t know who the good guy is—if there even is a good guy here.

“Fuck,” the creep curses, but it comes out raspy as he grasps at his quickly bruising neck. “You’re a—” he wheezes, “—you’re a murderer!”

Mystery Savior holds up his hands, and that’s when you see it. The black and gold of a vibranium arm just peeking out of the sleeve of his hoodie.

This isn’t a murderer. Not a Mystery Savior either. This is James Bucky Barnes, the Avenger, holy shit. Definitely good guy. Probably. He’s reformed, the news talks about it.

“Caught me,” he says, voice monotone. “What are you gonna do about it?”

If you weren’t currently sprawled on the ground, covered in mimosa, and panicking wildly about whatever is unfolding right in front of you, the very buzzed part of your brain would really appreciate the smoothness of Bucky’s voice when he said that, the cool, calm, collected delivery.

You’ll file it in the back of your mind for when you go back to your empty apartment.

“That fat ass ain’t worth it,” the creep chokes out, scrambling to get up. As soon as he’s on his feet, poised to take off, Bucky moves faster than you could have imagined and grabs the guy by his shirt.

“I don’t think so, buddy.” You can’t see his face, but you think Bucky might be smiling.

A portly man, a little shorter than Bucky, pushes through the gathering crowd, eyes wide and panicked, face red, already sweating. When you glance at his golden nametag, it reads: Jason, Manager. Cool that the manager showed up this late. If Bucky hadn’t stepped in, you’d probably be in a pile of limbs on the ground by now. Also—is he going to comp your bill? ‘Cause at this point, you’re starting to think you deserve it.

Okay, not a good time to be distracted.

“Thank you for getting him, sir,” the manager says, a little breathless. “Winter Soldier, sir.”

“It’s Bucky,” he says, and then he shoves the creep toward the manager. “Not sure why you didn’t step in before he got violent.”

Exactly! Why did everyone just stand around and do nothing as some six-foot man hustled the four women sitting beside the street? You glance around again, seeing your friends have disappeared and now, both the wait staff and other café patrons, are crowded around your table. It’s a little unsettling how no one cared to even look at you until everything escalated.

As the manager grabs the creep and hauls him off toward the street to wait for the cops, Bucky Barnes relaxes his shoulders and turns toward you slowly, and it’s—well, for lack of a better word—it’s beautiful. He’s beautiful.

He looks nothing like the superhero in the pictures. Here, with the D.C. sun hitting him unabashedly, his slate eyes like glass marbles, the lines surrounding them wrinkled in concern, his tongue darting between his lips to wet the skin where his teeth bite down, a habitual sore, his short locks ruffled by the breeze or maybe the fight or maybe he just wakes up perfectly rumpled, here he looks like a man.

“You okay?” he asks, somehow nonchalant and still worried, and he holds out a calloused hand to you.

Or, well, maybe Bucky had been watching. And maybe that’s enough.

God, you don’t even know this man outside of his Avenger persona, the headlines you read on the news, the pictures you see on social media, but there’s just something about him that makes you want to trust him. Like he guarantees safety, and you know that no one, least of all an Avenger, can guarantee safety. Even if that’s their job.

Stop feeling safe around him.

But you take his hand anyway, his long, thick fingers folding over your own like he means to swallow them, and Bucky pulls you up as though you weigh nothing. In fact, he does it so easily that you crash straight into him with a yelp and his arms instantly slide around your waist to catch you as your knees go weak, buckling beneath you.

When you look up at him, your hands trying to find purchase in the material of his hoodie, he’s staring down at you with the hint of a smile.

“Thanks,” you say, quiet and a little stunned.

His lips crack a little wider. “No problem.”

For a few seconds longer than deemed socially appropriate, you stare at Bucky, captured by the changing color of his blue-gray eyes. And then, as if god is slapping you on the back of your head, you blink and remember that you are covered in alcohol and currently pressed against the chest of a superhero, and your eyes go wide as you quickly push away from him.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” you tell him. “I’m disgusting—you probably have orange juice all over you now, fuck.”

“Hey,” he says, his flesh hand wrapping around your upper arm to steady you, “it’s okay. Seriously though, are you alright?”

You open your mouth to say something and then shut it again when you realize nothing sounds like the right answer. Bucky waits patiently though, peering down at you, his grip a little more grounding than you wish it was.

“Yes?” you say, but it sounds like a question. “I mean, maybe? I’m—It’s not like I’m not used to this happening. I’ll be fine.”

Bucky frowns. “Used to it?”

You shrug. “Not all men are superheroes. Most don’t have good intentions. And I’m not even that pretty, can you imagine what other women deal with?”

It slips out before you realize it, the self-hatred you keep at bay.

“Not pretty?” Bucky’s face twists into something confused. “That guy assaulted you just to get your number. I’m not saying it’s right, but if you think you aren’t pretty, well that’s just wrong.”

Oh god, what are you supposed to say now? So stupid. If you had just kept your mouth shut, you wouldn’t have forced an Avenger—a really fucking hot Avenger—to give you an awkward compliment and now you have to scramble to figure out what to say. If you deny the compliment, you’ll look ungrateful. If you accept the compliment, that’s too egotistical. Too into yourself.

You’ve backed yourself into a corner here, and Bucky’s on the other side of the ring.

“Look,” he interrupts your inner monologuing, running a hand through his hair and glancing away, “if you don’t mind me saying it, you’re—well—you’re gorgeous. I hope you know that.”

Your mouth falls open and you stare at him, nervous energy radiating off him, and when his eyes shift back to yours he coughs.

“I mean, don’t take that the wrong way. I’m not—I’m not trying to hit on you after what just happened, I promise.” His eyes go wide, then, and he throws his hands out in front of him in a placating gesture. “That’s not to say I’m not! Not hitting on you. I mean, shit, I just think you’ve gotta be the most beautiful dame—woman, sorry—that I’ve seen in years.”

There’s something soft about it, something sweetly suffocating, like buttercream frosting in the back of your throat, about his nervousness. The gentle panic, the way his eyes go back and forth from the ground at your feet to your eyes like he’s checking to make sure he hasn’t said the wrong thing, but he just keeps putting his foot in his mouth like it’s a magnet to metal. It’s endearing. It’s real.

“Do you want to get a drink with me?” you blurt out, and Bucky blanches. “I know it’s only, like, noon but I need a drink. And I owe you. For saving me.”

He relaxes at this, another one of those small smiles easing its way onto his face, and his shoves his hands into his pockets like he wasn’t just panicking two seconds ago about calling you a dame, which if anyone else had done, you would have socked them in the mouth, but he’s like one-hundred-and-six or something and you kinda get it.

“The drinks you’re wearing ain’t enough, doll?”

A laugh breaks from your mouth and he lights up, grinning.

“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?” You can’t help the smile splitting your own lips. “Sure, make fun of the girl who just got hustled, easy prey.”

The way he looks at you is burning.

“I’m Bucky,” he says. “James Bucky Barnes.”

“I know,” you say with a laugh. When you give him your name, he almost looks like he wants to try it out, but he keeps it on his tongue like he’s tasting it instead.

“So, a drink?” he asks, a little cautiously.

“I’d like that.” Then, you look down and curse. “But I’m gross. I really need to go home and change.”

Bucky nods, but a look of disappointment crosses his face, there and then gone again, just enough to make your heart tighten into a painful brick weight atop your chest. Everything in your brain is saying no, don’t do it, don’t do it. But your heart hurts and it hurts for him, a man you’ve only met in news articles and awkward interviews until now, when he’s saved you from being slapped around by some creep or worse, and god, you have such a soft heart sometimes and it’s gotten you in trouble before but you can’t just ignore it.

“Do you like Bloody Marys?”

His eyes meet yours again and you’re drawn into the storm that swirls in his irises once again.

“Never had one,” he admits. “They don’t look much like a drink.”

“Well, if you’re interested, I have the stuff to make a really good one at home. And then I could change and clean up a little and still y’know, thank you for saving my life? I mean it’s not much, but—”

“Yes,” he says, his voice as sure and steady as it was earlier when he was in hero mode. “That sounds great.”

Oh, you’re fucked. You’re so fucked.

The walk back to your apartment isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s not easy. Bucky walks beside you like a forcefield, using his body to guide you through the throng of people walking along the streets without even touching you. He reminds you of a sheepdog. The thought almost makes you laugh more than a few times during your stroll.

He walks with his hands in his pockets most of the way, especially his metal one. And he isn’t much of a talker, not that you mind as long as he keeps answering the questions you’re asking him, like what kind of food he likes and what he thinks about sphynx cats and if he likes memes—of which his answers consist of anything, what the hell is that and why is it naked, and a resounding yes.

Bucky asks some of his own questions, though they are few and far between and a lot more cohesive and meaningful than your own. He asks about how long you’ve lived in Washington D.C., about what you do for a living, and about your friends.

“Why did they leave you there?” He’s staring at you when he asks, brows sharp and furrowed.

“Because I told them to,” you answer. “I didn’t want them to get hurt or anything. And I’m kind of the person that if I’m yelling, you better listen ‘cause I’m usually yelling for a good reason.”

He nods like he understands, but his lips are pressed flat. “They shouldn’t have left you.”

You shrug. “I wanted them to. I would’ve been more pissed if they hadn’t run off and gotten tangled up in the middle of everything.”

“You’re a good person,” he says, still looking at you. His face is softer, that hint of a curve in his mouth the only sign that anything’s changed.

You give him your own smile. “Maybe.”

It’s only once you get to the front door of your apartment that things shift and your stomach rolls, heavy and fluttering light all at once, a not-so-familiar-anymore anxiety chilling your skin. The keys in your hand jingle and you aren’t sure if it's because your fingers are shaking or not.

“It’s not much,” you say, beckoning him inside, “but y’know, it’s enough for me.”

Bucky steps through the door with a reverence, a caution, a carefulness that strikes you right in the heart. He looks out of place for a minute, like he’s never entered an apartment before. And then, as you kick off your shoes, losing the extra inch of height, smiling and gesturing for him to do the same, there’s something in him that snaps and bends and his shoulders fall, relaxed.

He toes off his boots, leaving them by the door, and suddenly there’s a different air in the apartment. Almost intimate. Comfortable.

Stop it. You don’t even know him.

“Make yourself at home. Can I get you anything? A glass of water or something?”

Bucky shakes his head as he follows behind you, slowly, his eyes roaming over your space. It’s really not much, you know that. A little more than a box with a bathroom and a bedroom attached, what with the living room and the kitchen being “open-concept,” a word you’re pretty sure was invented to sell tiny apartments for more money. You don’t even have a table to sit at—just a couch to plunk down on while you’re eating.

“I’m alright, doll,” he says, running a hand over the soft cushions of said couch. “You go change, I’m fine.”

As soon as you disappear into your bedroom, the door locked behind you, you lean against the wood and let out a sigh. This is awkward. What the fuck were you thinking? Asking an Avenger—Bucky Barnes—back to your apartment for a drink? A bloody mary? Who are you trying to kid?

It’s been years, literal years since you’ve invited anyone back to your apartment. In fact, you don’t think anyone besides your friends has even stepped foot inside. Maybe they haven’t even made it to the door.

Why would you invite him here?

In frustration, you strip your dirty shirt off and throw it onto the floor, shimmy-ing out of your skirt and kicking it toward the hamper just as well. You sort through your drawers, looking for something comfortable to throw on. Or maybe you should wear something nice? Something that looks similar to what you wore to brunch. But Bucky’s dressed in jeans and a hoodie. But he also looks like a modern god in just that.

Fuck. You are fucked. Why did you ask him back to your place for a drink? What did you think would happen?

You throw an old band t-shirt over your head and pull a black pair of loose shorts up over your hips, cursing when you realize they don’t even hit mid-thigh. Does that seem suggestive? Is Bucky going to think you want to fuck him if you walk out in these?

Do you want to fuck Bucky?

No. No. This is not what this is about. You invited him over because you owed him a drink and because you needed to change and because he seemed so damn sad when you said you couldn’t go out for a drink. So you asked him to come home with you. Oh, god, that’s so complicated. What have you gotten yourself into?

Stop. Just stop thinking.

But—you have to admit it to yourself—you want it. You want him.

Your friends’ earlier words repeat in your head. A human, a connection, something that isn’t an empty apartment. They aren’t wrong for thinking that it’s something you want. For most of your life, you’ve lived thinking that you shouldn’t need someone. But isn’t it okay to want someone? You’re tired of being alone. Bucky Barnes is the first man that’s been in your empty apartment since you moved in, and maybe it’s a bold move, but you know what?

You throw yourself out of your bedroom, probably looking a little too frazzled, and you quickly comb your fingers through your hair as nonchalantly as possible to fix the flyaways. Bucky’s sitting on your couch, looking lonely, his hands rigid on his spread knees.

He looks like he fits there, on your sofa, in your empty apartment.

“Look,” you say in a breath, catching his attention. When he looks at you, his eyes sweep over your body like he’s never seen a woman before; shy, timid, a little nervous, but there’s something else there. It’s the same thing that’s heating your insides right now.

“I can make you a drink,” you offer, leaning against the doorframe to your bedroom with your arms crossed over your chest, staring at him, “or I can come over there and you can kiss me drunk instead, ‘cause I’m already halfway there.”

Bucky’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and then a cocky grin is curling his lips up, his face brightening the entire apartment. You don’t know if your body is warm because you’re embarrassed at your own daring or because Bucky Barnes is so beautiful it’s criminal, but you know that there’s static and stretch in your limbs and desire pooling in your belly. Liquor and lust are chasing away whatever fears you had before.

“Really?” he asks, but there’s a teasing lilt to his voice that reminds you of what a fucking flirt he is, or that he can be, and you think butterflies might be taking up residence in your tummy.

“Really,” you mimic, wearing your own charmed smile. Bucky lets his head fall to the side as he looks over you, then crooks one metal finger at you, beckoning you to join him on the couch. With as much confidence as you can muster, you stride toward him, putting a little swing in your steps. Maybe you look crazy doing it, but it’s enough that his eyes flicker down to watch your hips, and it sends a thrill through you.

“This isn’t like me,” you tell him as you sink down beside him, as close as possible while still giving him space to bolt if he needs to. “I don’t invite strangers over to my house like this.”

He smiles and it’s warm and big and easy. “I’m glad you did,” he says.

God, his eyes are pretty. “Me too.”

With Bucky’s thigh pressed against yours, his hand resting dangerously close to one of your bare knees, knuckles brushing your skin every time he shifts, you’re melting into his touch and you don’t care. It’s intoxicating—not the alcohol, which you swear should be wearing off by now, but him.

“I don’t do this often,” you say again, like you need to defend your bold behavior.

“Does that mean I’m special?”

“I think so,” you murmur, only loud enough for him to hear being this close.

Kinder than you thought possible, somehow simultaneously suave but still a little nervous, and yet authentic to a fault, Bucky Barnes is a thousand and one contradictions. Nothing like you ever thought he’d be. And maybe that’s what gives you the courage, the thought that someone so hardened could be so soft. That someone who looks like him, chiseled and striking and like a charcoal sketching on stark paper, could turn red at your innuendos and your charmed quips. That there’s a chance he could be attracted to you.

This—This is the connection you’ve been waiting for. The person who makes you feel like this. Tipsy when you shouldn’t be tipsy anymore.

“I know we barely know each other, but I really, really want you, Bucky.”

Your shoulder is pressed to his shoulder, your chest nearing his chest, your chin tipped up to stare at his eyes, his nose, his parted lips. Bucky stares down at you, his Adam’s apple dipping and bobbing as he swallows hard. Your lips curl, threatening to giggle. He’s so damn cute. How can someone like him, an Avenger, a super soldier, look so cute?

But the hand at your knee finally creeps up your skin, his hot palm glossing over your bare thigh, resting a little higher than a friendly touch would go. He presses indents—not too hard, but not too soft—into your plush, silken flesh.

“You do?” he asks, tongue darting out to wet his lip and you want to follow it back into his mouth with your own.

To answer, you push closer, your hand coming up to drape across his neck, a little off-balance as you sit up on your knees.

“Mhm,” you hum, and that’s all he needs to grasp your thigh roughly and drag you over him, seating you upon his lap as a squeak of surprise flies from your lips. His hands fall to your hips as if your body was made for him to hold and suddenly you’re looking down at him and he’s looking up at you instead, and god, he’s staring at you like you’re heaven and earth and everything he ever needed to be saved.

“I want you too,” he says, exhaling as if you’ve stolen all the air in his lungs.

“Then will you finally kiss me?” Your nose brushes his and his breath ghosts over your mouth.

Bucky’s lips surge up to meet yours, swallowing the last sounds of your words like it’s the first drink of water he’s had in years, cool and refreshing and tinged with smoke, something uniquely him.

As your hands thread through his short locks, desperate to hold onto him in any way, his fingers begin to curve over your ass. You rock into him, pressing against him harder, sucking at his plush lips as his tongue skims over your top lip until you grant him entry. Bucky kisses like he’s trying to taste every single part of you and it sends waves of pleasure through your belly and to your core, where you grind down until you feel his hardening length beneath you.

Immediately, you start to strip him of his hoodie, divesting him of that layer to feel the soft shirt beneath—but only barely because it’s hell trying to pull his hands away from where they’re touching you.

And he’s touching you everywhere. His fingers roam over every generous piece of your body. The silken planes of your thighs where he’s pushed your shorts up, the wide canyons of your hips, the bumpy hills of your waist where your stomach is too big and too soft and where he slips his mismatched hands under your shirt to trace the lines of your stretch marks. It isn’t long until he brushes by the band of your bra and then he’s tugging at the hem of the shirt, pulling away from your lips long enough to rid you of it.

You take the moment to rid him of his too, and then you’re both topless, still sitting atop his lap and panting from lack of air. No words are shared between you before Bucky is capturing your mouth again. It’s only passion, frenzied and hot and wanting.

His fingers fumble with the hooks of your bra blindly as your teeth sink into his bottom lip, nipping and giggling and tangling your tongue around his. As soon as you hear the snap, you lean back and Bucky pulls it off you, flinging the offending garment somewhere else in the apartment.

Now, with your naked chest completely bared to him, you wait for it to happen. For his eyes to dart away, for the apprehension to cross his features, for the disgust to set it. The real reason that it’s been so long since you’ve invited someone into your empty apartment—into your empty life.

You’re scared.

Like you’re expecting the blow, you close your eyes and brace yourself, but you don’t cover up. You’ve learned not to cover up. You refuse to make yourself smaller, or prettier, or more tolerable for people. It’s why you don’t get entangled with one-night stands anymore, why you don’t ask strangers to come home with you, why you don’t let your girlfriends set you up with anyone. Because you refuse to make yourself something you’re not just to fit in, and that’s what always, always ends up happening.

Bucky touches you and it makes you flinch, his vibranium fingers a little chilly against the soft, warm skin of your stomach. He touches you and it’s electric, but you don’t open your eyes.

You’re too afraid to look and see the disappointment in his gorgeous blues.

His hands skim over your rib cage, sliding around the sides of your waist, his thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts. You shiver at the contact. He continues his trail upwards, but then he lays his palms on your shoulders and caresses over your neck, his fingers finally finding the edge of your soft jaw to cradle your face. A shaky breath leaves you.

“Look at me,” he whispers, closer than you thought.

And no matter how much you’ll berate yourself over it later, there is something so safe about Bucky Barnes that your lashes flutter and your eyes open, and he’s right there, right there in front of you, staring at you with those stormy sea eyes half-lidded and glazed over with lust, his pink lips parted in awe, and you gasp at the intensity that strikes right through the center of you.

“You’re…” he trails off, swallowing nervously again. “Doll, I don’t think I know a word in English that describes you.”

Bucky presses forward, his chest brushing against your hardened nipples, stealing your breath and then sealing your lips with a kiss that isn’t like before. This kiss isn’t needy or wanting or filled with teeth and tongue and desperation. This time, his mouth moves with yours as if he’s trying to spell out a thousand words in twenty different languages to tell you how he feels, his lips leading yours in a dance that isn’t worried about an audience or the music or if you step on his toes.

When he pulls away, you wonder if your mouth is as swollen as his.

“You’re perfect,” he says with a finality in his tone that almost makes you collapse into his arms.

Then, Bucky wastes no time and captures a nipple in between those swollen lips, causing you to let out an embarrassingly loud noise in surprise. His metal hand finds your other breast, thumb stroking over the bud until you’re arching further into him. As his tongue traces patterns around one nipple, his fingers tweak and twist and pull its sister, and your hands grasp his broad shoulders in an attempt to hold on.

Finally, he presses gentle kisses over your rosy buds, all worn out by his touches, and then circles your breasts with more kitten licks and grazes of his teeth. Bucky’s hands settle at your hips again, fingers grasping your skin like he can’t get enough of the feel of you. He’s trying to imprint your body on his palms.

“I need to have you, doll,” he says all breathy as if he isn’t the one absolutely drenched right now. “Please. Please,” he asks so softly that you wonder if this is the man who even came to your rescue today, all tall and brooding. When you grind down on his lap again, feeling his hard cock beneath his jeans as he lets out a groan and tightens his grip on your waist, you realize you’re not the only one feeling the tension.

Still, there’s something cheeky left in you and you reach out to swipe your finger across his nose, effectively booping it cutely. A grin splits your lips.

“You need me?” you ask teasingly. “What if I need you instead?”

It’s like it sets something ablaze in him or something, ‘cause as soon as you go in for another kiss, Bucky stands up from the couch, his hands cradling your ass as you shriek and wrap your legs around him in reflex.

“Oh my god—”

“Now you’ve done it,” he grunts, burying his face in your neck to pepper kisses all over the stretch of skin that encompasses your shoulder, your jawline, even up into your hairline by your ear.

“Oh my god, put me down Bucky, I’m—you’re gonna drop me, I’m too heavy!”

“Heavy?” He chuckles against your throat and the vibrations almost make you shudder in pleasure. God, what is this man doing to you? “Darlin’, I don’t think you know the meaning of heavy.”

Bucky flashes you a wide, almost predatory grin, and you wonder where that soft, nervous boy went.

“If I wanted to,” he says, his voice low and steady, “I could fuck you right here, in the middle of the room, for hours.” He must feel the shiver that goes through your entire body because he’s laughing again. “But I want to fuck you into your mattress if that’s okay. Can I do that?”

Your throat feels dry when you whisper, “Yes. Please.”

He punctuates your plea with a heated kiss to your lips, his tongue tasting the citrus and bubble from your mimosas, the alcohol long since worn off. It’s all him that you feel, all him that intoxicates you, and all him around you as he walks you into your bedroom, not even straining under your weight, and dumps you onto the middle of your sheets.

There, he cages you, hovering above you to kiss down your body, already intent on tearing your shorts off.

“Bucky,” you whine. In the afternoon light streaming through the single window in your room, his eyes are a startling color you wish you could name, all clear and confident and crystal and god, god, his fingers are already exploring the slit of your core so lightly it makes you flush and want to hide, your inner thighs sticky and coated in your own slick from how hot he’s made you with such simple touches.

“You want me?” he asks as if he doesn’t know.

“Yes,” you hiss in pleasure, body writhing beneath him. Bucky leans down to kiss the shell of your ear, his tongue blazing a hot trail that makes you moan and buck your hips up to meet his, but he won’t have any of that.

“Good,” he says, “‘cause I need to have you, and I don’t plan on letting you go ‘till I’ve gotten everything you’ve got to give, doll.”

That nervous Bucky, all awkward smiles and panicked glances and sweet lines, he’s gone. In his place is this Bucky, assured and charming and suave and smooth and making your eyes roll back into your head until a scream is threatening to burst from your lips unless he swallows it with his own kiss, which he does, over and over again.

“I’m gonna ravage you, darlin’.”

You aren’t sure which one you like better—but is it greedy to say both?

As the light of a new day spreads through your apartment, you awaken easily, softly, but painfully. Someone’s pulled the blankets up to your chin and tucked them around you, and the thought leaves an empty feeling inside of you. When you stretch, every part of you burns deliciously, a memory from the hours spent in bed, on the couch, on the fucking counter after you’d eaten and he still wasn’t satisfied, and then again in bed.

And now, looking over at the space beside you, he’s gone. His clothes are gone from the floor. There’s no sound echoing in the building. He even left you tucked in, for god’s sake.

Your apartment is just as it always has been—empty.

With a groan, you kick the covers off and plant your feet on the floor, willing yourself to get up. The ache in your muscles is nothing more than a pleasant memory, an unpleasant reminder of the marks he left on you, his absence.

Stop it. You shouldn’t have even gotten attached to him in the first place. You knew what this was, and he did too, and it’s no wonder he’s gone this morning.

Get over it.

You swipe an oversized shirt from your dresser and throw it over your head as you stride out toward the kitchen, content to go pantyless for the day after the abuse you put it through last night. Yawning, your eyes screwed shut in another big stretch to warm up your overused muscles, you hear him before you see him.

“Mornin’, doll.”

Like that, your eyes snap open and he’s there, standing in your tiny kitchen in nothing but last night’s boxers, looking fucking glorious in the spotlight of the warm sun that’s streaming through the room and highlighting the counters.

“Bucky?” you ask, but it’s a little loud and a little shrieking, something you don’t intend. But all he does is smile at you, metal fingers tapping the plastic countertop, so at ease he just looks like he belongs there.

“I thought I’d make you breakfast but you have nothing in your fridge,” he jokes, leaning back against the drawers and crossing his arms over his bare chest.

You shift, embarrassed, looking anywhere but at him. “Yeah, I need to go shopping.”

A long stretch of silence fills your apartment and you’re unsure of what to say in order to break it. Bucky’s clearly watching you, drinking in the sight of your love-marked body, bruises peeking out of the hem of your shirt that barely skims past the tops of your thighs, and you remember you’re wearing nothing underneath.

And he’s here, right here, and you really aren’t sure why. It seems the two of you have almost switched places. Where Bucky was nervous and shy at first, he’s now confident and comfortable and you’re left with heated cheeks and a tongue-tied in knots. Whatever boldness that came over you all yesterday has fled.

It’s left a deep pocket of insecurity inside of you.

“Why are you still here?” you ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, like you don’t care, but your voice shakes a little. He’s too far away to really tell, but you think a flash of hurt passes over Bucky’s brow.

“‘Cause you still owe me a drink,” he says as if it's obvious, a small smile still sitting so prettily on his mouth.

You blink, a little confused, but shuffle closer. “Bloody Mary?”

“Yeah,” he says with a deep breath, his grin growing bigger the closer that you come toward him. “Will you still make me one?”

You nod, toes finally crossing into the kitchen, and then you and Bucky are staring at each other. There are scratches left like the bones of a graveyard on his arms, and you’re almost sure if he turned around they’d cover his neck and back just as well. Seeing those reddened marks, similar to the bruises he’s left on you, makes you relax your shoulders just a little.

“Do you need help?” he asks, eyes sweeping over your barely covered form.

“No,” you say, heading to the kitchen which is little more than a countertop, a stove, and a fridge. “But you can keep me company.”

So this is what happens in the morning after. Bucky leans against the counter next to you, watching you with a burning intensity that nearly matches last night’s, and you pull all the ingredients out and line them up next to two glasses and try not to falter under his gaze. He looks at you like you’re this fascinating thing he needs to study and it bothers you, but only in the best of ways.

“Do you always stare this hard at your dates?” A smile plays at your lips as you crack open the tomato juice.

He doesn’t look away. “No,” he says, but he sounds unsure. “Is this a date, doll?” There’s something in his voice that you can’t figure out, faintly hopeful, fairly confused. Vaguely surprised, even.

You shrug. “Maybe.” Especially after all of yesterday, you would hope he thought so.

But Bucky shakes his head. “No.”

Ow.

That hurt more than you were expecting it to. Calling yourself his date had only been a joke meant to lighten the mood, ease him up a little, cure the tension swirling in the room. You guess you should have expected it, though. You owed him a drink—he didn’t owe you a date. It wasn’t supposed to be a date, anyway.

All you had done was sleep together, for fuck’s sake. This is why you hate morning afters. This is why you would have preferred it if he had been gone when you woke.

But was that even true? Because the relief you felt when you found him waiting for you in the kitchen was immense and hard to understand.

You open the bottle of vodka a little more forcefully than you intended.

“When we go out on a real date,” he continues, and your eyes meet, “I’ll be taking you out and treating you.” A slow grin crawls over his face that reminds you of his wicked mouth and what it can do and the sight makes your heart beat and beat and beat, faster and faster, like the wings of a hummingbird, quick quick quick.

“When?”

“When,” he affirms.

“That’s bold of you,” you say, popping ice cubes from a tray into the glasses.

“Maybe,” he says, “but I know what I want now.” Bucky shifts a little closer to you, his vibranium arm brushing by the bare skin of your soft one as you try and focus on not spilling the juice, but you can smell him and he smells like cedar and bergamot and smoke and clove. A smell that consumed you whole last night, surrounded you, drowned you in it.

He’s so close you can feel him inhale.

“I’ve lived a long time not knowing—not getting to decide—what I want,” he admits, his voice low and quiet and soothing your nervous heart. “So you can call it bold, but I call it right.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your hands still and you look up at him, eyes wide. In the soft white lights of your tiny kitchen, sharing the tight space with him so close, Bucky’s eyes are thunder and rain and lightning all at once, peace and chaos both, promising release and the sweet scent of earth and oil afterward.

“You don’t even know me,” you whisper.

Bucky leans closer. “But I want to.”

He’s so close, too close, close enough that he can surely hear the rhythm of your heart, unsteady and racing just for him. You could surge forward and kiss him, stake your claim once again on those pinkened lips that have held your attention from the first time you saw them, feel the stubble of his jaw rub against the soft peach fuzz of your own, let it remind you of how it felt against the apex of your thighs as he made you cry out over and over again, breaking on his tongue over and over again.

It makes you feel dizzier than any alcohol ever could.

But Bucky reaches over, past you, and takes one of the glasses from your hand, warm fingers brushing over your cooler ones. He holds it up, toward you, gesturing for a toast. With a swallow, hardly glancing away from his slate eyes to grab the other glass, you tap your Bloody Mary against his with a soft clink.

He watches you over the rim as he takes his first sip and you think he might be smirking. Then, he darts toward you and takes your lips in his own, tasting of spice and tomato juice and perfection, all Bucky, all for you.

When he pulls away, too quickly, he rests his forehead against your and looks down at you, staring into your hazy eyes.

“Will you let me stay?” he asks, like he doesn’t know what you’ll say. The soft, nervous Bucky is peeking out from behind his confident visage once again, his voice hopeful and frightened and the hand that’s gliding beneath your shirt and over your waist more timid than it was last night.

There’s a million things you can say. You can tell him to take you out to brunch instead. You can tell him you’re too busy. You can tell him that this was a one-night stand, it was only ever meant to be a one night stand, and that it was fun but you can’t afford to get attached to him and god, you know you’re going to get attached to him if he stays and that scares the ever-living fuck out of you. You can tell him that it’s messy here, inside your empty apartment, inside your empty heart. You can tell him that he could take up residence here. You can tell him so, so many things.

“Yes,” you say instead, and Bucky laughs against your mouth when he kisses you hard once more.

#Eury2kchallenge #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x plus size reader #plus sized reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fluff #mcu #marvel #bucky barnes smut #smut #divine masterlist

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heli0s-writes · 3 years

Text

Clumsy

Summary: Serendipity, it’s the only way Steve can describe it. His ma was right: he’d always been slow.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

A/N: Fluff with a tiny sprinkle of Steve angst because I love one sad boi. Written for @wkemeup‘s 4K Challenge like an entire year ago!! I’m so sorry, Kas!! The prompt was Bright Eyes’ “First Day of My Life”. 2.8k words.

It was supposed to rain.

Thunderclaps rolled in the distance all morning. Moisture hung heavy in the air and the earth smelled like wet already--- salty, thick, sweet. The app on his phone blinked gray clouds straight across the screen. Seventy-three degrees and a nine-five percent chance of precipitation. Winds NE 20 miles per hour.

But at 2:30 in the afternoon when Steve slides into the car, it’s clear and blue.

So he figures it’s coincidence and poor meteorology when the engine quietly rumbles to life. He fixes the collar of his shirt, checks for hotels around the midway point, and sends an uneasy look to the empty passenger seat.

Then, he makes his way to where you are.

The two-lane country road stretches on. Winding and curving, pitch-black and howling with wind and wildlife. Bugs splatter on the windshield and he mechanically sprays a bit of fluid, wiping them off, the squeaks giving his radio a bit of rhythm in all this late-night talk. It’ll be another half hour before he gets to the hotel and he’s still wrestling with himself if he should even break.

No reason to now. He can drive all night. No reason to other than his pride.

“So what is it?”

There’s an imprint in the seat. An outline of a warm body folding soft creases in the leather. Late night talk radio fizzles out, and he’s tired, so he can’t get too upset at his brain for seeing the shape even though it’s been months since anyone’s sat there.

He chances a look over, then quickly back ahead because sure—the sedan is small, but this tiny strip of pavement feels even smaller. Too right and he’ll careen into the woods, too left and if another car’s coming around the bend Steve would roll out alive, but he’d be the only one.

He looks again.

Legs folded. Bare feet. Ankles crossed on the dash. Casually sitting with one hand on your phone and the other one behind your head, face lit incandescent by the screen. It was the first time he’d been alone with you after New York; he remembers this.

You hadn’t even given a glance sideways at him, still fixed on the screen, thumb sliding up and focused on mission details in a perfect picture of indifference.

“Your whole thing. Mister Red-White-and-Broody, most eligible bachelor in all of America—which, by the way, is so far up your ass all fifty states might as well be coming out of your mouth—”

“Stop it.”

“Okay, Rogers.” A smirk. His last name slipping between your lips like military title. “Fine, you’re all gilded in the front, suffering in the back. So—” You turned finally, pulled your feet back and tucked them under your body, “What is it?”

Steve pretended to think, left hand clenching a fraction tighter on the wheel, feeling its strength beneath his grip. His face remained impassive and dedicated forward, turning the seconds in his head, counting down the appropriate time for his reply.

It was a game, certainly. Your assertion, your poise, hand propping up your head—all of it. Your entire being was a foil to one Steven Grant Rogers and he was strapped with you for half a week. Already the car ride was beginning to foreshadow what was quickly seeming to be a long assignment.

“It’s my job—”

“So weak.”

“I’m busy—”

“Are you even trying to lie?”

You were known to do this: lay out a path of questions that only gave your company the pretense of a genuine conversation. You’d lead them like a wrangler leading horses to water, knowing they wouldn’t drink, but giving them just enough time to stare at their own reflection in the pool before you’d yank the harness elsewhere.

It was always a short path, but what you lacked in subtlety you made up for with honesty.

Agitated, Steve snapped before he could rein himself back in.

“What are you, my psychologist?” Horse.

“You don’t have one. You are the only Avengers Tower resident who has run off every psychologist on Stark’s payroll. So--” a twist of your torso, your back pressed up against the door handle as you stared at the outline of his side profile. Wrangler.

The question dangled in front of his gritted teeth. The answer he’d known long ago was behind two perfect calcium rows, pressed up, trying to find its way through the cracks.

What’s your thing? We fought together. We live together. We suffered a cataclysmic event in the form of aliens together---so why doesn’t anybody know you?

You leaned forward, body tilting until it almost touched your former footrest. Your head sloped to find his face and when he flicked his eyes sharply to yours, Steve knew it wasn’t sharp enough.

“You don’t want to be vulnerable.”

You’d led him through the brief route of your inquisition and had seen all you cared to see. Your voice bounced off the window when you closed your eyes and turned away.

“Steve,” you sighed, mouth going to the side in a smile. “Vulnerability is clumsy, but it’s the only thing worth anything.”

He had thought: No, it isn’t. He’d spent too long being vulnerable already, and he couldn’t afford it again. Twenty years of a miserable half-life and seventy years of sleep and suddenly the world was new and different and strange. Coming back into his body was new and different and strange but it was the body that afforded him invulnerability.

Mostly, anyway.

Steve decided, then, at least he could make up for that lump of mortality—that lump of weakness—with performance.

So, he became the blacksmith to his feeble Brooklyn boy heart. Forged carbon steel, gold-plated, immaculately polished like his own shield at press conferences. Smoothed himself into a monumental display of impeccable posturing and hid the boy away where no one could reach him. Let him go back to sleep, too. Frozen in a time long passed, long forgotten.

He wasn’t Steve Rogers anymore because no one knew Steve Rogers anymore; it was the only way he could carry on. Didn’t you know?

No, he supposed, you didn’t.

On the ride back you surrendered yourself to the backseat, laying down in the most comfortable position the sedan would allow, and chatted his ear off the entire ride home. Called him Steve and looked at him through the rearview mirror. Eyes met eyes, and yours crinkled at the edges with some secret knowledge.

By the end of it, all he could think about was how he didn’t mind the conversation and that his first name even sounded a little nice coming out of your mouth.

You shimmer in the passenger side until your hair hangs a little longer. His brown leather jacket is around your shoulders. A stretch of your arms. A stretch of your lips. Months passed and Rogers befell the man you knew during the Manhattan Crisis while he became Steve.

Steve on missions and in the field—On your six, Steve! Keep up, old boy. Steve at the tower and Steve in the gym— don’t touch my weights, Steve, you’ll throw your back out.

Steve getting the door and pouring the whiskey and letting you wear his jacket when you were cold. Finding you across rooms at parties because there was an easiness to your presence that calmed the crowd. Shooting pool and watching movies. Up late and out late and laughing until the early hours.

He was Steve, your friend, because he finally allowed himself to have a friend.

You change. Shimmer again until your hair is pulled back from your swollen face. A hospital gown crinkled around your shoulders. Asleep, cold. Too close to death, too close to him. He couldn’t even sit by your bedside, only standing by the door, shuffling from one wall to the other and watched the monitors with a too-loud and static-filled brain.

He was hesitantly Steve when you stepped too close to him on the balcony nights later, hand precariously hovering over that fragile boy heart, finally pressing down on it, feeling his delicate pulse thawing and crawling towards you. Tipsy smile and you tasted like whiskey and easy joy.

The kiss was clumsy, like you’d said. Vulnerability threw him back to the 40’s, all gangly limbed and ill, his lungs malfunctioning, his breath smothered in his mouth. He stumbled, but the banister held him up.

You didn’t mind that his knees felt boneless. You chalked it up to too much drink, but the touch of your still-bruised cheek abruptly burned down his throat—warm and smooth and cataclysmic until he caught sight of the way you winced as his hand cupped your tender face. Steve stepped back, then, and apologized for what he said should have never happened.

There was a small quiver from your shoulder before you quietly went back inside.

He cursed himself on the balcony. Cursed letting it all happen in the first place. Captain Rogers watched your retreating steps, burying the spark and the fire. And the boy must have cried in his ice-block coffin when he buried him again, too.

“Don’t look at me like that.” God, he’s going crazy. Poor night-vision and an addled brain causing him to scold an empty seat. “You stopped talking to me.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightens the way it does when you’re too deep in his head and he can’t get you out. Days without hearing from you smeared together in careful steps of a cagey dance. Comments always presented as half-truths—riddles he struggled to deconstruct. Breadcrumbs never leaving enough of a trail to lead him anywhere. He wants the harness back. Wants back your confident hand.

“You could have said something.” Steve scoffs, because you always had something to say. “Anything. You could have said anything. We were—friends.”

And hell, doesn’t that sound stupid out loud? Maybe it’s best that he’s got nothing but infinity beyond the sedan’s glaring brights and a million thoughts of unsaid words. It’s all useless, anyway. Best that he can get it all out now, talking to your ghost. It keeps all his thoughts in his head and keeps him from yelling every time he sees you not-looking, not-smiling, not-talking to him.

Steve flicks the wipers on again. Shuts off the radio. Shuts off the navigation. Takes the car off cruise-control to give himself something to do. He’ll stop overnight, after all.

Suddenly then, in the distance, two glowing eyes greet him steadily. Measured paces, in a firm and crisp trajectory, growing closer and closer. Glaring and vivid, beating the monotonous grind of nighttime out of him. His pinky moves, and his high beams flip to low beams, white giving way to yellow and the glistening road signs and tree-shadows in the distance slowly diminish.

Bleached spectral glaring of leaves and road signs soften ochre and brown, indigo dark. For a fleeting moment, even Steve’s enhanced eyes feel half-blind again as he readjusts to the pitch-black night barely lit. The car coming toward him does the same, highs blinking low and they pass each other in quiet understanding. In blind trust on the dark road, dependent on each other’s good faith to see it through.

He thinks of Sarah Rogers in a tiny Brooklyn kitchen, floral wallpaper yellowed and peeling behind her. One hand on an apron-clad hip, cooking interrupted by her son stumbling in dripping blood down his shirt, her other hand clenched around a wet kitchen rag.

“Steven Grant Rogers! Oh—wretched! What else can I say,” she’d sigh as she pressed it to his nose, “You do whatever you please, anyhow. You just put this on your face—and don’t think it’ll get you out of doing the dishes, either.”

“But—” he’d attempt.

She’d put up her hand, “Lord have mercy on any young woman that’ll have you. May she have your poor mother’s patient heart.”

His ma always called him slow. A dolt through and through. Quick to temper, but laborious to do much else. Common sense always took its sweet time-- took the long path home to get to Steve Rogers. In seventy-odd years, he hasn’t changed.

Better than coincidence and better than poor meteorology. Serendipity. It’s the only way he can describe it.

Like finding a crumpled up twenty in his pocket—or in his case, a five—enough then for a week’s worth of meals. Like having that nightmare— the one right before the plane crashes and instead of going down with it, he wakes up. Like expecting to drive five hours through a storm and stopping overnight, but instead it’s clear and blue as far as he can see.

The rush, the relief, the deafening joy that shuts everything else up and out.

Sarah Rogers was right: he’d always been slow.

So he careens back onto the highway from the service road, steadying his foot on the pedal and flies about fifteen miles faster than the speed limit says he should. The car is vibrating to a thrilled beat inside his chest. Steve can’t help smiling.

It was supposed to rain. All the way to the next mid-morning but the sky parts a brilliant orange sunrise and he nearly sprints to the door. He doesn’t wait for it to open all the way before he barrels in. A sliver of parting wood is enough, and Steve throws it wide with his enormous shoulders, kicking it shut firmly with his boot.

The imprint of your body on the couch is still warm—you, halfway across the room in alarm—real and even warmer when Steve gathers you into his arms. He’s been awake for over 24 hours, talking to himself, talking to your hallucination, so he apologizes when his teeth click against yours in a frantic kiss.

“Rogers--!”

You pull away, dazed, a little bit pissed off, but you cow the swirl of emotions into professionalism. “What are you—you’re not supposed to be here until late—did you drive through--”

“Steve,” he interrupts, “Steve.”

He’s so tired of the long road. Can’t stand another second of maneuvering in the dark down winding paths or broken streetlight avenues you’re not at the end of so he keeps his next phrase short: “I really like you.”

You raise your brow and brush the back of your knuckles over your lips, the light from the balcony streaming over your face. His hand tenderly brushes your cheek, the same one he touched all those months ago and you blink in surprise. Quick, calculating movements even as you lean gently into his touch.

“Steve…” you say slowly before your mouth pinches together in a poor attempt to hide the smirk threatening to surface. “You drove all night to… ask me to call you Steve.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “And the mission.”

“Right, the mission. The debrief didn’t mention that it required a lot of… kissing.”

“It came up recently; I haven’t adjusted the file yet.” He grins at your rolling eyes, your swollen lips peeling back to reveal a joyful display of teeth at his stubborn defiance.

“Took you long enough,” you mumble.

You place your hand over his chest, over his heart.

You kiss him and Steve hears himself sighing into your mouth. His cheeks flush with embarrassment, but you’re not letting go, and he presses his lips to yours a little slower, a little firmer, learning the ways you like to feel him there.

“Steve,” you breathe, and it paints him in the most galvanized care. “Steve,” you say again, and his eyes slip shut, like he’s being laid to rest. And maybe he is. Finally weary of lugging around all his armor, all his pretense.

The boy emerges, thawing toward his name held sweetly in your mouth.

He fumbles with his awkward limbs—a newly birthed foal trying to find its footing—but you’re patient and enduring. He takes in his trembling body—knobby knees and gangly elbows. Inept gait still learning how to be. He takes the sights—white casting over the balcony. You, even brighter.

It was supposed to rain, but you link your fingers through his, leading him toward the open doors, smiling against a backdrop of sherbet swirls. He stumbles, but you’ve got him. A few short steps, just a few more, and Steve kisses you again in the sunbathed daybreak, resurrected and anew.

#marvel #fanfiction #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #reader insert #steve rogers x you #steve x reader #steve x you #steve rogers imagines #fluff #angst

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mxtantrights · 3 years

Text

past lives | 1

a/n: I've had this recurring dream of this plot but it’s mostly in bits and pieces and I had the gruesome thought of sitting down and writing it. Time to write everything I remember and make it stretch into a piece of writing. Hope you enjoy!

playlist here

The receptionist called your name and alerted you that he was ready. Of course, the he in question was Tim Drake, the man of Wayne industries. It was intimidating to even think about, but you got out of your seat. You had to see it through.

You adjusted your pants a bit, the wrinkles from sitting had probably already set in.

The pretty receptionist walked until he stopped in front of a door. He reached out and opened it for you with a smile on his face. You thanked him and stepped into the room.

“Hello,”

Tim Drake looked up from the desk of paper work and greeted you.

“Right, Mr.Drake I’ve been told to deliver this letter to you.” You said.

At that moment your hands fish through the bag slung across your shoulder. The only piece of paper finds its way into your hand and you take it out. You reached over and handed it to him.

Tim took the paper out of your hands.

“Do you have any idea what this is about?” he asked.

You shook your head, “I’m just the messenger- or well I knew the person who wanted you to have it but not the contents.”

Tim nodded.

“I’ve actually gotta get going, I took my lunch break to deliver that.” you said.

“Oh, sorry to inconvenience-” “On no, trust me I needed to get out of the office anyways.”

You waved your hand goodbye and headed out the way you came. Out of Tim Drake’s office, past the pretty receptionist and into the elevator. All the way down to the main floor and out the front doors which were squeaky clean glass.

As you walked up the block away from the building, your phone began to ring. You took it out of your back pocket and clicked answer before you checked the caller ID.

“You answered.”

A voice that you never wanted to hear again. A voice that made you feel guilty for even thinking the previous thought. But the convolutions weren’t really the priority. The call was.

It stopped you in your tracks. You almost collided with another body on the street but you caught yourself before it could happen.

“I told you to not call unless it was an emergency-”

“It is.”

“An emergency concerning who specifically?”

“The only person you seem to care about from your past life.”

“What’s the situation?”

Tim Drake could be summarized as multiple things, the most important one being tired. When he gets home from patrol he doesn’t actually head to bed like a normal person. It’s Tim. His laptop previously open to some specs on a case. And his favorite mug is almost empty.

His head rests on the keyboard. This doesn’t do any damage to anything he’s working on as the screen had timed out.

This is how Bruce finds him.

The older man worked quietly and quickly in placing Tim in an actual bed and under the covers. After, he headed over to this desk to close his laptop. As his hands pushed the screen down he caught a glimpse of an envelope. With his name on it.

He picks it up and looks back at his son. Then back at the envelope. Thinking about why Tim would have a letter addressed to him. His eyes scan the desk more and he finds another envelope turned over. His hands pick it up and it’s addressed to Tim.

An envelope within an envelope

Bruce takes his letter and quietly leaves the room.

It’s a few moments before he opens it. He goes downstairs into the library to clear out the mess he had mad earlier in the day. And he talks with Alfred about an ongoing situation he needs his immeasurable knowledge on. It’s after that conversation has ended that Bruce opens the envelope.

He recognizes the handwriting immediately. One that he didn’t know he could remember for so long. One that belonged to someone he loved dearly, a very long time ago. Before he had sons, before he dawned the cowl. He doesn’t even think he had a cowl back when he was with-

His eyes finally glaze over the words.

Dear Bruce,

I know it’s been a long time since we’ve spoken. And I know it’s because we both decided to keep our distance. But I know when we had that conversation 20 something years ago, I was the one to bring it up. You’re probably wondering why I’m writing you to begin with.

First I want to apologize to you. I stepped away from you, from us because I was scared. I was only twenty something with my head in the clouds. And you were right by my side and it felt incredible.

But I was knocked out of the sky when I found out I was pregnant. I had a child- it’s yours. We have a child. Or we had. If you’re reading this it means that I have passed on. In between then and writing this letter I’ve had the time to actually think about the decision to go our separate ways.

In terms of me, I had to try and figure out if our child was a thing I wanted in my life. (Obviously you know the answer to this). In terms of you, I didn’t want to tie you down. You were doing great things and on the way to do so much more. You were only twenty five, you had your whole life ahead of you.

However that shouldn’t have been my decision alone, and for that I am truly sorry. Because now you have to find out this way and so does our child, and I’m not there to help either of you.

So I’ve decided to help you out a bit. This letter is supposed to be double enveloped- to your youngest son and then to you. I hope this letter finds you. Tim will have already met our child and not even known. You have a choice here to reach out.

I can’t write in words how sorry I am that I kept this secret. And that you’re learning it this way-

Bruce’s eyes look up from the letter and latch onto the bookcase in front of him. He lets out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding since seeing the distinct letters of his high school sweetheart.

“Father.”

He turns around.

There in the doorway of the library, is Damian.

“Yes son.”

“Richard called, he is arriving in Gotham in the morning.”

“Good. Thank you for letting me know.”

Damian nods his head once. And with that he leaves. His son, his biological child is not alone. He was never alone with Dick, Jason and Tim. But this, this changes things.

#dc x reader #batman x reader #batfam x reader #Bruce Wayne x reader #Tim Drake x reader #Dick Grayson x reader #Damian Wayne x reader #dc imagine #dc fanfic #PAST LIVES

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imaginesntingz · 3 years

Text

Haikyuu Headcannons: When they’re obsessed with your 🍑 (Oikawa Tooru, Ukai Keishin, Kozume Kenma)

Warnings: Swearing, not super explicit/nsfw, but suggestive content so I’ll put it below the cut just in case

A/N: What’s good everyone? Here’s something that I’ve stayed up way too late working on. It’s 5 in the morning and I’ve forgotten my own name. Let me know if y’all want a continuation with other characters. They all ended up being setters in this one so I just went with it I guess. All characters are aged up and 18+. I hope you enjoy! Please don’t copy any of my writings. My content is originally written and I put a lot of time and effort into each piece. Ask me before reposting.

Oikawa Tooru:

Of course he’s respectful when you’re in public, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t noticed the way that new skirt he bought you last week accentuates your ass in justtt the right way.

You’ve caught him staring a few times and he always plays innocent like the sly little shit that he is.

You called him out once, but you know your mans is dramatic

“You wound me, (y/n) chan! What kind of a man do you take me for? I’m a gentleman! Honestly it’s not all that impressive anyways”

“Sounds like someone’s projecting”

“(Y/N), YOU TAKE THAT BACK RIGHT NOW!”

“You blatantly asked for the smoke, so I kindly obliged~”

“I was just kidding, baby! Why’d you have to come for me like that? 😭😭😭😭”

You had one brattykawa on your hands after that one. Dats tough

Anywhooo

Once you two are alone OOF. This. Bitch. Is. SHAMELESS.

He can’t keep his hands off of you. Doesn’t matter the size or shape

Your ass = Tooru magnet

He could pick you out in a crowd of people based on that booty alone

You’ll be cuddling on the couch, you're on top with your head on his chest just watching a movie and enjoying each other’s presence. Then BAM he’s got both cheeks in each hand, squeezing and kneading firmly

“Neee, (y/n) chan~ You’re so soft, baby girl~ How is that even allowed? Damn you’re so gorgeous, princess”

You: Head Empty

You're bent over the kitchen island scrolling through your phone? This mans is playing patty cake on your buns. Those setter hands are dangerously powerful. Of course he knows how to restrain himself as to not hurt you but whew some of those spanks leave you deliciously breathless and your little gasps are like music to his ears… which usually leads to other tingzzzzz and Tooru teasing you for walking funny the next day

Could his ego get any bigger? I don’t know if we’d survive it

Wearing his favorite pair of leggings or those cute pajama shorts? It’s on sight. You’re trapped beneath this painfully beautiful brat of a man and you wouldn’t have it any other way

And lawwdd if you know how to twerk. He might just faint on the spot

RIP Oikawa it was for a good cause

Ukai Keishin:

Oh boy

Keishin gives me serious ass man vibes. Idk what it is

He worships you in every way possible, but that ass holds a special place in this cranky man’s heart

After a long day of working with crops, managing the store and volleyball practice, this man is tired and grumpy. Hinata somehow managed to almost meet his eternal rest when he was nearly hit by a TRUCK and a CAR and a BIKE and a STATIONARY POLE trying to outdo Kageyama while racing in the neighborhood. He swears those kids have taken at least ten years off his life span.

This man is v stressed

So when he comes home to find you reading in bed on your stomach in nothing but his t-shirt and those sexy panties that show off that beautiful bum… Honestly he could’ve cried he was so geeked.

He teared up a bit ngl (He’d never admit it tho)

This guy swan dived into bed, wrapping his arms around your waist, nuzzling his face into your glorious cakes

“Bad day, hon?”

“Mmmphh”

He took a fat nap right then and there

He was so bitchy and whiny when you woke him up to change sleeping positions (as long as you let him slip a hand on a cheek when you got comfortable, he’s a happy camper)

He just loves feeling the warmth and weight of it in his hands, it’s comforting to him and feels super grounding idk

But boy oh boy does this man love to give it a good smack or two or ten

Watch out bb 😈

He’ll spank you anywhere anytime, but he’s real sneaky about it in public….until he’s not LOL. It just depends on the environment and who is around

Like Oikawa, the strength in those setter hands will have you shOOk to the core especially a seasoned one like Kei

One time you were doing your morning stretches, slipping into downward dog and HO. NEY. Keishin was already pulling you flush against his pelvis and smacking that 🍑 like a djembe drum until tears pricked your eyes. Your whole body was vibrating with desire it was WILD

“Ohhhh, sweetheart. You are a work of fucking art, you know that? You’re not going anywhere today. That’s a promise.”

And that’s how you ended up with twins. Not sorry.

10/10 would recommend

Kozume Kenma:

Listen Linda

It took a while for you to notice

But Kenma is truly OBSESSED with the booty

It took him a while to even admit it to himself tbh

He would look away immediately when he caught himself staring

And he may have appeared chill on the surface but blondie was internally screaming as you literally sat on top of him while he was gaming

He was so hesitant poor bb was overthinking it so hard. He just didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable or think he was weird etc etc

It was confirmed to you when you started waking up in the middle of the night to a fully unconscious Kenma giving your ass subtle squeezes in his sleep

You’ll literally have to sit this man down and be super direct about it

Once you give him the go ahead chillle it’s on and poppin

Only when y’all are alone of course cuz as we know, Kenma is v shy and a very private person

He’s not the pda type in general

Again, he loves it when you sit on top of him when he’s playing video games. Especially when you straddle him. His hand does this smooth slide down your back that sends shivers down your spine before settling over the swell of your butt. He’ll give the occasional rub and caresses your thigh softly. Another muse of his. Kenma LIVES for your thighs. Would happily be suffocated by them. Whoops. Squeeze them around his waist or grind into his lap and you’ll be on your back faster than you can say yes please

When you’re cuddling, he’ll just start jiggling that cake in his hands. He finds it fascinating, soothing and unbelievably hot all at once. The perfect combination in his opinion.

“ . . . Kenma?”

“Hm?”

“Watcha doin back there?”

*continues in concentrated silence*

“Babe??”

“. . . You’re like a sexy human stress ball . . So soft . . So cute . . So squishy . .”

“Ummmkay?”

My mans is hypnotized. He would do that shit for hours if you let him let’s be real. That thang is thangin

He would buy you ALL of the jeans, leggings, shorts, dresses, hoodies, crops, shirts, skirts. Everything and anything that fits your body type in all the right places, Kenma is on it and good lord is he invested. He absolutely spoils you. Blondie bae is surprisingly good at keeping your style in mind while also pushing you to try new things that end up making you look stunning. Big ups

The only time Kenma has spanked you was in retaliation. You wanted to see his reaction to being spanked. So once when he was distracted by his switch, you slowly walked up behind him and SMACK

Kenma nearly dropped the damn switch 😤 You’ve never seen this boi whip his whole body around and bend you over so fast

Two swift yet heavy blows to your backside had you rethinking your whole life. Everything about that moment lives in your head rent free

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gifted-burnout-archive · 4 years

Text

Route 66

Requested?: Yes! @dxlanhxlland asked for a Owen x Reader where y/n is oblivious to Owen’s flirting. I added a little more to it, not gonna lie, so i hope you still like it my lovey!

Word Count: 5.6K+

Author’s Note: I found out Route 66 went through Oklahoma and kinda just had to write this tonight... Struck by inspiration, so I was. It’s nonsense, and it’s mine, and that makes it acceptable for the blog. Enjoy!

Warning: nothing really, it’s all fluff.

masterlist | taglist

Being best friends with an actor had some major perks. To start, you were always the plus one for premieres, parties, festivals, all of it. Then there was the constant gifts from around the world sent to you back home, and getting to help with script run throughs if someone’s sick, or being sent over snippets of shows months before they aired, being a part of the secret without having all the hard work that came along with it.

The best thing was always the reunions though, when that favourite person comes back from weeks or months away, back to your little Oklahoma town, even if just for a little while. That feeling of adrenaline and serotonin mixed together as lost souls reconnect after so long apart, it’s special.

Of course, the worst thing is watching them leave again. That’s exactly what Y/N was facing that weekend after two months of her best friend Owen being home from filming in Vancouver.

She knew it would happen of course, his tv show had become a success overnight, it only made sense that the team at Netflix would renew it for another season, but it didn’t make it any easier to see Owen leave again. It was never easy, in fact: Y/N found it was getting harder and harder to make that drive to the airport and send him on his way to LA. The tears that came alongside his departures were plentiful, the rides home alone deathly quiet, the nights empty without him there to spend time with.

It wasn’t like Oklahoma was exactly an exciting place to live.

Y/N had considered taking the jump, moving to LA with the hope of seeing her oldest friend more often, sure, but she didn’t have the money for such an adventure. She had been saving up for a few years now, what with Owen’s rising stardom and eventual permanent relocation imminent, but she was nowhere near close to what she needed.

So, as she woke up that Friday morning, she made a conscious decision as she pulled on a sundress and tidied her hair until a floppy sunhat, as she slipped into some sandals, grabbed her handbag, and ventured into the blazing sun of the Oklahoma summer: she was going to make this the best gosh darn weekend of Owen’s life.

“Well, don’t you look determined.” Owen commented with a smile from across the street, waving from the front steps of his house at his best friend, who waved right back. “What you got planned for me today then?” He asked with a smirk as he jogged across the road, and Y/N took in just how good he looked that morning in some vintage sports top repping a team she didn’t know, paired with a denim jacket and shorts.

“Well, I thought we could go exploring.” Y/N answered with a smile, lifting her car keys from her purse. “I think you need a trip down memory lane before disappearing off to LA again.” The decisive words had Owen unable to contain his smile as he followed her towards the truck parked in her driveway, slinging an arm over her shoulder a they walked over, taking a breath and being overcome with Y/N’s perfume: God, he loved that smell.

God, he loved her. He had for a while.

It wasn’t something he’d be sharing any time soon, of course, the kid was smarter than that. As Y/N tossed him the keys, and jumped in the passenger side of the truck, him taking the steering wheel, he took one more glance at her, committing the image of her sat in her sundress, pulling out a road map that must have been about thirty years old, to memory. He didn’t want to forget any of this as his life continued to zoom forward in the fast lane, he wanted to keep some moments locked in time, just for him.

“You sure we can be doing this? I was getting quite used to sitting on my couch all day, especially with you there...” Owen commented, and Y/N glanced up, nodding quickly, oblivious to his attempts at flirting. She always had been, more associating it with Owen’s charm rather than his attraction to her.

“Don’t worry, I have the whole day planned… Sort of… Got a mask just in case?” She asked, and Owen pulled the face covering from his pocket to prove it. “Then we’ll be taking a turn up to Jefferson, and you’ll need to get us on the Route.” She instructed, and Owen chuckled at her bossy tone, switching on the engine and pulling out the driveway, with the Great American Road in mind.

There wasn’t anything really exciting about Route 66 most of the year, Owen was aware of that. But if you picked the right day, the right car, and right stretch… It really could be a magical place.

It only took them 40 minutes or so to get onto the road, getting lucky to find it nearly empty as Owen revved the engine and started to speed down the tarmac. Y/N had slipped a CD into the truck’s sound system, the map splayed over her knees as they sang along to the country hits from her dad’s old music collection he couldn’t be bothered to clean out.

“You’re really not going to give me any clues as to where we’re driving?” Owen asked for the fourth time since they had started driving, and Y/N just grinned again, shaking her head.

“And ruin the surprise?” She pouted, and Owen bit his lip at the sight of it. “Not a chance, Joyner… We should go on the Live!” She exclaimed suddenly, causing the boy to laugh. Y/N had never been one for technology, but she knew how important it was to Owen’s job: social media presence was important to him, Owen had always enjoyed interacting with his fans.

Y/N took off her seatbelt and slid across the truck seat, reaching across Owen’s body and grabbing his phone out his jacket pocket, the boy doing his best to stay calm as her other hand grazed against the exposed skin above the collar of his shirt. She moved away as quickly as she had arrived, buckling herself back into her seatbelt and finding Owen’s Instagram app. He glanced over, grinning at her puzzled expression.

“Swipe right on the screen, Y/N.” He instructed as he watched the road, and the girl followed his directions. “Are you on the camera?” He asked, catching her nodding in his peripheral. “Great. At the bottom, there should be a button that says live. Click it, and you’ll be there.” He directed, but Y/N was a step ahead, proud of herself as she brought the camera up.

“I think it’s working!” She squeaked in excitement, panning the phone up to a grinning Owen, then out onto the view of the road. “Let me try and zoom…” She muttered, not noticing the watcher count jumping higher and higher up as she tapped on the screen, letting out a soft ‘oops!’ as she switched the camera to face herself. “Owen I think I broke your phone…” She said softly, moving the screen away from her face and frowning. “Oh, wait, no… There’s people talking to you!” She exclaimed, and Owen shook his head at her adorable incompetence, pulling over to the side of the road. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just have an idea.” He said quickly, holding a hand out for the phone and smiling into the camera, waving hello. “Hey guys! Sorry about that, if you haven’t already met my best friend Y/N, you should know she’s a little new to anything from 1998 onwards. Bear with me.” He said with a smile, quickly propping the phone up on the centre console of the truck. “And there, can you see us both?” He asked, quickly glancing down to check the answers. When he received an overwhelming stream of ‘yes!’, he sat himself back with a smile. “Well, spontaneous live! Hello! We are on a mystery trip, Y/N is surprising me before I head back to LA.” Owen prefaced as he indicated back out onto the road, continuing their drive. “We’re, what? Fifteen minutes out now?”

“Yeah, about that. Hello Owen’s followers!” Y/N waved at the phone. “O, what’s the text at the bottom?” She asked, getting the boy laughing again.

“It’s the comments, from people watching. Have a look, read some out, that’s what I usually do.” Owen explained, and Y/N leaned closer to the phone with an excited smile, catching sight of the first comment she saw.

“Aw, they’re all saying hello back! This is so cool!” Y/N squealed, biting her lip as she read a little more. “Why do you use a phone like my grandma?” She giggled at the comment, sitting back a little. “Good question, I don’t have a good answer. I’ve never really needed a phone; not like I would call anyone but Owen anyway. My life’s a lot less exciting than his.” She answered with a smile and happy shrug. “Oh, this exit, this one.”

“You’re sure this leads somewhere?” Alex checked, raising an eyebrow as he pulled off onto a road that was only a step away from dirt tracks. “And for the record, Y/N’s life is plenty exciting.” They shared a glance, both smiling at one another, Owen only pulling his eyes away to focus on the road.

“Well, maybe he’s right but he’s quite a tough act to follow, Owen’s followers.” She commented with another wave to the camera, quickly point him down another dirt road.

“Is this where you kill me on my own live feed, Y/N? That’s so not fetch.” Owen said with a roll of the eyes, and Y/N punched his arm gently.

“Stop trying to make fetch happen, it’s not going to happen.” She muttered, quoting the movie the pair had watched the night before. She leaned forward again, reading the new comments that were popping up. “How long have Owen and I been friends?” She read aloud, and glanced back at her friend. “What is it now, fifteen years?” She guessed, and he nodded. “Wait! Does that make me the original Owen Joyner fan?” She asked with a bright smile.

“I suppose it does… I mean, you were the only person to clap after my third grade concert.” Owen remarked, and Y/N giggled at the fond memory. “So, yeah…” He trailed off as they came over a hill. “Wow…” He muttered.

Y/N was quick to pick up the phone and flip the camera, presenting the view to the audience accompanying them with a giggle.

The dirt track wound its way along to the right, but Owen drove off-road, glad for the tires on the truck, coming to a stop at the edge of the bluest lake he had ever seen in person. The way the road led was to a cliff side, about 25 feet above the water, and trees popped up sporadically around the lake’s border, providing shade against the burning sun overhead.

“I thought this was dream…” Owen whispered, and Y/N turned the camera to face him, catching his expression of complete awe as he looked out at the scene.

The pair had visited once before, as kids, and it looked the exact same as it had back then. Owen had almost forgotten it existed, after them never visiting again he just assumed he had dreamed it, the day out he had spent with his family and Y/N. But there it was, right in front of him, and he turned to look at the girl who had brought it back to him.

“I stole swim trunks from your room last week, and there’s a cooler in the back.” Y/N said with a cheesy grin, glad she had kept the surprise for so long, because the look on her best friend’s face was priceless. She glanced down at the phone again, reading another comment. “Oh, who do I like most out of the JATP cast?” She read aloud, flipping the camera and smiling. “Definitely Owen, but besides him? I met Madison at New Year’s, she’s awesome!” She answered with a grin.

To her left, she was oblivious to Owen’s slack jawed expression as he tried to comprehend just how much he was in love with the girl beside him. Only Y/N would have come up with something this special, this brilliant, and act like she didn’t just make the boy’s entire year.

“You know, whenever I count my blessings Y/N, you show up twice.” Owen muttered, the girl glancing up at him as a blush coloured her cheeks. She glanced back down at the phone, her eyebrows furrowing, the compliment falling prey to the breeze that came through the car’s open windows.

“Owen, what is a Tic Tac and why does everyone want you to make one?” She asked, handing over the phone, and Owen shook his head in disbelief at her, smiling to himself.

“Right guys, don’t go confusing Y/N, her pretty little head can’t always handle it.” He remarked, teasing her as Y/N climbed out the car and made her way to collect the cooler and blankets from the truck bed, shouting a ‘hey!’ in response. Owen laughed, his eyes scanning over the comments for a moment before landing on a question:

When are you going to tell her, Owen? The heart eyes are real.

“I’ll sign out for now guys, come back to you on my story later. Thanks for tuning in!” He said with a wave to the camera, ending the live with a shaky breath, Y/N appearing at his side door a moment later.

“So, what is a Tic Tac?” She asked, opening the door for Owen, who quickly clambered out, taking the cooler off her hands as the pair started for the water’s edge. Y/N laid down the tattered blanket on the sand shores of the lake, and tossed Owen’s swim trunks and her bikini down beside her. If that boy had thought they come here and not swim, he was sorely mistaken.

“A TikTok,” Owen corrected. “Is a short video. Not much more to it.” He shrugged, and Y/N looked up.

“What, like a Vine?” She asked, scoffing when Owen raised an eyebrow. “I don’t like phones; it doesn’t mean I’m a caveman.” Y/N reminded, opening up the cooler as Owen sat it and himself down, handing over a beer to the blonde boy. He smiled, pulling out the car key and sticking it under the cap, popping it off with ease before taking Y/N’s drink and doing the same, both taking a sip of the cold beverage and sharing in a happy sigh.

The silence was comforting, familiar, accompanied only by the rustling of trees in the wind and the sound of cicadas in the nearby grass. It was like the pair had found themselves a slice of heaven only an hour or so away from home, a spot just for themselves, and as Owen glanced over at Y/N, who lay back on her elbows and bathed in the sunshine, he was tempted.

Tempted to maybe tell her how he felt, explain how he didn’t want to go to LA again without her, but the words never came. He wasn’t about to lose her.

“Thank you… For this. For everything, the past few months I’ve been back.” He decided on, taking another swig of the bitter drink, looking out onto the water in thought. “I forget sometimes, how great home can be…”

“That’s alright… You’re life’s moving forward, you can’t get stuck in one place.” Y/N responded softly, letting her eyes cast over him, the way he smiled out on the water, the way he held onto the neck of the beer so that it swung between his fingers. “Just don’t forget home entirely. That’s when you start to lose who you are.” The words were ones she had considered for the past few years now, when Owen’s career took off, she wondered if they’d ever have a talk like this. Where she’d have to remind him where he came from, who he was before fame… Before he left home indefinitely.

“Come on.” Owen clambered to his feet after a moment, holding out a hand to his friend with a small smile. “Time to make some memories.” He said as Y/N’s hand fell into his and she placed down her beer, letting him lead her towards the truck again, Owen scooping up the swimsuits as they went. She did her best to keep up with the blonde boy’s longer strides, the pair starting the trail towards the little cliff that hung over the water.

“Feeling a littler adventurous, aren’t we?” Y/N raised an eyebrow at her friend’s determined expression, taking her bikini from his hands.

“Yeah, it’s usually Charlie doing shit like this…” Owen muttered, coming to a stop as they reached their destination at the top of the hill, amongst trees and bushes. He was quick to pull off his jacket and t-shirt, glancing over as Y/N dropped her hat onto the pile. She couldn’t help stopping and glancing at the toned abdomen her friend had maintained over the years thanks to the job, her eyes trailing up to find Owen watching her with a playful smirk. “Enjoying the view there?” He asked, sending a wink over that had Y/N flushing and averting her gaze quickly, walking around the back of a nearby tree.

“You’re ridiculous, Owen. I bring you to swim and you want to jump off a cliff.” She called out as she stripped down and slipped into the bikini, Owen catching a glimpse of the bare back, gulping at the sight and finding his eyes falling down to his feet. “You’ll need to go first; give me your phone and I’ll film it for the Instagram.” She called again, collecting her clothing her walking back round to the clearing where Owen waited, doing his best to not let his jaw drop.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Y/N in a swim suit before, but as he thought back, it was the first bikini. She was stunning, the white fabric clinging flush against her skin, almost cut like a thong rather than swimwear.

“Owen?” Y/N asked again, dropping her clothes down and waving a hand in front of Owen’s face, breaking the trance she had unknowingly caused.

“Right, my phone… Sorry.” He muttered, reaching down and grabbing it from amongst the clothes, clearing his throat as he came up, handing the device over and walking to the cliff’s edge. “Please make sure you record this. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it again.” He admitted, looking back as Y/N filmed him, giving him a thumbs up.

“Do a flip!” She called out as he got his toes to the edge, earning a chuckle from the boy. He took a deep breath, and a few steps back. “Give it some pizazz.” He turned to look to her, and the camera, outstretching his hands by his sides as he walked backwards, right for the cliff edge.

“Gotta stop being adorable Y/N, or I might just fall for you.” Owen said with a wink, taking a final step and plummeting down to the waters below with a yell of adrenaline.

Y/N rushed to the edge of the cliff as she heard a splash, looking down at the deep blue below, the water rippling where Owen had entered, and she waited until he remerged with a flick of his hair and whoop of triumph.

“Come on, Y/N! You can’t leave me down here alone!” He called up, and Y/N grinned, quickly dropping the phone amongst their pile of clothes. She took a second, a deep breath, building up the nerve before running fast and jumping over the cliff’s edge with a front flip, landing in the warm water below feet first, her heart thudding against her ribcage so hard she thought it might break her bones.

She let herself be submerged in the water for a moment before pushing herself to the surface, coming up and gasping for air as Owen swam over, the pair holding onto one another to stay afloat as they erupted into laughter at their reckless abandon.

“Again?” Y/N asked, breathing heavy, and Owen could feel himself falling deeper once more.

“Definitely.”

The following days had been spent in a similar fashion, Y/N being quite adamant in her adventures before Owen left for the sunshine state. She did her best to capture as many of the moments she could too, whether it was a tourist stop or a movie night or diner food along Route 66, she did her very best to take pictures despite sub-optimal phone skills.

She didn’t want him leaving and forgetting her, she wouldn’t let it happen.

His flight off to LA came sooner than either of them wanted, the early morning alarm buzz Y/N was sure to set causing groans to echo around Owen’s bedroom. She had stayed over the night before, falling asleep cuddled into his side during a movie marathon of the Lord of the Rings franchise, not that Owen had minded. In all honesty, the moment she had begun to snooze with his thigh as a pillow, Owen hadn’t moved a muscle, too scared to wake her when she looked so peaceful. He had fallen asleep sat up, and as he slowly came to, his neck was punishing him for that decision.

He surveyed the room through hazy vision, catching Y/N’s shadow rushing off the bed to turn off the alarm clock, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. It was early doors, maybe three or four in the morning, the night outside still dark, thought not for long. By the time they got themselves on the road for the airport, dawn would be breaking.

“Morning, gorgeous.” Owen muttered, his voice heavy with sleep, the words causing Y/N to pause at the sound, a shiver running through her. “What time is it?” He muttered, rolling the pain from his neck and shoulder slowly as his vision finally focused, Y/N gathering the last of his belongings for him to take back to LA with him.

“3.52. We need to be on the road in a half hour.” She voice was no more than a whisper, and Owen smiled. It had been a while since he heard her early morning voice, which was always a mix of sleepiness and Y/N’s fear of waking others in the house. “Go get a shower, I’ll take your stuff down to the car.” She said, sending a smile his way in the low light that made Owen’s heart flutter.

“You got it, boss.” He saluted lazily as she disappeared out the room with the first of his packed cases, leaving Owen to sigh and roll the last cricks out of his shoulders with a fond smile, the weight of Y/N’s head on his upper leg still lingering as he got up, clothes in hand, and headed for his shower.

Their was a tension in his chest that rose and refused to go away as Owen stepped under the stream of warm water, one Owen suspected would stay with him for a lot longer than the flight home, too. He was leaving again, and again he had chickened out of saying how he felt about his best friend. And the excuse that it might ruin their friendship didn’t seem to be cutting it anymore, it hadn’t worked in a while, because now Owen was just lying to Y/N.

Under the water, he had a chance to hate himself and his cowardice, doing so until the water ran clear of soapy suds. But once the suds were down the drain, Owen tried his hardest to focus on all the fun the two had had over his months at home, over that weekend in particular.

How they had stayed at their lake until dark those few days before, cuddled on the sands and pointing out constellations to one another until Owen’s mom called to check in on him, to make sure he was alright. How they had spent the following day on the road again, stopping at their favourite childhood diner, caught up in hours of conversation over milkshakes and burgers. How their last day together had been spent in his bedroom with music blaring as they packed, Y/N joining him for an Instagram live, and an evening of movies and popcorn until sleep took over.

As he pulled on his clothes for the day of travelling, Owen quickly brushed his teeth and found himself scrolling through the photos Y/N and he had captured of the last three days: so many of them blurry or askew, but every single on forcing Owen’s smile even wider. He had gotten the lucky draw of friends, of best friends, but leaving this time felt different…

It felt like they were saying goodbye for good.

“You ready in there, Owen?” A chap came on the bathroom door, and Owen quickly closed his phone and shoved it in his pocket, spitting out the last glob of toothpaste and wiping his face before opening the door, Y/N stood on the other side in one of her favourite sundresses, and one of Owen’s hoodies on top. “Time to go…” She said with a sad smile, holding out a hand. He came over to her quickly, her outstretched hand coming around his waist as his rested over her shoulders, and the pair started downstairs and out the house.

“You should come visit this time. I know you have work and things here…” Owen trailed off when she nodded softly, separating from him to head to the truck’s driver side.

“Yeah, maybe I will.” Y/N answered softly, climbing into the truck and leaving it at that. A part of her knew it would be the smartest idea, but it would just lead to another goodbye like this one.

As Owen clambered into the car, he had to push Y/N’s overnight bag to the floor, one she had brought across the street for ease of access, but he was soon buckled in without issue, and they were on the road three minutes ahead of schedule. The only noises seemingly allowed were mechanical: the turn of the tires on the road below, the indicator flicking as Y/N took a turn, the revving of the engine as they started off from a stop light. Neither could muster the strength for words of farewell, it was too daunting, too difficult, and instead their silence swallowed their thoughts all the way to the airport terminal.

When the engine switched off, somehow it all became worse.

“I’ll get your bags…” Y/N spoke up after a minute or so of complete silence, stepping out the car and out onto the deserted terminal drop-off’s pavement. Her sandals slapped between the sole of her foot and the tarmac as she rounded the car to open the truck bed, beginning the labour of hauling Owen’s cases down to the sidewalk. When she heard the truck door slam, she didn’t look up, the pain of goodbye swelling in her chest.

Owen couldn’t stand it, the idea of not having her around every day, of not seeing her smile any more. It had been building up for years, of course, and finally hit its limit: he couldn’t go this time without her. He wholeheartedly believed that going back to LA, then to Vancouver, than to God knew where, would be impossible to bear if he didn’t have Y/N by his side through it.

So as he got out the truck, he grabbed the overnight bag Y/N had left in the truck front, with all her essentials, in front of her eyes, garnering his attention.

“Come with me to LA.” Owen said the words with shaky conviction, trying not to falter as her watery eyes looked up into his. Hers locked on his, then the overnight bag,

“Very funny, Owen…” Y/N whispered, her eyes trailing quickly back to their feet. “I don’t think this is really the time for jokes though…”

“Good, I’m not joking.” Owen said, more definite in his stance this time. “I want you to give your keys to the valet service, I want you to grab that overnight bag, and I want you to come to La with me.”

“Come on Owen…” Y/N sighed, a sad smile on her lips. “I’d cramp your style in the big city, you need to be moving forward…” She looked up, wiping away a stray tear as she mustered the courage to look him in the eye. “You’re just being nice because here is boring, but I’ll be fine. You need to do this, without me, so you can experience it all.” The words were kind, but misinformed, and the longer Y/N went on, the closer Owen came to exploding. “You need to spend time with your friends, with yourself, get to know who Owen is in Hollywood, because it’s not Owen in Oklahoma. Besides, you don’t need me hanging around when you’re working, or out at parties, you certainly don’t need me in the picture when you’re flirting with girls and dating-”

“Jesus, Y/N, the only girl I’ve flirted with in four years is you!”

The words hung in the air, a stray car driving along the terminal front and turning onto the freeway, the two friends stood an awkward distance apart under the harsh fluorescent lights of the airport entrance. A passer-by might have thought them strangers, and in a way they were. The glass had shattered, a secret revealed neither thought would ever come to light: one for fear of losing the other; the second believing such feelings never existed in the first place.

“What… What do you mean?” Y/N’s voice was shaky, her hands tugging at the sleeves of Owen’s hoodie she wore. “Owen, I’ve read the gossip columns, I know you’re dating, living it up in Hollywood. You don’t need to make up some bullshit to try and get me on a plane.”

“It’s not bullshit! God, are you really that oblivious, Y/N?” Owen let out a frustrated chuckle, running a hand through his mess of still damp hair, beginning to pace along the length of the truck before turning back and stopping. “Tabloids are gossip and rumours, Y/N, and none it’s true because I’ve been in love with you for as long as I care to remember!”

The words spilled from his lips before he could moderate volume or filter the language, his biggest secret laid out in front of them both on the concrete pavement below.

“… Why me?” The question was timid, quiet, something that could have been lost to early morning ambience had Owen not so desperately been waiting for a response to his confession. It wasn’t what he expected though, his frustration fading to concern as he walked over, cupping Y/N’s face in his hands, tilting her chin up so the teary-eyed girl’s gaze met his own. “I’m not exactly in your league, am I?”

“You’re far beyond it, certainly. It’s me doing the reaching here… No-one, and I mean no-one, makes me feel the way you do. Nothing makes me happier than seeing you laugh, nothing sadder than seeing you cry…” His thumb came to wipe away another rogue tear from her cheek, a smile on his lips.

“But you could do better! I’m sure there’s a thousand girls in LA who would kill to be with you, Owen.” Her words were frantic, panicked almost. “Maybe you’re wrong, maybe you’re tired and this is just nonsense talk! That makes sense, guys like you don’t flirt with girls like me I-” She was starting to pull back, so Owen pulled her flush to his body, her hands finding position against his chest as he held her tight to him by the waist.

“You’re like air, and light and sleep and water and heat… Y/N, it’s quite clear to me that I need you. And I can’t leave you here, not again.” Owen said softly, calmly, despite his heart’s erratic pace, not dissimilar to the feeling he had only a few days before, jumping off that cliff and plunging into the sapphire blue waters of the lake.

It was that adrenaline that pushed Owen to finally find the bravery to press his lips to Y/N’s, a kiss that had been years in the making for him, and seemingly for Y/N too. She kissed back immediately, her hands coming to his neck and pulling him closer. It felt like floating, his lips of hers, hers on his, the pair not seeing need to break apart as Owen lifted Y/N into his arms, her legs coming to wrap around his waist as her hands held his face tenderly.

“Come to LA with me…” Owen whispered as they finally broke apart, his breathing heavy as he examined her up close. Her eyes fluttered open, her lips swollen from their kiss, cheeks tinted pink from heat, pupils blown like he suspected his own were.

He would never get over how beautiful she was.

“Ok…” Y/N replied, a smile spreading over her lips. It was crazy, yes, and she wasn’t usually the type to do anything without planning it to some degree beforehand, but it felt right. “Let’s do it. Let’s go to LA.” She confirmed, Owen laughing in disbelief and pressing his lips to hers once more.

And so they did, gathering Owen’s suitcases and Y/N’s overnight duffel and booking another ticket for the plane. She left a voicemail for her family, to let them know what was happening, what they had decided, and Owen sent a message to the cast group chat, unable to wipe the smile from his face.

The memories they had made that weekend weren’t the end of something old, rather the beginning of something new.

TAGS: @siennanoelle01 @eries45 @thesweetestsinner @fangirlangioma @saroo-hawks @all-in-fangirl @charliessunset @lana-moe-fandoms @bigdesi @avngrsinitiative @lolychu @lazydaisy19 @hologramband @korydickson @futuremrsb-r-main @uglypeachh @reggieandthereggies @dxlanhxlland @rogersangel @izzyhogue @writerinlearning @independentgirl @delicatelukepatterson @mybrainiswhack @uhmitstori @mon-charmante @writingforphantoms @musicconversedance @mjflower @heimdoodle @kcd15 @-episkey- @simp4madi @obxmermaid @sunsetcurvenotsunsetswerve @kristencoontz @aliciameix @kinda-just-chillin-here @vicesvirtuesfanfic @daisiesforlacey @valntynegillespie @ritz-hell-hotel @hemmingsness @ssprayberrythings @mdlyncline @reggiesleatherjacket @parkeret @ghostlyb1tch @marinettepotterandplagg

#owen joyner #owen patrick joyner #owen jatp #owen joyner x reader #owen joyner x y/n #jatp owen #julie and the phantoms #jatp #owen joyner imagine #fluff #owen joyner fluff

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tetsvhoe · 3 years

Text

AFRAID | HAIKYUU FILO SMAU

MASTERLIST | PREV | FIN.

#25 i almost love you

– oh ayan onting backstory chaka redemption arc kay aiko baka may maka relate

– omg finally chapter di ko na to hahabaan basta thank you so much for the support and the laughs! this was my first ever smau and series i hope you all enjoyed and i hope to see you in my future works!

– wag niyo kalimutan si anak ni imelda at anak ng mafia boss, ha? :(( <3

taglist | anitwt

@mirakeul @erinoikawa @haji-bby @seijohoe @szeonn @banananaa4 @stffychn @vvvselfindulgence @devilgirlcrybabiey @knmsapplepi @duhsies @littlemochi @mikeystomanjacket @noitsmrleorio @agasheeee @roanniee @softsakusas @your-girl-mj @hello0i @crustycookiebestie @shanthesamurai @naviation-xx @sciophobia @lady-tokugawa-of-mikawa @bakugouswh0r3 @aizameow

iwaizumi shuts his phone off with a faint click, throws his head back against the headrest and shuts his eyes. he feels lightheaded, hands clam around his phone and the steering wheel subconsciously. was he always this nervous to talk to you? he can’t remember the last time he’s seen your face, the last time since he’s heard your voice. he misses it so much it makes his heart clench.

he lets out a long shaky breath as he wills himself to open his eyes, peer out the window. the club lights pulse faintly in the darkness of the night, he hears the faint music and clamor of club goers. the team’s last reply was from roughly an hour ago. he shivers thinking how he managed to cut the drive time in half and thanks the heavens for the mostly barren roads he drove through.

he can only imagine how everyone must be hammered by now. the “demonic hour” as they collectively dubbed 3:00am, is nearing. the demonic hour is when ushijima starts speaking in english considerably louder than his usual stern yet soft spoken voice. bokuto slouched against his seat, arms over his chest, passed out and snoring steadily. atsumu and sakusa may start swapping personalities soon, osamu and suna are talking about extraterrestrial life, and hinata is probably stumbling on the dancefloor holding in the urge to puke. iwaizumi also fondly recalls your friends, how kiyoko would be sleeping on top of the table, god forbid someone tries to wake her. alisa would be flirting with someone’s girlfriend, and tendou making everyone take “shots” of water, nearly falling off as he laughs at their muscle memory reactions as if they are still taking a slug of alcohol.

and of course, his mind wanders to you. how you slur your words and swear you’re not that drunk. you gauge each miniscule action and word carefully in an attempt to prove to everyone you’re sober, but it only gives you away so much more because you’re moving in x0.75 playback speed. he catches himself smiling at the mere thought and blushes though he’s alone in his car. the demonic hour turns you to an angel, quite ironically. you’re poutier than usual and throw a hissy fit at iwaizumi when he refuses to get you lugaw or mamiin the middle of the night out, not like he can resist your pleads for long anyway. you can’t keep up with the usual playful banter anymore and flirt terribly.

the thought of some other man finding you during your demonic hour flings iwaizumi out of the driver’s seat and he’s marching into the club before he knows it. it doesn’t take long for him to weave his way in and navigate your group, and the scene he finds is exactly as he imagines, but where are you?

“ten, ten, saan siya?” he shakes tendou into sobriety. he peers up at him with dazed eyes before grinning widely upon recognizing iwaizumi.

“oy, tangina mo! ano ginagawa mo dito?” the red head laughs. “‘di ko sure lumabas daw siya saglet.”

the rest of the group slowly registers iwaizumi’s presence, greeting him with clumsy high fives and fist bumps and “ba’t andito ka, kupal?”, “late na late na ba’t humabol ka pa?”, “akala namin di ka pwede ngayon?” and he returns each greeting half-heartedly as he constantly searches for your shadow in the crowd.

suna teases iwaizumi’s panicked state before pointing out you might have gone outside for a smoke. a sour feeling brews in his stomach; how could they have let you gone alone, why weren’t they sure where you went? but he saves the frustration in favor of finding you as soon as possible.

he all but runs outside through a back door near the bar which leads to a terrace overlooking the parking lot. his whole body stills as he sees your back turned to him, the heavy metal door creaks to a close, letting the loud pounding of the club music fade. he half expects to see you barely able to hold your weight with your own legs or with another guy, probably why he was so worked up in the first place, but you were alone. you seemed sober enough. it scared him even more.

as if feeling his presence, you look over your shoulder. iwaizumi debates turning on his heel and making a bee line for the exit, back to his car, and driving another hour or so to manila, but he’s frozen in his place.

you offer him a small smile, motioning for him to join you. “hayop ka anong ginagawa mo dito, ha? nag-drive ka pa, eh late na late na.”

iwaizumi is hit with the realization that in all that time he was driving alone with his thoughts, he didn’t even think of all the things he wanted to say to you. his head was simultaneously full and empty, there was just you.

“ikaw kasi kani-kanino ka nagpapa-picture. akala ko pag-papalit mo na ‘ko,” he manages to blurt out, yet you don’t miss the way his remark lacks the usual sass and playfulness.

“tama naman. ayoko na sa’yo eh,” you laugh, glancing over your shoulder to catch his scowl and an ad-libbed curse. your features soften when you notice the seriousness in his features as he stares into the nothingness ahead. you’re about to ask him if something was wrong when he sucks in a sharp breath.

“ako gusto ko sa’yo,” he says matter-of-factly, eyes meeting yours.

“what?” you laugh nervously, suddenly hyper aware of the way your heart hammers against your chest, of how you get a whiff of his usual perfume because you’re so close, the dark circles under his eyes, the distraught etched on his furrowed brows.

“i said i like you,” he repeats louder and firmer.

“i know what you said, i’m not sure i understand—”

“i like you, fuck i… i don’t know why it took me this long to say it to your face, but if i’m being honest, i was just afraid. i still am, but between being afraid of my own emotions and being afraid of fucking this up, i am actually quite fucking terrified of losing you more than anything else,” he rambles in one breath, words trembling but intense. it knocks the air out of your lungs, and you don’t know why tears start lining your eyes. “i might… even be falling in love with you fuck—”

“haji…” you whisper, body turning towards him like a magnet. he lets out a breath he didn’t know you were holding, oh how he missed you calling him that so soft and endearingly. “you have no idea how long i’ve waited for you to finally grow the balls to say that,” you chuckle, almost bitterly. “but i don’t know how to go about with this anymore.”

“let me set things right. i know we did things out of order, but i want to make us work,” he pleads, rough hands coming up to softly stroke your cheek with his knuckles.

your lips form a tight-lipped smile. he knows you’re about to ramble and finds it adorable. “i’m… i’m not so sure anymore, this is more complicated than i initially thought. w-what about the distance? haji, i’m not built for long distance i—”

iwaizumi grabs your wrist and pulls you against his chest. a strong arm wraps around your waist, his other hand holds the back of your head. you can feel both your hearts beating harshly against your chests, your cheeks heating up while you relish his embrace.

he places soft kisses onto your temple, whispering. “don’t worry that pretty little head of yours too much, there’s no rush. i’ll wait for you for as long as it takes. maghihintay ako.”

your eyes flutter open, light seeps through your vision and iwaizumi’s blurred figure slowly becomes clearer. he’s sat on an office chair, pulled right next to your bed. he watches over you with a soft smile.

“good morning, tomador.”

“tangina mong manyak, kanina mo pa ako pinapanood matulog?” you yawn, stretching your arms and limbs. did he not sleep at all? If he did, that shabby office chair couldn’t have been comfortable in the least. “akala ko ba babalik ka rin agad sa manila, akala ko umalis ka na kagabi.” you sit up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. the clock reads 6:07am.

iwaizumi tilts his head to the side as he eyes you, a small smile tugs at his lips while you glare at him. “cute mo pala pag bagong gising,” he remarks. “gusto ko lang siguraduhin natatandaan mo pa ‘yung kagabi.” he stands up, pushing the chair back and walks over to cup your cheeks.

“oo naman, tanga. ‘di naman ako lasing kagabi—”

“ano sinabi ko?”

you blink back, stunned. you know what he means, but suddenly can’t get the words out of your mouth.

“hm? akala ko ba natatandaan mo, anong sinabi ko sayo kagabi?” he smirks, squishing your cheeks together in his hand.

“uh… s-sabi mo ano, gusto mo ako.”

“gusto lang?”

“baka… sabi mo baka mahal mo na rin ako,” your ears burn up as the words leave your mouth, you attempt to look away but iwaizumi jerks your face to look at him smirking menacingly at your flushed state. “chaka ano pa?”

“sabi mo mag hihintay ka, ‘yan okay na! tangina mo,”you pry his hands off and attempt to close in on yourself by hiding behind the strands of hair that fall over your face.

“good girl,” he chuckles. “una na ‘ko, ha? tawagan nalang kita mamaya, tulog ka ulit maaga pa.”

you nod wordlessly, still avoiding his gaze. you watch his retreating figure, but he halts right in front of the door. he looks over his shoulder, “bye, i almost love you,” and winks.

summer didn’t last a hundred and four days, not this time. iwaizumi came to visit you a few times over the course of barely a month and a half of vacation. you managed to make it work for until then. he was even more busy tending to documents and requirements for his fourth year on top of helping his mom and grandmother, but he made time for you. he always did.

you both made adjustments to accommodate the distance. regular phone calls, curt text updates, movie marathons on discord, sometimes with your squammy group of friends. some things stayed the same, the regular cussing each other out, the snide remarks, the usual roasts. except this time, days end on an “i almost love you” note.

as you’re running late for your first day of third year, you realize barely anything has changed. and when you run out of the house, hopping on one foot as you tried to stuff the other into your shoe, you see iwaizumi parked outside of your house, leaning against his car, and twirling his keys on his finger, he manages to make your world come to a standstill once again.

“good morning, anak ng mafia boss. late na po tayo, bilisan mo na dyan.”

just like that, you’ve come full circle.

#haikyuu smau #haikyuu filo smau #haikyuu filo au #haikyuu college au #filo!iwaizumi #filo!iwaizumi hajime #filo haikyuu #filo iwaizumi #filo iwaizumi hajime #haikyuu filo #iwaizumi smau #iwaizumi angst #iwaizumi fluff #haikyuu angst #haikyuu fluff #[ archive ]

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spacedikut · 4 years

Text

lockdown lovers ; spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid (criminal minds) x f!reader

summary: lockdown!au. spencer goes from expecting his days to be filled with books, books and more books to books, an asshole cat, and a cute anonymous neighbour. 4857 words

a/n: i was so excited about this and stayed up writing it so i hope you like it too :)

masterlist

It’s three days into lockdown when Spencer notices the cat.

It’s a Maine Coon, he recognises instantly, but there’s this distinctive… dead look in it’s eyes. The body is huge – so fluffy it looks like the cat has a mane, ears invariably up straight and large enough that the eyes look beady in comparison. A mixture of white and grey throughout, the cat spends its days lounging across the windowsill of the apartment in the building next to Spencer’s.

He’s fascinated. How can a cat be so big, so ugly, yet so lovely?

He has to know more.

If he was anyone else, he’d argue the obsession is the fruit of going stir-crazy in his apartment. A lack of seeing his friends combined with having to work cases from home would be the perfect justification for Spencer to move his work station to the window facing the cat.

But this is Spencer. He’s happy being stuck home. He just likes the look of the cat.

He spends a good twenty minutes rifling through his stationary to find a piece of paper and the appropriate pen to jot a note for the cat owner. He thinks the owner must be stuck home, too, so if he sticks the note to his window and waits a day, he could know the cat’s name within twenty four hours.

They’ve had plenty of staring contests. Spencer should know his rival’s name.

So he does. He takes his time writing out the words “I like your cat. Do they have a name?” clearly on the paper, then spends a good five minutes deciding where on the window to stick the message.

He decides on the upper left corner. You won’t miss it.

The cat blinks sleepily at him as they watch Spencer tape the question up.

There’s an answer within three hours.

Spencer is too excited to be embarrassed at how enthused he was when he noticed the response.

Or when he saw the name.

Hi there! His name is Mr Darcy :) He’s a dick x

Spencer can’t help but profile the writing, the syntax, the grammar.

The first thing he notices is there’s a feminine lilt to the way you write – you’re a woman, most likely. The writing is slightly messy, indicating high intelligence, and the use of a smiley face and a kiss makes him think you’re younger in age. If you live alone, which you must because you live in a one bedroom apartment, he can safely guess you’re around his age.

And Mr Darcy… you’re a bookworm. At least for romance and the classics.

Spencer likes Mr Darcy. He has so many questions, suddenly, like how is Mr Darcy a dick and how old is he and why does he never seem to move from his position by the window and what is your name and who are you and do you happen to read a lot of books? Like Ray Bradbury? Please say yes.

He shocks himself. Maybe this quarantine is getting to him more than he realises. He hasn’t felt this excited since Maeve.

He hasn’t been this intrigued since Maeve. And the circumstances are similar, he realises.

No. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Spence.

He worries himself into a spiral when he begins thinking about how to reply. As if she can hear his whining, Penelope calls him.

They’ve made it a habit to call one another a lot. She recently taught him how to use his webcam and has been encouraging him to write more on his computer, rather than by hand.

“Good afternoon, my favourite Doctor.” She sings. He hears some shuffling in the background and can tell she’s baking.

“I need your help with something.” He cuts straight to the chase.

Her interest is piqued, “Oh? I am all ears.”

“Remember the cat I mentioned?”

“The ugly-but-beautiful majestic beast that, if you believed in reincarnation, would’ve been a high class gentleman in his past life? Yes. I think about him every day.”

“His name’s Mr Darcy.”

She lets out a screech, a mixture of a groan and moan that is filled with pure glee. “Of course he’s called Mr Darcy! Tell me everything. How do you know?”

He’s clearly impressed with himself when he says, “I asked.”

“Whoa.” Penelope freezes in her kitchen. “Are you, Doctor Germaphobe, breaking the lockdown rules?”

Spencer feels insulted. “No! Never! I stuck a note to my window, like in that viral tweet you sent me.”

She chuckles, “Well, I already told you I could’ve told you everything about Mr Darcy and the owner if you wanted me to. I am incredible.”

“I appreciate the gesture, Garcia-“

“But it’s morally wrong. Yeah, yeah, heard it all before. What have you said back?”

“That’s what I need your help with.”

Garcia is only a little surprised he’s asking her and not Derek. But, then, as much as she loves Derek, he’s a bit too.. much for someone like Spencer when it comes to love. Spencer approaches people gently, hesitantly, often giving the impression he doesn’t even want to be there.

Derek can have anyone on their knees within minutes.

Different tactics, that’s all.

“Alright, pretty boy. How long have you been talking? Purely through window messages? What else has been said?”

“Well,” He begins, clearing his throat, making eye contact with Mr Darcy, “We’ve only spoken once. When I asked for Mr Darcy’s name. You know, studies have shown that animals can form lifelong friendships with other animals, even if they’re not from the same species.”

“Spencer.”

“Most research has focused on chimpanzees, baboons, horses, hyenas, elephants, bats, and dolphins - but there’s no reason to think that friendship is exclusive to these species.”

“Spencer!”

“What?”

“You’ve spoken to them once?”

“Her. Spoken to her once. And it wasn’t speaking, it was writing.”

There’s a long sigh down the phone. “First of all, how do you know the owner’s a girl?”

There’s movement in Mr Darcy’s apartment. Spencer stares. “The way she writes.”

“Uhuh,” Spencer can hear her stirring something through the phone, “And what was the last thing said?”

Spencer’s eyes narrow – is that a person? Is that the owner? Is that her? Oh my god.

“Spencer? You still there?” Garcia looks to her laptop, checking the call is still connected.

“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry. The last thing she said was his name is Mr Darcy and he’s a dick.”

“Oh,” Garcia smirks, “It’s sexy hearing you say dick.”

In normal circumstances, Spencer would register her comment and give a very distinct huh, but he’s distracted.

He sees Mr Darcy meow. A hand appears, petite, with fingernails painted yellow that have smiley faces on them. She brushes Mr Darcy’s fur back, pulling so the skin around his eyes tugs up high and he looks stupid. He seems to like it, though.

She must like smileys, he thinks.

Mr Darcy stands and stretches. He’s alarmingly long.

It’s silent on Garcia’s end, where she looks confused at the sudden silence. She checks again that the call is still connected.

“Spence?”

“Still here. Sorry. I thought I saw her.”

“Oooo,” She’s all giddy, “What does she look like? Is she pretty?”

“I couldn’t see her properly. I can tell she’s too cool for me already. This was stupid.” He sighs, “Forget I said anything. I’ll take knowing Mr Darcy’s name and move on with my life.”

Spencer moves to hang up, but is interrupted by a loud “No!” being shouted at him by Garcia.

“No, Spencer! No! You write something back to her right now and you form a friendship with someone that isn’t one of your colleagues. I love you with my whole heart, and you know that, but it would be good for you to expand your social circle!” She grins and bites her tongue between her teeth, “Aaaand.. this could be the start of a quarantine romance. God, I miss dating.”

At the mention of romance, Spencer visibly flinches. “I’ll see what I can do. I gotta go, Garcia, thanks for calling.”

“Love you. Please marry her so Mr Darcy can be the ring bearer.”

And she hangs up. He’s left contemplating whether he should respond, and what he should respond, as he watches the empty space where Mr Darcy is absent.

It must be dinner time for him.

+++

I’m curious as to how someone named Mr Darcy can be a dick.

That’s a good response, right?

Right?

It lets you know he gets the reference, he knows who Mr Darcy is named after, and leads you to continue the conversation. It’s perfect.

It’s taken him nearly two hours to come up with it. He feels exhausted.

He sticks it on the window, where Mr Darcy has returned to, and huffs out a breath.

He reminds himself to be calm and cool. This is simply a way to pass the time during quarantine, there’s no need to put too much pressure on himself to think it’s anything more or to put more effort than is necessary (he says, after spending two hours formulating a response).

Calm and cool. Cool and calm. Neither are words Spencer would ever use to describe himself.

Spencer stays up until nearly 1am reading. Just before he sleeps, he walks to the kitchen to get some water, and can’t resist checking to see if you’ve responded.

You have. He ignores the way his heart speeds up.

He used to share the windowsill with my other cat and a bunch of plants. Now he bites anything that attempts to move near him. He also likes to vomit on my pillow. My single pillow.

Spencer chuckles as he reads it. He remembers when the window was full of plants, and how one day they all just… disappeared. He assumed the person moved out, but now it’s funny to think that you had to move them all because Mr Darcy demanded he own that space.

He doesn’t recall ever seeing another cat.

Well, now he has to respond. He needs to know about the other cat!

He imagines Derek coming to him in an apparition, like some sort of angel, and saying, calm and cool, kid. Calm and cool.

Spencer decides he’ll reply in the morning. Cause he’s calm and cool, and totally doesn’t want to know anything and everything about you and the two cats you live with.

+++

The messages continue for days. Spencer learns a lot, despite his “attempts” to not profile you (“attempts” as in there was really no attempt).

He learns you were given Mr Darcy by a friend, he’s two years old, and your other cat is the recently adopted, affectionately named Stupid Sally. She’s a ginger cat, estimated to be at least four years old, and you refuse to believe there’s anything going on in that tiny head of hers.

Spencer catches a glimpse of Sally a couple of days after he learns her name. She jumps up beside Mr Darcy, bonks her head on the window, then is whacked by Mr Darcy and falls from the windowsill. Sally doesn’t make another attempt.

He still hasn’t seen you, though. The longer he talks to you, the more he wants Garcia to send him everything she can find on you.

But he has restraint. And fear.

He wants to know more, wants to learn more about the anonymous girl in the opposite building. He doesn’t even know your name, and he assumes you don’t know his, and he’s not entirely sure what number apartment you live in.

He considers asking to convert your conversation from post-it notes on windows to hand-written letters, but that reminds Spencer too much of Maeve and he can’t handle that.

Do you know how difficult it is for Spencer Reid, with all his knowledge and facts and ramblings, to limit himself and how much he says?

It’s torture.

The sun is blinding when Spencer pulls his curtain back, eyes navigating to see if there’s a new message waiting.

I haven’t asked, do you have any cats? Any pets? Mr Darcy would be a terrible boyfriend but Sally could use a lover :)

Before he can stop himself, his mind is whirring with the possible implications of your message. Does this mean you want to meet? You want to know about him as much as he wants to know about you? You’re interested?

He needs to call Penelope. He wants to talk to you so badly, learn everything there is to know, but he can’t bring himself to do it. The situation reminds him of Maeve and, although it’s been so long, he’s still mourning. He’s not sure he’s ready.

Turns out he doesn’t need to worry. You’ve got your own plan.

+++

“So,” Your friend sighs, flopping onto the couch, “You got his number? His name? Anything?”

“No,” You pout, “Not even sure he’s a guy.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

You playfully gasp. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but I am insulted.”

She chuckles. She knows all about your curious neighbour - she’s the one that encouraged you to reply and keep replying. And now she’s the one trying to convince you to form an actual friendship.

“Just put your number on your window.”

“Do you know how dangerous that is?!” You scold, “Anyone could see it!”

“Yeah, but neighbour guy could see it. And text you. And be really cute.”

You can’t help but glance behind you, into your bedroom window, where the infamous window is. Mr Darcy lounges, completely zonked out with the sunshine keeping him warm.

“What’s the worst that can happen? Some random people text you and you, what, block them? That’s it. Easy.”

Life is so easy for extroverts, you think.

You grab your notebook, rip a piece out and jot down your number before you have a change of heart. You’re essentially double messaging through the medium of your window messaging. But who cares?

What have you got to lose?

+++

Spencer stares at your phone number for way too long. Mr Darcy, as if sensing Spencer’s battle, lazily lifts a paw and rests it against the paper, pushing it into the window.

Spencer dials Penelope’s number straight from memory.

“I was beginning to think you’d died, Spencer-“

“Is it a terrible idea to start texting with Mr Darcy’s owner?”

“What?!” She exclaims, “No! No no no no no! That is an incredible idea! Spencer, please tell me you’re texting her!”

Penelope’s excitement gives him a rush of confidence. She’s always so supportive, so encouraging. Penelope is the best.

“I’m staring at her phone number. I just- we know what happened last time..” He trails off, voice meek. He wants to pretend he isn’t constantly thinking about the worst outcome, but he is. He’s scared.

Penelope’s voice is soft down the phone, “Spence. You have nothing to be afraid of, okay? I’m so proud of you for even considering texting her. But if you truly think you’re not ready, maybe you’re not. But remember, this doesn’t have to be anything you don’t want it to. You can keep the conversation to cats and cats only.”

Spencer smiles even though she can’t see him. She’s right. It doesn’t have to be anything and, honestly, it’s likely it won’t be anything – after all, Spencer isn’t exactly confident when it comes to women.

She might also have a boyfriend. A husband. A wife. He doesn’t know.

He realises he’s started thinking way too deep about someone he doesn’t even know the name of.

“Does that silence mean you’re gonna text her?” Penelope questions, suspense and hope clear in her voice.

“Yeah,” He replies, glancing at Mr Darcy, “I am.”

+++

[To: Mr Darcy and Sally’s Owner]: Hello. I’m Spencer.

[From: Mr Darcy and Sally’s Owner] hello??????? do i know a spencer?

Embarrassment flushes through him. What a weird way to introduce yourself, he chastises himself, Great first impression.

[To: Mr Darcy and Sally’s owner]: Sorry. I’m the one that’s been asking about your cats through the window.

[From: Mr Darcy and Sally’s Owner]: really? prove it

He wants to feel insulted that you’re so suspicious, but is simultaneously impressed that you’re so cautious. It makes sense to worry after posting your number for anyone to see.

[To: Mr Darcy and Sally’s Owner]: Of course. I’ll put a note on my window with my number now.

He does just that, shuffling quickly and frantically like he does when his mind is moving a thousand miles a minute during a case. He slaps the note against the window, unable to resist hovering on the off chance he spots you.

His phone buzzes.

[From: Mr Darcy and Sally’s Owner]: oh hi spencer! im Y/N, owner of Mr Darcy and sally :)

He can’t help but chuckle at the sudden change of tone. You take stranger danger seriously, it seems.

Why does he find that so endearing?

He’s getting ahead of himself, again. Calm and cool.

They pick up the conversation from where the last note left off, where you asked Spencer if he has any pets of his own. He finds it much easier to talk to you like this, rambling and all, which you don’t seem to mind. Your texting style is distinctively different to his, making his phone vibrate multiple times as you send each sentence of your message separately. He prefers writing chunks full of information, all with perfect grammar and punctuation.

You teach him what ‘wtf’ means and when he sends a meme to Penelope with that caption she loses her damn mind.

She decides she loves you there and then.

A friendship blossoms. It’s odd, he doesn’t know what you look like and you admit to catching a glimpse of him when he showed you his number through the window, but other than that you have no idea what the other looks like.

You know so much about eachother’s lives, though, and so much about eachother. You know which apartment you both live in, he’s got a whole list of reasons why Mr Darcy is a dick and he kind of agrees, you even know that he’s an FBI agent.

Then it happens.

He discovers what you look like.

He wants to play it off as an accident, he really does, but that would be a complete and utter lie.

The area under the window opposite yours has become his new sanctuary. He spends way too much time there, reading and whatnot, and he tries to pretend that it’s so he can watch Mr Darcy all day every day, but there’s always been a part of him that wants you to walk by. Maybe stop right in the centre of the window, pause, let him get a good look.

That’s exactly what happens.

He’s doing some “light” reading before he moves to his bed, where he will continue to read, and he sees the main light in your bedroom switch on. You always have a light on – you’re scared of the dark, just like him, but the main light catches his attention because Mr Darcy looks back and meows.

Someone’s in the room.

For some reason, he can’t tear his eyes away. It’s not the first time he’s noticed someone flutter around the room, never managing to really show themselves. It could the best friend you told Spencer about, the one that you’ve been stuck living with the past month or so.

But it’s not.

A girl appears, wearing an oversized t-shirt and shorts with still-wet hair. She dangles a cat toy before Mr Darcy, which he swipes at twice, then looks away, uninterested.

She rolls her eyes at that, then starts dancing and mouthing along to a song Spencer doesn’t recognise. Now he can’t stop staring – she’s captivating, whoever she is, as she prances around her room, arms flailing around and serenading a very unimpressed Mr Darcy.

This has to be you, he thinks. He doesn’t know why, but this has to be you.

Your passionate singing dies out. It’s the end of the song. Before the next one can begin, you happen to look up and through the window, straight at Spencer.

And you disappear.

You collapse. You definitely scream a little, dramatically falling to the floor and hiding under the window with your back to the wall.

Holy shit. You think. He’s cute and he saw me singing to my asshole cat.

He must think I’m crazy.

Spencer keeps staring at the now empty space of your window, Mr Darcy having been spooked by your exit.

He thinks he might be in love.

+++

Neither of you know what to say to one another after what transpired.

You’re too embarrassed, Spencer feels a little star-struck, and you’re both speechless.

Neither of you expected the other to be so.. attractive.

Your phone is thrown in your lap. “Do it. Do it now.”

In a daze, you blink up at your friend, “I can’t.”

“Don’t make me threaten you.”

You blink.

“I know where he lives. I will obliterate the lockdown rules to go talk to him and drag him here, then you can deal with this face-to-face.”

Your mouth falls open. “Are you insane?”

She unlocks your phone, opens your conversation with Spencer, and places it in your hand.

“Yes.”

+++

[From: Y/N :)]: did you at least enjoy the performance…..

Spencer’s whole body prickles when he sees you’ve texted him.

Maybe Penelope’s manifesting did work.

[To: Y/N :)]: I did. I didn’t expect our face reveals to be so…

I honestly don’t know what to say.

[From: Y/N :)]: s doctor reid speechless? am i that talented?

Spencer lies back on his couch, beaming at his phone like a teenager in a cheesy chick flick.

[To: Y/N :)]: You’re very talented. Mr Darcy clearly disagrees, but don’t listen to him.

And just like that, you’re back in the flow of things.

+++

When July rolls around, you and Spencer have been talking every day since March. Despite the monotonous, repetitive days, Spencer wakes up giddy when he sees you’ve texted him. He usually wakes up earlier than you, you have a habit of playing games or watching television until the early hours of the morning, and he loves to send you a fact to wake up to.

Your favourite are the animal facts. He got Amazon Prime just so he could buy a plethora of animal books and watch animal documentaries. All for you.

At one point, you evolved to phone calls. They don’t happen often and the first one was while you were drunk, but they’re fun for the both of you.

It had been a Saturday, you and your friend were having a movie marathon with wine and of course she brought up Spencer. She choked on her drink when you told her you haven’t heard his voice or seen him since the incident.

“You should call him,” She slurred, “Tonight.”

“He’s working on his jigsaw. I’m not going to interrupt.”

She gave you this incredulous look, asking Really?

“What?! I have respect for him and his jigsaws!”

“Have respect for yourself and how cute he is!”

“That doesn’t make sense!”

She sighed, placing her glass on the coffee table with a clunk, “Picture this: you’re helping him with the jigsaw.”

You couldn’t hide the slight upturn of your lips at the thought. You both love jigsaws, doing one with him would be stupidly romantic to you.

“Yeah.” She nodded ridiculously, “That ain’t gonna happen if you don’t call him!”

In your drunken state, you realised she’s right. You called him that night for a total of ten minutes before you passed out after calling him super handsome.

You both went to sleep feeling warm inside. Spencer called you again the next day, where the call lasted nearly two hours, and it went from there.

But now the lockdown rules are being eased. People are going back to work, meaning establishments like restaurants and hairdressers are opening up with limited capacity, all breathing beings expected to wear a mask.

Neither of you have mentioned actually meeting one another. You’re too nervous. What if he doesn’t like you? What if the image he’s created of you in his head is way better than you are in real life and he’s disappointed? What if he doesn’t want to meet you?

Spencer worries about the exact same things.

So neither of you say anything.

+++

It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes Spencer’s mail gets sent to the wrong address. Perhaps to his neighbour, the person living across the hall, or someone on a completely different floor.

Twice, Spencer’s mail has been delivered to the apartment building next door. The building he now exclusively calls “Y/N’s building”.

Now it’s three times.

Unphased by the mask on his face, Spencer glances around the lobby of your apartment building and wonders what your routine is when you get home. Do you immediately check for packages? Look at the noticeboard? Or do you go straight up to your apartment?

Spencer walks to the reception desk, smiling politely even though the person can’t see it.

“Hi, I’m from the building next door. I think my mail was accidentally sent here?”

He clicks a few buttons, types a few things, then flippantly asks, “Apartment number?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Let me go get it.”

He takes his time leaving his chair and wandering through a door. Spencer glances around. There’s a few people, all wearing masks (Thank God), doing their own thing.

There’s two girls next to him. He eavesdrops, because he’s bored.

“I’m too used to living with you now,” The girl facing him pouts, “I don’t want to go.”

The girl with her back to him laughs, light and sweet, “You live a block away.”

“You know Sally is gonna miss me.”

Sally? As in…

“She’s gonna miss you only because you feed her too much and now she’s fat.”

Wait.

“C’mon, Y/N-“

Spencer blocks out the rest cause holy hell. You’re right there. You’re standing right next to Spencer, in all your glory, and you have no idea that he’s right there, too.

Should he say something? Should he introduce himself? Should he..

“Here, sir. My apologies for the mix-up.” The receptionist re-appears, handing Spencer his mail.

“Thank you.”

And Spencer leaves.

Except he doesn’t.

He stops outside the reception entrance, takes out his phone, and texts you.

[To: Y/N :)] This is weird but I’m right outside your building. I think you’re in the foyer and I’m too scared to approach you.

Two minutes pass before the building doors fly open.

Your head swivels back and forth. When you find Spencer, adorable and awkward Spencer, he can tell you’re grinning from the way your eyes bunch up under your mask. God, he knows you have the most beautiful smile. Everything about you is beautiful.

“Hi,” You breathe.

Spencer mouths a silent hi. You’ve taken his breath away.

“I-um. It’s good to see you in person.” Your voice is soft. It’s soft, and smooth, and so much prettier in real life. It’s already pretty through the phone, but the real version shoots straight to his heart.

He gulps, “Yeah, it’s.. Unexpected, but nice.” The corners of his mouth quirk up and he can’t tear his eyes away from you, “You’re even more gorgeous in real life.”

The compliment rolls off his tongue naturally because it’s true and from the second he spotted you he’s lost all logical thinking.

“I am?” You ask, gentle and hesitant, almost asking are you sure you mean me?

Spencer blushes, somewhat embarrassed by his confession. But he meant it, Spencer’s not the type to say things he doesn’t mean, and you don’t give him time to regret it-

“Would you like to get some coffee? If you’re free now?”

Would it be too much if he screams Yes?

“Yes. I’m free,” He ignores the mail in his hands, stuffing it in his satchel, “But let’s avoid Café Nero, I assume you still haven’t recovered from the nightmare latte you had there.”

You grin, which makes Spencer feel fuzzy, flattered that he remembers anecdotes from your texts.

Of course he remembers. You remember he has an eidetic memory.

You shyly brush your hair behind your ears, both sides, and Spencer spots the bright red of them. You’re flushed, just like him, and it fills him with confidence to know you’re the same mixture of excited and anxious about meeting him in person.

“W-what about your friend?” Spencer gestures vaguely to where he assumes she’d be, “Would she mind?”

“She’s the reason I ran out here, so… I think she’d be mad if we didn’t leave her behind.”

You smile at one another, a few feet apart. Spencer’s bumped into by the opening door of your apartment complex and stumbles, apologising profusely to the unimpressed woman that just stares at him.

Through the entire ordeal you watch Spencer, only him, and can’t stop the radiant, love-filled look on your face.

Maybe Mr Darcy isn’t such a dick when he’s the reason Spencer came into your life.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #mine #oh to be spencer reid's neighbour that he falls completely in love with during the lockdown

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sugawara-sweetheart · 3 years

Text

𝔰𝔫𝔞𝔯𝔢 (𝔪)

❥yamaguchi tadashi x fem!reader

❥warnings: yandere, dubcon, ill-prepped sex, bleeding, guilt-tripping & manipulation, jealousy and possessiveness, toxic relationship, vomit (not like that dw)

❥word count: 3.7k

❣︎anon: Hello love! I hope you’re having a good day :) I was hoping to request a yandere!yamaguchi fic where he’s the team captain and reader is the manager. Maybe after a really bad practice game he manipulates reader into dating him by saying sumn like “oh if we are together the teams foundation will be stronger”. And like through out their relationship it shows how he will guilt her into staying and fucking him but she doesn’t realize he’s toxic and is just like “ he just loves me a lot and is kinky lol” (sorry idk if this makes sense essentially just Yan!yamaguchi dating manager!reader lol)

he strikes when morale is low.

you can see devastation etched on everyone’s faces. hinata’s shoulders slouch with utter dejection, kageyama’s jaw is clenched tightly and there’s worry and shame across the first years’ faces. a sense of hopelessness.

you want to cry. being manager wasn’t something you were new to- you’d been working as one of them since your first year- but this was yamaguchi’s first year of being captain. this was the first practise game of the year and the loss was devestating. any chance of going to nationals this year seemed like a far away dream, like trying to grasp smoke.

“don’t mind, guys.” you hope your smile isn’t shaky but you don’t get much of a reply as the boys head to the clubroom, leaving you and yamaguchi the only ones remaining outside the gym. the air feels cool on your skin, the sky tinged with streaks of pink and a warm glow as the sun sets below the hills.

“i’m not doing great as captain, am i?” yamaguchi murmurs. you frown at him, mouth falling open but he contunues, staring off at the scenic distance with the tangerine sun reflected in his round, dejected orbs. “i shouldn’t have been captain- if tsukki or kageyama-”

“no, tadashi.” he looks stunned and you hope you don’t look as flustered as you feel as you smile gently. “you’re an amazing captain- this was just a tiny bump in the road but i know you’ll lead the team syccessfully, just like ennoshita, just like daichi.” the mention of your former captains makes him smile slightly, a wistful longing apparent in his face. “i know you will. don’t worry, this was just one practise match and everyone knows dateko is a bitch to play with.” he chuckles, nodding and as you gaze at the setting sun you notice him edging closer towards you.

“i’m really glad you’re our manager, y/n.” he beams and your heart flutters at his sweet words, warmth tingling through you as you grin. “i feel like you’ll really help our team feel so much stronger as manager, but..” he trails off with an awkward chuckle that has you narrowing your eyes.

“tadashi?”

“no, you’ll think i’m stupid- i’m just being dumb-” hesitation is etched all over his face, brewing with anxiety and it makes your chest twinge as you shake your head, trying to ignore how endearing he looks with his freckled cheeks flushed pink.

“no, no, don’t think that! tadashi, what is it?” the corners of his lips tug in a shy smile as he rubs the back of his reddened neck.

“uh- i-i was thinking...well, you’re really pretty and i’ve always liked you, but because you’re manager too, if we- um- you know- we’d be such a stronger team…”

his cheeks glow bright pink, doe eyes widened and you can’t help the smile that stretches across your face, utter warmth flooding through you. so innocent, so sweet, your heart drums against your rib cage as you try to resist the giggle that escapes you.

“tadashi, are you trying to ask me out?” he looks worried, a little crease between his brows as he stammers over his words.

“i-ive always liked you- it’s not just for the team, that’s more of a bonus- it’s okay if you don’t want to, i know...i know i wouldn’t be a girl’s first choice but-”

“nonsense.” he falls silent, blinking in shock as you slide your fingers into his, squeezing his warm hand tight. “you’re my first choice.”

the thing with traps is that they never look obvious. a serpent under the innocent flower. and yamaguchi was the perfect trap.

it starts off sweet- it always does.

you’re not sure how such a sweet angel has been single for so long because your life becomes entirely better with yamaguchi brightening it up. he’s there every morning at the end of your garden bolding a can of coffee and his other outstretched for you to slip yours into, to let him place a gentle kiss on the back of it before you make your way together to school. he’s so proud to tell the team you’re dating- it’s such a thrill to have him announce it with a sense of pride, his eyes softening as he gazes at you whilst hinata cheers him on and yachi is bursting with questions to ask you. and he’s so besotted with you, every bit of free time he wants to spend with you- tugging your hand during breaks at practise, pulling you into empty corridors at school to make out with you pressed against the wall, his leg nudging between your thighs, his hand always entwined with yours whenever you’re both walking, every evening and weekend spent together.

until it starts to feel like too much.

“y/n,” you sigh heavily when hinata clings to your sleeve, resting his head on your shoulder with his brown eyes wide and pleading. “please, please- i’ll buy you meat buns!”

“shōyō, what are you on about?” you’re half-amused by your friend, the friend you’d had since your first year at karasuno, the same friend that encouraged not just yachi to be manager of the volleyball team but you too. if there was anyone you trusted more than yamaguchi and yachi, it’d be hinata- the sweet, vivacious boy you’d spent so many happy times with.

“help us study!” he cries, gesturing to himself and a sheepish-looking kageyama stood a few steps away. “we’re going to fail the exams without your help!” you can’t help but laugh at the same occurrence that happens every exam season without fail, nodding slowly as smiles brighten up the two boys’ faces.

“fine, fine. we’ll study tonight and on the weekend- but next time come to me earlier! you know maths is on tuesday-”

“what’s going on?” you can’t explain why your chest suddenly feels tight when yamaguchi’s bright, tender voice fills your ears. his soft scent of linen envelopes you as he takes his seat on the bench beside you, tsukishima right by his side and you’re not sure why a smile seems to hard to plaster on your face as your boyfriend slides his arms around you.

“y/n’s helping us study for our exams!” hinata beams. you’re aware of tsukishima scoffing, the three volleyball players beginning to squabble childishly, but all you can focus on is yamaguchi’s eyes burning into you. from the corner of your eye you can see the hurt flashing across his face, his head tilting to the side as he speaks quietly.

“you’re helping them study?” you frown slightly at the tone of his voice, nodding with an awkward smile tugging at your lips.

“yeah- just tonight and on the weekend. why?” yamaguchi’s face scowls slightly as his lips are pulled into a thin line. you don’t like the look that lingers in his eyes, the same look he has when you’re chatting away to a classmate instead of him, when you compliment kageyama or the second years on their abilities, when you ask hinata tenderly if he’s okay after he’s had a ball to the face. why does he always look so scorned? you hate the heavy feeling that twinges in your chest when he does.

“alone?” you have to laugh- it’s the only one way to brush it off but he doesn’t look pleased, even when you force yourself to relax in his arms and brush your lips against his cheek.

“don’t be like that, tadashi.”

but he is like that. it seems to be a regular occurrence, and it worsens. anxiety brews in your stomach, weighing you down and making you feel sick every time. hinata hugged you for a moment too long after a successful practise game, his head buried in the crook of your neck and his arms wrapped around you, and yamaguchi refused to even look at you the whole way home, a sour look on his face and his eyes fixated on the road ahead whilst you pleaded and begged for his attention. but nothing- he just left you on your doorstep sniffling and your throat raw from the constant apologies. one time you walked with tsukishima to practise after a lesson with him, smiling and laughing as he shared with you his warm childhood memories of yamaguchi, but your boyfriend didn’t see it like that. your heart dropped the moment you locked eyes with him standing by the gym expectantly, utter betrayal and hurt etched on his face you wanted to sink to your knees then and beg for his forgiveness.

“girls don’t really like me.” he’d sniffled afterwards in your bedroom. “they just use me for tsukishima, they always have- i really thought you liked me for me, y/n.”

“i do, tadashi, i do.” your eyes are hot with frustrated tears as you crouch before him, nuzzling your face into his thigh. “please believe me when i say it wasn’t like that! you know i love you.” his wet eyes sparkle when you say that, face lighting up.

“r-really?” you nod eagerly, not resisting him when he cups your face and brings your lips to his, kissing you sweetly and tenderly. and when you think it’s all solved dread begins to seep into you again as he takes your hand and presses it against his hardening cock.

“t-tadashi,” yamaguchi’s face crumples at the tone in your voice. “i-i’m not ready- you know that-”

“i thought you liked me.” he spits bitterly. it’s the same words, the same words that always makes you feel so pathetic, so useless and shitty, breaking yamaguchi’s heart over and over. so you hold back the salty tears and try not to think too hard about it when you let him use your mouth, trying not to feel hurt. this is normal, you tell yourself. yamaguchi deserves it, you hurt him earlier, but you still hate every moment of it.

eventually you start avoiding people. it feels like every interaction yamaguchi watches goes wrong and ends with him upset, hurt, betrayed, insecure and the guilt of it, the consequences where you have to make amends weighs down too heavy on you.

“you treat me like shit, i just feel like you don’t care.”

“a good manager doesn’t flirt around with the other players- you’re supposed to be my girlfriend!”

“why am i never good enough for you? i’m not even good enough for the team and now I'm not good enough for you.”

the simple thing is just to simply stay away.

the team are confused when you’re suddenly curt and cold towards the first and second years, no longer sweetly encouraging them with enthusiastic compliments and kind words. you have to hold back the tears that prickle your eyes when you see the look of hurt flash across hinata’s face, the sparkle dulling in his brown eyes, when you push him away when he tries to hug you but yamaguchi’s eyes piercing into your back serves as a reminder. your friends see less of you when you decline hanging out with them at lunch to be with yamaguchi instead and you hate how they frown at you with unfamiliarity.

“what’s wrong with you, y/n? why do you keep ditching us now that you have a man?” you want to explain, you really do, but how do you tell them that you don’t want to hurt yamaguchi too, you don’t want him to cry to you about how he feels neglected and pushed aside like you don’t care anymore? how do you tell them you don’t want to have to use your mouth or hands to make it up to him? so you let them be hurt instead, you pull away till they pass you in the hallways without even so much as glancing at you.

you think it’ll get better, that yamguchi will be happier now. but it all breaks down at the inter-high tournament when winning is so close, so close you can almost taste the sweet victory on your tongue. the gym is tense and the boys are playing hard and you’re holding your breath, heart pounding as you will them to win the semi-finals. they’re so close to getting through. it’ll save you if they do.

but they lost. bile burns in the back of your throat when the referee blows his whistle and the shock and dejection floods through the team. your bitter tears match theirs but for a different reason altogether. your body shakes when yamaguchi envelopes it, his tears staining your shoulder and you hate his fingers pressing into your body because you realise you’ll probably have to use it later.

he asks you to come over to his later that night. his eyes are bloodshot and freckled cheeks stained with tears when he asks, his voice cracking and with the rest of the team surrounding you, you can’t say no. you’re their manager, a pillar of the team, and yamaguchi’s girlfriend. how could you say no? so you go, inhaling the cold air and ignoring the dark dread that festers inside you.

“are you cold?” yamaguchi sniffles as you walk, his eyes focused on your shaking hand. you shake your head but as he reaches for you, you have to will yourself not to flinch. you’re not scared of him, you can’t be.

“i’m a rubbish captain.” he mumbles later on, shoulders slouching with dejection. your chest twinges as you sit beside him on the end of his bed, gazing at his forlorn eyes that he can’t even bear to look at you with, utter sympathy flooding you as you reach out for his hand. “everyone thinks it.”

“no one thinks that, tadashi.” you murmur softly, edging closer to him and squeezing his hand. he looks up at you slowly, his dark eyes wide and adoring. “you’re an amazing captain-” you’re cut off by his lips pressing against yours, the kiss hot and feverous as he slides your entwined hand down to his crotch, pressing it enough for you to feel his erection hardening under your touch.

“tadashi-” you groan when you try to pull away but yamaguchi just kisses you more, his other hand cupping the back of your head as he tries to force his tongue into your mouth as you grimace. “tadashi-” you push him away, saliva coating your lips you can’t help but scowl as you wipe it away, yamaguchi watching you with his face falling. “not now, i’m not re-”

“so now i’m a rubbish boyfriend too!” he cries.

you’re stunned as you watch him twist away from you, his pouting lip beginning to tremble and your heart wrenches when you see the tears beginning to flood his eyes, his freckles cheeks becoming flushed as a heaviness settles in your chest.

“i didn’t say that.” you murmur. how stupid of you. he was already feeling sensitive and now you’re making him feel worse, letting his insecurities flood him more and more when you’re supposed to uplift him. how are you messing this up so badly? “don’t say that, tadashi, you know you’re wonderful.”

“then why don’t you want me? every time you say no-” he sniffles, rubbing at the reddened tip of his nose. “why can’t i just do anything right?”

“tadashi, it isn’t like that.” a thick lump rises in your throat as he stares at you expecrantly when you wrap your arm around his shoulders, tenderly ruffling the back of his head. “i’m sorry- you do everything right.” you try not to whimper when you slide your other hand along his thigh, goosebumps pebbling your skin as an icy chill runs down your spine. “i’m sorry- let’s- we can do this.”

you try not to tremble when he peels off your clothes, mouthing kisses at your cold body as his hands roam over you. it feels weird- you’d never been touched before but it hurts when he pinches your nipples and you force yourself not to squirm when he pushes you onto the bed, straddling you as he spreads your legs.

“tadashi-” you whine when he touches your folds, a horrible coldness washing over you. it doesn’t feel like when you touch yourself but you push it away from your mind, telling yourself you’ll like it when he actually does something, you’ll get wet when he fingers you or something. but yamaguchi doesn’t, instead pulling off his clothes and your heart thumps when you realise how fucking big he is. he’s thick and long, painfully hard with the reddened tip leaking precum, a deep moan escaping him as he strokes himself.

“i’ve been waiting for this for so long- you’re going to feel so good.” he groans as he slides his cock along your folds. it feels weird and you’re not even wet but yamaguchi doesn’t take any notice of your squirming.

“tadashi- wait, i want to-” he slaps away your hand when you reach down to touch yourself, instead twining his fingers with yours and pressing your hands flat against the mattress.

“don’t worry,” he coos as he kisses you, lips tasting salty. “i’ll take care of you.”

you can’t even scream when he shoves his cock into you. it burns, the pain agonising and your back arches off the bed, mouth dropping open with silent screams. blood rings in your ears, yamaguchi’s moans as your nails drag down his back sounding so distant like you’ve been plunged under water. it feels like you could die. your tight walls are ripped apart by his thick cock, anguish burning in you and hot tears stinging your eyes as soft sobs escape you.

“oh- you’re so warm, you’re taking me so well. pretty girl, i’m so lucky to have you.” you cry as he kisses you, disgust seeping into you as he fills up your cunt. how could he be so oblivious? or does he simply not care?

“ta-tadashi- i c-can’t!” he ignores you, busying himself with kissing away your tears and you can’t fight him off as he cages you in. it’s torture when he drives his hips into yours, ripping through the flesh and you’re almost grateful for your body’s natural lubrication when you feel the odd moisture between your legs. that’s until you see the redness coating his cock when he pounds it into you and your vision is blurred by the hot tears, your sobs barely shushed by yamaguchi’s soothing hushes and tender kisses that feel so jarring, so wrong.

“i love you.” he grunts. “i love you so much- you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” hot tears run down your cheeks as you turn your head to the side, staring blankly out of his window as the sharp pains run through your body every time his cockhead bruises your cervix. “i love you.” he wants you to say it back but you just feel sick and pained, a cold sweat breaking over your body. when will this be over? you clench your eyes shut, trying to swallow the bitter taste on your dry tongue, trying to pretend it feels okay, bearable even, but it doesn’t and you’re relieved when his throbbing cock pulls out. hot ropes of cum splatter over your folds and you feel like you’ve been split apart.

“you okay?” your heart drums when you see the pinkish fluid clinging to your pussy, the deep scarlet trickling out of your abused hole. “wow, you were a virgin?” yamaguchi’s smile makes you feel sick, your stomach churning. “i can’t believe i was your first. and you were mine.” he reaches out to take your hand into his but you’re quick to turn away, to hold back your hair as you can’t fight the urge to puke all over the side of the bed, tears stinging your eyes and the back of your throat burning.

“hey, y/n. what are you doing here?” you can’t help but start at the sound of the voice, but relief floods through you and your racing heart calms when you see it’s just yachi, a sweet yet confused smile on her face as she approaches. you’re sat against the brick wall behind the gym, staring out at the fields and hills stretching out into the distant blue sky. “aren’t you coming to practise?”

“i don’t know.” you murmur, pausing to take a sip of your water. “i’m actually considering resigning.” you don’t want to meet yachi’s eyes when she yelps with surprise, her eyes widening.

“what? why? a-are you crazy? the team loves you so much, i don’t want to be manager alone!” you can’t help but smile dryly at her desperate wail, glancing at her from the corner of your eye.

“you’ll have the new first year manager.”

“it’s not the same.” yachi pouts, her shoulders slouching. but then the look on her face becomes serious, anxious almost, as she shuffles closer to you, her eyes a little wide. you don’t like the look of cautious sympathy evident in them, her hands clumsily fumbling with the hem of her shirt.

“y/n, is this because of yamaguchi?” you freeze. blood pounds in your ears as you stare at yachi, the look on her face too serious for this to be a joke.

“what? no!” your laugh sounds forced and she doesn’t even crack a smile as she narrows her eyes, scrutinising you carefully with a look of worry etched on her face.

“please tell me if something’s not right. h-hinata says you’re getting really distant from everyone, and sometimes you look a bit...scared? is something wrong?”

yamaguchi forcing his cock into your dry hole. his cries to weigh you down and smother you with guilt. suspicious whispers that leave you scared to even smile at a classmate. his constant presence, his hand gripping yours, because he tells you he doesn’t ever want to be apart from you, he loves you too much not realising he’s drowning you.

“no.” yachi looks surprised as your strong declaration. “he loves me a lot. and i love him. everything’s fine.”

but your face falls as you hear the harsh snapping of a stray twig and yamaguchi’s standing by the corner, his hands curled into a fist and betrayal burning in his eyes.

#tw.dubcon #tw.yandere #tw.manipulation #cw.vomit #darkconfectionery #yandere!yamaguchi #yandere Yamaguchi imagines #yandere Yamaguchi x reader #yandere Yamaguchi #yandere haikyuu #yandere haikyuu x reader #yandere haikyuu imagines #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu x reader #Yamaguchi imagines #Yamaguchi x reader #neems’ queueueuuee :3

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yniswaifu · 3 years

Text

The bet - 2

"Y/N!"

You turn to look at Atsumu walking towards you, stomping his feet. He had a deep frown on his face, and it could be said he was pissed. Very very pissed.

Instinctively Osamu stood in front of you, stretching out his arm to shield you. You had come to meet him before his practice began that day – since it was a weekend with no school, the volleyball team did practice the whole day, as per Kita's order.

But of course, that wasn't very helpful as Atsumu shoved his brother to the side and stood very close to you, his flaring breath fanning your face.

You were anticipating this, not going to lie.

"why did you do that?" he asks, glaring at you.

Close proximity from anyone except your boyfriend made you uncomfortable, so you step back and turn your head to the side. "that was the right thing to d–"

You got cut off and Atsumu grabs your t-shirt collar and yanks you upwards. Your feet barely touched the floor and the area around your underarms hurt from the stretched cloth. Osamu, even though confused by the whole situation, could never see his girlfriend get manhandled by anyone, let alone his own sibling. He quickly comes in between you and Atsumu, and pushes him away.

"what the heck are you doing!?" he yells. Thankfully you guys were near the empty volleyball court or there could be a crowd forming already.

"what am I doing? Ask your girlfriend what she did!" the blonde twin counter-yells.

Osamu turns to see you already staring at him. The reason you decided to meet him was to tell him about yesterday. But his brother beat you to it.

You kept quiet while Osamu waited for you to say something. Sighing, you said, "I told f/n how Atsumu started dating her because of a bet."

Osamu's eyes widened. You could see disappointment flashing through his eyes, and that made you want to cry. But you kept your stand.

"why would you do that y/n? You know Atsumu likes her for real, and we had decided we'll leave the bet thing behind us."

Now you really wanted to cry. You wanted to yell at them about the fake foundation the relationship was based on, and how unhealthy and shameful the whole situation was, but you kept quiet. Moreover, you kept quiet as the two boys stared at you for an answer, as you know saying anything will only hurt you more. Not that your boyfriend taking his brother's side in an instant hadn't already done the damage.

Rolling your eyes, you looked at Atsumu and said, "I did what I thought was right. If she broke up with you then that's not my fault." turning to Osamu you continued, "this is what I had come to tell you. So, now you know. I'll take my leave."

And with that, you left the two and returned home.

***

You spent the weekend crying every now and then. The break up with Osamu had become almost official in your head (due to the overthinking), and you knew he wouldn't want to be with a 'snitch'. How could he trust you anymore when you went ahead and announced the secret to the last person who should know about it. But no matter how much you tried to think about it, what you did felt right. You were guilty for being part of such an action, and after imagining yourself in f/n's place, you felt bad. Because if Osamu had approached you as part of a dare, you wouldn't like it at all. So It's better to let the truth out, even if means you can't be with the boy of your dreams.

The boy of your dreams...

The tears fell harder thinking how you have to stay away from Osamu now. How you couldn't talk to him. Or hug him. Or kiss him. How you won't be hearing his sweet words only reserved for you anymore. Break up sucks.

On Monday, you walked to school alone, entered the class alone, and sat alone. There was no gray haired boy to walk with you to school, or hug you before you entered the class, or spend time with you before the bell rang for the first class. It was lonely, but you had to accept the reality.

One more thing, you didn't want to face Atsumu. After what happened, Atsumu might as well kill you if he sees you again. You loved your life, and you were glad at times like this that you and them belonged to different sections.

The bell rang and you decided to focus in the class, which was both productive and a good distraction. Not that you succeeded much. But you managed till the lunch break.

Ah, time for the students to take a break.

At this time usually either you would head to Osamu's class or he will come to yours, and then you would go to the canteen together. But from now on, you're on your own. And worse, you might see them.

Dragging your feet towards the canteen, you avoided everyone the best you could, and reached early. You bought your food, and rushed out before you saw a mop of gray or blonde head. Thankfully, you were able to escape and is back in your class. I'm bringing my own lunch from tomorrow, you think.

The whole day passes just like that, with you being by yourself and going home, by yourself.

The next day you repeat the routine, feeling a little less anxious. You thought you could avoid the twins like you did the previous day, but you were forgetting about the other two boys you knew.

Halfway through your food during the break time, you see a shadow looming over you. Your hands froze as you thought Osamu was here. But you couldn't be sure. So you just kept looking down.

"where were you yesterday?" a deep voice asks you.

Wait a minute, this isn't Osamu or Atsumu.

You look up to see a pair of narrowed slanted eyes looking at you. "Suna?" you ask, bewildered. You had completely forgotten about him. Or Ginjima for that matter.

He kept staring at you, an eyebrow raised and hands in his pocket. Suna was one of the quietest person you have met. But let's not mistake his quiet demeanor with shyness. He just didn't talk a lot as it was a waste of time for him, but he also wouldn't back down from recording whenever the twins fought. He was the quiet bastard.

You stared at the fox lookalike towering over you, wondering why he came to you, and why he's standing in front of your desk. All you wanted was to finish your lunch in peace.

"well?" he asks.

Sighing, you look down at your lunchbox when you hear the chair in front of you screech and someone sitting on it. "you're talking as if you don't know what happened." you answer softly, not looking at the boy sitting in front of you.

Suna scoffed, "is that why you're avoiding everyone? Because you snitched on us and told f/n about the bet we had placed a couple of months back?"

You kept quiet. So It's clear it was discussed among the boys. Well. The more the merrier, you think.

"honestly, I had forgotten all about it."

You looked up to see Suna smiling at you. It wasn't sarcastic, or seemed to be holding any malice towards you. Why...

"not surprising. All you care about is volleyball and enjoying the fight between the Miyas." you say, a small smile coming off your own.

Suna laughs a little, before his face turns to the usual poker. "you ain't wrong..."

You suddenly felt relaxed. Somehow the anxiety of confrontation left you, seeing you're still smiling while munching on your food.

Suna stares into space while you eat, a comfortable silence between you. You weren't sure what he was thinking, but seeing his relaxed state, you guessed it was nothing about you.

"why now? Of all the time?"

Maybe you guessed too soon. There it was. Confrontation.

Gulping down the last bit, you sigh (Wow, you've been sighing a lot.). You were tired. After four months of keeping it in, and then trying to explain why you did what you did, you didn't feel like talking about it anymore.

"better late than never." you answered.

Suna's eyebrows raised at your words. It almost felt like you wanted him to solve the question himself with those words. Like, the situation was obvious enough to be understood without any explanation.

"right...but we did decide not to tell her." he retorts.

This time you scoffed at his words. What bullshit. "not tell her...sure. Let her believe Atsumu actually liked her when he pointed at her before his serve at the game, something he has never done for anyone. Let f/n believe he waited for her after the game, to take her home. Let her believe he meant all that sweet talk he told her. Let her believe everything was GENUINE from the start. And there wasn't any bet we had with Atsumu when you realized she's the only person who hasn't paid any attention to him."

Your eyes looked furious by this point and you were pissed. Suna knew he was treading on thin ice, and you were about to snap, but he decided to take this further.

"but Atsumu fell for her for real after some time."

"if you're here to defend him and our actions then I suggest you leave."

He raised his hand in surrender. He didn't want to piss you off further. "I'm sorry, jeez."

Rolling your eyes, you rested your chin on your palm and stared outside. You didn't want to blast at anyone in the school.

"anyway, I wasn't here for that. I came here for a different reason, and I got distracted. Sorry for pissing you off." Suna spoke up.

You didn't look at him, but still replied. "apologise to f/n Suna, not me."

He smirked. He knew himself deep down, what they did was wrong. F/n was a nice person, and she didn't deserve any of that. So what y/n did was correct, even if that kinda ruined her relations with others, and Suna admired that. Not like he was going to tell her that.

"I will. In fact, after school" he says, his voice a bit solemn.

This time you look at him.

"I'm glad." you say. You didn't want to lecture Suna. He was a 17 year old teenager after all, with a sensible head between his shoulders. He can make his own decisions, just like you did.

Maybe for the first time, you saw Suna give a proper smile to you. Most of the time he would either have a smirk, or have a poker face. But you never saw him smile like he's doing this time.

"wow, I've never seen you smile like that before." you say, without thinking.

Suna looks a bit surprised but still smiles. "now you have."

You giggle and nod. Suna then gets up and turns to leave but stop. Facing you again, he says. "the main reason why I came here was to ask your help for an assignment. And I'm not great in that subject. So after I've apologised and sorted everything between me and f/n, will you consider helping me?"

You look at his poor attempt to plead. It didn't suit him at all. So you give him a smile and say, "first you apologise. Then I'll think about it."

Suna narrowed his eyes at you, amused by your antics. "very well." he says and bids you goodbye before exiting the class.

You shake your head at the retreating figure and smile to yourself. Of course you were going to help him.

Maybe it wasn't so bad after all...

Here's chapter 2. I know much wasn't revealed, but it gets better (at least in my head). Stay tuned.

Have a beautiful day. ✌️

Shout out to @nyxagape for being the first ever person to comment in the first ever chapter I wrote for my first ever fanfic. Thanks a lot man!

#Haikyuu #Miya twins #Atsumu x reader #Osamu x reader #Haikyuu imagines #Scenarios #Suna #haikyuu ginjima #@nyxagape

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yourtamaki · 3 years

Text

a kind dream, a cold reality

keigo x f!reader

word count: 1.9k

warnings: angst, hurt no comfort, neglect

there was peace in stability. when exciting beginnings morphed into routine, safe knowing exactly how your days would pan out.

there was also distance. when love declarations became monotone, more habit then heartfelt and kisses become another chore to check off a list.

when did domesticity become purgatory, doomed to repeat actions until all sparks of life had been drained away?

you stood in the kitchen, preparing dinner nearly on autopilot. you didn’t have to look at the time anymore, you’re own internal clock telling you there was 30 minutes until it was done, perfectly timed for when keigo came home from work.

for when he’s supposed to come home at least.

you tried to not think of how many meals had gone cold while waiting for him to return from wherever it was he decided was important to be then with you. at least the neighbours loved you, accepting the countless dishes that would otherwise have gone to waste. you wondered what lie you should tell them today. that you had made too much? that you were trying out a new recipe? you had plenty of time to decide.

setting the table was now a mindless activity, each plate and piece of cutlery placed just so across the dining table. when everything was in its rightful place, you brought out the pasta dish, setting it in the middle in a large bowl with tongs propped up inside. you could never guess how much keigo would eat on any given day so it was always best to let him serve himself. with nothing left to do, you took your seat before the empty plate, staring blankly ahead at where keigo was supposed to be.

you used to love this table. it had been the first thing you and keigo had bought together when you first moved in together. not a bed or a couch. a dining room table from a second hand store he insisted you had to go to because, “we need something alive with memories, songbird.”

you remember how you had both spotted it at the same time. tucked away in the corner, legs scuffed to hell but with the most beautiful dark oak surface you’d ever seen. you hadn’t realized how small it was either until you both sat down for the first time with shitty takeout because neither of you had thought to buy cookware. it was impossible for your knees not to bump into keigo’s, for his thigh not to end up between yours. you both loved the table too much to return it so you had to learn to adjust. now, it was your favourite aspect about the table, the added feeling of closeness as you shared a meal with the love of your life. it set the tone for the rest of your house, turning it from somewhere to live to a shared home.

these days, you had more space then you knew what to do with, your legs could swing under the table unobstructed. you hated it.

your stomach growled, the sound quickly swallowed up by the vast silence. you didn’t want to eat. not yet, not while there was a chance he showed up and you wouldn’t ruin your first meal together in who knows how long just because you got a little peckish. you could wait.

and wait you did.

you plated up a portion for yourself as the setting sun darkened the house, eating mechanically until your fork had nothing left to pick up. the next part was almost a ritual at this point. storing the food away in tupperware, cleaning the dishes, wiping down the kitchen so come morning you could start the cycle once more. you had perfected the routine down to every last detail. there was nothing left to do but get ready to sleep and lay in bed, idly playing with the crimson feather that hung around your neck.

you could refrain from touching it throughout the day but you couldn’t stand not holding it when you were alone in the too wide bed. you were supposed to be surrounded by hundreds of these feathers. you missed the way his wings would wrap around you during the night, pulling you into keigo’s chest. sleep wasn’t the same without them but you had no choice but to make do with the lone feather.

was this going to be the rest of your life? cooking meals no one would eat, cleaning an already spotless house, sleeping cold and alone? this isn’t the future keigo promised you when he got down on one knee, tears already streaming down his face. you weren’t naive, you knew there would be hard times in your marriage. it couldn’t be sunshine and roses all the time. you just thought he would be by your side when those times came.

a tapping at the window had you shooting up in bed in fear, head whipping towards the sound. an all too familiar outline was hovering outside, waving for you to open the window. you carefully made your way across the dark room. you’d unlatched the large window so many times it had become muscle memory and soon enough, your husband was flying through, landing lightly on his feet.

for a brief moment, a warm burst of love filled you. he was home, just an arm’s length away. you knew you’d forgive everything, everything, if he wrapped you up in a tight hug. the one that hurt your ribs and left your feet dangling in the air as he swung you around. the one where you felt his laugh more than heard it, you were pressed so close to his chest. that’s all you needed to remind yourself what you were fighting for. just one hug.

keigo walked past you without a word and the moment died. you think a piece of you died with it. an important piece. it would remind you of the better times, when you weren’t a wife but a girlfriend. when you were a priority in his life, when you could count on him dropping everything if you needed him. the piece that kept you together, kept you whole was gone and in its place was not emptiness but indifference.

“you’re really not going to say anything?” you didn’t understand why your voice came out so hoarse until you realized it was the first time you’ve used it all day. keigo didn’t pause as you broke the silence, continuing to undress with his back to you.

“‘m tired, songbird. can we do this later?” can’t he feel it? the precipice your relationship is on the edge of, threatening to fall and shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment? it dawns on you, watching him yawn and stretch, shaking out his feathers, that no. he doesn’t.

“keigo.” he turned to face you, blinking at the use of his name. always kei, never keigo. “i think i need a break. ”

he huffed out a confused laugh. “break from what?”

“a break from us.” you never knew silence could be so cold. so cold it left you shivering in its grasp. that’s the only explanation of why you were shaking so hard you had to clench your teeth to stop them from chattering.

“that’s not funny, dove.”

“i’m not joking.”

“why?” it was your turn to laugh, a broken, shrill thing that hurt your ears.

“you can’t think of one reason? one reason i’d have to be unhappy in this relationship?”

“look, i know i’m not around much these days but-“

“days? try months.” you felt nauseous at the sight of him, pale faced and eyes that darted around like a cornered animal looking for an escape. distantly, you realized this was unfair to him. you had ambushed him, gave him no preparation for what was quickly turning into a fight. but the hurt that had been growing inside you, gnarled and twisted with thorns that wrapped around your heart and shredded it with every beat demanded to be heard. you could flood your home with all the pain you housed.

“i’m sorry, songbird but i’m a hero. i work the hours commission tells me to. i can’t be here all day with you and you knew that when we first got together.”

“don’t try to make me sound unreasonable for wanting to spend time with my husband. i’m alone, keigo.”

“i know.”

“no you don’t! i am alone. i don’t have friends cause they all used me to get close to the number two hero. i had to sign a contract that said i wasn’t allowed to tell anyone where we lived. i don’t leave the house cause i’m terrified of someone recognizing me and using me against you. i am alone, keigo. with not even myself for company cause i don’t know who i am anymore outside of being your wife.”

he bowed his head, shoulders shaking though you didn’t know from what, his wings curling in as if to protect himself from your rant. “do you still love me?”

you sighed, your mouth opening and closing trying to think of how best to phrase what you felt towards him, “if i didn’t love you, i wouldn’t be telling you all this. i would’ve just left.”

“then stay. please. we can work through this. i'll be better, i’ll cut my hours. please, y/n. i can’t lose you.”

“i love you, kei. but i don’t think i was ever meant to be your wife.”

he was openly crying now, teary eyes meeting your dry ones. you didn’t know when you’d moved past that stage of grief but you were beyond grateful. it gave you the strength to power through this for the both of you. you owed him at least that kindness.

“that’s all you wanted once.” he whispered.

“the dream was kinder to me than the reality.” the truth of your statement was a punch to the gut. you’d wanted nothing more then to marry him, had daydreamed about it long before he popped the question. it felt like an inevitability. an intrinsic truth. the sky was blue. grass is green. you would be keigo’s wife someday. but love alone wasn’t enough to keep you two afloat. not when you’d been left alone to man a sinking ship. “i’ll take the couch and pack in the morning.”

“no! please if… if this is the last time…”

“it’s not forever, kei. just until i remember who i am outside of these walls.”

“still, can i hold you? please? just for tonight.”

you never could refuse him.

your bodies fit back together as though no time had passed since they’ve last held each other. despite the air still tense with emotion, you felt your body relax in his grasp, conditioned to associating the warmth of his chest against your back with safety. you knew in the morning, you’d wake up happy. the memories from tonight would be slow to trickle back in. but that was a problem for the future. tonight, you would savour the bliss of falling asleep with the person you loved most in the world. and you did love him. loved him so much it hurt. loved him enough to take this step back so he wouldn’t blame himself when he woke up one day and realized his wife had become a shell of herself.

#hawks x reader #hawks imagine #bnha x reader #bnha imagine #keigo imagine #keigo x reader #mha x reader #mha imagine #takami keigo x reader #takami keigo imagines

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heytherejulietx · 3 years

Text

Gold - Bughead

@riverdalepromptathon week 10

Masterlists

Read on AO3 here!

Requests are OPEN!

Prompts;

Daydreaming.

Gold.

Notes - ten weeks in and this is my first time taking part in the promptathon… oops. i’m glad i started though because this fic was so fun to write and i love it so much. though i swear i’ve got like three fics that end the same way this does. oh well, i still like it. enjoy. :)

Warnings - N/A.

Word count - 1.7k.

Riverdale tag list - @bucky-j-barnes @adorably-sweet-hufflepuff @kpopgirlbtssvt @booksmusicteaandanimals @cheryllclayton @jesso80 @dietbreadloaf @thebluetint @lilireinhartsimp @camiczzzz @bitchy-broken @crazyninjalight @literarygetaway21 @bc-jh22

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A hand in hers. Lips pressed to her hair. A cold golden band slipping over her ring finger. The thoughts swirled around in her barely-coherent mind as Betty attempted to wake up. Her eyelids fluttered underneath the gentle sunlight that peeked through the curtains to lay across her face and she had to turn her head to the left to get the light off of her eyelids. With a quiet yawn and a stretch of her arms she blinked her eyes open with a gentle smile when she saw her snoozing boyfriend buried underneath their light copper - almost gold - bedsheets beside her.

Betty propped herself up against the headboard and sighed, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms for a moment. The memory (or was it her imagination?) of the golden ring made her look down at her hand, though no ring could be seen. She closed her eyes and let her head lean back against the headboard behind her. Had she been dreaming that Jughead had proposed to her?

Just the thought of him proposing made her smile warmly to herself. Betty and Jughead had been together for a good few years again after their high school sweethearts phase had ended for seven years. They had their own house, they had a cat, they both had stable jobs and things to do; far from old worries of serial killers and cults and aliens. They were finally living normal lives. Or, as normal as it could get for them.

The icing on the cake would be to get married to Jughead. It would be the perfect addition to their lives. Of course, eventually Betty also wanted children, though she knew how Jughead felt about that topic. After everything with his dad, he needed to be one-hundred percent ready before he could even think of going through with that next step in their lives, and Betty completely understood that. They had their whole lives ahead of them for that.

Jughead shifted in his sleep beside her and she opened her eyes to look at him with a soft smile. He looked so peaceful when he was asleep. There was a time in their lives when the only peace either of them could get was when they were asleep in each other’s arms, and Betty was glad that they didn’t have to live like that anymore. No worry of serial killers or solving murders or devastating breakups. Just them. And their cat, of course.

Almost as if Toffee knew that Betty was thinking of her, a meow could be heard beside the bed before the fluffy creature jumped up onto the bed with Betty, meowing as she climbed into her lap.

“Good morning,” Betty mumbled with a soft smile as she scratched the back of Toffee’s neck, leaning her head down enough to allow the fluffy white cat to nudge the end of her nose with it’s own. With a fond smile towards the creature she ran her hand down her back and stopped at her tail, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “Want some breakfast?”

At the mention of food Toffee meowed again and Betty smiled, waiting for Toffee to jump off of the bed so she could get up too. Shuffling into her slippers she slipped on one of Jughead’s shirts before she followed a meowing Toffee out of the bedroom, letting Jughead sleep for a little longer.

Toffee zigzagged between Betty’s legs on the way to the kitchen, meowing loudly on the way. Managing not to trip over her cat by the time she got there Betty reached up towards one of the cabinets in the kitchen and pulled out a tin of wet food, scrunching her nose up in disgust at the smell as she emptied it into Toffee’s bowl before she sat it back on the floor.

With her cat now eating happily Betty moved around the kitchen, gathering what she would need to make scrambled eggs for breakfast. Though as she moved around the room she still couldn’t help but think back to her dream. Of course they had spoken about marriage before; when they had gotten back together again they had both agreed that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together, and that certainly included marriage, right?

If they got married then she would no longer be Miss. Cooper - she would be Mrs. Jones. The thought alone had her smiling widely at the frying pan in front of her as she sat it on the stove, an egg in her other hand. It would officially make her a part of his family, although she already knew how welcome she was into the Jones household. Betty was well aware that Jughead welcomed her into his household with open arms from day one when he was living at the trailer, though over time - through staying at the trailer some nights and then living in the same house as them - she grew close with his family too. Jellybean seemed like a little sister to her, even if she took some warming up to, and FP was like a father to her - more so than her own. After everything that had happened with Hal (she refused to refer to him as dad) FP treated her just as his own. And when she saw the man for the first time in seven years he greeted her like she was his daughter. A smile and open arms to hug her immediately. A kiss to her head and a mumble of “I missed you so much, Betty.” He liked her for who she was, not just for Jughead.

If they got married would FP walk her down the aisle? Would he dance with her at the reception? Would he gladly accept her as his daughter-in-law?

Getting along with Jughead’s family would be important, of course, but simply just having Jughead as her husband would be amazing in itself. They already acted like a married couple, but she knew life with him as her husband would be perfect. She could imagine small things like him referring to her as “Mrs. Jones”, calling her his wife and not just his girlfriend, always wearing matching wedding rings so they have something to connect to even when they aren’t together. Holidays together in a secluded cabin, slow dancing at parties, anniversary celebrations; she wanted it all.

She wanted to be married to him.

“You know,” a pair of arms snaked around her waist and held her into an embrace, bringing her out of her daydream. “If you want to cook the eggs, you have to crack them into the pan and not just stare at them.” His voice, though groggy with sleep, held a teasing undertone to it, and she smiled fondly to herself as she shook her head.

“I was just daydreaming. Got away from myself.” Betty mumbled, closing her eyes with a soft sigh as she felt kisses being placed to the back of her neck and wherever her shoulder was exposed.

“Was it about me?” Jughead teased again, and moved his hands to her hips to spin her to face him with a smile.

“It was actually.” Betty giggled, slipping her arms around his waist to tuck herself into him properly, shutting her eyes again as he dropped a kiss to her temple.

“Oh yeah? I’m flattered,” Jughead held her tightly against himself, his hand running across her back underneath the shirt she was wearing. “Can I ask why?”

“I had a nice dream about you.” Betty said softly, smiling to herself as she held onto him a bit tighter, tilting her head upwards slightly to leave a gentle kiss to the bottom of his jawline.

“A nice dream or a nice dream?” He teased, and chuckled as she gently nudged his side.

“A nice dream. It was very sweet. I don’t remember much about it but I know it made me really happy.” Betty said softly.

She looked up at Jughead as he hummed and leaned back slightly, and she leaned into his hand as he lifted it to rest against her cheek. It was moments like that when she knew that being married to Jughead would be perfect. They didn’t need to go on dates all the time or do fancy things to be happy with each other. Just having each other’s company was enough for them. All they needed was each other.

His hand cupped her cheek as he leaned in to kiss her and Betty smiled against his lips as her hands gently gripped onto his shoulders. They stood there for a few minutes, enjoying gentle touches and soft whispers between each other which only they would get, before they both felt fur brushing against their legs and an impatient meow following.

Betty pulled away with a pout as she looked down at Toffee who was looking directly at Jughead. “She likes you more than me.” She complained.

Jughead chuckled as he leaned down to lift Toffee into his arms, letting the cat nudge his face as she started purring. “I am very likeable.” He joked.

Betty fondly rolled her eyes and turned away from him and back towards the stove to turn it on, actually starting to fix their breakfast that time without getting distracted. “Of all people you don’t have to tell me that.” She pointed out, and heard him laugh behind her as he pressed a kiss to her head.

“Good point.”

As she focused on the eggs, she didn’t see Jughead move across the kitchen to where he had left his work bag on the table from the day before. She missed his hand reaching into one of the side pockets from which he pulled a velvet ring box. She didn’t see the sun reflecting on the golden band as he opened the box to check it was still inside. As Betty stirred the eggs Jughead slipped the ring box into his jacket which was hanging on one of the coat hooks by the door way; the jacket he’d be wearing out later that day when he took her out for lunch at their favourite restaurant. Where he would hopefully quite literally make a dream come true.

#amber’s writing #riverdalepromptathon #riverdalepromptathonweek10 #fyeahbughead #riverdale #bughead #bughead fluff #bughead one shot #bughead fanfiction #bughead fic #bettycooper #betty cooper #betty cooper x jughead jones #jughead #jugheadjones #jughead jones #jughead jones x betty cooper

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 3 years

Text

Always a Place For You

also on ao3

fair warning, this one is long

Initially, when they run into another Witcher on the road, Jaskier is thrilled. He’s been dying to hear more about Geralt’s adventures and hopes that having a familiar companion will make him more amenable to it. And maybe cheer him up a little. It's been a slow couple of weeks and while they've adjusted to it - and have certainly had worse periods - Geralt has been a little low lately. So when the other man walks toward them, arms stretched and a goat at his side, Jaskier is delighted.

His name is Eskel and he seems equally as enthusiastic to meet Jaskier as Jaskier is to meet him. Geralt makes a muttered comment about how it’s only because of the song and Eskel elbows him. Jaskier loves him immediately.

"Maybe I could write you your own song," he suggests and behind him, he can hear Geralt's snort of derision.

But it's fine. Geralt's never really grumpy with him about flirting - even, he suspects, with other Witchers - and how else is Jaskier supposed to learn about them? Every piece of Witcher knowledge he has, unless gleaned from his years with Geralt, is tainted with bias and fear, and he would very much like to know the truth.

Eskel is, in fact, far more forthcoming than Geralt ever has been, though this is likely a side-effect of Jaskier being Geralt's companion. He can't imagine Eskel would be so willing otherwise. And he can understand that, having overstepped with the wrong person and wound up in trouble more than his share of times.

The pair of them chat as they make their way along the road, heading toward Eskel’s camp. It’s not until they arrive that Jaskier realizes how quiet Geralt has been the whole time. It’s not as though he’s the chattiest person he's ever known, but Geralt has been talking very little today - even for him - and when Jaskier starts asking questions about their childhood, he shuts up entirely.

At the edge of Eskel’s camp, Geralt tethers Roach next to a black stallion who seems none too impressed with the company, then quietly comes to sit with them. He sits on Eskel's other side, staring intently into the fire and continuing to add nothing to the conversation. A couple of times, Eskel starts to say something, but a single look from Geralt is all it takes for him to switch tracks.

Eskel stays with them and Jaskier does his best to take a step back and not focus too hard on every interaction between the two Witchers. They spend a couple of days camping out before the weather turns wet and miserable and Geralt directs them toward town. Jaskier knows it's for his benefit mostly and he feels guilty for them having to change course, but Geralt won't take no for an answer. It's out of the way - they'd been heading toward Rinde and a sizable reward for killing a pack of ghouls - but it's the closest town to them, even if it's barely large enough to have an inn. But it does and once the horses and goat are housed for the night, that's where they head.

"We need a room for the night," Geralt says and Jaskier interjects with a hurried, "two rooms." Geralt turns to him with a confused frown, but Eskel lays a hand on Geralt's shoulder and he relents.

Jaskier tries not to think too much about what that means or why Geralt relents so quickly, but he fails. As he makes his way up to his own room, all he can think of is the way Eskel's fingers pressed into Geralt's shoulder, squeezing gently in a way that, apparently, was enough to reassure Geralt. He wants to be able to offer that kind of reassurance, for Geralt to feel that calm in his presence.

He's unpacking his things, hanging those that got wet to dry, when there's a knock on the door. Jaskier doesn't even have a chance to cross the room before the door opens and Geralt strolls into the room like it's his own.

"What's wrong?" he asks, which Jaskier supposes is polite, but he's so blunt about it that he almost sounds angry.

"Nothing," Jaskier offers, turning away to finish emptying the contents of his pack.

"Jaskier, you've barely said a word all day.”

“I composed an entire song before we reached the city walls."

"But you haven't spoken to anyone but yourself."

Jaskier opens his mouth to mention talking to the stable hand, but the look on Geralt's face tells him that won't go over well. Not that he understands why Geralt is so concerned about his silence, all of a sudden. There have been days when he's all but prayed for Jaskier to shut up. He should be happy about it.

"I'm just... not feeling well," he says, realizing the fault in his lie before he even finishes speaking it. Geralt's eyebrows knit together and he gives Jaskier a quick once-over before evidently deciding he's fine.

"You're lying to me. Jaskier you never lie to me. Why?"

"You can tell when I'm lying?"

"You smell like deceit, don't change the subject."

Jaskier doesn't know what to say because he certainly can't tell the truth. He goes with the one thing he knows Geralt won't want to talk about any further.

"I had a lover here once," he says quickly, "she dropped me quite quickly when she found out about my other lovers. I was quite hoping not to have to come back, but here we are."

It's close enough to the truth, and something realistic enough that Geralt should believe it. And he does, though he doesn't seem happy about it. He stiffens and Jaskier just sighs softly as Geralt turns back toward the door and leaves him alone again.

For four more days, Eskel travels with them. He leaves on the fifth morning, and watching him go is bittersweet, the weight of some unnamed pain sitting heavily on Jaskier's heart. Geralt shows no sign of sadness or regret, but Jaskier can feel something different about him as they turn and head in the opposite direction.

If Jaskier thought things would go back to the way before, he's sadly mistaken. And it's his own fault, really. Geralt, shockingly, returns to normal fairly quickly, falling back into their old routines, but Jaskier can't stop thinking about him and Eskel. When they're alone at night, he pretends not to be cold because he can't bear the thought of Geralt's arms around him if he's thinking of someone else.

But things do eventually get back to something like normal, aided by Geralt's silent persistence. For the first time in their relationship, Geralt is the one pushing boundaries, encouraging Jaskier to do things he doesn't necessarily want to do. But even when Geralt has wormed his way back to his proper place in Jaskier's life, Jaskier can't stop thinking about him with Eskel. So he flirts less - at least with Geralt - and he distances himself a little bit at a time because he wants Geralt to be happy.

They're up north when the weather starts to cool and out of the blue, Geralt broaches the subject of Kaer Morhen. Jaskier's sitting next to the fire, his lute case open next to him but untouched and he's prodding at the coals with a stick. Geralt comes and plops down next to him, staring directly ahead and not meeting Jaskier's eyes.

"I wonder if you would come to Kaer Morhen with me this winter." It's not a question, not really, and from Geralt's perspective, things have been good - exceptionally good - so he probably isn't expecting Jaskier to turn him down flat.

"No," Jaskier says and the look on Geralt's face tells him he's surprised about it. "I'm going to Oxenfurt."

"You'll freeze before you get there." Geralt says and he sounds a little irritated about it, so Jaskier smiles to ease the awkwardness.

"Well then," he says, "you had better come along and keep me warm."

It's supposed to be a joke, but Geralt agrees easily and Jaskier’s chest tightens. The night that follows is cold and Geralt is more distant than he has been, but he curls up around Jaskier next to the fire and pulls the extra blanket over them both.

For a little while, Jaskier almost thinks things could be okay again, but he's never felt so unsure of himself in his life. He wants Geralt, but he also wants him to be happy and there doesn't seem to be a way to have both - not if Geralt loves Eskel.

A couple of nights out, they're camped on the edge of a lake and Jaskier is struggling to get the fire lit. His fingers are so cold he fumbles with the flint and drops it into the placed sticks carefully. Geralt isn't around to help, having gone off to find something for them to eat, but Jaskier does eventually get the fire lit, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders as he sits next to it, waiting for Geralt to return.

When he doesn't, Jaskier gets worried and hauls himself to his feet. He can't see much in the dark, his eyes having adjusted to the light of the fire, so he heads off in the direction Geralt left. It doesn't take long to figure out where he went; barely two minutes from camp, Jaskier hears the sounds of a fight and hurries toward it.

Geralt has his sword drawn, surrounded on all sides by a pack of drowners. Without thinking, Jaskier rushes into the fold, tugging the dagger from his boot, and launches himself at the closest creature. He gets his blade lodged in its neck, but it stumbles as it collapses, dislodging Jaskier from its back and as he bumps into another and finds himself thrown sideways into the lake.

He's underwater before he realizes what's happening and the icy water bites into his skin. He struggles against the weight of his own body, kicking his legs and searching for anything to push off of. He's not even sure which way is up, at this point and he knows Geralt is too busy to come after him; this time, he's going to have to save himself.

But he can't. He's already losing feeling in his limbs and even with his eyes open and stinging, he can't see anything in the dark, so all he can do is kick his legs and hope for the best. And then, as if like a beacon, an arm thrusts down toward him, scrabbling around until a hand curls around his collar and hauls him upward. Jaskier is helpless as he's hauled up onto the bank and he gasps to catch his breath as warm hands, slowly cooling against his skin, grab at him.

He's tugged up into strong arms and his mind is still struggling to catch up as Geralt lifts him into his arms and starts back toward camp. Jaskier wraps his arms around his neck and rests his chin on his shoulder, he looks back behind them. The entire horde of drowners is dead on the ground, the grass dark with their blood. Jaskier shudders at the sight and Geralt holds him closer, mistaking his shock for cold.

As soon as they're back at the fire, Geralt drops to his knees next to it, shifting to cross his legs and pull Jaskier into his lap. He has both their blankets and the one Jaskier was wearing and he pulls them around him now.

"Take off your clothes," he says and Jaskier stops, his head jerking up to meet his eyes.

"I-" he starts and finds he can't form the words.

“Jaskier, your clothes.”

“But I thought- Eskel, he won't mind?"

"Jaskier, you're going to freeze to death if you don't get out of your clothes, no one is going to mind." Jaskier hesitates just for a moment and Geralt sighs in frustration, reaching for his shirt himself. Geralt gets Jaskier out of his doublet before Jaskier's mind catches up and he fumbles with his shirt.

"I've got it," Geralt says softly, and Jaskier ducks his head. He still hasn't quite managed to catch up to the severity of the situation and he shifts awkwardly as Geralt lifts his shirt up.

"Geralt you shouldn't- I can do it. I don't want things to be complicated because of me, I- I know you and Eskel- and I want you to be happy so I can do it myself." He doesn't look up until he's finished speaking and realizes Geralt hasn't moved. He's frozen in place, his hands wrapped around the hem of Jaskier's shirt. As soon as Jaskier lifts his eyes, Geralt's snap up to meet them.

"That's what's been bothering you? Jaskier, that was months ago." He curses softly under his breath and tugs Jaskier's shirt up over his head. He quickly rids him of the rest of his clothes and bundles Jaskier up against his chest.

They sit together in silence and Jaskier leans further into him than he should, soaking up Geralt's body heat. He shuts his eyes, pressing his face into Geralt's neck and a warm hand slides up his chest, wrapping him tight. It's a little weird being fully naked out in the middle of nowhere and pressed up against Geralt, but he likes the warmth of him against his back.

"Eskel and I," Geralt says suddenly, "it's not what you think."

"Dunno what else it could be," Jaskier mumbles, "you with your head between his legs and all. Though that explains why you were so weird about me meeting him." Geralt's hand makes its way up to his head, sliding into his hair.

"I didn't want to tell you," he admits and Jaskier huffs against him. "Jaskier," Geralt says softly, "I didn't want it to change things. Obviously, it did."

"How long?" Jaskier asks, though he's not totally sure he wants to know.

"Always." Geralt leans his head against Jaskier's, looking out into the fire. "We were kids the first time, cold and alone in that huge keep with no one but each other. It started as a distraction and just grew into something... else."

It feels like all the breath has been sucked from his lungs and Jaskier pulls in a shuddering breath. He had hoped that it was just a relationship born out of necessity, but that's not what it sounds like.

"You're upset," Geralt realizes, but Jaskier shakes his head.

"Just cold."

"And lying." Jaskier says nothing and Geralt tips his head forward, pressing against the back of Jaskier's head. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to upset you, I want you to be happy."

After a moment of silence, Geralt sighs. "You know I care for you, Jaskier." Jaskier's heart does a weird little flip that he can't quite describe, but it doesn't feel good.

"No, actually. You do quite a good job of pretending you don't." He's feeling raw and he wants to pull away, but his hair is still dripping and there's a real chance that he could actually die if he slept out in the cold tonight.

"Jaskier..." Geralt breathes, dropping his chin so his nose bumps against Jaskier's ear. "There's no need to be jealous of Eskel. No one could ever replace you."

Jaskier hates being placated and he squirms in Geralt's arms, turning to frown at him. But Geralt's expression is soft and he almost looks like he's smiling. Jaskier's frown deepens, but Geralt holds him closer, looking at him silently for a moment before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to Jaskier's temple.

Jaskier freezes as soon as Geralt moves and Geralt doesn't draw back, not entirely. He presses back in, keeping his eyes on Jaskier's, and when their noses bump against each other, Jaskier inhales slowly. He tips his head, pressing forward again and Geralt meets him halfway.

Geralt's mouth is hot against his own and he turns Jaskier in his lap, pulling him as close as he can without letting the blankets slip away. And it takes him a minute to realize Geralt isn't going to pull away, but when he's sure, Jaskier slips his arms around his neck, risking the frigid night air to wrap himself around Geralt.

He's not sure how long they stay wrapped around each other by the fire, but at some point Jaskier drifts off, his face pressed into Geralt's neck.

They change course in the morning, turning back toward the mountains.

The following morning is frosty and Jaskier dresses as quickly as he can to avoid any more loss of heat. When he's fully clothed, he works on getting his own things together, but Geralt comes over with a large swatch of fabric draped over his arm. As he gets closer, Jaskier realizes it's his cloak but he doesn't have a chance to ask what he's doing before Geralt is wrapping it around him, fastening it around his neck.

"It'll keep you warm," he says, fastening the clasp and Jaskier's heart is beating so loudly he can barely think over it. He suspects Geralt can hear it as well and that's what the little lopsided smile is for. He presses a hand to Jaskier's shoulder and pauses for a moment before sliding the same hand up to the side of his neck and drawing him closer.

"I'm sorry you were miserable for so long, I should have realized."

"No," Jaskier insists, but Geralt is already leaning in for a kiss and Jaskier shuts his eyes. For once, he's happy to leave something in the past.

"Will it be okay?" he asks as Geralt breaks away. He's still only a breath away and Jaskier flicks his eyes up to him. "Me coming to Kaer Morhen with you, I mean."

"If you're worried about Eskel, don't be. He knows."

"What?"

"He knew before I did," Geralt grins, stroking his thumb across Jaskier's cheek before turning and returning to his task. Jaskier is left speechless again and desperately wanting to know how he came up when talking to Eskel. Maybe if things go as well as Geralt says, he can ask Eskel himself.

They're a week out from the mountain pass that Geralt keeps talking about and Jaskier can't help but wonder if he was always expecting to take him to Kaer Morhen. He certainly wasn't expecting to be told no. But none of that matters now, especially not with Jaskier in the saddle and Geralt pressed as close behind him as he can be, one arm wrapped protectively around his middle.

The cloak is sufficiently warm, but he likes when Geralt touches him and his hood keeps blowing off anyway. Despite the cold wind, Jaskier likes it because Geralt will lean in and kiss his head and press his nose into his hair. Out in the wild, Geralt is careless with his affection, has been even before Jaskier realized what it was, and he can't blame him. If Geralt has been holding everything in for even half the time he has, it can't have been easy, even for a Witcher.

But Geralt likes to touch, likes to get his hands on whatever part of Jaskier he can reach and at times it proves to be frustrating. During the day, Jaskier lets him keep an arm around him and nothing more. He'd already learned the hard way that anything more than that affects him more than it should. Too many nights alone and too long on the road doesn't lead to anything good. And he's wanted for so long that his body overreacts to even the slightest touch. And the worst part is that Geralt seems amused by it, the bastard.

It's not until evening on the fifth night that Jaskier says something about it. They're sitting on the ground next to the fire and Jaskier is in Geralt's lap, watching the flames die down. Geralt has his hands on Jaskier's hips, slowly sliding down his thighs and back up again. His nose is pressed against the back of his ear and Jaskier decides there's nothing wrong with it tonight; it's just the two of them and nothing around for miles, so what does it matter?

Only tonight Geralt doesn't stop with soft, innocent touches. He slips his hands between Jaskier's thighs, fingers sliding easily over the smooth fabric and Jaskier lets out a little gasp when he slips higher than before. His cock twitches in his trousers and he tries to stifle a groan, but it doesn't work. Geralt presses forward, letting his lips brush the curve of Jaskier's ear.

"Jask," he breathes, "we can't do this here." Jaskier groans and arches his back against him.

"Why not? You’re the one who started it."

"You'll freeze."

"You can keep me warm," Jaskier hums, already pressing up into the touch.

He turns his head to kiss Geralt's mouth and Geralt hums against him, still doubtful even as his fingers slide over his crotch. Strong fingers curve around him, stroking him quickly to full hardness and Jaskier whimpers as he bucks up into Geralt's palm. It's a tease and nothing more, but when he pushes back between Geralt's legs, it doesn't feel like he needs any encouragement.

In fact, he doesn't even have to say anything more before Geralt's fingers are tugging his trousers open. Jaskier gasps as the cold air hits his skin, but Geralt's hand is hot and quick to wrap around him, stroking slowly down to the base and squeezing his way back up. He's smooth and precise, his motions speaking to years of practice - a thought which makes Jaskier's skin prickle and his heart beat faster.

"Touch me how you like it," he whispers and he can feel Geralt's breath stutter against his skin.

"Okay," he breathes and his fingers spread along the underside of Jaskier's cock, his thumb and forefinger circling the head.

Geralt continues, his speed increasing just slightly as he works over Jaskier's cock. Jaskier whines, panting against Geralt's neck. The thought that this is how Geralt touches himself is overwhelming and he kisses his neck, running his tongue along the underside of his jaw.

Already, Jaskier's getting close. He's denied himself too long and he's wanted this for so much longer than that. Geralt's hand is hot and quick and Jaskier breathes in his scent, shutting his eyes against the pulsing need of his cock. His hips jerk forward unbidden and he mumbles into Geralt's skin.

Geralt's palm slips up his chest and neck, turning Jaskier's head so he can kiss him properly and then he's pulling off of Jaskier's cock and lifting him in his lap. He turns him around so Jaskier's straddling his thighs and before Jaskier can even adjust to the new position, Geralt is fumbling with his own trousers.

He strokes himself quickly, tugging Jaskier against him and his hand closes around both of them, holding as tight as he can as he thrusts up against Jaskier's cock.

"Oh. Gods, Geralt, yes." Jaskier snaps his hips in quick sharp bursts, pressing himself as close against Geralt's cock as he can. Geralt's hand slips from their cocks, both arms curling around his waist and he ruts against Jaskier rolling his hips in short, sharp thrusts.

"Fuck, Jask," he huffs. His hands slip down, fingers pressing into Jaskier's ass and forcing the roll of his hips. Geralt's strong and enthusiastic and Jaskier shudders and groans as his own arousal burns through him.

He pushes up against him, so hard it's almost uncomfortable, but this position and their location aren't exactly conducive to comfort, not that Jaskier cares. Or Geralt, by the way his hand slips up, tangling itself in Jaskier's hair and tugging gently. Jaskier lifts his head obediently and as Geralt's eyes meet his, he feels his body release and before he can even warn Geralt, he's coming hard, spilling between them.

His hips stutter and his thighs shake and Geralt holds him, grunting softly in his ear as he continues the increasingly uneven roll of his hips. Jaskier's body feels heavy where it's sprawled over Geralt's chest, but his head is floating, empty and airy, the only thing still tying him to reality is Geralt's body wrapped around him. Geralt's cock digs into his hip and Jaskier's body shudders above him.

It's too much, but it's so good and Jaskier just goes limp, pressing his mouth against Geralt's neck and kissing him lazily. Geralt mumbles against him, breathing his praise into Jaskier's shoulder and he's never been so talkative. Jaskier can only hope he's always like this when he gets off.

When Geralt comes, it's with a low, rumbling growl that could almost get Jaskier hard again. His arms slip a little but stay firmly wrapped around him, and when he nudges Jaskier's cheek with his nose, Jaskier tips his head, meeting his mouth in a soft kiss.

"You're incredible, darling."

Geralt huffs his amusement and tips his head back to kiss Jaskier's forehead. He doesn't speak, and Jaskier shuts his eyes, listening to Geralt's heartbeat as it gradually slows to normal. He's not sure what the rest of the winter has in store for them, but he's thankful for this one moment alone, even rushed and cold in the forest.

After a little while, he peels himself from Geralt with a significant amount of effort and flops onto his back, staring up into the dark sky. Next to him, Geralt sits up, smiles down at him softly.

"We have to get cleaned up," he says lightly, "get changed before we sleep. We'll have washing to do when we get to the keep."

Jaskier groans dramatically, but he pushes himself up and leans in to kiss Geralt. He strips and changes his clothes as quickly as he can, careful not to take too much off at once because now that his mind is clear again, the air is bitterly cold.

When he's dressed again and wrapped in a blanket, he lays down on his bedroll, watching as Geralt goes through the same motions, changing out of his soiled clothing. It was rough and it was messy and Jaskier wouldn't change it for anything. He pulls Geralt close to him, breathing softly against his ear. In the morning, they have to get up and go, but for now, Jaskier is content to let Geralt wrap around him and kiss his neck as he drifts off into a pleasant slumber.

The rest of his night doesn't go nearly so well. After waking up three times and still shivering despite having the extra blanket wrapped around him and pressing in as close to Geralt as he can, he gives up trying to sleep at all. So, hours before dawn, Geralt packs their entire camp up and hoists Jaskier up onto Roach's back, setting back out along the road.

Jaskier has no notion of time as they travel, drifting in and out of consciousness up until the moment they arrive at the gates. Geralt helps him down as they approach the stables and Jaskier resists the urge to lean into him and fall asleep. He helps remove Roach's tack, though Geralt takes it from him so he can guide Roach into the empty stall next to Eskel's horse. Geralt leads the way up through the courtyard and into the mess hall and Jaskier follows quietly, taking in very little of it.

Kaer Morhen isn't what he expected it to be. Not that he's had much of a chance to see it; as soon as Geralt got him inside, he ran through introductions and got him upstairs into a hot bath. In which, Jaskier promptly fell asleep against Geralt's chest. Since he's woken up, he's found the keep to be surprisingly warm and comfortable and nothing like the cold, dark dungeon Geralt has described to him time and time again. Then again, he thinks, living here as a young boy in training to be a Witcher must have been a very different environment. But he seems happy enough now.

That night, the pair of them head down for supper and Jaskier finds himself sitting across from Eskel. He feels bad about all the things he thought about him before, but now isn't the time to bring all of that up so he just smiles cheerfully at him. There will be time to talk later.

Later, they make their way up to bed together and there's a moment of quiet hesitation once they're alone before Jaskier takes Geralt's hands and leads him toward the bed.

Waking up next to Geralt, warm and safe in bed, is the greatest thing Jaskier has experienced thus far in his life. By the end of the evening, all hesitancy is gone and after a meal and drinks with the rest of their companions, Jaskier finds himself hauled upstairs and pressed into cold sheets. He's fairly certain the entire keep hears how easily Geralt pulls pleasure from his body, but it doesn't matter. The only person who matters is Eskel, and apparently, he already knows.

For the next couple of days Geralt shares his bed and then, on their fifth night in the keep, he pauses when Jasikier suggests heading to bed.

"Go to bed," he says gently, "but don't wait for me."

Jaskier smiles relieved that Geralt is comfortable enough not to lie about where he's going or what he's doing. "You don't have to come to bed tonight if you'd rather stay with Eskel."

Geralt's lips twitch up in a soft grin and he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Jaskier's mouth. Jaskier sighs and as he opens to him, Geralt presses closer, slipping his hand into Jaskier's hair. He hums softly and Jaskier can feel the restless energy in him and for the first time since the first time tonight, he's a little bit jealous that he's not the one accompanying him. He breaks away first, leaning back in for just a second to press a final kiss to Geralt's lips.

"Have a good night," he whispers.

"Goodnight, Jaskier."

Sleeping alone in a big, unfamiliar room is odd, but Jaskier wraps himself up in the blankets and burrows in. He tries not to think too much about what's happening just down the hall, but it's not jealousy that has him trying to divert his thoughts.

Jaskier adjusts to sleeping alone and he adjusts to Eskel's soft closeness with Geralt during the days, appreciates it even. Geralt doesn't get enough affection in his life, as hard as Jaskier tries, so it's good to know someone else is there when he isn't. And he likes Eskel. More than he ever expected to, especially considering the circumstances. But Jaskier isn't a greedy person and if Geralt's happy, so is he. And considering what Geralt has told him of Eskel, maybe he should have expected him to be as welcoming as he is.

He never makes any attempt to draw Geralt away and any time Jaskier comes across the two of them alone, he's easily integrated into the conversation. They get along well and Geralt seems happiest when he's between them or when everyone's together in the mess hall, so even if Jaskier didn't like Eskel, he'd be willing to put up with him for Geralt's sake. But he does like him, though it isn't until midnight a week later that he really starts to appreciate him.

It's a warmer night than it has been, so Jaskier isn't missing Geralt's presence so much tonight. He's perfectly comfortable on his own and while he would be happier with someone to keep him company, he's not lonely. And all through the evening, it had been oh so clear how Geralt and Eskel were just waiting to slip away from the group and be alone. As he lies in the dark, he wonders if that's how he comes across when he slips into Geralt's lap and whispers in his ear. Maybe, but he doesn't mind and he's sure at least Eskel understands.

Jaskier shuts his eyes, wiggling deeper into the mattress as he tugs the blanket up to his chin. He could get used to spending the winters here if Geralt is willing to bring him.

When he wakes, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat, Jaskier doesn't remember crying out, but the knock on his door makes him think he must have. No one would be checking on him, otherwise.

"I'm fine," he calls, but he finds his voice hoarse and too quiet. It's been a long time since he's had nightmares this frequently and he doesn't know what's brought them on again, but he'd like it to stop.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and pushes himself up, starting toward the door. Whoever knocked hasn't responded, so he pulls the door open, not expecting to see Eskel standing in the doorway.

"You alright?" he asks and Jaskier nods. "You cried out and I didn't want to wake Geralt, but I know he'd want to make sure you were okay."

"I am. Thank you."

"Geralt used to have terrible nightmares, too. Do you want to talk about it?"

Immediately, he wants to say no because Geralt's lover is the last person he wants to go complaining to. Especially a Witcher who has led a much harder life than he has. But as he's contemplating, he realizes Eskel's hand has found its way to his shoulder, warm and comforting and he doesn't want to be alone right now.

He tells Eskel about his dreams, though he doesn't go into detail. No one who cares about him wants to hear about all the gruesome ways Jaskier watches Geralt die in his dreams. But Eskel seems to get the gist of it. They head out onto the balcony where they're less likely to wake anyone and Eskel doesn't move when Jaskier leans into his body to keep warm.

"We've all been through it," he says, wrapping an arm around Jaskier's shoulders, "even Lambert, though you'd never get him to admit it. What do you dream about?"

"Geralt, mostly," he admits. "Sometimes I dream about dying, but mostly it's him."

"Understandable. Geralt lives a dangerous life, I'm still surprised he lets you follow along."

"I wouldn't say he lets me," Jaskier huffs, quirking his lips just slightly as he looks up at Eskel, "but he's never tried very hard to stop me."

Eskel huffs a soft laugh. "No, I can't imagine he did."

They talk for a while longer, but when Jaskier gets too cold, Eskel ushers him back into the keep and back to his room. When they reach the door, he offers his own bed that it might be more comfortable if he wasn't alone, but as much as Jaskier is happy to let Geralt and Eskel do their thing, he's not sure he wants to be that close to it. He declines the offer politely, ensuring that Eskel knows how much he appreciates it, and retreats into the room alone.

Now, at least, when he settles into bed, he falls asleep without any trouble.

It becomes a ritual, of sorts. Jaskier's dreams don't come every night and some nights Geralt is there to curl around him and ground him in the present, but when he's not, there's Eskel. And after a while, it's not just about the nightmares. If Jaskier is having a down day and Geralt is busy, Eskel is the one he turns to for comfort (gods know Lambert won't give in without a fight). Things are good between them and Jaskier regrets the way he acted the first time they met, but love can make people do stupid things and jealousy is worse.

Geralt spends most of his nights with Jaskier, even if they're just curled up together in the dark. The rest of the time, Geralt is with Eskel and as the weeks pass, Jaskier starts to feel the still-lingering discomfort shift. He's not jealous because admitting he's jealous would mean he has a problem with the way things are between them, or admitting that maybe Geralt isn't the only one he has feelings for. Which is absurd.

But he is closer to Eskel than he is with the others and more and more often he finds himself seeking him out, looking to bask in Eskel's warmth and understanding. But it's just because he's kind and understanding and willing to listen. Because Geralt has so few good things in his life. How could Jaskier even consider taking one of them away?

They're all drinking together one night and Geralt and Lambert are playing Gwent. Geralt gets too far into it every time he plays, so Jaskier keeps his distance, watching from his perch on the table, lute in his lap. When Lambert turns in for the night, Geralt frowns at the empty space across from him before glancing down the table at Jaskier.

"Do you want to play?" he asks and Jaskier scoffs.

"Maybe if you get me another drink?" he asks, smiling brightly down at Geralt. He gets a soft, bemused smile in response, but Geralt pushes himself up from the table and Jaskier watches as he leaves the room.

Jaskier is just drunk enough to feel pleasantly warm all over, the very few inhibitions he possesses lowered. Which is probably why, when Eskel slides down the bench to sit between his knees, he doesn't move. His heart beats a little quicker, but it's probably just the wine. Eskel lifts his arms, resting his elbows on Jaskier's knees and he tips his head to one side. Already, Jaskier is struggling against the swell of emotion that fills his chest, and the soft, lopsided smile Eskel gives him doesn't help.

"I hope Geralt realizes how lucky he is," he says and for a second, Jaskier is sure his heart stops. When Eskel's eyes flick up to his, curious, almost surprised, he's sure of it. Considering the amount of stuff Geralt overhears that he's not supposed to, Jaskier's just settled on the assumption that Witchers can hear everything. Including his heartbeat.

"You have a beautiful voice," Eskel continues and Jaskier fights a losing battle to get his body under control so he doesn't give himself away. If it's not too late already.

"Thank you," he chokes out, amazed that his voice is still working properly.

He doesn't remember the last time he felt like this. With Geralt it was simple; do nothing because it won't be well-received - or so he thought - but with Eskel he's sure he could just... lean in a little, press a little closer. But where does Geralt stand in that situation? Would he be upset, worried that maybe they'd go off together and leave him? Nevermind that Jaskier's been desperately in love with him for a couple of decades now. So once again, he does nothing and he shoves the feelings down and pretends like it's fine.

But he wants to kiss him and he can feel Eskel's body heat. And Eskel doesn't seem to share any of his concerns, letting his fingers slip over the side of Jaskier's thigh and tracing invisible patterns in the silk of his trousers. Jaskier startles when Eskel rises to his feet. He plants his hands on either side of Jaskier's hips and like this, they're barely a couple of inches apart and Jaskier can feel Eskel's breath on his face and he wants. But he can't, so he shuts his eyes.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" Eskel asks and Jaskier has a witty remark right on the tip of his tongue, but then Eskel's mouth is against his own, kissing it away.

After kissing Geralt for the first time, he didn’t think anything as simple as a kiss would affect him this way, but as Eskel's lips part against his own, Jaskier can feel it all the way down to his toes. He lets out a soft sound as Eskel's arm slips around his waist, pulling him closer. Eskel breaks the kiss a moment later, only pulling back far enough to look at Jaskier.

"Come to bed with us tonight," he breathes.

"Will Geralt be okay with that?"

"I hope so," Eskel chuckles, leaning back in and pressing his lips against Jaskier's jaw. "It was his idea." Oh. "I didn't think you'd want to."

"How could I not? Who wouldn't gladly climb into bed with two handsome men like you?" Eskel snorts and pulls back to look at him, but Jaskier just smiles.

The clink of bottles against each other signals Geralt's return and Jaskier instinctively leans back a little but Eskel leans in close, breathing against his ear. "Don't worry," he whispers, "he likes it."

And Jaskier knows they can both tell the way his heart beats a little quicker, but he can't help it. He leans back further as Geralt comes to kneel behind him on the bench.

"Do you?" Jaskier asks, offering his most charming smile, "like seeing me with him?"

"Mmm," Geralt hums, cupping a hand under Jaskier's head and turning him just slightly to kiss him. When he draws back, he looks up to Eskel. "I do."

It takes Jaskier a moment to realize Geralt is playing with his shirt and it's not until he shifts that he realizes he's got it untucked from his trousers. One warm hand slips up under the fabric, fingers brushing over the bare skin beneath it and Jaskier shuts his eyes with a hum, shifting to lean back against him. As far as he's concerned, they could stay right here all night and he'd be perfectly happy with it.

Eskel's hands find his thighs, pressing down as he leans forward and catches Jaskier's lips in a heated kiss. Jaskier makes a soft noise of surprise but leans into it, and once Geralt gets him out of his doublet, he slips his arms around Eskel's neck. But the kiss doesn't last long and Eskel ducks his head, dragging his mouth down Jaskier's throat and down to press kisses into his chest.

Jaskier lets himself be moved and shifted into position, hips pulled forward so his body is flush against Eskel's. And Geralt climbs up behind him, knees on either side of his hips so Jaskier is pinned perfectly between them. His fingers slip into Eskel's hair, sliding through the strands as Eskel continues his exploration down Jaskier's stomach, undoing the buttons of his shirt as he goes. And if the sounds from behind him are anything to go by, Geralt does very much enjoy watching them together.

When Jaskier's shirt is entirely undone and Eskel has moved on to removing his boots, Geralt tugs the fabric from his shoulders. And Jaskier's pulse spikes as two sets of hands slide over his skin, then Eskel's settle on his waist, teasing the hem of his trousers. Jaskier is hardly ashamed to be half-hard already - anyone would be in his position - but his breath catches as Eskel's thumb brushes over the bulge of his cock. He tips his head back, intent on finding Geralt's mouth with his own, but when he looks up at him, he pauses.

Geralt is transfixed, paused mid-motion. His teeth pressed into his bottom lip, eyes focused on Eskel's hands where they tease at Jaskier's growing erection. Oh. He really does like to watch. Well, if that's what he wants, Jaskier isn't going to disappoint him.

He wiggles his hips enticingly and Eskel makes quick work of removing his trousers. With the last obstacle out of his way, Eskel presses in close, near enough that Jaskier's cock slips against his own - close but maddeningly separated by Eskel's clothes. Jaskier groans his disappointment, but in one surprisingly smooth motion, Eskel drops back to his seat, his fingers slipping over Jaskier's bare thighs and gripping around him. Jaskier tips his head down to watch as Eskel nuzzles between his thighs, thick stubble grazing against skin.

It's rough and a little bit ticklish, but the closeness and the way Eskel presses his face against him makes Jaskier's breath catch. He's been transfixed by Eskel for weeks now, his arms, his thighs, his lips, but now he's facing the very real possibility of having those lips wrapped around his cock and he doesn't know what to do with himself. Geralt presses against him, kisses the back of his neck, and slides a hand down his stomach.

He curves a hand around his cock, only vaguely touching him as he slips up the length of him. It's maddening in its teasing and Jaskier drops his head back against Geralt's chest with a groan, but then Eskel's lips press against his heated cock, following the path of Geralt's hand and Jaskier goes limp between them.

Geralt runs his hands up Jaskier's sides, steadying him as Eskel's lips slide over him and Jaskier leans into his warmth. Eskel's hands join Geralt's, fitting around Jaskier's hips and softly rubbing against his skin as he sinks down on him. It's never been a mystery why Geralt got involved with Eskel, but if this is what he's always like when they're alone, Jaskier can certainly see why he would keep coming back for more.

He groans as his cock bumps against the back of his throat, but Eskel doesn't let that stop him, pressing his nose into the curls at the base of his cock and swallowing around him. Jaskier is sure he's going to pass out when Eskel just stays like that and he wonders vaguely if the mutations took away his gag reflex because that could prove interesting. He bites his lip with a groan, failing miserably at an attempt to keep his hips steady. But Eskel doesn't seem to mind, guiding his hips with every little thrust. And Jaskier isn't sure he'll survive being treated this way.

He slips one arm back around Geralt's neck, steadying himself as the other slips into Eskel's hair. It takes all his concentration not to roll his hips up, slide his cock down Eskel's throat. His whole body shudders and he lets out a shuddering moan, mumbling softly as Eskel shifts and bobs in his lap.

One warm hand presses against his cheek and when he turns, Geralt catches his lips in a heated kiss. It's hot and possessive and Eskel groans at the way Jaskier’s cock throbs in response. The angle is a little off but Geralt nips at his lips and kisses him so deeply that Jaskier nearly forgets about the mouth around his cock until Eskel pulls off.

The little whine of disappointment is lost to Geralt's lips and when Jaskier eventually breaks free to look back down at Eskel, he has to remind himself not to be greedy. But it's hard when Eskel's looking up at him with those beautiful golden eyes and a faint smirk on his lips.

He rises to his feet again, pushing a hand through Jaskier's hair and cupping his jaw. For a split second, he looks like he wants to say something, but he presses forward instead, catching Jaskier's lips in a soft kiss.

"Don't start without me," he mumbles and then he's pulling away, stepping over the bench and crossing toward the door.

Despite the fire, the room feels suddenly cold without Eskel pressed against him and Jaskier cuddles back against Geralt, tugging his arms around him and shifting to kiss his neck. Geralt grabs his hips, holding him firmly and turning him in his lap. He pulls Jaskier against him, brushing his hair out of his eyes and drawing his head back to look at him.

"You look good with Eskel," he breathes, "very good. But I have to know you want this. I don't want you to do it for our sake."

"Our sake?" Jaskier asks and Geralt's hand slides to the back of his head.

"Eskel's become... fond of you."

"And you're alright with that?" Jaskier asks, hopeful.

"Why wouldn't I be? I... care deeply for both of you, why wouldn't I want him to want you, too?" He presses his lips to Jaskier's just briefly and when he pulls back, he's smiling softly. "I know you want him and I want you to. He wants you, too. We both do."

Geralt ducks his head, kissing his neck and sucking at the spot right under his jaw. He slips one arm around Jaskier's waist, tugging him closer as his other hand snakes between them, wrapping around his cock. He tugs firmly, pulling a startled gasp from Jaskier as his fingers tighten around him.

Jaskier lets him for a moment, before shifting so they're facing the opposite direction. He pushes Geralt back against the table, shifting onto his knees and he bends over him, quickly running his mouth up the Geralt's length through his trousers. He mouths at him through the fabric, taking special care when he reaches the head and Geralt's hands tangle in his hair, tugging gently as his hips rise against Jaskier's mouth.

The door creaks open but Jaskier is only distantly aware of it until he hears Geralt's muffled moan. Jaskier pushes himself up to find Eskel bent over Geralt, kissing him as Geralt's arms wind around his neck, fingers pushing through his hair. In that moment, he knows exactly why Geralt likes to watch.

Heat sears through him and he barely resists wrapping a hand around himself and getting off just like this. But he catches a glint of a vial in Eskel's hand and his heart thuds a little heavier in his chest. As Eskel pulls away, Geralt's hands fall to his sides and Jaskier can't help but smile at the soft expression on his face.

When Eskel steps away from him, Jaskier realizes he's hard, his cock straining hard against the front of his trousers. Fuck. And that fucking codpiece isn't doing anything to help matters. Jaskier climbs up, straddling Geralt's hips and rocking gently against him as he reaches out for Eskel, drawing him close with two fingers in the collar of his shirt. Eskel grins as Jaskier pulls him into a firm kiss, but he doesn't linger, even as one hand slides down to settle on the swell of Jaskier's ass.

"I think it's time we made our way upstairs," Eskel rumbles and Jaskier grumbles as Geralt asks,

"Vesemir?"

"Mm," Eskel confirms, "I don't think we need another lecture about bodily fluids." Geralt just huffs a laugh and pushes himself up, slipping a hand behind Eskel's head to guide his mouth to his own.

Eskel squeezes Jaskier's ass and dips to kiss him before pulling away to collect his clothes. Jaskier reluctantly slips from Geralt's lap and the three of them make their way upstairs toward Geralt's room.

As soon as they're in the room with the door shut, Jaskier finds himself pressed against it, a hot mouth against his own. The only way he knows it's Eskel is the scent of him. In time, he's sure he'll learn the differences in their touch, but right now he's already overwhelmed and not at all bothered with who is touching him.

He's lifted off his feet, legs snaking around Eskel's waist as one arm slips under his ass. Eskel's tongue slides between his lips and Jaskier groans, shifting his hips against him. He gets a little huff of a laugh from Eskel and is promptly deposited on the bed with Eskel on top of him. He never once breaks the kiss and Jaskier reaches up, encouraged by the press of Eskel's cock against his thigh. He tugs at Eskel's shirt, loosening it from his trousers and tugging it up over his head as Geralt joins them on the bed.

With Eskel free of his shirt, Jaskier reaches down, toying with the ties on his trousers. He gets a hum of approval and it takes a moment to realize it's coming from Geralt. He shifts above Jaskier's Jaskier, then, once he's settled, gently lifts Jaskier's head into his lap as Eskel moves back down his body. He gets his mouth around Jaskier's cock again, sucking him down as Jaskier whimpers under him.

It's not the first time Jaskier's gone to bed with more than one partner - far from it - but Jaskier more often than not finds himself in control in those situations. Tonight, though, Eskel has taken charge right from the start and Jaskier has never been happier to let himself be led. He writhes as Eskel's lips seal around him, squirms as his hands slip up over his thighs. Geralt's fingers wind through his hair and when Jaskier tips his head back he realizes Geralt is watching, his eyes focused on Eskel's mouth around him. And he's hard.

Jaskier lifts his head as well as he can, curling a hand around Geralt's neck to pull him into a kiss. It's a bit of an odd angle, but Geralt kisses him deeply, rumbles low against his lips and Jaskier arches off the bed. He feels Eskel chuckle around him before pulling off and climbing up over him. He kisses his way from Jaskier's chest up to his jaw and Geralt withdraws, letting Eskel claim Jaskier's mouth in a bruising kiss. He rocks his hips and Jaskier groans into his mouth. Eskel is thick and hard where he ruts against him and Jaskier desperately wants to get his mouth on him. Or Geralt. He isn't picky, but he is very impatient.

He's not sure if he'll get this opportunity again, so he pulls away regrettably sliding out from under Eskel's weight and leaving him with Geralt. And Eskel busies himself getting Geralt out of his shirt, something Jaskier finds difficult to tear his eyes from.

Geralt lets himself be manhandled much in the same way he does with Jaskier, but while it feels incredibly intimate and important when it's happening to him, there's something thrilling about seeing it from an outside point of view. The way Geralt lets himself be pushed and pulled into position, lets Eskel climb up over him and slot their bodies together perfectly.

Geralt reaches an arm out to him and Jaskier lies down next to him, kissing him when he turns his head toward him. Eskel hums, shifting so he and Jaskier bracket Geralt in, both pressed against his sides. And Jaskier takes his chance while he can, slipping a hand up the length of Geralt's cock through his trousers. He gets a soft groan in response, muffled against his lips, and squeezes a little firmer as Eskel's hand comes up below his.

Geralt bucks against them, rolling his head back and Jaskier takes advantage of the position to press his lips to Geralt's neck, sucking lightly as his fingers slip to his trousers, picking at the buttons. Eskel's strokes speed up a little, his hand bumping against Jaskier's every few seconds, but Jaskier still manages to undo the buttons and slip Geralt's cock free of its confines. Geralt groans as bare fingers wrap around him and Jaskier pulls from his mouth, kissing his way down to the head of his cock before licking a stripe up the side of him.

There's a muffled sound of pleasure from above him but Jaskier is focused on his task now, wrapped up in the taste of Geralt on his tongue to worry about anything else. He sinks down on him, sliding up and down his length with ease as Geralt moans above him, each sound muffled by Eskel's mouth against him. The thought of them together spurs him on and he slides one hand up Geralt's thigh, and up his chest as he flattens his tongue against him.

He's been paying attention to what Geralt likes, committing it to memory every time they're together, taking notes on what makes Geralt moan and what makes him writhe and arch off the bed. He's learning quickly. Geralt likes to be teased, even if he would never admit it; likes when Jaskier sucks him nice and slow, letting his tongue drag along the length of him, his lips slide delicately over the head. And Jaskier likes to take his time with Geralt, so it works out nicely.

Geralt groans and Eskel kisses the sounds from his mouth shifting against him and Jaskier flicks his eyes up to watch. He's not above admitting that watching them turns him on and if he's allowed, he may as well take advantage of it. But Eskel does something and Geralt whines against his lips, hips jumping forward to press his cock against the roof of Jaskier's mouth. He shudders as Jaskier sinks back on him and wraps an arm around Eskel's neck, pulling him closer.

Jaskier wants to watch, but he gets lost in the rock of Geralt's hips, the heady scent of him and he shuts his eyes and slides one hand up Geralt's chest. He teases at his nipple, rubbing it firmly, spurred on by the way Geralt twitches beneath him. He doesn't even realize Eskel's got his cock out until he hears a rumbling groan and looks over to find him with a hand around himself, leaning in so he's rutting against Geralt's thigh and that's certainly something.

Heat sears through him and Jaskier aches to get his mouth around him. He doesn't think he could, but he desperately wants to try. Eskel slips the hand from his cock to reach out, brushing his fingers against Jaskier's cheek and lifting him from Geralt's cock.

"Get him ready for me?" he breathes and Jaskier nods before he's pulled into a sloppy kiss.

It lingers longer than Jaskier's expecting and he finds himself pulled into Eskel's lap and he only just manages to snake a hand between them, wrapping around the head of Eskel's cock before Eskel's pulling away again.

He doesn't mind much when he considers the idea of watching Eskel fuck Geralt and he pulls away, running a hand up Geralt's thigh.

"Roll over for me?" he asks and Geralt is quick to comply, though he tugs Jaskier down against him. He smiles as he kisses him and Jaskier is loath to move, but he wriggles out of Geralt's grip nonetheless.

He shifts to straddle his hips, kissing a line down Geralt's spine until he reaches the swell of his ass. Jaskier squeezes the flesh, bending down to nip at him gently and he settles between Geralt's thighs. He feels when Eskel slips up behind him, but he tries to focus on Geralt, bending low to kiss him before pressing between his cheeks.

He licks a stripe over his hole and Geralt shudders under him, reaching back to grab Jaskier's hand and hold it. It's absurdly romantic when Jaskier has his face in his ass, but he loves it and he squeezes back hard. Jaskier starts off slow, with soft kisses and gentle touches, but Geralt rocks beneath him, pushing back against his mouth and it's hard to deny him exactly what he wants.

He presses his tongue against him, letting Geralt relax under him before pushing against the muscle. Geralt is surprisingly giving and Jaskier pushes into him without much effort. It's a heady feeling, the way Geralt trembles under his touch and squeezes his hand, thumb tracing circles in his skin. Jaskier fucks into him slowly, licking around his rim before pushing in again and Geralt whines as he pushes deeper, fucks him quicker.

When Jaskier gets a finger in alongside his tongue, Geralt arches off the bed and Jaskier almost thinks he could make him come just like this. And he's sorely tempted, even as Eskel presses up against his back, slipping a bottle of oil next to him.

"I want to see him come on your fingers," Eskel growls, low and rough against his ear and before Jaskier can even answer Eskel's nosing at his neck, nipping at the skin beneath his ear. Jaskier leans into the touch, withdrawing his fingers and reaching for the oil. He has every intention of following through with Eskel's command.

He slicks his fingers and presses one back between Geralt's cheeks, vividly aware of Eskel leaning over him, watching every movement. And he's as determined to please Eskel as he is Geralt. He works one finger into him, leaning low again to lick around the intrusion and Geralt mumbles into the pillows and he rolls his hips.

It's' not long before he can get a second finger into him and Jaskier crooks both fingers, pressing deep and seeking out that certain spot. When he finds it, Geralt whimpers and Eskel nuzzles against his neck. It makes it hard to concentrate, but Eskel seems unworried, wrapping one arm around his waist and slipping a hand down to wrap around his cock. Jaskier keens, jerking into the touch.

"Needy," Eskel hums. Which. It's hardly his fault. Eskel rocks against him and Jaskier is tempted to ask him to fuck him instead, prep or no.

He bends over, pushing his hips back against him and grinds back against Eskel's cock as he works into Geralt. His rhythm is a little unsteady, but he's been hard for so long he can barely help the way he rocks between his hand and his cock. It's a miracle he can even think enough to keep fingering Geralt. But he does, and when he gets a third into him, Geralt is panting and rutting against the bed.

"Jask," he groans, "please-"

"Are you gonna come for me?" Jaskier asks, his voice shaking as Eskel's cock slides against his hole. He's pushing close to the edge too and he's not sure Geralt coming won't tip him over.

Eskel's fingers tighten around him and Jaskier pushes through with a groan, thighs shaking as he shoves his fingers deep and presses against his prostate. Geralt squeezes his hand so hard Jaskier thinks he'll lose sensation in his fingers and he pushes his hips back against him, encouraging the press of Jaskier's fingers.

"Fuck, he looks good like this, doesn't he?" Eskel hums. "We're so damn lucky." He's still working at a spot on Jaskier's neck and he knows he'll have a mark in the morning and something about the fact that it's from Eskel makes it all that much more thrilling.

He tries to lean back into Eskel, but then he's being pushed forward. Eskel keeps him steady, but Jaskier's overwhelmed. He pushes Geralt's hand up, shifting to lean low over him, rutting into Eskel's fist. He rubs into Geralt and he can feel that he's close. Geralt's hips twitch shakily under him and he pulls Jaskier's hand under him, kissing his palm and pressing his nose against it.

"Jask," he breathes and that's as far as he gets before he's coming, shuddering through his orgasm.

Jaskier keeps his fingers inside him, thrusting lightly as Geralt rides through it. Geralt squirms under him, rocking back onto him even after he's come down and when Jaskier moves to pull away, Eskel intervenes. He pulls Jaskier back against him, propping him up on his lap and Jaskier is too overwhelmed to do anything but slump against his chest, head rolling on his shoulder as Eskel jerks him quick and hard.

He comes in a matter of seconds, arching off of him and crying out. Eskel stokes him through it and when a second set of hands rest on his hips, Jaskier opens his eyes to find Geralt sitting in front of him. He tips forward to kiss him and then, as he slumps back against Eskel, Geralt leans in to kiss Eskel too.

"Still wanna fuck me?" Geralt mumbles and Eskel huffs against his mouth.

"Gods, yes," he breathes. "Lie down for me."

Geralt does as he's asked, settling on his stomach, and Jaskier scoots out of the way, sprawling out next to him. He presses his nose into Geralt's side, inhaling the scent of him. He knows Geralt and Eskel will both have another couple of rounds in them, but he's already tired and quite happy to just cuddle up against Geralt's side.

Geralt's eyes drop shut and he breathes softly against Jaskier's lips, groaning as Eskel presses into him. Jaskier watches the way pleasure washes over his face and Eskel groans in time with him which is enough to have Jaskier's cock twitching again. Geralt flops against the bed, pulling Jaskier close to kiss him softly, even as he's jolted by Eskel.

Geralt is beautiful in the way he writhes against the bed and Jaskier can't keep his eyes off him. He shouldn't be getting hard again already but he's obsessed with the way Geralt moves and the sounds Eskel makes as he fucks him. Jaskier rolls onto his back, pressing against Geralt's side as he runs a hand down his own stomach. He slips down, wrapping a hand around himself and strokes slowly, feeling the way his cock swells under his touch. When he looks up, he finds Eskel watching him, a soft smirk on his face and Eskel reaches down, pushing Jaskier's hand away to jerk him off himself.

Jaskier slumps but his hips jump up. He's sensitive, but Eskel's hand feels incredible and he can't help but press into the touch. He groans as he leans into Geralt tipping his head to kiss his cheek, but Geralt shifts onto his elbows, leaning over to kiss him properly. He nips at his lips and Jaskier groans, reaching for Geralt and cupping his face.

He holds him close and Geralt kisses him hard, lips parting to deepen the kiss, shifting so he's closer, one arm draped over Jaskier's chest. Geralt's thumb brushes against his nipple and Jaskier whines against his lips, squirming against the bed. Eskel just squeezes him harder and slides his hand to the base, dipping down to suck the head of his cock into his mouth.

"Fuck," Jaskier hisses, "Fuck, Eskel please-"

Eskel flicks his tongue at him and sinks down just far enough to press his tongue against the underside of the head and Jaskier whimpers.

Eskel pulls off abruptly, running a hand up the inside of Jaskier's thigh.

"What if Geralt sucks you off?" he asks and Geralt hums as Jaskier groans.

"Would you like that?" Geralt asks, drawing away to kiss his neck. "Do you want to come again?"

"Yeah," Jaskier breathes and Geralt hums against his lips again.

"Sit up, Jask, let me see you."

Jaskier pulls himself upright, scrambling to his knees and shifts to kneel in front of Geralt. He gives himself a couple of quick strokes and catches Eskel's eye over Geralt's head.

Eskel gives him a short smack and Geralt grumbles but he presses his head into Jaskier's stomach and Jaskier is so desperately in love with him. He reaches down to brush Geralt's cheek, smiling at him as Eskel does something particularly delightful behind him and Geralt shoves his hips back.

"Fuck, Eskel," he groans and Jaskier runs a soothing hand down his spine.

He meets Eskel's eyes just for a moment, the heat in them burning straight through to his core. His cock twitches just as Geralt ducks his head, his nose brushing against him. Jaskier's mouth drops open. He's trying to be patient because Geralt has been so fucking patient with him, but it's difficult when he's rock hard and Geralt's breath is so hot against his cock.

With a groan, he slips a hand around himself, watching as Eskel's face presses between Geralt's cheeks and the way Geralt jerks and groans under his attention. Jaskier sits back on his heel and Geralt drops with him, pressing kisses against Jaskier's thighs and moving up to suck his cock into his mouth.

He swallows him down in one swift motion, propping himself up on his elbows. Jaskier drops back, knees pressing apart instinctively and he presses a soft hand to the back of Geralt's head. He pushes his fingers through his hair, dropping his head back and following the motion of Geralt's as he takes Jaskier's cock all the way down. He's quicker at it than Eskel, slipping right back up to press his tongue under the head. And fuck if he isn't good with his tongue. It's one of the few things that really surprised Jaskier when they introduced sex into their relationship and he shudders now as Geralt winds his tongue around him.

"Oh," he groans. Eskel looks up at him again and whatever he does next has Geralt pitching forward, swallowing around Jaskier's cock as he shoves his hips back hard.

Jaskier nearly doubles over and his hips give a sharp thrust forward though Geralt doesn't seem to mind. If anything, he moans deeper and Jaskier feels the vibrations of it around his cock.

"It's okay," Eskel hums, "you can fuck his mouth, he likes it."

Lust swells in Jaskier's chest as Geralt gives a grunt of assent and he runs a hand through Geralt's hair, testing his reaction as he rolls his hips. The response he gets is unequivocally positive and Geralt's hands slip under his thighs, holding him like that as Jaskier rocks his hips a little harder.

Jaskier rocks forward, pressing into the wet heat of Geralt's mouth. He's still so sensitive and the occasional graze of Geralt's teeth sends sparks up his spine. He lets his fingers slip through Geralt's hair, tugging gently and winding through it.

Jaskier can feel when Eskel thrusts into him, the way Geralt's body sways with the motion, pushing forward onto Jaskier and backward onto Eskel. It's intoxicating to see Geralt this way, giving himself up completely to the pair of them. He's always been giving as long as Jaskier's known him, and in bed, he's no different, but this feels so much bigger than his usual caring demeanour and Jaskier is a little overwhelmed by the sheer amount of trust Geralt must have in them.

In a rush of emotion, Jaskier withdraws and when Geralt looks up at him, he pushes Geralt up to his knees, shuffling up close to wrap his arms around his neck. He twists the fingers of one hand in Geralt's hair, reaching down with the other to stroke him slowly. Geralt keens under the touch, rocking his hips slowly with a soft groan against Geralt's lips.

"Tell me how he feels," Jaskier breathes, pressing his face into Geralt's neck. He nips at his skin and kisses over the marks as they fade.

"Good," Geralt groans. "Really good."

Jaskier hums and flicks his eyes up to meet Eskel's. In an instant, he's tugged forward and Eskel's mouth crashes against his own, tugging his hair and biting softly at his lower lip. One of Geralt's arms slips around his waist and Jaskier presses forward, eager to be closer to both of them.

His cock aches where it's trapped against Geralt's hip and his hips shift as though of their own will, sliding through the dip of Geralt's hip. He moans softly, stuttering against Eskel's lips and then Eskel pulls away. He leans over Geralt's other side, whispering against his ear.

"On your back," is all he says as Geralt complies, Jaskier shuffles out of the way, watching the way his hair splays out around his head. Geralt truly is beautiful and when Jaskier looks up to Eskel, it's clear he's having the same thought.

Eskel gets his knees under Geralt's thighs, slipping two fingers into him and thrusting quickly. Geralt groans as he lifts his hips, pushing back onto Eskel's fingers. Jaskier watches with fascination, sitting back on his heels and absently stroking himself to the scene in front of him. He'd be happy to spend the rest of the night just like this, happy enough to have been invited to bed with them in the first place, but Geralt apparently has other ideas.

Eskel withdraws his fingers, smoothing up Geralt's side as he presses into him again and Geralt shuts his eyes and rolls his head back. He reaches out, running a hand down Jaskier's thigh before curling a hand around his wrist. He tugs him forward and Jaskier lets himself be pulled on top of him, straddling Geralt's hips.

Geralt kisses him and Jaskier drops onto his chest, winding his fingers through Geralt's hair as he deepens the kiss. A warm hand slides down his back and he arches into it, his cock slipping against Geralt's skin as he does. Eskel's hand slips over his hip, fingertips brushing along his thigh and dragging back up to his ass. Eskel's not subtle, not at all, but when his fingers press between Jaskier's cheeks, slick and probing, Jaskier whimpers.

Geralt's hand slips into his hair and he draws back, letting Jaskier bury his face in his neck. He groans softly, kissing Geralt's skin as Eskel works a finger into him. It's hot and tight and wonderful and Jaskier can't help the way he ruts against Geralt's stomach, pressing his cock into the soft flesh of his stomach. But Geralt evidently doesn't mind, cupping his ass with one hand while the other pushes through his hair.

"Feel good?" he asks and Jaskier groans a response as Eskel thrusts into him again.

"Yeah," Jaskier breathes, "gods, yes."

Eskel makes quick work of opening him up and Jaskier is disappointed when he withdraws. Eskel's fingers are thick and talented and he'd have been happy to come on them. He groans his dissatisfaction, rocking his hips back, but then Geralt's hands are on him, guiding him down onto his cock.

Geralt's hips stutter as he bumps against him, but Jaskier is hot and overstimulated and impatient. He pushes back onto him with a groan, sitting up to lean against Eskel's chest. Eskel's arm winds around his chest, holding him close as Jaskier rocks forward, adjusting to the stretch of Geralt's cock. He settles with Geralt fully sheathed and Geralt's hands come up to hold his hips down as he shifts, pushing off of Eskel's chest.

He drops his head back on Eskel's shoulder, moaning softly against his neck and reaches down to stroke himself, fingers slipping through pre-come to tease at the head of his cock. He's so close and being caught between the pair of them is doing nothing to stifle the need searing through him. And Geralt bucks under him, fingers digging into his skin as he arches off the bed. Jaskier braces himself on his chest, rubbing circles with his thumb until he's unceremoniously tugged back down.

Geralt kisses him hard, arms wound tightly around his shoulders and Jaskier just goes limp against him as he fucks him hard. When Geralt comes, he digs his fingers into Jaskier's scalp, nose pressed into his neck and Jaskier whimpers as Geralt thrusts deep.

For a moment they're still and then Eskel shifts behind them and Geralt makes a little groaning sound as Eskel pulls out. Geralt follows after him, loosening his grip and shifting to withdraw. He runs his hands up Jaskier's back and Jaskier can feel the way Eskel leans over him, kissing his neck. He's still not wholly sure how he wound up wrapped up in not one but two Witchers, but he certainly doesn't regret it. Eskel is soft and sweet and apparently, excellent at making Jaskier lose his mind and Geralt is. Well, he's Geralt. Jaskier was lost on him from the very first moment.

"You didn't come," Geralt mumbles and Jaskier is just about to tell him it's fine when Eskel bends low over him, nipping playfully at the back of his neck.

"Can I fuck you?" Eskel breathes and a whole new wave of arousal engulfs Jaskier. He whines and pushes back as Eskel's cock presses between his cheeks.

"Yeah," Jaskier gasps, "yeah, please."

Eskel doesn't waste time, draping himself over Jaskier's back and pushing into him. He's bigger than Geralt and there's some resistance, but when Eskel groans against his ear, Jaskier nearly goes limp with it. He drops onto his hands, planted on the bed on either side of Geralt's head and presses his forehead against Geralt's. Two sets of hands hold him steady as Eskel bottoms out.

He's careful, moving in shallow movements and normally Jaskier would appreciate the thought with a cock like that, but he's already slick and fucked loose and he just wants to come again. He shoves his hips back hard, prompting a deep groan from Eskel, but it seems to get his point across. Eskel holds his hips, rutting into his before withdrawing and thrusting hard.

He picks up the pace and Jaskier's skin prickles with the pleasure of it, though he goes limp, draping himself across Geralt's chest and burying his face in his hair. Geralt's legs are still wrapped around Eskel's and he pulls him closer as he kisses Jaskier's temple, brushes the hair from his face.

"Oh," Jaskier whines and Geralt kisses him so softly, a stark contrast to the way Eskel fucks him, quick and hard.

They're both drawing close. He can feel it in the way Eskel's form falters, the way his hips stutter just the slightest bit, the way he presses deep and sprawls over Jaskier's back, content to rock into him. It's constant pressure against his prostate and Jaskier whimpers. His cock drips against Geralt's stomach and he's so fucking close but he can't tip over that edge. Eskel's breath is on his neck and he kisses his neck. It's obvious that he's not going to last much longer, but he nuzzles against Jaskier's shoulders.

"Still good?" he asks and Jaskier manages a weak nod.

"Close," he mumbles and Geralt hums from under him.

He gets a hand in Jaskier's hair, pulling him down into a sloppy kiss as one hand winds around Jaskier's cock. The desperate moan is lost between Geralt's lips, but Jaskier is pushed forward with each of Eskel's thrusts and it doesn't take long before he's spilling all over Geralt's chest, forehead buried in his neck.

Eskel follows shortly, pulling out gently before flopping onto the bed next to Geralt. Jaskier tries to move, but he's held in place by a firm arm around his waist, and when Geralt kisses him, he lets himself relax.

Geralt gets an arm around Eskel's neck, drawing him closer and as Eskel shifts, he throws an arm over Jaskier's waist, fingers brushing lightly over Geralt's forearm. The last thing Jaskier knows is Eskel leaning in for a kiss before sleep overtakes him and his eyes drop shut.

It's dark when he wakes again. The middle of the night, he suspects. There's a soft moan from next to him and a heavy weight around his shoulders - Eskel - and he shuffles toward his warmth. But a sharp groan startles him to wakefulness and it only takes a second for him to realize Geralt isn't where he left him when he fell asleep.

A quick look around puts Geralt on his knees at the foot of the bed, his head between Eskel's thighs. Eskel groans again, shifting to arch off the bed and Jaskier smiles to himself. He's still exhausted, and while the thought of joining them makes his cock twitch with anticipation, he'd rather sleep for a few more hours. Let them have their fun.

These two are going to kill him one day, but at least it will be a good death.

#geralt x jaskier #geralt x eskel #geralt x eskel x jaskier #rex writes #v spicy #like #half of this is smut #oop!

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