@physics-of-one-piece Replied To The Video Of Mingo With This:

@physics-of-one-piece replied to the video of mingo with this:

Thus, I was inspired to make this

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐏 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐎𝐖

🏐— tsukishima kei x f!reader

— synopsis: he hates your intelligence in classrooms and you hate his cunnigness at the court. both go at great lengths to defeat each other, but how is it that both of you were the only ones that can help each other be better?

— warnings: swearing, a bit suggestive, enemies to lovers (although kind of enemies)

You slam your paper on his desk.

Tsukishima barely flinches. He removes his headphones and hangs them on his neck, unbothered by your looming presence as he stares blankly at your paper. 96

The corners of his lips tug down, seemingly unimpressed. "Eh."

"Eh? Aw, is little Tsukishima disappointed at himself?"

He looks up at you, stares deeply into your eyes. And for a moment you'd think his domineering gaze would soften as he was overawed by you. But then he smiles, that annoying little shitty, narcissistic smile.

"Actually, not at all (l/n)," his smile is bright, almost genuine, but his sarcasm is radiating. "I got a 98. Not bad, though!"

You swear steam was coming off your body.

"96 at modern Japanese." He says. "Understandable."

"Understandable?!"

"Don't beat yourself up, (l/n). Not everyone's perfect," he leans back. "Not even me. I mean, I'm just being humble. But yeah, not everyone."

"I hate you," you take your paper off his desk.

"Flattered. Really, really flattered. Thank you for hating me, actually. I feel so honored to be hated." He puts his headphones back on and places his elbows on his desk, his chin resting on his joint fists. Tsukishima smiles at you again.

God, his smile is infuriating.

Tsukishima was someone you'd go to great lengths to defeat. He never bothered for your existence when first year began. He didn't even know your name; Didn't even look at your direction. He'd only known it a month later when you were paired to be partners and he decided to be such a condescending brat when he pointed out your handwriting.

At first you ignored it, took it by heart and started organizing your writings on your notes. Then he decided to put all his self-hatred on you and started to discreetly judge you.

Maybe he wasn't even judging you. Maybe he was just staring at your paper, scoffed to himself, shook his head and laughed because you got a better score than him and he was berating himself. But no, he laughed because he thought you were a tryhard and he was a prodigy.

Obviously none of those were confirmed. But he's a man and a man hates it when a woman's happy.

When he smirks you have the urge to rip his lips to pieces.

You walk away from him and sit on your desk, which was actually beside him.

His scent follows your flaring nostrils as you carefully shove your paper between the notebooks in your bag. Tsukishima looks out the window, hiding his smirk, his foot tapping lightly but never making sound. So you put your own headphones over your ears, in hopes to drown out his deafening aura.

🏐 —

"Shit!"

Tsukishima's knees bends the wrong way and almost falls onto his back as he lands on the ground. The ball echoes across the court as it ricochets off the floor. You laugh loudly, and everyone looks at you.

"You're too advanced for the block, idiot!" You say loudly. Yamaguchi giggles.

He rolls his eyes at you as he chases for the ball. Kageyama sits beside you.

"You know he plays horribly when you're here."

"Oh?" You raise a brow. "Is he not used to a girl looking at her?"

Kageyama scratches his nose. "Probably 'cause he hates you."

You laugh lightly. "Kinda nice that I'm here. I get to see him fuck up."

Kageyama snorts. "He feels pressured 'cuz you're here."

"Oh? He said that?"

"No. But I can hear him think."

You laugh and wipe your sweat off. "I'd play with you guys, but his remarks could piss me off and I might, uh, shove that ball up his ass."

When Kageyama laughs again, quite loudly, Tsukishima's head snaps at the bench where you're sitting. Heat rises to his head, his stance losing its usual strength, his arms weakening as he watches you—

Laughing, at some joke you said or Tobio said. Laughing heartily like someone just made the best joke in the world. The way your lips almost reach the wrinkles beneath your eyes. Oh, that's so funny Tobio. You're so funny you should quit volleyball and be a stand up comedian!

He knows you're talking shit about him, too. Idiot. Brat. Showoff.

He had the right to show off. He was better than you.

He was the better thinker; the better scorer.

Tsukishima is better than you.

I'm better than you—

The ball hits the side of his face, his glasses flailing to the side.

The first thing that reaches his ears—your sickening laugh. That monstrous, sadistic guffaw. Tanaka yells from the other side of the court and dives beneath the net to take a look at his face. Nishinoya hovers, hands on his knees, laughing.

"Pay attention, dumbass!" You cuff your hands over your mouth. "Stop daydreaming! It's embarrassing."

He bends to pick his glasses up. Alive, no cracks, frame not broken. He puts it on the bridge of his nose so that he could see your face clearly.

Hideously alluring.

"Do you think of scheming as daydreaming, (l/n)?" his voice, full of disdain, though hidden through feigned sweetness. "Like a child as always. Go back to middle school?"

"Do better at volleyball?"

"I ought to kick the both of you out this court," Daichi says loudly. "Oh wait I can't speak to (l/n) like that. S-sorry!"

Tsukishima sneers, his lips frowning. He approaches the rolling ball, watching as it hits the wall and propells back towards his awaiting feet. When he picks it up, he steals another glance at you talking to Kageyama.

The King and the Brat. The most annoying combination in the entirety of Karasuno campus.

Somehow, seeing you next to Kageyama and being given the nickname as if the two of you were a pair sends a tight rope around his chest that causes it to ache a little. Tsukishima huffs it out, an unsettling in his bones.

Please don't look at me.

The ball flies into the air, and his palm raises just in time to make contact with the ball.

He sees you watch from the corner of his eye, a blurried silhouette, but your figure was familiar enough for him to recognize you. His heart beats a little louder.

🏐 —

No.

Shit. Fuck. No

God damnit. 74.

Tsukishima stares at his paper in horror. In his entire life, he has always gotten two digits on his scores. However, they had always been ninety onwards. Never in the line of sevens. He doesn't know if his horror is displayed across his face. He prays it doesn't—he would die if you saw his expression.

He leans sideways to the right, his eye darting towards the side to peak at your paper.

98.

The english language was something that was easy to learn but never easy in exams. This—despite boasting that english was the easiest subject—was his weakness.

You're too preoccupied to notice his existence. Good.

He turns around to look at the green haired boy.

"Yamaguchi." He whisper-yelled. "Tadashi."

Yamaguchi looks up. "Yes?"

This was it. Years of built up pride, intelligence, boosted ego— down the drain. As soon as he'd ask him the question, it would forever alter the image of himself towards his friend. Tsukishima was no longer the brainy four-eyes of the Karasuno Volleyball Club.

He would now be Tsukishima, the idiot four-eyes.

Maybe I'm overreacting.

He stands up and sits beside the empty chair next to Yamaguchi.

"How- What's your score?"

Yamaguchi looks puzzled as he glances at his paper. "E-eighty eight."

God, this is depressing.

"Um," Tsukishima scratches the back of his neck. "Could you help me with English?"

There it is. His face says it all.

"Don't you even—"

"You, Tsukishima Kei, asking for my help?" He laughs incredulously. "Are you sure? What's your score?"

"Don't want to talk about it."

"Aw, c'mon Tsukki." He pouts playfully like comforting a weeping baby. "I'm sure it's not that bad."

Tsukishima tells him in a low voice. He never thought he could hate Yamaguchi's laugh. But he did, right after he laughed at his score. It wasn't even a failing grade.

"You know who should tutor you though?" He puts his paper in his bag. "(l/n). She's good, y'know. I heard her speak english once. I thought she was from, uh, some foreign country or something."

"She's not even that good." Tsukishima takes off his glasses and wipes it with the corner of his uniform. "She's good with memory but she forgets it right after the quiz like a ditz."

Yamaguchi snorts. "She's the one who got the best score out of all of us."

"Yeah, no thanks. I'd never let her teach me."

"I think you're forgetting I'm right here in front of you." You turn around, placing your elbow and forearm on the back of your chair and look at Tsukishima. "I can teach you."

Tsukishima scoffs. "No thanks. I'd rather repeat freshman year."

"Are you sure?" you pout, placing your chin on the back of your hand. "I can teach you, little Tsukishima."

"I'm not little."

"Yeah but your brain is."

"Yamaguchi, help me out here."

He can't ask for your help. Never ever. Never will he ever ask for your help. Tsukishima can study this himself. He's always studied by himself. He's never needed anyone, and certainly not you. He was independent, cunning as everyone says. Tsukishima does not need tutors.

Up until now.

"Please help Tsukishima study," Yamaguchi looks at you. "He's too prideful to ask but he really needs your help."

Tsukishima stammers. "T-that's not what I meant!"

"Aw, is this true?" You're taunting him. He feels like a child.

"I can study by myself. Fuck off."

You smile at him. In a way that he can't read. It was soft, almost kind, like you wanted to help him wholeheartedly and wanted his english to improve. Then he looked into your eyes and all the kindness in your smile had been washed away by this pity in your eyes that you enjoyed. Tsukishima huffs.

"No need to be shy about asking for help, little Tsukki," you coo. "We'll study in the locker room while everyone else plays. You're skipping practice today."

Tsukishima zips his bag and stands up. He towers over you, covering the sun that blinds you through the glass window. He looks down at your eyes—teasing, condescending eyes. His lips are turned to a frown, which makes you smile even more.

"I'm not skipping practice."

"Too bad. You are. You know, if you let me help you, you'd stop having that distraught face everytime you get your english paper." You take a step closer, neck bent backwards to look up at him. "Yeah, I saw your face."

Yamaguchi nudges his arm. "C'mon, Kei. Ask for her help. You know you need it. Don't be so prideful."

Tsukishima growls. He doesn't say anything yet, all the confidence in him washed away by a score that wasn't even a failing grade. His palm rubs the space between his eyebrows and mumbles:

"Help me."

You lean in, ear towards him. "Couldn't hear that. Sorry?"

"Help me study."

"Are you commanding me or asking?"

"Please help me study."

"Don't mumble, Tsukishima."

"Damn it!" He groans. "Please help me, dearest (l/n)." His voice drips in sarcasm, peering at you through his scratched lenses. "Help me get a better grade at english. Help me stop myself from strangling you! Idiot!"

You lean back, the bottom of your spine resting on your table as your left hand props you up. Tsukishima is almost seething, his eyes widened a little as his anger seethes through his nostrils. You hum, pretend to think, then slap his right cheek twice lightly.

"How kind of you to ask, little Tsukki." You wrinkle your nose at him, slinging your bag over your shoulder. "See you at the locker room."

When you leave, his head turns to Yamaguchi who smiles innocently. Tsukishima almost strangles him instead.

🏐—

The boys are thirty minutes late to practice. Including Daichi.

"It's the sequence of the words, Tsukishima," you point your pen at his test paper. "The spelling's no problem. You're good at it. It's just with how you've formed them together."

They all sit behind the two of you, watching silently. Tsukishima is red from embarrassment as he ignores them.

"What's so wrong about this sequence? It sounds correct."

"Just because it sounds correct doesn't mean that it is correct."

Hinata snorts. Tsukishima's head snaps at it. "Don't snort, dumbass. Last time I checked you got a twenty at your exam."

"You hit a nerve there, Shoyo," Kageyama giggles.

You sigh and slap your hands at your thighs. "Sawamura-san, why are you guys even here?"

He stammers, his back straightening as he fixes his bag on his left shoulder. "Jus–Just wanted to make sure you two will be fine. Let's go guys."

When they leave, Tsukishima relaxes in relief. He stares intensely at his notebook, figuring out the correct answer. You try not to laugh at him, but the sight was entertaining; seeing him suffer brought your heart at ease.

"Figured it out, moron?" You bring your own notebook out, flipping it to the last page you'd written on. "It's really not that hard."

"Shut up, (l/n.)" he says. You make a small sound, similar to "okay!" As you begin to write down on a blank page.

And you're like that for a few hours.

Tsukishima answers the questions you've written for him, and when he asks you for help, you cordially help him without telling him the answers. Then you both go back to formidable silence, doing your own perspective works.

He almost enjoys this newfound environment created with you. Somehow, his body is more tranquil, but at the same time his mind is racing, because you're here. Tutoring him. Tsukishima has always believed that he was one step ahead of you, making sure you were unable to catch up with him. But now he's slipped from that step and you've caught up and you're deriding him.

Nonetheless, you're his only hope right now.

He looks at you.

Your hair is tucked behind your ears and your teeth are currently creating dents at the eraser of your pencil. You're concentrating, seeming like you've forgotten that he's sitting in front of you. And Tsukishima's eyes are extremely blurred, but when he looks at you through the gap between his glasses and forehead, your face was somehow clearer.

"Are you a dog?" he raises a brow. "Don't chew on your pencil."

You huff like you're being scold and place your pencil down. But the chewing didn't last a second as your bottom lip is now tucked between your teeth. Tsukishima rolls his eyes.

"Here," he flips his paper and shows it to you. "Did I do it correctly?"

You take the paper from him and read it. He hopes you're at least slightly impressed, that you're not arbitrating his answers nor think they're half-assed. When your red pen moves into a slant, the corner of his lip twitches upwards. But when you circle the number, he has this urge to shove that pen into your eye.

"Hm, not bad. But not enough." you flip the paper.

70.

Four points less.

"Damn it." You can tell he's disappointed at himself. "You suck at teaching."

"Excuse me?!" Your eyebrows furrow. "Hey, I've spent the past four hours teaching you here, stickhead. The sun's almost down!"

"Do you have to go home already?" He asks. You shrug. "Then we can stay here until they're done with practice."

"Tsukishima, I have freshly cooked doburi waiting for me at home. Do you know what donburi is? Do you know what it tastes like while it's still hot? Fucking donburi, Tsukishima." You whine. "Would you like to study at my place instead?"

You seem to not have processed what you've offered, but Tsukishima has. He's surprised at your comment, watching you look so desperate to get home and eat that "fucking donburi." He waits for a moment until you realize and you do, but it seemed like you didn't care when you lean back and raise a brow.

"Well?"

"Sure."

His quick, almost unhesitant compliance surprises you. Tsukishima adjusts his glasses and brings his headphones out as you both head out the door. You lock it behind you, with Tsukishima already walking ahead.

You pass by the gym. "Sawamura, everyone, we're heading out!"

Tsukishima appears beside you. "We're going."

"To where?" Yamaguchi approaches you both. "Are you going to eat out? Ooh, can you bring food back here?"

"We're going to her place to study." He answers. "We can't come back."

The others seem to hear what he said, because Hinata yells: "What kind of studying are you going to do, Stingyshima?"

"Something that your tiny shit-for-brains can't comprehend." He retorts. "Focus on your receives, squirt!"

You wave to everyone and catch a glimpse of Yamaguchi's smile. You roll your eyes at him and poke your tongue out.

🏐 —

The way home was quieter than you expected.

Mainly because Tsukishima had his headphones on and all you hear was your un synchronous footsteps on the stoned sidewalk. You take small looks at your peripherals to see what he's doing. And, well, he's walking... like every other normal person.

But you're walking side by side and there's this space between you that's so close but also so far away. You feel his heat touching the fabric of your shirt, his hand twitching and just barely grazing yours. Then he speaks:

"You walk like a penguin," he says. "Why are you like that?"

"Why are you so annoying?" you roll your eyes. "I don't point out how you walk."

"That's because there's nothing wrong with my walk," he puts his headphones down, hangs them around his neck. "What? Got a stick up your ass or something?"

"I'll stab you with that stick."

"Gross."

You turn a corner and he follows suit like it was normal for him to follow you around. When you stop in front of your gate and unlock it, he bore no unhestiance as he removed his shoes and entered your home.

There was no one else around. And as soon as Tsukishima entered, you disappeared in his vision. Although, he hears you yell from afar: "Set your bag wherever. Stay in the living room though!"

He assumes you're either changing your clothes, getting a bowl of donburi, or both. He obeys, sets his bag on the floor and sits cross legged on the carpet of your living room, taking his notes out. He sees the sun inching away behind the roofs of the houses near by, waiting for you patiently.

And then his eyes roam to picture frames.

Never would he think that a picture of you smiling would be so endearing. That smile of yours, painting you an angelic aura, like people would never expect that you'd be the devil's descendant. Nonetheless, you were still beautiful.

The picture was you in a ponytail, face doused in sweat; the background, although blurry and dark, looked familiar. But Tsukishima was more focused on your gleaming smile, the way your eyes are almost closed and your lips were pale and your teeth were shiny.

"Hey, douchebag," you sit beside him despite the free space on the opposite of the coffee table, setting down two bowls of donburi. And yes, you had changed your clothes into something comfier. "Let's eat and study."

He never expected that you'd get him a bowl, thought that he'd have to ask or drop hints of him wanting donburi. He takes it though, and it is freshly cooked. He now understood your eagerness to go home.

An hour passes by.

The bowls are empty and set aside. Tsukishima's notes are scattered, hair disheveled from him constantly running his fingers through them. That string of hatred between you has been put aside as you both seem to tolerate one another through this session.

"Tsukishima," you say, almost sternly, placing two cartons of strawberry milk on the table. "It's easy to determine an adverb in Japanese. It's no different in identifying it in English."

"I know that, dumbass. What are you, a consciousness?" He takes his box, taking the plastic off the straw and shoving it on the circular foil. "Gimme yours."

He takes your carton and shakes it before doing the same and handing it to you. You blush vehemently, murmuring your gratitude and wrapping your lips around the paper straw.

Tsukishima's eyes wander out of boredom, tracing every corner and every ridge of your home. Until his eyes land on the sliding door to your backyard and catch a glimpse of that familiar blue and yellow ball.

"You play volleyball?" he queries, both his eyebrows raising.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Back in middle school."

"Bet you were shit at it."

"I was a middle blocker."

Tsukishima's back straightens, staring at you in hidden surprise. "At that height?"

"I'm not that short! Asshole," you throw your pen at him. He catches it with ease, setting it beside his notebook.

"Why aren't you in the women's volleyball club, then?" his brow raises. "Too short? They didn't take you? Failed the tryouts?"

You look down at your fingers, covered in peeled up skin and charred fingernails. You feel embarrassed, avoiding his eager stare. You sense his want to know your reason, radiating off his eyes.

"Not saying," you push yourself up, now standing in front of him. Tsukishima's eyes follow you, trailing uo from your thighs up to your neck, his irises darkening until he meets your gaze. "Get up. Time to go home."

"Let's play."

You stammer. "W-what? It's late."

"And I want to see you play." Tsukishima stands, hovering over you. "It's only nine in the evening."

You purse your lips, arms going limp on either side of your tired body. Though despite being worn out, you walk towards the door and slide it open, being greeted by Miyagi's brumal air that raises the hairs on your body. Tsukishima tugs on the sleeves of his sweater, covering half of his fingers, before following you out.

Barefoot in the evening, with the moon casting a pearlescent glow on your enervated bodies, the thump of the leather ball is in sync with your beating heart; and at each thump, it seems to wake Tsukishima up more.

"Tell me why you're not in the women's volleyball club," he sets it towards your direction.

"No." Your wrists join, your right fingers placing themselves on top of your left fingers, both thumbs settled side by side as your wrist ricochet the ball towards him. "It's none of your business."

Tsukishima catches it with ease. "You're lame."

You scoff, returning the ball. "I am not."

The blue and yellow ball floats into the evening air, the bright colors darkened by the stygian sky, only luminated by the moon and the lights outside your backyard. Tsukishima sets it to you again. "Listen, I don't really care about whatever your reason is. I just want to know."

You huff. There's no harm in telling your enemy a secret of yours, right? It's not like he was popular enough to go on and tell people. And like he said, he didn't care.

The ball comes in contact with your wrists. "I got injured. Well, not seriously injured. I can still play but I'm not as good as I used to be." Tsukishima catches the ball and rests it on his hip, listening to you explain. "I actually got a surgery at my calf."

You lift your pajamas just below your knee, showing the healed scar at the back of your calf. "The bone got dislocated 'cause one of my teammates smashed onto my leg when she was trying to save the ball. She got injured too, actually."

"Obviously," he retorts, now staring at your calf. Something about Tsukishima staring at your scar seemed too intimate as it should be, staring at your bare skin. His blonde hair drapes over his forehead, glasses glinting in the moonlight. "So where do you struggle?"

"Blocking. I can't jump properly." You scratch the back of your neck. "I can set though. Just, it's not in my heart."

"It's just a club," he says. "Play whatever position you want." Tsukishima sets the ball to you again.

"Just a club, huh?" You smirk. "Why'd you fail your test?"

"Because I was thinking too much of what I was gonna do when I'm at court again."

"And it's just a club."

"What's it to you?" He snaps. "At least I'm in the Volleyball club. Have I taken your dream?"

"You're a child."

"Yeah yeah. Join the club or whatever. Don't care if you don't or you want to."

You set it back to him again. "I want to."

Tsukishima senses your melancholy longing for the sport, sees your disheartened look as you think about all the chances you've lost. His heart twinges just the slightest, holding the ball between his slender hands. He almost pities you.

"Tell you what," he sets it to you. "If I pass the retest tomorrow, I'll help you with your blocking. If not," he shrugs, catching your return, "good luck with your life."

"You sound like this is a once in a lifetime opportunity." You roll your eyes.

Tsukishima hopes he passes the retest tomorrow.

Mainly because it was import to him to ace it. Partly because he wanted to see you on court.

🏐 —

100.

You read Tsukishima's answers. In the fluorescent lights, his neat handwriting presents to you all the knowledge he's obtained from your chaotic teachings. He scoffs proudly, resting his lower back on the edge of his table.

"Not bad, nerd." You hand his paper to him. "And you beat me by two points."

"That's because you're an idiot," he sits down on his chair, though still facing you. "See you at the gym later."

Your brows furrow. "The gym's closed. Coach Ukai said today's rest day."

"But I'm not Coach Ukai," he fixes his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "It's just for today. And only today."

"Fine," you agree. You act like you're forced to say yes, but deep inside the vessels of your heart and every part of your brain, they throb with excitement.

So you meet Tsukishima outside the gym after class in a white shirt and gym shorts. He meets you there, clad in the same outfit, heat radiating off his body that warms your always cold flesh. For a moment he admires observes you, your attire unfamiliar but nevertheless appealing hideous.

When you enter, the court seemed bigger without the boys rousing around the court. It was quieter, no shoes squeaking, no balls slammed, no eager yelling. You set your bag down on the floor and see your untied shoe laces.

"Fuck," you mutter.

But before you could bend down, Tsukishima has already knelt in front of you.

His knee rests on the tip of your shoe, fingers ribboning the laces of your rubber shoes. Your eyes widen, body stiffening, and it felt like forever as he tied it (it was actually only 10 seconds).

"You're a dumbass for leaving your shoelaces untied." He makes no comment as to why he's decided to tie your laces, but you swear you see his ears turn a twinge of pink.

Tsukishima takes a ball and goes to the other side of the court. When you stand opposite from him, he rolls the ball to your direction.

"How long has it been since you've played?" he asks, loudly, voice echoing across the empty gymnasium.

"Uh, a year and a half." The ball bounces between your palm and the squeaky floor. "I'm a little rusty."

"You are rusty. Your receives were shit last night."

You growl at his tease.

"We're not gonna start with the blockings. We have to start from the beginning." Tsukishima positions himself, knees bent and apart, his hands on his knees. "Serve it."

So you do. You toss the ball into the air, your hand striking as it meets the ball, and it flies across the net. It goes outside.

"Idiot." Tsukishima laughs. "First, don't try to aim it to me. You don't want your opponents to save it. You have to aim it at an open spot inside the line. Second, don't serve too hard it goes outside."

"Okay!" You yell. And you serve again.

The ball grazes the net, but the momentum deems the ball to be inside the line. Tsukishima catches it and receives it back to your side.

Shit.

You race after the ball, joined wrists hitting it back to him. He dives, the back of his hand coming contact with the ball and it goes back to your court.

And it's high in the air, so you take the chance to bend your knees and jump, spiking it to his court.

Tsukishima blocks it.

He laughs. "You're horrible at this."

"I don't exactly have a libero to save it, don't I?" You retort.

Tsukishima smiles a little, laughing at your loss point. "Give me the ball." You roll it to his side. "I want you to try and block me."

"The net is higher than it is for girls, you know." You approach the net. "I'll have a hard time."

"The higher you jump, the better you can block the ball. And you'll even have an advantage against your enemies since you're practicing with a higher net, (y/n)." He dribbles the ball.

Tsukishima called you by your first name.

Not your surname, not some insulting nickname. Your first name.

Your knees weaken at the sound of his voice dropping the phonemes of your name.

But when he flings the ball upwards, you feel your body go rigid. And just before his incoming ball passes through the net, you jump, fingers stopping the ball.

But the ball doesn't go to his side, instead it falls down below the net, at your side. You land clumsily on your feet, ankle bending but not painfully.

"See, you got it. You just have to jump higher."

"Shut up, you stilt walking clown." Your leg throbs, shaking. "Hit it again."

"See this?" Tsukishima brings his hands in the air, his arms and hands bent inward. "You block like this. Don't straighten your arms. It sets the ball upwards and they get the point since you're last touch. Block me again."

You kick the ball to his direction. Tsukishima springs the ball into the air once more, his arm flinging back when he jumps and strikes the ball towards you.

Filled with adrenaline, you jump as high as you could, your chest as high as the edge of the net, arms and hands bent inward as you block the ball and ricochet it towards him.

He doesn't do anything and watches the ball roll outside the court. Tsukishima's eyes shoot up and look at you, the corner of his lips bent downwards in amusement.

"Not bad. Try harder though."

You snarl at him.

Hours pass and you're both drenched in sweat. His shirt sticks to his chest, his hair damp across his forehead. He's wiping his face with a towel and his glasses rest on top of his hair. You drink from your water bottle.

The sweat drips down the tip of his nose, golden eyes drowsy yet vigorous with adrenaline. His lips are parted to pant out tired breaths, his adam's apple bobbing, the veins of his arms protruding. And he's sitting at the same bench as yours.

You swallow the liquid in your mouth.

"One day of practice isn't enough to get me into the club, Tsukishima." you say, wiping your mouth. "Thanks for teaching me though."

Tsukishima sets his towel down. "It's whatever. Your receives are go-fine, anyway. And you're really not that tall enough to block. You're hopeless."

"I wish Hinata was here to say that so he could yell at you."

Hinata. Tsukishima feels something uncomfortable rise to his chest when you mention his name.

And it seems as though you have summoned that tiny tangerine devil.

"Oh, Kageyama! The lights are open, someone must be here," your head turns and see that Hinata's hair pokes out the door before his head fully goes in. His eyes roam around until they find you. "Oh! (y/l/n)-san!"

"Hinata," you smile kindly. "Why are you guys still here? There's no training today."

"Tanaka-san said we can train for as much as we want as long as we don't tell Sawamura." he hops inside, Kageyama following suit behind him, unzipping his jacket. "What are you doing here, Stingyshima?"

"None of your business." He replies, irritation dripping off his sharp tongue from the nickname. "What do you think we were doing? Playing kendama?"

"I wouldn't mind playing kendama," Hinata looks at Kageyama, who shrugs. "Can we join?"

"Hopeless child," Tsukishima rubs his face with his towel again. "It's getting late. We should go home."

His usage of plural rather than sigular denotes that his usual selfishness has been decreased due to your unwavering presence, having been spent multiple hours with you for the past two days than usual. Tsukishima has easily adapted to include you in whatever he was going to do next.

We should go home.

"Aw, well, can you leave us the keys?" Hinata asks you. Tsukishima shoves the keys in the small boy's hand. "Thank you, Stingyshima!"

Tsukishima slings his bag over his shoulder, approaching the exit. He looks at Kageyama. "Fix your sets, your Majesty. You wouldn't want to clip the wings of Karasuno now, would you?"

You can see the smirk formed in his face. Kageyama is fuming, his fists clenching. "You– I...– You piece of shi– Hnmgh– You dumbass! Hinata!"

"Why me?!"

Tsukishima walks away without waiting for you, although you follow suit behind him. And when you reach the school gates, he turns right rather than left—and his way home begins with him turning left.

Yours was to the right.

"You gonna walk me home?" You joke, finally catching up behind him. Your weary legs has made you walk slower, though enough to now keep up with Tsukishima's tired pace.

"Yes."

Tsukishima doesn't spare a glance at you. But you look at him in shock. Then you shoot him an upsidedown smile, humming.

"No longer Stingyshima, I see."

"I ought to leave you here and get kidnapped." He states bluntly, finally looking down at you through his peripherals.

"Why are you walking me home then?"

"Because I want to take a long walk."

"Yeah sure, whatever." Your hands meet behind you, hitting the top of your bottom at every step you take. "You wanted to take a long walk. Could've gone to the park, could've roamed around your street. But yeah, you're walking me home so you could have a long walk back to your home."

Tsukishima tuts, his arms crossing. "Are you implying something, (y/n)?"

Your first name. Again.

"Oh, I'm not implying anything!" Your eyebrows raise, looking fully at him. And Tsukishima turns his head and looks at you as he walks. "I'm just stating what I've observed, Tsukki."

"Don't call me that."

"Okay!" You turn to your gate. When you reach inside the small box and pull on the lever of your door, you sense that Tsukishima is still standing behind you wth his hands in his pockets, watching you intently. So you turn around when the gate unlocks. "Yes? Do you need to use my bathroom first? Want a carton of milk or something?"

"No." He says. "Get in already."

You rest your back at your gate. "Tell me the real reason why you walked me home."

"No."

"So you lied to me earlier?"

"N-no."

"So what is it?"

Tsukishima sighs. Then he takes a few steps, approaching you and bends down so that his face would be equal to yours.

His scent is sweet, like freshly picked strawberries. And his lips, though thin, was soft and pink. And the tip of his nose grazes just above yours. And his golden eyes narrow to gaze at every speck of your irises. The corner of his lip turns upwards.

"That shut you up." He says. You blush, and he seems to taunt you. "Still want to play volleyball?"

His breath is hot fanning over your cold face. You can't help but nod. You swallow thickly from the close proximity that Tsukishima has created.

"Okay. Well, I still need help with english. And you obviously still need help with volleyball. So you reap what you sow. We'll help each other."

Tsukishima says those words like they're a command. Like they're being read from sacred scriptures. An event waiting to be happened for a prophecy to be fulfilled. Tsukishima's tone was flat but his voice deemed importance.

"Okay," was all you managed to let out through a breath. "See you tomorrow?"

Tsukishima stands up, eyes you up and down. Then looks into your eyes again and you swear that his gaze softens.

"See you tomorrow."

🏐—

A few weeks pass by.

At mornings, Tsukishima has come to pick you up and you studied on the way to Karasuno. You spend your lunches together, along with Yamaguchi, as well as Hinata and Kageyama who—while also bickering like children—listen to whatever you teach Tsukishima.

After classes, you find yourself joining the boys at the volleyball club, with Tsukishima helping you practice your blocks and receives. Though you notice that the boys take their strengths down a notch, which you are somewhat grateful for — because they truly are strong, and you're not ready to catch up to their level yet.

And at nights, Tsukishima walks you home with a milk carton in hand and sharp remarks in his mouth.

There's still a thick smoke of hatred that covers the both of you, that string of annoyance wrapped around your fingers. Yet as days pass by, that smoke has been thinning at every civil interaction. Albeit that annoyance still lingered.

And until today, that smoke has turned into this very light fog, until you begin to question why you hated Tsukishima in the first place.

Your phone vibrates.

tsukishima. Where are you? 8:32am

you. almost there. forgot my bag at home. 8:33am

tsukishima. Hurry up. It's cold outside. 8:33am

you. will do. sorry :| Read at 8:34am

Tsukishima is standing outside the gates of Karasuno, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed as you quickened the pace of your walk.

"You're so slow it's annoying," his eyebrows furrow. "Why'd you forget your bag? Idiot."

"You pressure me, douchebag." You flick the bridge of his glasses. He yelps. "Hurry. I want to study already. We have a quiz at 9."

When you and Tsukishima sit on your respective seats, you quiz each other with lazily scribbled flash cards. He seems to have absorbed the passed on knowledge and had answered the questions with ease.

So after the quiz, he seemed content; confident.

"How well did you think you did, beanpole?" You zip your bag.

"Well enough to beat your ass," he replies. Then, he does something new.

He smiles at you.

It wasn't a bright smile. Not energetic, but radiates some kind of light happiness. Seemed like a smile of gratitude.

You feel your cheeks flare.

After classes, you meet outside the gym as always, both of you changed into training clothes. Then you spend hours and hours jumping and tiring your wrists out, squeaking your shoes off the floor.

By the time the sun has set, Tsukishima was waiting for you again.

"Let's study."

Your eyes widen and you look startled. Tsukishima looks bored. "I'm pretty sure you got yourself covered for the rest of the year, Tsukishima."

"And I don't think you can train by yourself in volleyball," he adjusts his bag. "Let's just study. Reap what you sow."

"You keep saying that."

He ignores you. "Let's study at my place."

"E-excuse me?"

Tsukishima begins to walk to his direction. And despite your reaction, you follow him either way. "Let's study at my place for a change. I'm sick of your living room."

He says it like he's spent years hanging out in your living room. Your feet runs on the cobblestone to catch up with him. "But- What else are we gonna study?"

"Whatever I want."

His house wasn't actually that far from the campus. When you've turned a corner, he opens the gate and lets you in. When you enter his home, it's warm and clean, so you set your shoes aside and walk in your socks.

No one's home.

Tsukishima could've led you to their living room. Instead, he goes directly to his bedroom. And when you don't move, he looks at you through the door with a raised brow, as if to say "well? why aren't you getting in?"

So you do.

You sit on the edge of his bed, watching him unzip his jacket and set it aside. You decide to stop acting so wary and let you back fall to his bed, taking your phone out.

"So when are your tryouts?"

You look at him, placing your phone on your chest. "Next week. Michimiya was nice enough to let me try this late into the school year."

"I'll be there." He sits down on the other side of his bed.

"Oh," you're stunned. "Okay. Um, what do you want to study?"

You pull yourself up until your whole body is on his bed, sitting up and resting your back at his headboard. Tsukishima brings his legs to the bed, resting them beside your socked feet.

"Chemistry." This is new. "Can you run me through it?"

And you do. You take your notebook our and run him by all the lessons discussed for the past week. Tsukishima's pretends to listen but he actually doesn't.

Instead he's staring at your scar at your leg, up and down your very exposed thigh, but mostly at your scar.

You notice this immediately. "Tsukishima, why are you staring at my scar?"

"It's Kei," he looks at you, his hand resting just beside your calf, index finger twitching to trace the ridges of your scar. "Call me Kei."

Kei.

"Okay, Kei."

Your voice, filled with dulcets, his name sounding mellifluous as it rolls of your tongue. Tsukishima's heart beats wildly, and has decided to come with the terms that he hates you— because he likes you.

"Your scar looks... cool..." his index finger finally sets on the soft skin of your healed wound. You shiver at his featherlight touch.

And he's so near you now. As near as that time he walked you home and bent down to your height. And gods, he was so handsome. Even with his scratched glasses. Your mouth gapes the slightest, shaking hands reaching to remove the spectacles off his nose.

Tsukishima lets you. You see sweetness of his stare, all that hatred you used to see seemed to have melted and dripped from his sweat. This kind of Tsukishima is new– foreign, yet seemed right. Seemed destined to happen.

"Kei," you murmur. "What are you doing?"

"Is your skull too thick to process your environment?" his laugh leaves him in a huff, smirking.

"You're so eager for me to teach you something you're already good at so you could keep training me," your brows meet in the middle the slightest, a crease on your forehead that Tsukishima wants to wipe away. "Why?"

"Because you're good, (y/n)." He declares. "Your injury isn't stopping you to perform your best. You're just scared."

"Then why not just train me without me having to tutor you?"

"Because I don't want to lose these kind of moments." he whispers. "Jesus, (y/n), I like you. It's why I brought you here, for fuck's sake."

His lips are warm compared to his cold hands.

You gasp, though eyes fluttering shut, and your eyelashes tickle his soft cheeks. Your fingers wrap around his wrist as he holds your delicate face in the palm of his hands, careful not to hurt you as his lips remain planted on yours.

When Tsukishima pulls away, he's not far from you. His lips hover over yours, breathing your air, his forehead resting just slightly on yours. Your fingers come up to tangle themselves on his silky hair.

"Lose moments like what, make out with me?" you giggle. "If you wanted to make out, Kei, just tell me."

"You never shut up, do you?"

His lips meet yours again in an open mouthed kiss, his tongue unabashed to graze your shy muscle. You hum in surprise, feeling yourself fall backwards when he gently cradles your head to rest on his sweet-scented pillow.

Somehow, you did meet up with your end of the bargain, only with something better.

Something better– like his hips slanted against yours as his mouth spreads shameless ardor across your body.

Something better– like how he whispers your name against your lips like a sacred prayer before he kisses you again carefully.

Something better– like a newfound relationship with Tsukishima Kei, someone you swore was your enemy, but now was someone you could spend your days with in his bed getting warm in ways fire couldn't.

Tsukishima looks into your eyes, tells you his secrets through his dilating pupils. His calloused fingers push your hair behind your ears, and then he kisses your forehead, followed by silk petal kisses on the plump of your cheeks, the tip of your nose, and then your lips.

His hands wander beneath your shirt, palms no longer cold as they're heated by the fervor of your body.

"You're so pretty."

"What a sap." you tease. "You're in love with me."

"I am." His nose rubs against yours lightly. "I so am. I'm in love with a dumbass. My ego has exploded."

You hit his face with a pillow.

reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!

☆彡He’s a D*ck, So She’s Tess?

Bill Dickey x Reader

Summary: A new girl transfers to Eltingville high and Bill writes her off as another bimbo who’ll hardly look at him. Until he spots her Dick Tracy comics. He’s in over his head after that.

TW: literally all kinds of misogyny. This is Bill Dickey we’re talking about. I might’ve made him a little nicer than usual, but that's just because I think if he was ever with a girl he had a real chance with he’d be too shocked to actually be an asshole. At first at least.

“Captain, are you alright?” buzzed a serene voice from Bill’s radio.

He set his phaser rifle down and sends a transmission over, “I’m alright, sweetheart. I’ve always got things under control.”

He puts a hand above his eyes as he surveys the area. He had just landed on an unknown planet with his crew of bombshell broads. The power cell on his phaser rifle was fully charged and he still had some kiss marks from the crew.

He was ready to conquer any potential threats.

The ground beneath him was hot and sand-like, but firm enough to act like gravel. There wasn’t much he knew about this strange planet. The sun was much stronger out here, and it was evident on the ridiculous amount of sweat that had begun accumulating on him. These damn Starfleet uniforms weren’t made for this kind of weather. Fighting against the glare of the sun, he squinted for some sort of sign of life.

He had been wandering for quite a while, and yet he hadn’t seen a single moving thing beyond the particles of sand he kicked as he walked. Sick of the overbearing weather, he sighs and gets ready to head back.

Until he spots it. Not too far in the distance is a figure. Immediately back on alert, he lifts his rifle and stomps toward it. The form gets clearer, but the shine of the sun prohibits him from seeing much.

It was a girl, that much he could make out. Oh.

It’s a girl.

A smirk immediately plasters itself on his face as he holsters his rifle and confidently walks forward. He would never miss an opportunity to add another fine woman to his ship.

When he feels close enough he puts his hands on his hips, “Need any help, princess?”.

The figure stays quiet. He puts a hand above his eyes in an attempt to shield the sun. He still can’t fully see her and it’s really starting to get on his nerves. Part of her ankle comes into view, which is enough to satiate his impatience, for now.

He could tell that she was wearing a loose dress. What kind, specifically? How was he to know? He didn’t care for that girly bullshit. It was short enough for him to see her beautiful legs. While his eyes hungrily raked over them, he noticed that she wasn't wearing any shoes either.

“What the hell?” he muttered, furrowing his brows. He motioned toward her feet with his hand, “how aren’t you fucking melting out here?”.

As if at the mention of it, he suddenly realized just how hot he had gotten. His sweat was leaving pools in his uniform and he felt much, much weaker. His vision wavered as he tried to keep his balance. He looked back up at her but the figure was gone. Before he could search for her, the alarm on his ship started to blare. His head shot up and turned to see the emergency lights shining. He reached for his radio but it was gone.

It was then that he realized just how close the sun had gotten. Way too close. And way too fast. And somehow it was getting even closer. Fuck. He abandoned any visions he had for the girl. She was probably ugly anyways. He had more than enough women to keep him company onboard. He realized if he wanted to keep his crew and his life, he needed to head back immediately.

He dropped his rifle and ran for his life. The sun was moving impossibly closer and his skin felt like it was burning up. As he neared the ship, his heart dropped at the sound of the engine starting. It was going to lift off without him!

Had even his beautiful crew decided to abandon him?

His despair was interrupted at the sight of the figure from earlier. The girl was alive. And on his ship.

She stood on the edge, holding her hand out. Bill could hardly breathe as the sun overtook half the sky and his skin ached. Yet, he kept running. He would be damned if he let his ship of beauties leave him to die like this.

As he neared the ship, he heard the girl scream at him to jump and it gave him one last kick of energy. As the ship lifted, it kicked up a flurry of sand that blinded him. Moving blindly, he jumped forward as she caught his hand. She held onto him as the spaceship lifted and he dangled by one hand. He looked down as the planet below him burst into a grand ball of flames. The flames seemed to get closer and closer and closer till—

He woke with a start.

Panting and sweaty, his eyes were wide open. He immediately groaned and threw his hand across his face. The sun was beating down on his face through his curtains, and he felt like he was back in his dream. Another stupid dream about imaginary women, and this time he doesn’t even get to see the damn broad. He can even still hear the stupid alarm. Wait. Alarm? Christ, it’s his alarm. He furiously rubs his eyes and sighs. If he’s tardy again, that’s his 4th absence of the month. He’ll get another call from the attendance office and his bitch mom will ground him right on time for the Star Trek marathon on Friday.

He quickly rose, staggering toward his drawer. No brushing or washing today, not like he cared for it usually. He shoved the first shit he could find on and walked to the bathroom. His clock glowing an angry red as he walked past. 7:30. Fuck, not even enough time for a morning sesh. He shoved his porn mag to the side and walked right up to the sink. Splashing cold water on his face, he ran his hand through his hair. Eh, good enough. He slipped his bag on and hurried out the door. What a shitty start to the day.

—----------------------------------

There was one thing he would never get over. He was on his 4th year of high school and there was one question he could never answer. Why was everyone so fucking loud in the morning?

A pack of stupid broads in the corner, laughing and huddled together, throwing glares at the rest of the class. The nerdy, but boring freaks at the front. The sounds of zippers and books slamming as they prepped for class unusually early. Try-hards. Deep laughs hit like nails on a chalkboard in front of him as he watched the meathead jocks shadow box each other and leave a whiff of axe body spray as they moved. At the very front sat his old hag of a teacher who was probably too close to a retirement home to hear a damn thing anymore.

He sighed, trying to look away. Sat in his usual seat, it felt like he never woke up as the bright sun hit him right in the eyes as he turned. He dropped his head into the safety of his arms. Between the usual chatter and the blinding light, he felt like his head would explode. So caught up in feeling like shit, he hardly noticed the new silence.

Shifting in his now unusually loud seat, he finally caught up to reality. Slowly lifting his head, his eyes followed the still class to the front of the room.

There was a girl.

With the glare of the sun, he could hardly see more than her outline. He shoved his hand up like a shield, and finally, he saw her clearly.

Had he died and gone to Valhalla?

Surely, he died in his valiant dedication to fandom and was finally being rewarded for his efforts. With a heavenly glow surrounding her, there stood the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. His eyes raked her top to bottom, from her shining eyes to her shifting feet. Christ, she was a wet dream reincarnated.

As his jaw hung slightly open and his eyes stayed glued to her form, he finally noticed his teacher motion her forwards. There was movement from the girl’s beautiful lips. Only it was too late. He had no idea what she said and she was walking right toward him. He forced his jaw to close and stood up in his seat slightly. Don’t wanna look like a pussy. He gulped as she got clearer and prettier. There was an empty seat next to him and he was certain she was gonna take it.

Visions overtook him of suavely talking her over as she laid her head on her hand, looking at him with the most desperate fuck-me eyes.

He’d hand her a pencil, maybe an eraser too. She’d flutter her lashes at him and laugh at his jokes. She’d put her hand on his shoulder as she laughed and she’d follow him as class ended right to the band room. He didn’t even take band, but he heard from Josh that kids got up to some freaky shit in the closets over there. He’d undress her slowly and– Nope, can’t think that far right now. Think of something else.

As his hopes soared, they were smashed into the fucking ground with the force of Mjölnir as she turned left. Oh, Fuck off. The stupid popular bitches were waving right at her, motioning her towards them. Just like that, he knew it was over. He felt like the world's biggest moron. Every bitch is the same, he knew it. He dropped his head in his hands again. It was going to be a long morning.

The bell brutally tore him from his nap and he immediately scrambled to get out. He speed walked toward the bathrooms, aching to get his one moment of peace going over Pete’s "Sci-fi’s Hottest Whores" scrapbook he made with magazines he stole from the supermarket. Obviously, hanging out by the bathrooms that had an air of shit from the broken plumbing wasn’t his favorite, but it was the club’s only safehaven from bullies. He felt his tense shoulders relax as the club came into sight. As he nodded towards the boys and set his bag down, Jerry asked him how he was doing.

Bill groaned and his eyes narrowed. Jerry immediately regretted asking, but Bill already began his (first) rant of the day as he opened his leaky lunch bag. The club all brought their own lunches to school. They knew better than to go to the lunchline, where they’d get robbed before they even got a glimpse of the food.

Bill ate and spoke at the same time, dropping crumbs everywhere. As he got to the part where he saw the new girl, he set his sandwich down and paused his messy bites. “I’m telling you, she was the most beautiful bitch I’ve ever laid eyes on. I almost bent her over my desk and took her right there,” he grumbled as Pete raised an eyebrow and smirked.

Bill sighed and looked down, “For a second, she looked just like the girl in my dreams. I really thought I had a good premonition going on there.”

Josh was scarfing down his mom’s meatloaf, not entirely interested in the conversation. “So?” he muttered through his mouth full of food.

Bill slammed his hand down as he continued, “She was walking right to me! Till the stupid cheer whores motioned her over. And of course, she took the bait. Just like that, the love of my life is gone.”

Pete rubbed his hands along his knees, ”She might not be yours, but if she’s that hot she might be mine. Send her my way, ya’?” he smirked.

Bill sent him a deep glare, “Over my dead body. She won’t want your shrimp dick, freak.”

Josh laughed, again with his mouth full, “Like she’d want yours. She’d need to be Bionic-1 to see a thing on you.”

Jerry sighed, “She won’t want any of ours if she joins cheer. She’s gonna get passed around the jocks like a football.” He fumbled through his magic cards, trying to sort his sliver deck. He was half listening to the conversation, too distracted by the task in front of him.

Bill kicked the cards right out of his hands, “Don’t say some shit like that around me. You got a cuck fetish or something?” he sneered.

Jerry scrambled to pick up his cards, now definitely too distracted to listen to the conversation. Bill hardly had an appetite after that, realizing how right Jerry might be. He shoved his sandwich down his bag and wiped his hands on his pants. He took Pete’s scrapbook from Josh’s hands, “Gimme that. Like you can see it over your fat fupa,” he grumbled. Josh protested for it back but it fell on deaf ears.

______________________________

He hadn’t thought about her again for the rest of the school day. Once he was free from hell, anything school related trickled right out of his mind. He was walking out the main gate with the club, arguing about the X-Men Age of Apocalypse comic that made a totally bullshit turn in his opinion. His day had seemed to finally even out.

With a gentle breeze flowing through the trees and his jacket tied around his waist, he felt much lighter in the moment. The clumsy steps of the group against the pavement was all he could hear as he passionately continued his rant. He had just finished slapping Jerry across the head and cackling with Pete when a movement in front of him caught his eye.

He almost bit down on his tongue as he realized who it was. He felt a sudden lump in his throat and didn’t even notice the pause in his steps till the rest of the group were a few feet ahead of him.

It was her. She was walking in the opposite direction as the group, straight toward them. He stood in the middle of the path and anyone with an ounce of awareness in the moment would notice that he was in her way. Luckily, he was the dumbest motherfucker in the world at the moment. He failed to move out of the collision course and her gaze was too busy with her bag as she fumbled to get something out.

She rammed right into him and they fell with a thud.

He took note of her heavenly scent before anything else. It was almost good enough to distract him from how much of a fool he had just made out of himself. He didn’t have much time to ponder over it though, as he sat up on his knees and noticed her bag’s contents littered along the ground. His eyes lazily raked over the pile in his daze.

Until he spotted it.

If he was dazed before, he felt on the verge of a stroke now. His blood rushed to his head and his heart thundered like it would burst out of his chest. He started breathing manually as he felt himself break out in a cold sweat. His hands fumbled at his sides in a desperate attempt to ground himself.

Comics. Not just any comics. Not the stupid, girly romance kind. Dick Tracy comics. It didn’t take a detective to realize what that meant. As if his body was moving on its own, his hands shakily picked up the comics and he turned toward her.

The angel rubbed her shoulder as she looked up at him with a small smile on her shiny lips. Her eyes were soft and glittered as she looked at him. At least he thought so.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking at all,” she said sheepishly.

Her voice felt like warm honey and the light seeping through the trees enveloped her in a beautiful glowing frame. Her head tilted and he felt as if he could see the gears turn in her mind. “We have a class together, right? I remember you,” she said with a smile.

At his newfound discovery that he had just gone mute, she continued. “I remember you because of your Magik shirt, I think you’ve got good taste.” His mind short circuited as he looked down. He had no memory of even picking it out this morning and it was slightly stained… wait, how did she know who Magik was?

He felt like he was going to pass out and struggled to find his voice. It cracked as he choked the question out, “Are these yours?” he questioned as he held out the comics. Her eyes widened and she quickly reached out for them.

“Oh fuck, yeah, those are mine. Hope I didn’t scratch them up, they were in mint condition when I got them,” she said as she squinted and flipped them around to inspect them.

And he was a goner.

He smiled at her. A real, albeit shy, smile. Maybe he had never woken from his dream after all.

Still in amazement, his thoughts stumbled out of his upturned lips, “You’re heavy.” She tilted her head at him with a blank expression. Oh. Wait, fuck. “I. I meant your bag. It looks heavy. Ya need help?” he stammered as his face burned.

She smiled softly and nodded “Yeah, thanks.” She dusted her knees as she rose, “so, you like Dick Tracy too?” she asked.

He nodded, suddenly growing uncharacteristically shy. Fuck. How the hell do you talk to girls? He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants as he rushed to pick up the rest of her things. It was the only thing he could think to do as his mind scrambled to think of a pick-up line. Should he tell her he had a 10 pack of condoms ready if she could handle it? He wiped the thought from his mind, he didn’t even know where to get condoms or how they worked. Although, obviously she liked him if she was keeping up a conversation with him for this long. Maybe it was worth looking into. He hurriedly stuffed her things back in her bag before putting it on. Was he seriously gonna carry a girl’s bag for her? He looked up, ready to protest.

His words died on his tongue when she held her hand out and smiled at him. Christ, l need to see her in some erotic cosplay. As his shaky hand touched hers, he felt like he was born again. Her soft skin made his heart throb and he felt like he just came down with a fever. I’m touching a real life girl. His knees felt weak as he attempted to rise. Any issue he had with carrying her bag was gone.

He’d kick a kid into oncoming traffic if she asked, as long as she’d keep touching him like that.

____________________________

Unbeknownst to Bill, his friends stood frozen in place a few feet away. The club was too shocked to do anything but watch. A cold, eerie feeling washed over them all. A girl being nice to Bill. And Bill being nice to a girl. They’ve got to be in hell. The world has to be ending. Someone’s gotta call the fucking police.

“What the fuck,” muttered Pete.

Jerry stood slack jawed and Josh hadn’t even noticed he dropped his brand new Superboy comic.

A cold breeze carried their silence. Yet, Bill had never felt warmer.

ℭ𝔯𝔶 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔖𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯; II

{poly!lost boys x fem!reader}

♱ 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: explicit

♱ 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: another day in santa carla, and it's already stranger than the first. conflicting feelings surface when you encounter the punks from the boardwalk again, and a challenge ends with you seeking help from the kind man running the video store.

♱ 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: emerson!reader, fem!reader, reader is 18-19 (middle child), reader wears glasses, foul language, sibling dynamics, mentions of divorce, sexual harassment, stuck-up?reader (she's prissy at times), non-consensual touching, teasing

♱ 𝔞/𝔫: original word count was 4861, new word count is 6050

[1] … [3] … [8] [9]

You tuck a well-loved novel into your makeshift bookshelf, muttering a quiet, "Don't look at me like that, Bowie," to the stuffed snowy owl Grandpa deposited last night.

Bowie didn't reply, but you swear his blue-and-green eyes gleam with judgment.

"If you don't like it, then don't read," you remind him, pushing another racy novel behind his perch.

Is it pathetic to talk to a piece of taxidermy? The jury's out. As of right now, he's your only friend. Somehow, both Sammy and Michael have made connections. Even Mom made one in the two seconds you weren't with her.

Maybe you're doomed to be like Grandpa? A curmudgeonly hermit who loafed around the house in a bathrobe and soggy slippers.

Talking Bowie means you were halfway there.

You turn the owl around with a shudder.

You continue your chores softly humming with the Mamas and the Papas when someone knocks on your door.

Mom ducks her head in, wearing an apologetic look for disturbing the peace.

"—Well, I got down on my knees, (got down on my knees) and I pretended to pray!—"

You turn the sound down on your radio, "Yeah?"

"I wanted to check in with you. I'm heading to the video store—you can join me, if you like?" She shrugs. "You don't have to stay the whole time. Michael and Sam are heading to the beach if you'd rather join them."

You note the lack of choice: it's either/or, not neither.

You could hem haw around—Gee, Mom, that sounds great, but I'm having so much fun unpacking!

Yeah. Not happening. She wants you to go out 'like old times,' but you don't have the heart to explain that 'old times' are meant to stay in the past.

And as much as you would love to cling to your mother's arm, you're not a child, and you want to give her a chance to explore this newfound something she formed with the Video Store Man.

"I'll go to the beach with Mike and Sammy."

Mom smiles, relieved. "That's great, honey. We can meet up at the boardwalk after my shift is over and get something to eat."

"Sure."

She blows a kiss and leaves. You hear her melodic voice float up the stairs as she tells Mike the news. He groans—probably complaining about how his bike can't fit three people—but Mom shuts him down by saying he can drive Grandpa's pickup.

Michael barges into your room minutes later.

"Knock first!"

"Shouldda been born first," he fires back. Mike braces his arm on the door frame with a huff. "Listen—we're leaving in ten. Be ready by then."

"Fine—shut the door!"

He doesn't.

Asshole.

You change clothes, having spent all day in your PJs. You throw on a thin waffle knit sweater that used to belong to Mom and a gauzy skirt. You don't intend to get in the ocean, but pack a few books to pass the time.

When you get downstairs, Sam and Michael are packed and ready, wearing wetsuits and sunglasses.

Sam scrunches his nose when he sees you. "Where's your swimsuit?"

"Not wearing one."

"What? Is it shark week or somethin'?"

You flick him in the middle of his forehead. "No, you dweeb. You'd know if it were."

Sammy shudders.

The drive to the beach is pleasant; plus, Grandpa's radio works. Michael tries to get in on the fight for control, but after getting slapped one too many times, he gives up.

Berlin's Take My Breath Away crackled over the speakers, and Michael groans. "Turn this shit off."

"It doesn't make you think of a certain someone?" Sammy teases.

"Oh, that's right," you say. "You were stalker boy last night, weren't you?"

"Shut up."

Sammy piles on, "It's never gonna happen."

"No, never," I add, "your ugly mug's probably what scared her off."

Michael turns the channel.

When you reach the beach, the sky is a murky orange. The sun'll be setting soon, but according to Mike, this is one of the better times to surf.

The boys do all the heavy lifting, and you lay out a towel; you situate yourself far enough from the water so you won't get wet, but not so far that you're on the hot, loose sand.

You watch idly as your brothers paddle out but quickly lose interest. You crack open a book—one of your favorites—and immerse yourself in the story.

When you look up from your book and notice that the sun is halfway down the horizon and the beach is almost empty; Sam trudges up the sand and throws his board to the ground.

You raise an eyebrow. "Had enough?"

"I'm sick of falling off," he grumbles. He spreads his legs, hogging the towel. "Plus, those terrorists wouldn't leave me and Mikey alone."

Sammy juts his chin toward the ocean, and you follow his gaze. Michael is easy to spot—he's the one surrounded by surfers. One of them comes a little too close to Mike, and he, in an attempt to swerve, falls off his board.

Sam sneers, digging through your beach bag for a snack. "What a waste of space."

You peer over the edge of your book. "He's not gonna give up, is he?"

Sam deadpans. "What do you think?"

Michael clamors onto his board. The 'terrorists,' as Sam so eloquently named them, paddle toward him for another go. You roll your eyes and snatch a handful of Bugles from Sammy's bag. You're in for a long night.

Forty minutes later, the sun is completely gone, and dusk overtakes the sky. You give up reading and instead toss M&Ms into Sam's mouth (which is actually harder to do in the dark than read). Michael jogs out of the ocean, frustrated. A little ways behind him, the surfer group terrorizing him laugh. Your stomach churns and you would've thrown a seashell at them if the wind wasn't whipped into a frenzy.

Instead, you toss Michael a towel, and he dries off. His cheeks are pinkish-red, though you don't know if that's a sunburn or embarrassment.

"Let's get outta here. Mom's probably wondering where we are." He jerks his head to Sam. "Help me pack the boards, will you?"

Sammy whines, "I just wanna go home—can you drop me off, Mike? I promise I won't take too long…"

Mikey grabs the scruff of his neck and drags him to the parking lot.

You take your time packing up and sigh. Hopefully, Mom will be happy. You've done your due diligence and made sure Michael and Sam kept their nose clean. You even got some sun. If that doesn't count as socialization, you don't know what would.

It's only when the group of surfers approach that you wish you'd followed your brothers.

Before you can take a step, a wet, slimy hand smacks your ass. You jerk, stumbling over a mound of sand as you try to distance yourself from the offender.

"Hey!"

"How ya doin', beautiful?"

He's an ugly son of a bitch. You don't need sun light to tell you that. His hair is black with a white stripe, like a skunk's. The surfers close rank around you. They're still soaked from the sea, reeking of saltwater and cigarettes.

You think about running, but you won't make it; the six of them will catch you before you clear the dunes. Your stomach flips.

Ass-grabber snickers at your distress. "Why's a nice girl like you hangin' 'round chumps like that?"

The stench of beer and sweat leaks from his pores.

You level a glare, "They're my brothers."

Ass-grabber shares a look with his lackeys. "Your brothers can't surf for shit. All they know how to do is wipe out."

"Yeah," you say, "you tend to fall when you're crowded like that."

They ooo, and your false bravado takes a hit. A few hushed, nasty comments are thrown your way and you out manuver a pair of wandering hands. They're drunk. Drunk and fixated on you. Might as well, right? You're the only Emerson they haven't antagonized.

"You got a mouth on you," says ass-grabber. He closes the distance between you in one stride, snatching your wrist. He pulls you close; his wetsuit soaks your sweater; his disgusting lips brush the shell of your ear. "I'd like to see what else it can do."

"Get off," you plea.

"'M gonna."

"No, get off!" You shove his chest, and he staggers.

"She's not interested, Greg."

The new voice startles you. You free your wrist and come face to face with a black leather jacket. Then, familiar blue eyes. Your lips part (to say—what? One look and he stole all the words from your mouth.) and you search his face.

It takes you a second to place him—and it comes from a shadow of a memory from the night before. The punks from the boardwalk.

You should be scared, but you're not. You see it in those captivating blue eyes of his, he doesn't want to mess with you. He's here to help. For now, at least, you let your guard down.

Greg glowers at the interruption. "Get off my beach."

The punk rips his gaze from yours with a shit-eating smirk. "Last I heard, the beach was public property, ay boys?"

He exchanges a glance with the rest of the boardwalk punks—one full of mirth and … something else. Something that you can't place, but it makes you uneasy. You take a step back lest you involve yourself in an Outsiders-esque rumble.

Greg gets in the leader's face. "I'll fuckin' kill you, man. Don't test me." You step back again, using the punks as a shield. You've never gotten in a fight before and you won't start now.

Greg's eyes flit between you and the group. And then—the strangest thing happens. He takes one look at the boys, and his eyes widen. The wind howls, but you swear you hear a growl. It's probably a passing car, but it chills you to the bone.

Greg's fear vanishes in a flash, and he scoffs. "You don't deserve my time."

The surfers trickle away one by one until they're just pinpricks on the sand, but the punks stay.

Finally, they face you, and you cradle your bulging tote bag like an iron shield. You're disgusted, you feel violated, and you're tempted to lose your cool on the punks, but their arrival prevented a worse outcome. For that, you're grateful.

Reluctantly, you admit that.

"Thank you." You push your hair back, holding it in place as the wind picks up. "I appreciate your help."

"No problem, baby." The taller blond smiles, capturing his tongue between his teeth.

There it is again. That long, drawn-out bay-bee. You clench your jaw. Maybe you should've run off.

These guys make you uncomfortable, but not like the surfers. No, it's a different sort. A discomfort that you've never felt before. It's all warm and awkward, like fluttering in your stomach.

As if he could sense your apprehension, the leader speaks. "Believe it or not, those guys are bigger assholes than us."

You scoff a laugh and his lips twitch.

He continues, "What are you doing out at this hour? Don't you know there are weirdos around?"

"I'm here with my family." They deign to look around the beach, but it's empty. You blush. "They're packing the car."

"Wasn't smart of them to leave you alone. This isn't exactly a safe place, you know?"

"Yeah," says Curly. "Just last week a bunch of body parts washed up on the shore. They dunno if it was a murder or a shark."

You frown. "You're kidding, right?"

Curly's grin is sharp enough to bite. "Why would we lie about something like that? Do you think we like scaring innocent girls like you for fun?"

"Uh, yeah."

The leader cocks his head, sizing you up. You swear his gaze burns you from the inside out, like hellfire. You resist the urge to shudder.

"You left before we could introduce ourselves," he says, referencing last night. "I'm David. That's Paul—" bay-bee boy "—Marko—" Curly "—and Dwayne." The pretty brunette.

You try not to look interested (because you're not) and nod. "Well, have a nice night."

"You're not gonna tell us yours?" Marko asks.

You start to tell him 'no,' but you get the feeling he won't quit until you admit it, so tell them your first name. "I have to go."

"What? Can't hang, baby?" Paul snickers, ruffling your hair. You smack his hand away.

"It's not that—I have people waiting for me." You glance over the ridge again, praying your idiot brothers haven't left you. "Plus, I doubt I'd be much fun."

Your words elicit a new wave of laughter. Paul slings his arm over Marko's shoulder, "I think we'll be the judge of that."

Your face burns, and you stammer, "That's not what I meant."

God, they're disgusting. You hug yourself, willing your stomach to stop flipping.

"I dunno, Paul, that seems like the only way to take that," says Marko. He pinches your nose. "You're cute when you're flustered."

"I'm not—"

A hand reaches out—too fast for you to identify which boy, but you assume it's one of the terror twins—and snatches your glasses from your face.

You react a second too late. "Hey!"

"Wow—" Paul, you think, "—You're pretty blind. How can you see?"

"I can't, you jerk! That's why I wear glasses!"

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Marko thrusts his hand in your face.

"Give them back!" You lunge at where you thought he was, but he vanishes into thin air.

You stumble into a chest. A pair of hands curl around your biceps. "What's the magic word, baby?"

Paul.

You bite your cheek. You refuse to cry in front of them. "Please?"

"Actually, it's da—oof!" Someone punches him before he can finish.

Paul vanishes from behind you, and you sniffle; you're pissed, you're embarrassed, and you wish that you were standing in quicksand. (Better yet, you wish they were standing in quicksand.)

"Here."

Someone presses your glasses into your hands. You put them on quickly, ignoring the fingerprint smudges on the lenses.

You blink up at your savior—the gorgeous brunette. The one who, until now, hadn't said a single word. Dwayne, maybe?

"Thank you," you whisper, wishing your voice was stronger.

There may be a decent one among them, after all.

He smiles, and your heart stutters. This man could be on the cover of a romance novel, Jesus. You quickly look down, but that was the worst choice because he's shirtless under that leather jacket. You pinch your lips together and look literally anywhere else—there's a seagull, an abandoned kite, some trash...

"Don't tell me Dwayne makes you nervous," says Marko. "He doesn't bite, do you big guy?"

Dwayne shrugs, "Not hard."

Killing you would have been kinder. You’re a pile of goo, your face burns (but you tell yourself it’s from the sun), and if they keep this up you don’t know what will become of you.

"Do you want a ride?" David asks. "Seems like yours ditched you."

Michael. Sam.

Fuck, that's right.

"No, they're just waiting for me," you say again.

On cue, Michael peers over the dunes, shouting your name. "C'mon! What's taking you so long?! Sammy's about to have an aneurysm."

A squeaky "Am not, Mike!" follows.

"Coming!" You burst through the boys but stop halfway up the dunes. "Um, thanks again, I guess."

David tilts his head, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "The offer still stands."

But you pretend you don't hear him and jog to the waiting truck.

Michael waits for you with a frown, eyeing the boys. "Are you okay?"

You don't want to get into it, so you say, "Let's go."

Mom is anxiously waiting when Michael pulls into the lot. She greets you with a hug and a kiss. "Where's Sam?"

"Home," says Michael. "He's beat."

"Okay." She eyes his bike and squeezes your hand. "How was the ride over?"

You scoff, "At least he didn't crash this time."

Mike takes offense. "That was one time."

You stick your tongue out. One time and one ER visit too many in your book.

"Well, I'm starved." Mom rubs her hands together, smiling. "What do you say we go out to eat? I saw a great little place over there…"

Michael shrugs. "I think I wanna look around for a bit."

"Oh. Well, that's okay."

"I'll meet up with you later," he says, disappearing into the crowd.

"I guess it's just you and me, kiddo. What do you say? You wanna go home and make some pasta?"

"Yeah," you say, but your voice is an octave too high.

Mom sighs, but she's not disappointed. "What do you really want to do?"

Damnit. She's good.

Sheepishly, you tell the truth, "There's a bookshop around the corner, and I'd really like to check it out."

"Aw, sweetie." Mom squeezes your arm, pulling you into another hug. "I want you to have fun. You're not going to hurt my feelings by saying no, I promise."

"Yeah, but…"

"No buts. Go look at books. I think I'll head home. Are you okay riding with Michael again? I know how you feel about…"

She gestures to the bike.

You cringe at the offending metal. "We made it here in one piece. I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Okay, honey. Enjoy yourself, alright? And you have Grandpa's number if you need it?"

"Yeah."

"I won't tell you not to stay out too late because you're a big girl, but be safe."

You smile, "I'll be home before midnight. I promise."

She relaxes ever so slightly, and it warms your heart. It almost makes you change your mind.

She waves goodbye, heading for the Land Rover. You square your shoulders and head back into the masses.

The bookstore is overcrowded tonight.

Well, it's not, but you spot a few unsavory characters (namely Greg and his surfer douches), which makes you rush back to the parking lot. You're not ready for round two.

Luckily, Michael's bike was still there, otherwise you would've been screwed.

You sit on the Death Trap (the name you gave Mike's stupid motorcycle a few years back) until you see Michael heading your way. You almost call out ...

... until you see he's with a girl.

"Shit," you whisper.

Michael's puppy dog grin diminishes when he spots you.

He looks ... different. He's wearing a leather jacket with the tag sticking out of the shirt sleeve. He's even combed his hair back. He looked like an off-brand version of David and his gang.

The girl eyes you warily. Michael rubs the back of his neck, glancing between you and her.

"Um. Star, this is my sister."

You wave. If you were in a better mood, you would have teased him, but after the day you've had, ribbing Michael is the last thing on your mind.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't think you'd have company and Mom ... took off, and I'm... I'm sorry."

You've never felt more shitty in your life. For all the crap you give him, Michael's a decent guy. There's no way he'd choose a random girl over his sister.

But at the same time, you don't want him to make that choice. It's not fair.

"It's fine," he says. "We'll work this out."

Star readjusts her purse, "Maybe we should do this another time."

"Star," Michael starts to say something, but it fizzles out.

Before he can try to salvage the evening, the roar of engines rips through the air. You jerk out of your seat as four stripped-down bikes corner you. Driving the beasts are four familiar faces, so familiar that you almost say, What? Are you guys stalking me?

But you don't because David beats you to the punch.

David raises his eyebrows. A dangerous aura overcame him—an aura that made you feel small and insignificant. "Where ya going, Star?"

Oh.

Apparently, they're not here for you. It ... stings, if you're honest.

She set her jaw. "For a ride. This is Michael."

David's gaze jumps to your brother. He sizes him up and smirks. It's like you're not even there.

He turns back to Star and says, "Let's go."

Star hesitates, and you wonder—why? Clearly, there's something there. Their history is palpable; regardless of whether it's romantic or platonic, you don't care. But the look on Michael's face crushes you.

Subtly, you insert yourself in between her and Michael. The last thing you need is for some girl to string him along.

"Star," David says again, impatience seeping into his lazy drawl.

She makes a face, but David doesn't budge. He stares her down as if daring her to challenge him. Reluctantly, she chooses David, draping her arm languidly over his chest as she climbs on.

You expect David to burn rubber. He's got his girl; he's made his point. Now's the time to peel out and leave the Emersons in the dust.

But he doesn't.

Finally, David looks at you, and that weird feeling returns. You cross your arms, but you can't look away.

David doesn't want you to, though. And even though he speaks to Michael, he doesn't stop staring at you. "Do you know where Hudson's Bluff is, overlooking the point?"

Michael's confidence falters. "I can't beat your bike."

David revs his engine. "You don't have to beat me, Michael. You just have to keep up."

There's a pause, and it breaks the spell David held over you. Michael shifts his attention to you, Star, and the gang. You know your brother—your idiotic, competitive brother. He's considering it. There's one surefire way to get under his skin: challenge him. David, whether he knows this weakness or not, is exploiting it.

But Michael holds back. He nods toward you. "I've got my little sister with me..."

"You can bring her," says Marko. "We don't mind, do we, baby?"

He winks, snickering as Paul whispers in his ear.

"Don't talk about her," Michael snaps.

You hold your hand out, "Mike, don't."

"Yeah, Mikey." Paul grins; you don't like what it does to you.

David says your name, and you instantly react. He gives you the same look he gave Star, goading you, commanding you. It's an invitation as much as it's a demand.

Again, he says, "The offer still stands."

You swallow hard and say, "I shouldn't."

David frowns.

You turn to Michael, keeping your voice soft. "I know you want to go."

Michael grits his teeth. "I'm not going to leave you here."

"I'll be fine."

A beat of silence. He purses his lips. "Are you sure?"

You're not. You're scared shitless at the thought of being left alone on the boardwalk, but you can't tell him that. You won't. You see the way he grips his handlebars. He wants to impress these guys—impress that girl.

Michael is annoying, but he's your brother, and you refuse to hold him back even if he will make stupid choices.

You can't be his voice of reason when he'll tune you out.

So, you say, "I'll figure something out. Maybe that guy from the video store will know something?"

Mike relaxes. "... Fine."

You go to leave, but David catches you. His grip is gentle—barely there. He slips his hand from your wrist to your cheek, forcing you to look at him.

He's touching you.

Your skin tingles.

"Last chance," he says.

No sits on the tip of your tongue. It's the comfortable answer—the only answer—but saying yes is tempting. It dangles from your lips like a snake's hiss, your yes, your acceptance of David and everything he offers.

You can picture it perfectly: climbing onto their bikes, feeling their leather jackets against your skin.

Skin on skin, chests crushed against each other. Hot, deep kisses that leave you breathless.

Hands trailing over your body—up your sweater, down your skirt, around your waist, over your breasts.

Tongues exploring every inch of your skin.

It would be easy to say yes. You ... You want to say yes.

Michael says your name, and you snap back to the present. You blink, rapidly clearing that perverted vision from your mind, your thoughts evaporating like smoke.

You step away from David, letting his hand drop.

"Like I said," you murmur, "I wouldn't be much fun." You turn to Michael, plastering a wholesome grin on your face. "Be safe, Mikey."

"Tell your little sister bye-bye, Mikey," Paul jeers.

Knowing you'll change your mind, you can't make yourself look back. So, you thrust yourself into the crowd and embrace the chaos.

By some miracle, you don't spot Greg or the surfers again when you reach the video store. A rush of cold air kisses your sweat-slick skin when you cross the threshold. Soft music plays overhead, and a handful of customers browse the offerings hung on the wall. It's a brightly colored dreamland, everything neon and glittery, designed to catch your attention.

In the center of the room is a counter, and behind it stands a tall, broad-shouldered man. He passes change to his customer and greets you with a smile.

"Hello, how may I help you?"

"Are you Max?" His eyebrows twitch inward, but he nods, still smiling. You give him your name. "I'm Lucy's daughter."

"Lucy's—of course you are! What can I do for you on this lovely evening? Did she forget something?"

"Yes and no." You readjust your glasses. "My ride bailed and I was looking for a phone to call her. You don't happen to have one, do you?"

"By all means!" He pulls a sleek, rotary phone from beneath the counter. "Have at it."

"Thank you."

You dig through your purse and withdraw a neatly-folded piece of paper with Grandpa's number. Everything's going to be fine, you reassure yourself. You tuck the receiver under your ear and dial. The line rings ... and rings ... and rings.

Nothing.

You try again, consciously aware of Max watching you from the corner of his eye.

The phone rings again. No one picks up.

Shit.

Did you write the number wrong? You don't have a phone book or you'd triple check, but you swear you did that before leaving the house.

"Is everything okay?" Max leans against the counter, concern coloring his face.

Defeated, you hang up and push the phone toward him. "I'm sure it is."

"Did someone pick up?"

"No." You bite your cheek to keep the panic at bay. "No, uh, they didn't. Thank you, anyway. I'll figure something out. Maybe hitch a ride, or ..."

"Have you hitched before?"

You strain to smile. "There's a first time for everything, right?"

Max doesn't smile. "No, I'm afraid I can't let you do that. Santa Carla isn't the wholesome place it used to be and I cannot, in good conscience, have you go out alone. I'll drive you."

Eyes wide, you backpedal, "Oh, no! You can't, you're in the middle of work and I just, I can't."

"Nonsense. Maria!" He motions for the pretty cashier to come closer. "Can you handle the store for a little bit? I have an errand to run. It shouldn't take more than an hour."

"Not a problem."

Max slides out from behind the counter and parrots Maria's words. "See? Not a problem."

"I don't want to get you in any trouble..."

Max chortles. He lays a hand on the small of your back and guides you out of the store. "My dear, I own the place. Although, if it makes you feel better, I'll reprimand myself when I get back."

Max has a nice car. Like, a really nice car. It has air conditioning that actually works and a stereo system that's out of this world. Plus—you can crank the windows up and down without them getting stuck! It's nothing like Mom's car, and everything like your father's back in Phoenix.

But Max isn't anything like your dad, which is probably why Mom loves him.

He makes light conversation in between you giving directions.

"Your necklace is pretty."

"Oh, thank you." You wear it so much that you barely think about it anymore. It's simply a chunk of quartz on a cord. You touch it, feeling its weight in your palm. "It used to be my mom's, but I took it so often she eventually gave it to me."

When you were younger, you used to think it was a magic rock that could grant you wishes. Now, you feel naked if you don’t wear it.

"Do you like crystals?"

"I guess so, yeah. They're pretty."

Max hums, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "What's your favorite?"

"Um, well, I like quartz, but I think my favorite is obsidian."

He nods, "Remind me, which one is that again?"

"It's black. I don't know why, but it's always been my favorite."

"There's a shop on the boardwalk, somewhere around the theater, I think. I never go that way, myself, but I have met the owner during the occasional meeting. She's a nice woman. Has a big selection of crystals, if I'm right. You might like it."

His thoughtfulness strikes a cord with you. You can see why Mom likes him, he's charming.

"I'll have to check it out," you say. "Maybe I'll find my mom something to replace this old thing."

Max chuckles. "That's very generous of you. Most people think of themselves first. You have a giving heart—just like your mother."

"Oh, I don't know about that. She makes it easy."

Max turns the corner, and picks a new thread of conversation. "How do you like Santa Carla so far?"

"It's okay. We used to come out here a lot during the summer, but we haven't in ... almost a decade, I think?"

"It's a wonder we never met until now."

You shrug. "There's a lot of people in Santa Carla."

"That's true." Max turns the dial. A new radio station sifts through his speakers, and though it's not a genre you like, you don't mind. It's not like you're listening anyway.

To fill the void, you keep talking. "My dad never liked it here. He always cut our visits short. I can't remember even coming to the boardwalk back then."

"And your father, he's ...?"

"Back in Phoenix," you say. "They're divorced."

"I see." He keeps his tone light, but you can tell he's secretly glad to hear that. "It must be tough for you. You've uprooted your entire life."

"I’d do it again if it helped Mom, but if I’m honest? I feel like an outcast here. Everything is so different."

"Do you not like different?"

"It's not that I don't like it, I'm just not used to it." You laugh at yourself, adding, "I'm not the adventurous type. Mike and Sammy, they're outgoing, but I'm ... not. I tried, but it's not for me. I'm a homebody."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"You'd be the first to think it."

Maybe that's not fair to Mom, but it's true. She doesn't get it. You know she means well when she sends you out with your brothers, and you'll suffer through if it makes her happy, but you'd rather be at home. Even now, you're kicking yourself for not going with her.

Max glances at you. "Home is where the heart is, as they say."

"The heart is Mom," you say, not-so-subtly implying that Santa Carla isn't home. "I'm just ... there."

"A home needs a heart, a mother; that much is true. But a home also needs a solid foundation, something to hold it steady, something that makes sure it doesn't sink or shift. Now, some people might say that's the father's role, but not always. You strike me as that kind of person."

You're thankful it's dark because you fluster when he speaks. "That's kind of you to say."

"It's just an observation from an old man."

You snort. Max isn't old. "I guess I'm an exception to the middle kid stereotype—you know, how they're supposed to be wild and all that." You tried to be that a long time ago. You were that way, but ... "Mom's always needed a friend, especially this last year with everything. She does her best, but sometimes she needs help. I don't mind doing that."

Max softens, fondly glancing your way. "I wish my boys had someone like you around. Maybe you could knock some sense into them."

"You have sons?"

"Oh, yes. They are," Max whistles, "they're a handful, that bunch. I try. I've given them everything, but they're reckless. As untamed as wild horses."

"I'm sure you do fine."

"They would disagree with you," he laughs. "What they need is something they've never had: a mother. Now, I can give them discipline, but they need that-that heart. Or, a foundation, for that matter." He winks at you conspiratorially. "I hope they get that one day before it's too late."

You smile awkwardly, but words evade you. The conversation took a strange turn.

Max pulls up to your house. The totem poles tower over his sleek car like grim sentinels welcoming you back to the pit. But, Max doesn't unlock the car.

"Look, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I have to ask," Max says. "I like your mother very much. She's ... She's unlike any woman I've ever met. I know I haven't known her long, and I understand you all are going through a difficult transition ..."

You gently cut his ramblings short. "She likes you, too, Max."

"Really?" You nod. Max exhales, running his hands through his perfectly coiffed hair. "Then ... you wouldn't mind if I ask her on a date?"

"You seem like a great guy. I think she would love that. But it's up to her to say yes," you remind him.

"Of course! Thank you—your consent means more to me than you know."

He unlocks the car and you hop out. "Thanks again for this."

"Any time. Have a good night, my dear!"

You wave goodbye and head inside.

Everyone's asleep by now. The house is dark, save for a lone lamp Mom must have left on for your arrival. You wander into the living room and snatch the phone off the wall. But, instead of the dial tone, you're met with silence.

Damnit, Grandpa. What's the point of having a phone if it doesn't work? If you hadn't found Max, you would have been in serious shit tonight.

You don't remember until later that you stopped giving Max directions at some point.

That night, you dream of David, Dwayne, Paul, and Marko. They flight through your window one by one wearing jackets made of animal fur and leaves and dance on the ceiling.

"Can I come with you?" You watch them with awe, wishing you could fly, too. "Please?"

David extended his hand. "All you had to do was ask."

They lift you out of bed and you soar through the sky. You're not afraid, not as you touch the stars or do loops around the boardwalk rollercoaster. You find comfort in their company. They give you freedom when you hold their hands.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

"Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning," Marko jokes.

They take you to their hideout in the trees and lay you on a bed of moss. They stroke your nude body. You can't remember losing your clothes, but it's okay. You like it when they touch you. It feels different. It feels good.

Hands turn into mouths; tongues lick your flesh, mouths suck your nipples, your neck, and lower. Much, much lower.

"Join us, wendy-bird." Their voices warp, whispering, overlapping over one another. "Be our lost girl."

Be ours.

The pleasure intensifies. Your surrounding blur, but you see their faces with perfect clarity. They're beautiful. You want to tell them this. Why haven't you?

Be ours.

They laugh. They moan. They take turns lavishing you with their attention until you're drunk on them.

The dream ends the moment one of them tries to penetrate you. It was so vivid, so real, that when you wake the next morning you're ... disappointed?

Yeah, disappointed. Not that you'll admit it outside of this drowsy state, warm, yet, alone in your bed. You're disappointed in yourself, and disappointed in your imagination, but most of all, you're disappointed that you didn't tell David yes.

567 notes View Post

the-avengers-not-the-nazis

1 year ago

Hey. Could you please do a Winchester!sister reader fic like the mystery spot episode where Dean dies over and over but can you have the reader be the one who dies over and over again while the boys watch

Groundhog Day

Note: Once again apologising for my lateness but here we are! I actually also wrote this yesterday but I thought it was only fitting to release this on a Tuesday.

warnings: death *and lots of it, It's mystery spot*, grief kinda, time loops, swearing.

Word count: 3.5k

⛤ SPN MASTERLIST ⛤

‘Heat of the moment-’

Sam sat up abruptly, awoken by the sudden racket that filled the room. After sitting up groggily and allowing his eyes to adjust to the light he glanced at the clock, hardly noting the time before he turned to his brother who was surprisingly already up and raring to go, having made his bed which he was now perching on as he laced together his boots. He felt the blankets shift around him as you tried to bury yourself into the mattress, bringing the covers over your head to try and block out some of the noise and fall back to sleep.

“Rise and shine, Sammy.”

“Dude.” Sam blinked, swiping his hair from his eyes. “Asia?”

“Come on. You love this song and you know it.”

Sam rolled his eyes and nodded. “Yeah, and if i hear it again, I’m going to kill myself.”

“Be quiet.” You murmured from behind the sheets, squeezing your eyes shut and rolling over. You knew it wasn’t going to happen but you were trying to cling onto the idea of getting more than 4 hours of sleep for once.

Dean took a break from trying his shoes to reach over and turn the dial on the radio. The song blasted louder from the speakers. He raised his voice with a grin “What? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.”

Sam let out a light chuckle, still bleary with sleep as you sighed and sat up. Dean was still grinning at you before he began to mouth along to the words of the song. You shook your head at him before hauling yourself up and making your way to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

Dean had decided that he was going to be annoying today. You weren’t sure if it was because he didn’t want to go on the hunt and he was trying to delay it or something or if it was simply because he was being Dean. You decided on the latter because his keenness to be up and ready this morning was unusual. It started with the gurgling when he was brushing his teeth. Then, just as the three of you were about to leave, despite being up before either of you he had forgotten his pistol leaving you and your other brother standing impatiently by the door while he rooted around the motel room for it. He was irritating in the car too and you were itching to jump out of the Impala, praying for the day to end.

The diner was hardly busy when Dean pulled into the driveway. There were only a few cars belonging to passers by occupying the spaces. After securing your pistol in the pocket of your jacket the three of you headed inside. You decided to stick close to Sam; you had an odd feeling about this hunt and weren’t entirely sure what it was but something just wasn’t sitting right with you. Your brothers entered one of the booths and you slid down beside Dean who let out a content sigh as he scanned the menu.

“Hey, tuesday. Pig in a poke.” he read, gesturing to the sign.

“Do you even know what that is?” Sam raised an eyebrow.

The eldest brother opened his mouth to answer only to fall short of his words. Sam gave him a smug look and then pair fell into some sort of childish bickering that you weren’t really paying attention to. You were too busy scanning every inch of the room still unable to shake that uneasy feeling from your mind. Something just wasn’t right. Everything seems so…perfect. It made your skin crawl and you bit your lip.

“Hey.” Sam nudged you under the table with his knee, he had noted the way that you had gone silent and that you were fiddling with your hands restlessly. He knew almost straight away that something was up. You twisted to face him. “You okay?”

“Yeah. yeah.” You muttered. “Sorry.”

You nearly let out a sigh of relief when the waitress came over and distracted your brother's attention away from you. You hated the way that they stared when they were concerned about you. The three of you rattled off your orders before Dean leaned back in the chair, stretching his arm back behind you to lounge about as you all discussed the plan, only interrupted once by the waitress bringing your food and accidentally spilling a bottle of hot sauce which tumbled to the floor and smashed into tiny pieces.

The rest of the day passed by quickly after that.

You did not like the look of the so-called ‘mystery spot’. It was all overly commercialised, filled to the brim with strange and amusing objects that stuck out at odd angles or were glued to the ceiling. The darkness of the room mixed with the obscurity of the place made it come across as quite disorientating. You supposed that was the point. Your strange feeling from this morning was still lingering. You and Dean moved around with flashlights as Sam waved around the EMF. But it was silent.

“Find anything?” You asked.

Sam shook his head.

“Do you have any idea what you’re looking for?” Dean said rather loudly. He was still set on the idea that this hunt was a complete waste of time and had decided to make it everyone else's problem.

“Uh… yeah.” Sam shrugged until you gave him a look and he dropped his shoulders. “No.”

It wasn’t long after you set off to explore again that Dean’s gun was being cocked. Somehow someone had managed to catch you off guard, causing the three of you to whip around alarmed when his shaky voice boomed through the room.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” He demanded. The man was small and scrawny and would normally be no match against Winchesters, but he was wielding a gun that he didn’t seem to know how to use and his unstable finger was hovering dangerously close to the trigger.

“Woah. We can explain.” Dean started, raising his gun in surrender and gesturing for the two of you to follow suit.

The man moved his weapon uncertainly. “You robbing me?”

“No.” You told him. “Nobody’s robbing you, calm down.”

Dean began to lower his gun, but this only wound the man up more.

“Don’t move!” He demanded. “Don’t!”

“I’m just putting the gun down.” Dean tried to reassure him, but the man was having none of it.

He raised his gun, but before he fired he spotted you moving out of the corner of his eye.

Sam, as worrying of a brother as ever, gestured with a tilt of his head for you to move toward him. He knew that you were perfectly capable of protecting yourself, but it made him feel ten times better to know that you were hidden behind his lumbering frame, especially given the recent circumstances that had resulted in so much loss between the three of you. Your movement however, combined with Dean’s haste to put down his gun startled the man and with a fast flick of his arm he had pulled the trigger.

No one had any time to think before your pained scream filled the room. It was quick and short as the bullet lodged itself within your chest and you collapsed to the ground, writhing with an agony so intense that it made white spots dance in your vision like little stars.

“Y/N!” Sam cried out, moving quickly to bridge the short distance to your side where you lay in pain on the cold ground. Sam slid an arm around your back as your other brother dropped to his knees next to you, hovering his hand over your chest where blood had already begun to pool through and seep into your shirt. He was frozen with terror unsure what to do at the sight of your pained expression or the way that your hands clutched feebly at the hem of Sammy’s jacket.

“Call 911.” Sam demanded, turning to face the man who stood there white as a sheet.

“I-I didn’t mean-”

“Now!” Dean yelled.

You whimpered at the yelling. It cuts through your already pounding head adding to the concoction of your agony. You couldn’t see straight, couldn’t hear properly, couldn’t feel anything besides the burning fire in your chest that spread through your lungs like a disease. Your head lolled back against Sam’s arm as you began to taste metallic copper in your mouth, slowly drowning on your own blood that had filled your lungs.

“No. No” Sam said as you writhed in his arms, glancing up bleary eyed at him. Dean pressed down firmly on the wound, and it hurt more than anything but you couldn’t bring yourself to even whine at the contact.

“Come on sweetheart.” Dean pleaded. “Not like this.”

You could see his lips moving but it sounded like he was underwater as your body began to grow numb and your vision slowly faded. You tried to blink away the spots that consumed your vision, but it was no use and your eyes ended up fluttering shut just as your ragged breaths slowed before stopping altogether until you lay morbid limp in your big brother's arms.

‘Heat of the moment-’

Sam sat up abruptly, awoken by the sudden racket that filled the room. After sitting up groggily and allowing his eyes to adjust to the light he glanced at the clock, hardly noting the time before he turned to his brother. He had been here before. He realised suddenly, but this time his older brother was not lacing his boots. Instead he was stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the space beside Sam. He felt the blankets shift around him as you tried to bury yourself into the mattress, bringing the covers over your head to try and block out some of the noise and fall back to sleep. Sam stared at you, startled. He could have sworn that just a moment ago you were-

“Rise and shine, Sammy.” Dean said, with much less enthusiasm as he had before. His little brother furrowed his brows.

“Dean…?”

“I know. Is it just me or are you getting a serious sense of deja-vu?”

He nodded in agreement.

The Winchesters shared a look. Man, something strange was happening and whatever it was, you clearly weren’t feeling the same thing they were.

The diner was exactly the same as it had been the last time the two brothers were here. You were still looking around with the same uncertainty as you were before and you even ordered the same thing as you did before and so did Dean. Tuesday’s special. Pig in a poke.

“It’s tuesday?” He said uncertainly to himself.

You stared at him blankly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world “Yeah.”

Sam eyed you strangely and you raised a brow.

“You okay?”

“Peachy.” He replied, leaning across the table. “Are you?”

Narrowing your eyes at the pair of boys you asked. “Okay. What’s going on with you two?”

“What?”

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“You don’t…you don’t remember any of this?” Sam asked you

“Remember what?”

“This. Today. Like it’s happened before.” Dean.

“You mean like Deja Vu?” You frowned.

“No like it’s really happened before.” Sam stressed. “If it feels like we’re living yesterday all over again.”

“Deja Vu.”

“No. Forget about that. Its-

The conversation was once again cut off by the waitress who was delivering the food. And once again she sent the hot sauce toppling. But this time, Sam caught it before it could hit the ground.

You gave him a charismatic grin. “Nice reflexes.”

The rest of the day did not pass by quickly after that.

Your brothers were trying to explain the situation to you, while theorising themselves. It was safe to say that at first you were completely lost, but were halfway to believing them when it happened.

The car came from nowhere, speeding around the corner. It collided harshly with your unsuspecting body sending you skidding across the asphalt. By the time your brothers had reached you, a trail of blood trickled down your face from the wounds that were opened as your skin ran across the floor. Dean nearly choked on the sight of your pained and bloodied face as he reached you but you were dead before he had even lifted you into his arms.

And then, there it was again. That wretched song, screaming from the radio.

‘Heat of the moment-’

Sam sat up abruptly, awoken by the sudden racket that filled the room and muttered one single phrase.

“Son of a bitch.”

The rest of the day did not pass by quickly after that. In fact, it never seemed to end.

Sam was getting angry now. No. That's not really the right word to describe it. He was frustrated. Tired. Scared. Dean was angry. And growing impatient. But both of them could not bear to live another tuesday. They couldn’t bear to see you fine one second and then dying the next. They had lived through at least a hundred tuesdays, had scanned every inch of the diner, the town, the mystery spot, they had followed the people from the diner and had even tried to keep you in the motel room but no matter how hard they tried they were forced to watch you die again.

The worst part was that you were clueless. Sam and Dean had to re-explain the ordeal to you everytime they woke up to that stupid song again, leaving you back at square one. They had lived through the day so many times that it had gotten to the point where they could both predict your sentences word for word and while it freaked you out, their patience was wearing thin.

Until finally, something changed. Dean had asked the woman he kept bumping into to see her flyer. They finally had a lead. So, the next time Tuesday morning rolled around, they felt hopeful as they filed off the information to you.

“When’d you get time to do all that research?” you asked through a mouthful of food.

Dean did not have the energy to answer, so he just stood, rolling his eyes. “Let’s go. We’re wasting time here.”

That was when Sam spotted it. The sticky, pink syrup sat in the dispenser next to the half eaten pancake. He frowned, stopping suddenly. When you noticed his absence you turned and asked him what was wrong.

Sam watched the man leave through the slats in the blinds. “That guy has maple syrup for the last 100 tuesdays, now all of a sudden he’s having strawberry?

“It’s a free country, Sammy. A man can’t choose his own syrup now? What have we become?”

“Not in this diner.” Sam shook his head. “Not today.”

“Nothing in this place ever changes. Ever. “ Dean told you. “Except us.”

The two brothers nearly lost their shit when they woke up again, but by the time they had suffered through the morning routine and had reached the diner they had come up with a plan.

There were no conversations during breakfast. The pair left you to ponder over your own thoughts after mentioning the idea of a time loop. Any of your questions went unanswered as they stared down the man, jumping into action when he rose, pushing the stool out with an ear splitting squeal and making his way to the parking lot.

Dean gripped the man firmly, forcing him against the fence by the scruff of his neck and silencing his protests. “We know who you are. Or should I say what?”

You watched very confused from the side.

“Oh my god-” the man begged, wide eyed. “Please don’t kill me!”

“Uh, Boys-”

“It took us a hell of a long time, but we got it.” Sam seethed.

“What?!”

“It’s your M.O that gave you away.” He continued. “Going after pompous jerks, giving them their just deserts. Your kind loves that, don’t they?”

“Yeah. Sure. Okay! Just put the stake down!” He pleaded, side eyeing the weapon that Sam pressed to his neck. Sam refused to move.

“Sammy, maybe you should-”

“No!” He yelled at you. The tone of his voice was so unexpected for Sam that you recoiled. “There’s only one creature powerful enough to do what you’re doing. Making reality out of nothing, sticking people in time loops- In fact, you’d pretty much have to be a god.”

“You’d have to be a trickster.” Dean spat.

“Misters…” The man pleaded shakily with tears in his eyes “My name is Ed Coleman. My wife’s name is Amelia- I’ve got two kids! For crying out loud I sell ad space!”

“Don’t lie to me! I know what you are!” Sam shouted into his face.

“We’ve killed one of your kind before.”

There was a heavy paused before the grey hair and wrinkles on the man before you morphed into the all familiar face of the trickster you and your brothers had run into not too long ago.

He smirked and your brothers’ faces dropped. “Actually, you didn’t.”

“Why are you doing this? Why her!?” Sam pressed, digging the stake into his neck.

“You’re kidding?” The trickster replied “You all tried to kill me last time. Why wouldn’t I do this? Why not make you three suffer.”

“So this is funny to you? Killing her over and over again?” Dean gritted his teeth.

“One- yes, it is fun. And two -this is so not about killing Y/N. This joke is on you two. I mean… come on. How great has it been to watch you to see her being torn apart again and again. Watching your sister die everyday. Forever.”

“You son of a bitch.”

The trickster smiled. “How long will it take you to realise you can’t save your sister, no matter what.”

“Oh yeah? We kill you, this ends now.” Sam growled.

“Woah. Okay, look. I was just playing around. You can’t take a joke, fine. You’re out of it. Tomorrow you’ll wake up and it’ll be wednesday. I swear.”

“You're lying. “

He shrugged. “If I am, you know where to find me.”

“But you better promise me, I’ll be back in time-”

Sam couldn’t contain the gasp that fell from his lips. “It’s wednesday!”

“Yeah…?” You said from across the room where you were rummaging though your bag. “Which usually comes after Tuesday. Turn that crap off, would you?” you asked him.

“No. Leave it on.” Dean interjected. He agreed with Sam. If he heard Asia one more time he was going to kill himself. “Isn’t that the most beautiful song you’ve ever heard?”

“...No. Jesus, how many Tuesdays did you guys have?”

“You don’t wanna know.” Dean sighed. “Wait..what do you remember.”

“I remember you two being pretty whacked out yesterday. And then i remember running into the trickster. S’bout it really.”

“Right. Whatever. Lets get out of here.” Sam said as he pulled on a shirt.

“What? No breakfast?” You asked, slightly upset that you were going to miss out on the diner food you had quite enjoyed yesterday.

“No breakfast.”

Sam and Dean were still inside when they heard it. The unmistakable pop of a gun being fired. You were outside loading the last of your things into Baby and-

Sam's heart sank.

“Y/N!” He cried, dropping what he was doing and racing down the stairs towards you.

The offender fled the moment the gunshot had sounded and your two brothers could see him rounding the corner, but their concern was on you, sprawled out across the floor in a pool of your own blood.

They shook you, crying out your name but you didn’t move. Your heart had stopped beating.

“No. This isn’t supposed to happen today.” Sam squeezed his eyes shut tight, only to nearly cry when he opened them again and you were still lying lifelessly in his brothers clutch. “We’re supposed to wake up.”

And then, he began to cry.

Part 2 may be coming…I’ll add it to my to do list

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