Sure Thing – Part Two.

BLUE L0Ck ♡︎ 彼は進化している。

⚠︎ masterlist contains dark content ⚠︎

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Works are exclusive to iwaasfairy on Tumblr and AO3 only. No replication consisting of copying, extracting, translating, audio fanfics etc. permitted. Action can and will be taken accordingly.

.:♡︎

ITOSHI RIN

┌ “ ! ˓〃 two of cups | tw incest, love triangle (ft. sae) part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 complete

raven unit II (m)

Jeon Jungkook x Reader

‒ raven unit. (m) chapter two: red hawk. ✎  [11k words]

genre: political!Au, taskforce!Au, warcrime!Au

warnings: smut, angst, gore, violence, drug mentions, alcohol mention, graphic description of violence, death, fingering, penetrative sex, dirty talk.  With your life at risk and several people around you dead, your loyal head of security makes sure your safety is taken care of when he’s out of the picture. Three ruthless, dangerous and deadly men take on the task to protect and hide you, Min Yoongi, Jung Hoseok and the one in command, Jeon Jungkook. masterlist. chapter one.

Continuar lendo

AHHHHHHH

Piss Off Your Parents - Part 1

Ukai Keishin - Haikyuu

Synopsis: freshly turned 18, you want to prove to your parents that you aren’t a child for them to push around anymore. First, get a job at the local corner store. Second, use the store owner’s 26-year-old son with piercings and a cigarette addiction to piss your parents off. Third, accidentally fall in love.

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: none

Song → 18 by Anarbor

A/N: if you couldn’t already tell, I have planned this as a series/full story. I was torn between writing it on here or on Wattpad or something, but ultimately decided on Tumblr … but let me know if you would prefer it on another platform as well! Also, this series will eventually include smut/NSFW content but that will be tagged appropriately when the time comes. As always, I hope you enjoy. 

Next →Part 2

Slamming the front door behind yourself on your way out that morning, you quickly stuffed your earbuds into your ears and cranked your music as loud as you could to drown out the sounds of your parents yelling after you and, consequently, at one another after you had dropped the bomb about your new job on them seconds before you had left, giving them as little time as possible to shame you for it.

After graduating high school and turning 18, you had decided it was time to take your life into your hands, which wasn’t too easy while you were still living under your parents’ roof, but you had to start somewhere and that somewhere was getting a job at the local corner store, Sakanoshita Market. 

You knew that your parents wanted you to go to university and ‘make something of yourself’, but you also knew that you could never truly be happy under their dictatorship-like ruling, so you decided to get a job, no matter how shitty, save your money, move out as soon as possible, and go from there. 

It was definitely going to be a process, and not an easy one, but all you had to do was take it one step at a time.

Keep reading

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

03 — MY COMPASS, MY TRANSPORT

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

“I have nothing else to live for.”

It’s a truth. A deep, earnest one – and it’s the only option you have.

Without Graves, without your Shadows, you have nothing. No income, no family, no support. You're left with the clothes on your body and the shoes in which you stand, with no hope of finding your footing.

In the darkness, the only light shines from the headlights of the truck, and the red of the radio. It’s silenced, of course, but it serves as a beacon of something between you all.

“I don’t – I have no other choice,” you say, voice trembling. You would not break in front of them, but you could feel yourself cracking; porcelain underneath a harsh grip. Turning yourself so you’re completely facing the two, your expression turns desperate. “I want to help you both, and I want to save Phi– Graves.”

You correct yourself at the final moment, wary of your slip up.

“Save ‘im? From what? Feckin’ charges for war crimes? Getting his ass handed to ‘im?” Soap chokes out, incredulous, eyes wide where they meet yours. He winces when he moves forward too quick, straining his arm.

“He’s…” You look down at your hands, merely watching for a moment as they close into a fist and open again. Blood crusts underneath your fingernails. “He’s all I have. I’m sure he just needs a wake up call, someone to snap him out of it.”

“He tried to kill us,” Ghost speaks up, matter-of-fact, but quiet. As if at any moment, his words will wake up the entire city. If there were any civilians left in it, you supposed. Your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“...And I had to kill some of my men.”

It’s a confession of sin. Like poison on your tongue, yet at the same time, an anecdote to an evil in your veins. You’d killed your men. You’d… done that.

You still haven’t quite allowed yourself to realise it, not yet.

But if it’s enough to keep you alive right now, so be it. You hadn’t gotten this far just to give up over something as inconsequential as pride.

“Ye will tell us everything you know about ‘im. And’ll help us until we figure out what to do. We’re our own bosses now, Sweetheart,” Soap commands, that fucking nickname of his seeming to stick. You don’t dispute it – not right now, not when this is quite literally life or death.

“I promise,” you say, resolute and stern. There was no time for self-pity or wallowing, only time for action and conviction – something you had in spades. “I’m yours for as long as you need me.”

You hadn’t known how true those words would be – not then, and not for a good while. But they were a prophecy, if such a thing could at all be possible for a woman like you.

Soap and Ghost share a look; a brief, yet important one, before Ghost gives the Scot a short nod. Soap turns once more to you, his face betraying the answer of their silent agreement.

“...So?” You suggest, impatient considering the consequences of the next few moments. 

Bringing a hand up to stroke at his stubbled chin, Soap makes an act of pretending to ponder – and it succeeds in stoking the flames at your core, fury burning through you like a liquor-soaked rope.

“I dunno, lass,” he says on a sigh, his ocean eyes betraying a mischief in their depths. “Yer kinda mean to me.”

You might choke him.

Actually, check that, you will choke him. He’s impossible – an arsehole to the nth degree – somehow worse than Ghost in his… foolishness? Was that the right word? Or just straight frustrating-ness?

Seeming to sense your thinning patience, Soap’s hand falls from his jaw with a mirthful smirk, proud of himself. 

“If ye say pretty please, ye can join our lil’ duo.” He finishes the statement off with a wink, and you don’t realise that your hands have curled into fists until the sharp pain of nails digging into your palms force you to resort back to your senses.

You let out a slow, loud breath. 

Neither of them move a muscle, except for the twitch of Soap’s dimple. You hate that you recognise such a small movement, but you easily blame it on the fact that it’s a drilled-in mentality.

“...Please,” you acquiesce, however quiet. 

Ghost’s eyebrow raises. How you’re aware of that, considering his mask, is a props to him. 

“That’s not what he asked for.” His voice is a low, husky thing, and the title of guard dog suddenly doesn’t sound so incorrect.

With your teeth gritted and cheeks straining, you mutter out, “Pretty please.”

Soap’s responding smile is nothing short of beaming, and you almost immediately wish that you could take those words back. Was death really so bad? Would it even be a mercy, compared to deciding to share a threadbare camaraderie with these weirdos?

Too bad time control isn’t exactly a well-researched military weapon.

“Let’s go then,” Ghost slaps his gloved hand against the steering wheel, before looking one last time towards you with purpose, “Sweetheart.”

Soap laughs.

You get out and slam the door in his face.

“Och! You feckin’ bastard, lass,” you hear him screech, before the door opens once more and Soap hops out, fuming.

Turning away, you fall behind Ghost, and quickly take a look around at the vast, empty area that is barren suburbia. Not before responding, however.

“Next time you get shot, I’m not taking care of your ass,” you threaten. “And I’m giving the rest of my sweets to Mr. Melodramatic.”

Soap’s returning mock gasp is, in all fairness, pretty comedic. “You have more sweets? Gimme those and ye lovely bedside manners ‘nd I’ll get a cavity!”

Your returning glare could cut steel. “Keep that up, and you’ll end up with bigger issues than a cavity.”

“I think ye are already the bigger issue,” Soap snaps back, but it’s not inherently malicious. It’s… borderline playful, and that sudden thought has you internally slapping yourself.

“Both of ya – quiet,” Ghost warns.

You both shut up immediately.

With wary steps, the three of you go to step up towards the front door, when Ghost swings out a hand, stopping the lot of you in your tracks. The night doesn’t allow for any of you to see well, but he must’ve picked up something that you hadn’t.

The thought is an immediately terrifying one.

“Pressure plates,” Soap murmurs under his breath, eyeing the square linoleum tile. “Nice catch, Lt.”

Ghost doesn’t respond, instead motioning for you to follow him towards a glassless window. Gravel crunches underneath your light footfalls, easily heard in the deathly quiet, as you move to swing your leg over the access point and drop to the floor inside.

Landing with a soft thud, you go to unfurl from your crouching position, before a loud warning shout from Ghost has you freezing.

Flinching where you stand, your eyes dart to where Ghost has flung one of his daggers, the sharp metal splintering a wooden beam further into the dark room. Realising that Soap sits at your flank, you shift your gaze to spot a red light focused in on his forehead – between his eyes.

“¿Quien esta ahi?” An unfamiliar, accented voice calls out from behind the beam. You could slap yourself for being so careless, in not realising that someone else was in here before Ghost had saved your arses. 

“Rodolfo!” Soap calls out, relief flooding his tone as he rights his position, shoulders back.

A man peeks out from behind the wood, eyes wide and slightly panicked, before they soften at the sight of the two men behind you. “Soap! Ghost! You’re alive!”

Stepping out from around the beam, he reaches for Ghost’s dagger, pulling it away from where it had dug into the oak with undeniable ease. His appearance is striking, with a set jaw and gentle features – he’s quite pretty, but not at all in a way that you find yourself attracted to the man.

“Affirmative,” Ghost responds, accepting the knife back when the man – Rodolfo – hands it to him hilt-first.

“Good to see you, amigos,” Rodolfo smiles, before his appraisal sets on you, confusion sparking in his deep brown eyes. He looks to the two men at your side for an explanation, hesitant in the way he does so.

“This is…” Soap trails off, before coming to a realisation. “Feckin’ hell. I never even asked for yer name, Sweetheart.”

Rodolfo blinks. Once, twice, before his eyebrows furrow and his mouth settles into an uncomfortable grimace.

You shoot a glare Soap’s way, before gifting Rodolfo a polite, yet stilted, smile. Extending your hand, you give him your name, and then your official title.

“Colonel? Graves’ colonel?” Rodolfo repeats back, utterly taken aback by such an introduction. He doesn’t seem to know what to do, quickly hissing to Soap in unamused Spanish, “¿Has perdido la cabeza?”

“I saved his life,” you interrupt, before any verbal sparring begins. “And I’m on your team. I don’t agree with what Graves is doing – and I’m sorry for what he’s already done. But I want to help you. I swear.”

Rodolfo regards you for a moment, his internal walls still heavily locked in place. But he seems… softer, now, in a way. More understanding, maybe, less hesitant as he slowly appraises you, inspecting you under his critical analysis.

The silence stretches, before the soldier raises his hands placatingly, the left side of his mouth twitching into a smooth smirk. “No accusations from me, Corazón,” he reassures, the pet name sliding from his full lips like butter over warm toast.

“Aye, none of tha’,” Soap warns, and Rodolfo’s amusement deepens. Whatever the Scot is about to say next is abruptly stopped by Ghost’s booming demand from behind you both.

“Anyone outside of these walls is now considered a hostile – we’re a team now. This happened under my watch, and I’d bloody well do good to fix it.” His posture is stiff, hand unconsciously flexing around the blade strapped to his belt as he delivers the order. It’s the most you’ve ever heard him speak in one shot.

You figure he’s stopped speaking, when suddenly his heavy gaze is on you, any ounce of solidarity snuffed out like a match’s flame. “You fuck up once, Sweetheart, and I won’t hesitate when I shoot ya dead.”

It’s as good of a compromise as you’re going to get from the hulking Lieutenant, but you weren’t made Colonel for your talents in stepping down.

“You forget that I outrank you,” you challenge, chin raised and eyes flinty. “And that I saved your mutt.”

“We don’t have a feckin’ dog,” Soap starts, but when he sees the way Ghost side eyes him, and how you give him an unimpressed look, his jaw drops. “Ye bastard! Shoulda killed ya –”

Rodolfo’s hand wraps around Soap’s forearm, the grumbling man twisting in his hold, but not putting up anything close to a fight. “She’s just stirring you up, hermano,” Rodolfo placates, his large eyes meeting yours with a hint of respect in them. It has you straightening your spine, and your resolve.

“We sort this out as equals,” you state, folding your arms over your chest and bucking your hip. Ghost doesn’t, for a single second, shift your mutual eye contact. “And you will all tell me what the fuck’s going on – and what we’re doing.”

“Alejandro,” Ghost quips, sharp and to the point. Finally, you think, his near-black eyes drift to Rodolfo. “We need him back.”

“He’s the only other lad we can trust out there,” Soap adds, his pout easing slightly. Rodolfo finally drops his hand, clapping it hard against the petulant man’s shoulder with a firm nod.

“Already got a head start, hermanos,” he gestures for the three of you to follow him further into the room, before his calculating eyes glance back at you, “y hermana.”

It’s an unknown, entirely different feeling that erupts inside of your chest at the inclusion. Rodolfo was clearly the most soft spoken man of the three, but he had an intelligence to him that you couldn’t wait to unpack. And he trusted you. Or so you had gathered, anyway.

However.

First things first.

“...Where’s Alejandro? I thought he was Mexican Special Forces?” It was, admittedly, a unique kind of embarrassing – how out of the loop you felt, considering you were a colonel under Graves’ command. You’d heard the man’s name before, but it was usually just paired with barracks gossip and warnings to steer clear. Some joke about how the only one who could kill Alejandro, was the soldier himself.

Moving along with Rodolfo, you’re surprised when it’s Soap who supplies you the answer.

“Your fuckwit of a Commander’s got ‘im,” he curses, the words grating and harsh. Deserved, of course it was deserved, yet it was still odd hearing such disrespect for the man of whom you’d idolised for so long.

Of whom you’d given everything.

Switching a light on, Rodolfo stops in front of a large table, a map laid out across the top of it. Your eyes go wide at the intricacies – focusing as the man leans over and presses a finger towards a highlighted spot, watching the three of you where you stand on the other side. Dust floats near the source of the lamp, and the scent of grime hits you a moment later, a familiar thing.

“Graves is holding him here,” Rodolfo explains, his previously mischievous expression settling into a firm, military-grade frown.

“His own personal black site prison,” Soap scoffs, subconsciously flexing his fingers around the straps of his vest. His focus is utterly devoted to the map in front of him, but his anxiety shows itself through the tiniest of movements.

Rubbing his spare hand down his face, Rodolfo lets out a long, strewn-out sigh. “My men are locked in there, too.”

“Then let’s get them back,” you supply with a small shrug when all eyes shoot your direction.

“That’s obvious, lass,” Soap says, lacking any hint of his previous vitriol when he looks around the room. “How we get ‘em back is the question.”

“By breaking in,” Ghost answers, the retort as simple as breathing.

If you weren’t so receptive to body movements, to the smallest of expressions, you’d’ve missed it. Even then, you doubted that anyone could miss how Soap’s eyes soften when he looks to his Lieutenant, how his breath softly hitches in his throat.

You want to claw out your eyes with a rusty spoon.

By the look on Rodolfo’s face, he feels much the same – until he catches you staring, and then his face twists into something much more cryptic. Like a man trying to solve a puzzle without all of the pieces, being forced to jam spares into spots that just won’t fit.

“We need weapons,” you startle out, the words surprising even yourself. You don’t go back on them, don’t even think to. “If we want to stand a fighting chance – we need firepower.”

“Who said you’re with us?” Ghost questions snarkily, but when you go to reply, you find that Rodolfo’s moved to the corner of the room, switching on even more lights, displaying a wrought iron door.

Sliding it open, you feel like a kid on Christmas morning as you take note of the supplies within.

Rodolfo shrugs, but the small, smug grin on his face doesn’t dispel. “It’s well-stocked. This is Ale we’re talking about.”

The affectionate nickname is something you store away for later. ‘Well-stocked’ is certainly an understatement – guns of all types line the walls within the room, all types of bombs and grenades along with it.

“Alright,” Ghost huffs out, the closest to appreciative that a man like him can get.

Soap is much more upfront about his joy. “My man!” He laughs, his dimples etched into his features like the light spattering of freckles over his upper cheeks and nose bridge. “We’re gonna need new wheels. Preferably up-armoured.”

Digging into his pocket, Rodolfo pulls out a set of keys, tossing them over to Ghost with relaxed shoulders. Turning, shock must be evident on all of you, because Rodolfo lets out a low chuckle. “Your wish is my command, hermanos y hermana.”

To the far end of the room, within the adjoined stables, is a fully-armoured forward drive of some sort – sleek and black and fucking perfect.

“Alejandro thought of everything,” Ghost admires, and when you look to him, you swear that you can see a hint of hope shining in his darkened eyes. Your heart skips a beat on its own accord, and you’re absorbed by the all-consuming want to pull it out of your chest with your bare hands, just so it never does such a thing again.

“Yeah, he did,” Soap whistles, before turning back around to face your small band of misfits. With a determined grin, he says as if it’s an afterthought, “Let’s go get ‘im.”

With a stern resolve and an even sterner disposition, you walk alongside your newfound teammates, and get ready for the most difficult mission of your military career.

*

When you’d, stupidly, recklessly, decided to play good guy and helps out the 141 and Los Vaqueros, you hadn’t taken into account how you’d be at the bottom of the totem pole.

While the three men you were working alongside were all considerably close, you were an outsider. At that, an outsider who had, only a few hours ago, decided to swap sides from enemy to ally.

Being paired with Ghost is, arguably, the most gut-wrenching job in your life. By the time that Rodolfo finds Alejandro through the CCTV system, you’re nearly entirely covered in dried blood, and your head thumps with a headache.

Not a headache from war – a headache from the fucking twat with a shitty DIY job for a military get-up.

“You’re seriously the worst,” you grit out, wiping off a bit of Shadow blood that’s been sprayed on your cheek. “I seriously can’t fucking believe that any one of your mates can tolerate you.”

“Who needs ‘mates’ when I have my boys?” Ghost quips back, wiping off his bloody dagger onto his vest, before slotting it back into its rightful position on his belt. His ability to blend into the night, even with the prison lights on, is uncanny – the only tell the white of his stitched-in skull.

You mock a disgusted sound, sticking out your tongue. “You sound like a fuckboy.”

“A what?” And, although it sounds nothing like a choke, you’re sure that it’s an instinctual question.

The sound of a helicopter up ahead has the two of you pausing in your tracks, feud coming to a quick halt. Looking up, you struggle to see the vehicle in the black of night, but you manage to spot the slowly circling heli above the prison.

“Ghost, Sweetheart, what’s yer status?” Soap’s voice trickles in through your comms. Ghost glances at you, before he answers on your behalf, ever the control-freak.

“Comin’ your way.”

Falling into step side-by-side, you focus on the wet gravel underneath your feet, avoiding making any communication with the man to your right.

“Copy. We’re on the move,” Soap replies, before Rodolfo cuts in.

“Heads up on the helo,” he warns. You find that you much prefer him over the other two – in fact, under any other circumstance, you could see the two of you becoming good friends. Maybe, if everything goes well, that could be a possibility – a positive in your world of negatives.

“Don’t think we’re in his line of sight,” you respond, double-checking your route and the helicopter's position in the sky. Rodolfo had warned you all, debriefing in the drive here, that helicopters would likely show up at some point.

Minutes pass, with small comms between the lot of you, when you finally spot the familiar figures belonging to the other half of your precarious team. 

Soap and Rodolfo stand at the entrance, before the two turn at the sound of your and Ghost’s footsteps. They both seem to visibly loosen their stiff shoulders, seeing you both uninjured – and if you do the same, you pray that no one notices.

“The door’s locked,” Soap informs you all, gesturing to the steel entrance5.

With a small hum, Rodolfo reaches for the pack on his vest. “We’ll need to breach it,” he explains, but before he can grab a charger, Ghost raises a hand to stop him.

“No, Rudy –” And that is a nickname that you’ll be using later, “Knock.”

Rodolfo seems apprehensive, but he agrees anyway, giving all three of you separate glances. “On me…”

All of you getting into readying positions, Rodolfo knocks on the door, the sound echoing loud enough to have your blood pounding in your ears.

A moment later, a Shadow – one you don’t recall having met – pushes open the door and moves to step outside. However, Rodolfo and Ghost are quick to neutralise him, softly dropping his body to the floor.

Pushing through the entrance, everyone except for you shoot a Shadow dead – clearing the room in less than twenty seconds. It’s impressive, how smoothly run the operation is, considering the lack of proper authority or guidance.

You’re the first to spot some more Shadows moving your way, down the stairs – calling it out. “More Shadows from the second floor – watch out!”

This time, you find yourself the cause of two men falling to the ground, blood pooling underneath their lifeless bodies. Your team doesn't give you time to second guess, to mourn, before they’re encouraging you to follow them up the stairs.

“Ale’s up here, let’s go!” Rodolfo urges, his voice bordering on a kind of desperation reminiscent of a boy enlisting for the first time.

Like expected, Alejandro’s cell is down the hall, sat to the far right. Two Shadows guard the steel door, but Soap and Rodolfo are quick to light them up, successfully clearing the entire two floors. You’re ashamed of how relieved you feel, being gifted the small mercies of not having to kill your previous subordinates, unless necessary.

You feel, more than see, Ghost’s heavy gaze on you. When you look back up from the gun in your hands, however, he’s turned completely away – and if you were a less accurate person, you’d have thought you were imagining things.

“There’s Alejandro’s cell.” Stopping at the steel door, Rodolfo adjusts his grip on the gun, before giving you an encouraging jerk of his head. “Open it up, me and Soap will cover you.”

Another small mercy, you think, as Ghost reaches into his backpack and pulls out a set of bolt cutters, regarding you stiffly. “When I pop this lock, you push in,” he directs you curtly, and you bite back a retort. You knew the process like the back of your hand – you had no need for an explanation.

The ‘especially from him’ goes unsaid.

With precise, practised movements, Ghost positions the bolt cutters, and pushes open the door.

As soon as you take one step into the cell, a large hand wraps around the back of your neck, slamming your face into the concrete wall, a blinding pain shooting through your retinas. Letting out a small yelp, your chest rattles as your hands wildly raise in an imitation of surrender.

“Alejandro! Let go of ‘er! It’s us!” Soap calls out, and you swallow unhealthy amounts of air. That hit had taken more out of you than you’d expected – and your harsh breaths were making that incredibly apparent.

The grip on the scruff of your neck slackens when Rodolfo shoots off in quickfire Spanish, “Coronel, relájate, cabron, somos nosotros.”

Your cheek aches and your head pounds as the hand removes itself entirely, allowing for you to take in lungfuls of oxygen.

“Soap, Ghost!” Alejandro bursts out, and as you rise to your feet unsteadily, you watch as he thumps both of them on the back of their shoulders, before turning to Rodolfo with an expression that could only be described as longing. “...Rudy.”

“Didn’t think we’d leave ya, did ye?” Soap chuckles, oblivious to the thread of tension between the two men. 

Whatever silent conversation had occured between the two enforcers is quickly cut as Alejandro accepts the shake of Soap’s hand, a feral grin wide on his features. “What took you so long, pendejos?”

“A traitor with an attitude is what,” Ghost inputs, and really, how much self control can a Lieutenant lack? Wiping at your cheek, you let your hand fall once more to your side as you meet Alejandro’s inquisitive gaze head-on.

“I’m Graves’ previous colonel,” you extend your hand, “And I’m your best bet at getting your base back.”

You expect suspicion, uproar, maybe – or at least questioning, similar to that of Rodolfo’s.

Instead, all you’re met with is Alejandro’s manic smile sharpening, and a slap on the back of your own. Ruffling your hair, he uses his free hand to accept the gun Rodolfo’s extending towards him, shooting you a knowing glance.

“Sounds good, hermana. Welcome to how real men fight.”

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re

storge, i.

. . . an affectionate love that slowly develops from friendship, base on similarity.

MINORS DNI.

—This series will have nsfw themes + scenes.

wc: 1.6k | hanamaki takihiro, matsukawa issei, camgirl!reader.

— fluff, angst, suggestive ; established relationship, slowburn, mentions of sugar mommy/sugar baby relationship, usage of ‘slut’+ so unlike oikawa’s series, this second four-parter is going to be heavily suggestive and will have nsfw scenes. only +18 kids are allowed in this one, i’m sorry. but the next one after this is more light and humorous and will have context on what happened here!

masterlist. ; tip jar ! ; next: storge ii.

It doesn’t surprise you when the iced tea splashes down thickly and cold down Matsukawa Issei’s head and neck. You saw it coming as soon as Makki elbowed you, looked up, and saw the darkened aura of her expression and the vice-grip she had on the glass.

“I hope you live a miserable life, Matsukawa,” she forced through gritted teeth and glittering eyes. She didn’t spare either you or Makki a glance as she walked out to her awaiting friends, giving out their own curses with their eyes as they took her in their arms and out of the mess hall.

Keep reading

Ahhh I am such a sucker for hurt + comfort hcs, your sleeping on the couch one gave me CRAZY butterflies 🥰 could I request a hurt/comfort hc of arguing with the character and you unexpectedly start crying/sounding like you just want to give up arguing with Kyotani, Iwaizumi, Ushijima, Tsukki, and Atsumu?

CRYING DURING AN ARGUMENT [HURT + COMFORT]

Kyotani, Ushijima, Tsukishima

a/n: hurt/comfort always gives me butterflies too aksjsjsks. I'm sorry only do three characters per headcanon :( but I'll keep your other characters in mind if I do a part 2! Hope you enjoy love!

(italicized is boys speaking)

warnings: arguing, crying, set in time skip (no spoilers)

Kyotani

You and Kyotani hardly ever fought, mostly because he babies you, but he’d never admit that. That being said, wow was he good at it. He just gets very defensive, which ends up spiraling into an unnecessary argument.

It was just past 1 A.M. and your boyfriend’s yelling was starting to fade into gibberish as other thoughts occupied your mind. You knew that Kyotani could be aggressive, but he was usually so sweet to you, it only made the insults and yelling hurt more. You could only take so much before your emotions overwhelmed you and tears started rolling down your cheeks.

“You’re so mean sometimes tarō,” you whispered trying your best to wipe away the tears that couldn’t seem to stop falling.

Kyotani fell silent as realization washed over his face while he watched you leave the living room and head towards your bedroom, the only sound left in the apartment was your quiet sniffles.

He didn’t mean to take the fight that far, let alone hurt your feelings. He only said those things out of frustration, but he was hoping you knew he didn’t mean them. No one had ever loved him the way you did, and the last thing he wanted was to lose you.

He gave you a couple of minutes before walking into the bedroom to see you laying on the far side of the bed, back facing him. He slotted himself under the blanket without a word and pulled you into his chest.

“I‘m so sorry,” he whispered as he pulled you in tighter. You didn’t give him any reaction, simply staring at the wall in front of you.

“I didn’t mean any of it, baby I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, please don’t leave me” his voice cracking as he tries to get the words out. He finally takes a sigh of relief when you relax into his arms.

“I love you.”

“Love you too tarō,” you mumbled back sleepily. You knew you’d talk it out in the morning, but for now, this was perfect.

Ushijima

Fights with Ushijima were more frustrating than anything else because he always had trouble grasping how much certain things actually affected you. This usually led to him dismissing you, not on purpose but it hurt nonetheless.

It’s been 40 minutes of arguing and you’ve reached your breaking point. He continued to speak as you finally let the hot tears spill down your face. You maintained your eye contact with the ground as your crying intensified, finally catching his attention.

“I don’t wanna do this anymore,” you mumbled as coherently as you could while your crying started to intensify. You didn’t know if you were crying out of frustration or hurt, probably both, but the tears were there nonetheless.

He rushed to you immediately with panic filling his eyes, pulling you into his chest and holding you tightly. You didn’t fight him, but you don’t hug him back either.

He didn’t realize how insensitive he was being by insisting that there was nothing wrong. The only reason he felt that way was because you were always so perfect for him, how could he have relationship problems with someone as perfect as you?

“I’m sorry love, I didn’t realize,” he said softly as he leaned down to leave a kiss on the top of your head.

You continued crying into his chest as he ran his large hand up and down your back comfortingly, whispering apologies into your hair every few minutes.

“I think we should get some rest and talk about this tomorrow, I know I haven’t been the best lately but I’ll try harder.”

You nodded softly as you wiped away the remaining tears before finally hugging him back.

“Are we okay?”

“Yeah Toshi, we’re okay,” you responded nuzzling your face further into his chest.

Tsukishima

Arguing with Tsukki was the worst because he never realizes the weight of his words until after they’ve come out of his mouth. He often forgets that most people are a bit more sensitive than him, you included.

You could only listen to so much before your tears got the best of you, betraying the cold facade you put up.

“God, I’m so sick of this Tsukki, I’m going for a drive you can finish criticizing everything I do when I get back,” Bitterness was laced in your tone as you grabbed your car keys and wiped your face with the sleeves of your sweatshirt.

Before he could respond you left the apartment and headed towards your car. Your drive was far longer than you anticipated but strangely it helped a great deal. Your crying subsided a few minutes into the drive and soon after you got a text from your boyfriend that read,

I’m sorry. Please drive safe, I love you.

You knew he didn’t intend for his words to be so harsh, you just weren’t used to that behavior from him considering how little you two fought. You took the time to relax and start forgiving him.

You made it back to the apartment 40 minutes later and walked into a worried-looking Tsukki rushing to the door.

“I know I upset you but you could’ve at least texted back, I was worried,” his rambling fading off as he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you into his body.

“I’m sorry for being mean, I have no idea why I said all that. I never want to make you cry,” he uttered the last part shamefully.

“I know.” He felt you nod as you hugged him back for a few minutes before he pulled away.

“I have something for you,” he muttered as his cheeks began to flush. He led you into the living room to find a pile of pillows and blankets on the couch and your favorite fast food on the coffee table.

“I really am sorry.”

You giggled thinking about how frustrated he must have been setting it all up.

“Thank you Kei, I’m sorry too I know I said things I shouldn’t have,” you told him sincerely as you leaned up to peck his lips.

“I love you, brat.”

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my masterlist

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TANGLED IN YOUR TRANCE • part one

𖤐 MASTERLIST 𖤐

Warnings: mentions of divorce, reader’s clothing described, use of “big brother” and “little sister”, little to no suggestion because we are not there yet

Word Count: 1.5k

Note: pink dividers by @/adornedwithlight! chapters will be longer after this one. Consider this a little introduction. Also, I’ve been asked to start a taglist, so let me know if you want in on that <3

You’re seventeen when your parents get divorced and eighteen when they remarry within two months of each other. Your dad bags a lady who’s closer to your age than his, and your mother finds herself a man who loves living in luxury as well as in debt from his uncontrollable gambling addiction.

It causes your relationships with your parents—all four of them now—to grow tense, causes you to slam doors and spit curses and cover your ears with expensive headphones (courtesy of the stepfather trying to win your affections).

The only, only good thing about your dysfunctional family dynamic is your new step brother, Toma, who you don’t actually see very much, but whatever. You’d been an only child your entire life, lived with a very specific type of loneliness that is impossible to describe, and now suddenly you have an older brother. It’s weird, but there’s an unspoken solidarity between the two of you right off the bat. The marriage between your mom and his dad is absolutely fucked from the start; you know it, and Toma knows it. Just like you both know you’ll be the ones that’ll have to deal with the inevitable fallout.

Every week you pick who you want to stay with, the lesser of 2 evils entirely based on your mood. Do you stay with your father and his irritating wife who only knows how to bond through mani-pedis? Or do you brave the big house full of fake smiles, embellished anecdotes, and late night arguments that echo through the halls?

Usually, it’s the latter that wins out. At least you can seclude yourself in your room there and no one will pester you to go shopping or get your hair done. (The new wife means well, you know deep down. She’s just so fucking annoying.)

Staying with your mom and stepdad also gives you the chance to maybe see Toma if he’s not on tour, at practice, or giving guitar lessons at the nearby music store.

He’s kind of intense, deep frown permanently etched onto his face, popping pills like candy. Usually dressed in perfectly tattered T-shirts and leather pants, his hair is bleached and spiked, one of his eyebrows is pierced—looks like he plays guitar in a metal band.

Which he does.

He isn’t your best friend. You’d barely call him an acquaintance. But every once in a while, you find yourself alone with him in the kitchen or the den. He asks simple questions to make shitty small talk, but it eventually leads you to ask about his band, which always ends in the two of you sharing opinions on music, newly dropped albums, etc.

It’s about the closest you ever get to bonding those first couple years, but it’s good enough for you, makes you feel like you’re not totally alone in the household.

The first time you find a burnt CD on your nightstand happens the same night that Toma sticks up for you at the dinner table. He’s been off tour for a couple weeks, and despite still not knowing him super well, you can tell that the stagnancy is making him cagey.

So, when your stepdad makes an offhand comment about your aesthetic—the skirts and fishnets and combat boots, it doesn’t go over well.

“All that black isn’t exactly inviting, sweetheart. You won’t find a man leaving the house looking like you’re ready to beat someone up.”

You’re used to it by now, spent most of your adolescence listening to your mom and dad bitching about the hair you let cover your face and the gory graphics on your T-shirts. This isn’t anything new to you.

However…

“Why the hell would you even say something like that?” Toma gruffs, fork gripped just a little too tightly in his hand. “The way she dresses ain’t got nothin’ to do with you, so shut your trap about it.”

“Toma—” your stepdad tries to defend.

“No. And why are you so concerned about her looking inviting? What the fuck does that even mean? You tryin’ to marry her off or somethin’?”

All your stepdad can do is get red in the face and grumble an apology, obviously out of his depth.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Keep your shit opinions to yourself, old man.”

You flash Toma a weak but grateful smile, nods in return, and that’s that.

It’s only when you’re winding down for the night that you spot it, the clear case and the bright blue disc within. His handwriting is surprisingly legible, all caps spelling out PLAYLIST #1 followed by each track in smaller print.

You’re only a little nervous when you knock on Toma’s bedroom door. You’ve never been inside before, all the way at the end of the hallway with the door perpetually shut. Your step brother doesn’t intimidate you, exactly, you just don’t have the best read on him yet.

When Toma opens the door, he’s the most dressed down you’ve ever seen him, wearing a t-shirt full of holes and a pair of black sweatpants. His hair is down and damp, barefoot as he steps to the side, and the chain he never seems to take off is missing from around his neck.

It’s strange seeing him like this: no tough guy exterior, just a dude in his early twenties living with his parents.

That’s not to say you look like you’re ready to hit the town. Sporting an oversized Hello Kitty shirt and little pajama shorts, you were ready to crawl into bed before you found the CD. The difference here is that while you’re taken off guard by Toma’s relaxed appearance, he doesn’t even seem to notice yours. And why would he?

You hold up the disc with a raised eyebrow, “a gift?”

Toma shrugs, lifting his arm high enough to let you walk under it and into his room, shutting the door behind you. Around any other guy, an action like that would have made your stomach flip in anticipation, but not this time. Definitely not this time.

“A few of ‘em are from bands we’ve toured with, but most of it is just shit I’m into that I think you might like.”

All you can reply with is a lame, “cool, cool,” too distracted with glancing around his room.

“I’m guessin’ you haven’t listened to it yet?”

You shake your head, eyes landing back on him as he sits at an old desk, a guitar laid out in front of him. From the looks of it, he’s restringing it.

“Not yet. Saw it and just… came to say thanks, I guess.”

He nods toward the stereo system up against one of the walls and tells you, “pop it in, then. I can give you my, uh, expert commentary.”

“Wow, lucky me,” you joke, ejecting the disc that’s already in the player to replace it with yours. You hope your dry tone is enough to cover up the buzz of excitement you feel at the prospect of getting to know him a little better.

For the next hour, you halfway listen to the tracks, more interested in what Toma has to say about each of them. Some of his ‘commentary’ is about the musicality of each song, but he also tells you about how he stumbled upon the the more underground bands and what it was like to play with the ones he toured with.

You use this as an opportunity to explore his space, or the space he allows you to see. You’re not snooping in his closet or anything, but you aren’t subtle as you look over the bulletin board full of tickets and peruse his little bookshelf–music theory, some biographies, a couple of psychology books (one about gambling).

When you pick up a model motorcycle from a shelf, Toma snorts, mutters, “you really are a little sister, aren’t ya’?”

“Huh?” you put the little bike down and turn to him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean rifling through my shit is a little sister thing to do.”

“I’m not rifling through anything,” you tell him, sucking your teeth, “–rifling would be if I was, like, going through drawers or something. I am simply… cataloging.”

He snickers, shrugging broad shoulders, and for some reason you feel the need to add, “I’m not actually that much younger, ya’ know.”

“Three years.”

“Two and a half,” you immediately correct, which, granted, is a little childish, but you can’t help yourself. The last thing you want is for Toma to see you as a baby as someone he has nothing in common with, someone he’d be embarrassed to introduce his friends to.

“Fine,” he concedes, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “two and a half.”

You shouldn’t care what he thinks or how he perceives you. It doesn’t matter. He only just recently entered your life—a new, hastily written chapter in an eighteen-year-long story.

There’s a part of you, though, bigger than you’d like to admit, that desperately wants him to like you, to approve of you–just a little sister’s desire to be loved by her big brother.

𖤐 NEXT 𖤐

General Yandere! Aran Ojiro Profile

Yandere! Aran Ojiro x fem! reader

Warnings: stalking, kidnapping, extreme spoiling/forced financial dependence, guilt tripping, desperation, jealousy, mentions of dub-con and masturbation, mentions of forced physical affection, mentions of creeps, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

DARLING PROFILE:

Sweet

Aran himself is naturally quite nice, despite his penchant for not putting up with other peoples’ bullshit. He’s able to stand up for himself, but he’s never been particularly fond of people who are mean just for the sake of it. He can appreciate a funny joke, a biting comment here or there, but someone who’s entire personality is based off of this? Not so much.

And so, a darling who is naturally quite kind is a perfect match for Aran – he thinks of his beloved as innocent, a little lamb he must protect, and whether this visage of innocence is real or not, Aran believes it to be so. All it takes is a few compliments, a few sweet smiles, some kind favors, anything showcasing his darling’s kindness, really, and Aran is smitten.

And how can he not be?

How can he not imagine how wonderful it would be to spoil someone so kind and compassionate, to reward them for rewarding others? He views himself as hid darling’s protector, and it melts his heart to see his beloved caring for other people, even if it causes these same protective tendencies to flare up when others take advantage of them.

He can’t not imagine how wonderful of a partner his darling would be, the compliments slipping past their lips making his cheeks feel hot and his chest lighter than air. He can’t not imagine how wonderful it would be to wake up beside his darling in the early morning, to feel their soft breaths against him, to have their soft, supple body pressed against his own in ways that make him groan, his own body oh so aware of them? How can he not imagine how kind and loving his darling would be towards their children, a few little copies of the two of them running around, laughing and giggling and calling them mama, Aran being daddy…

It’s the stuff of his deepest hopes for the future, and having a kind darling plays into these fantasies – so while Aran could fall for a meaner darling, it’s unlikely. He wants to protect his sweet baby, and give them the protection, love and devotion they deserve – he’s just rewarding them for everything they earn, after all.

Passionate

Aran’s hobby has been volleyball for as long as he can remember. He’s always loved the sport; playing it, watching it, talking about it, even just being in the gym makes him happy.

And so, a darling that has a similar sort of passion would make Aran’s obsession grow tenfold.

It doesn’t have to be volleyball, or even a sport – any sort of activity that makes his darling happy makes Aran happy. (Arguably even more happy, because watching his darling smile and get lost in their own little world as they practice the hobby has him staring like a lovesick fool, his lips parted and brows tilted in, his throat feeling tight because fuck, how can someone be so damn adorable?)

It could be anything at all – writing, cooking, playing the trumpet, watercolors, reviewing movies, fashion, anything at all. Aran just loves the idea of his darling loving something, and he’ll eagerly ask them about anything he can involving the passion. He's asking what got them into it over dinner, asking to see, hear, taste or watch some of their creations as they give him a tour of their modest apartment.

(He’s watching them nervously show off their hobby, but inside he’s cooing at how adorably embarrassed they are, because no one has ever taken such an intense interest in their passion before, and he can tell they’re nervous that they’re boring him, that he’s losing interest and thinking they’re weird, even though the truth couldn’t be further from it.)

He’s asking his darling to teach him the basics, to learn to sketch a circle or knit a few stitches or play a scale on the piano. He just wants to be involved in his darling’s hobby, mostly because he loves watching the way their eyes light up as they indulge themselves in it, their whole body language brightening up, only furthering his love because fuck, he wants them to look like that one day when Aran himself is on their mind.

He wants to be his darling’s passion one day, just as they are his, but for the meantime he doesn’t mind watching – they’re just so damn cute, after all.

Bookworm

This isn’t something that Aran must have in a partner, but it’s certainly a plus for him.

He’s always been attracted to softer, quieter people, and having a darling fits this mold is a dream come true for him. And to further exemplify the stereotype, Aran particularly likes those are deeply interested in literature.

The genre doesn’t matter – it could be hardcore fantasy books, cliché romances, historical non-fiction, or anything in between. He doesn’t care, just as long as they enjoy picking up a book and curling up under a blanket to read.

He himself isn’t too much of a reader, but he loves to imagine his darling snuggled up on a couch or in a comfortable chair, a book inches from their nose as their eyes eagerly take in the words, flipping through the pages so quickly it’s almost impossible they’re absorbing everything the story has to offer.

He likes to think of his beloved as being so enraptured by the book that they’re completely unaware of the real world around them, fully immersed in the story and becoming invested in the characters, the plot, the action, the everything. It’s just so fucking cute, and Aran has no issues asking about said books.

He doesn’t mind listening to his darling rant and rave about the text for hours on end, watching their face as they talk and talk, slowly opening up more and more as they discuss something they truly love. Speaking of watching, one of Aran’s favorite pastimes is to simply watch his darling read – he likes to see the way their eyebrow wrinkles when a character does something unexpected, the shock in their face as they read a cliffhanger, the way they bite their lip as the tension in the scene rises to almost unbearable levels.

It’s too much, really, because while Aran thinks it’s so very adorable, he has a darker, more perverse reason why he enjoys watching his darling’s face – it’s too easy to imagine the way those expressions could be morphed into something dirty, something lewd.

It’s remarkably easy to fantasize about the way they’d look when he presses inside of them, stretching them out as they tell him it’s too big, not gonna fit! He’s plagued by thoughts about his beloved, and having a bookish, almost nerdy darling would be perfect for him – in more ways than one.

Shy

Aran isn’t too picky with this particular trait either, though he openly admits that he tends to find himself attracted to those that are a bit more hesitant around new people.

Perhaps it’s the protector in him; he doesn’t like the idea of his darling constantly talking to new people, interacting with them and potentially developing feelings for them.

He doesn’t like that they could be chatting with any number of people, interacting with creeps and men with bad intentions that they wouldn’t even know about until it’s too late – it makes his skin crawl just thinking about it, anxiety sweltering in his gut.

And so, to have a darling that’s less inclined to speak to strangers is something Aran really, really likes. It means less worrying about his darling’s safety; why would a person with ill intentions go after someone skittish who won’t give them time a day when they could be going after someone who’s talkative, smiling at them and lowering their guard around them?

Aran couldn’t be happier; not only is it safer for his darling and much more convenient for him, but he loves how easily flustered his darling is. It’s oh so easy to compliment them and see them prickle up, their expression turning bashful as they murmur out a thanks or a compliment or their own, their voice getting all high and cute. It’s adorable, and sometimes it’s too much for Aran – he has to bite back a smile or cover his face, because his heart simply can’t take how fucking cute his darling is.

So really, while he could fall for a more talkative darling, a shier beloved is more his type – he wants to be the only one they talk to, the only who flusters them and makes them feel all gooey and warm inside, just as they make him feel.

It’s only fair his feelings are returned, right?

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Selfless

In general, Aran is absolutely whipped for you.

He’s quite literally head over heels for you – obsessed to the point that nearly all of his waking thoughts revolve around you, and a good portion of his sleeping thoughts as well.

He’s dreaming about you nearly every night, imagining your pretty face in his hands as he kisses you, your voice saying his name, how you’d laugh at his jokes and lean into his side as you watch movies together on the couch, the relaxing night slowly turning into something much more exciting as wandering hands and eager mouths begin to explore.

Aran loves the idea of loving you, and he’s surprisingly naturally quite romantic. He’s always been a bit of a sucker for those horrible romance movies; chick flicks, period pieces, anything with a strong romantic story line in it. He’s always idolized the idea of having someone to love, and as a result, once you step into his life, someone with whom he feels so strongly and passionately for, every cute date idea, romantic line he’s ever seen seems possible, real, important.

Once Aran’s feelings for you develop, he becomes more or less your personal servant. He lives to see you happy – your smile is the most beautiful thing he thinks he’s ever seen, and when it’s directed at him?

God, does it feel good to make a tall, buff, nationally known athlete fall to his knees simply because you looked at him?

Aran would do anything for you if you asked him to; he wants you to associate him with happiness and chivalry, and he’s willing to go to any length to get this association. He’s always trying to do things for you – he’s bringing you your favorite pastries from that bakery nearby the practice courts, telling you to not bother paying him back because ‘you’ll cover next time’, even though he’d rather die than let you pay for something of his.

He’ll always show up at your workplace with a somewhat bashful smile, the little cardboard box in his hands as you gasp and hug him, your smile lighting up your face as he gapes and stares at you like some teenage boy. He’s buying you little trinkets that remind him of you; anything you collect, little plushies that are adorable (just like you).

He’ll pick them up and smile down at them, thinking of how your hair looks like this plush’s, how your cheeks are so cute and round like this one’s, how this one looks almost exactly like you – a character from a TV show that he looks up once he gets home, if only because while the two of you are vastly different, he feels like he’s getting to watch you living out your life.

Fantasies cloud of his mind of living out your day to day with you, of getting to wake up with you in his arms, your messy bed head looking adorable as you snore slightly into his chest. He’s swinging by your place with groceries fairly often, things you didn’t know you needed, only to check and find that you’re much lower on than you thought you were, despite having sworn you checked it yesterday.

Aran doesn’t like to admit that he sometimes tampers with your supplies or basic ingredients just to give him an excuse to buy you something you need – he doesn’t like that it sounds invasive, but seeing your relieved smile and being invited in for a snack or dinner is so worth it. He’s always trying to buy you things, and while it initially made you uncomfortable that he spends so much money on you (and you know the items are expensive – the brand names and quality of the products more than speaks for itself), eventually you’ll stop scolding him for spending his salary almost exclusively on you.

It doesn’t deter him, and he always waves off your complaints, telling you that it’s a pleasure, plus I get to see your smile, so it’s more than worth it. That normally gets you to shut up, your ears feeling hot, only serving to make Aran find you even more adorable than before.

He’s willing to shell out serious amounts of money for anything you’d ever want – a new car? The most expensive one on the market? Of course, and he’ll even get all the fancy additional features that no one needs, like extensive stereo systems and cool gel leather seats.

You want a diamond bracelet costing upwards of thousands of dollars? You’ll find a pretty velvet box on your doorstep the next day, a bouquet of roses accompanying it along with a note that simply says you shine brighter than any diamond.

(He spent hours agonizing over what to write, and despite the corniness, he ultimately decided that maybe classically romantic things would win you over – besides, the words are true.)

Even outside of money, Aran is willing to do anything you’d ever need of him.

Your sink is leaking? He knows next to nothing about plumbing, but he’s quick to pour over dozens of online articles on what could be wrong, arriving at your apartment merely two hours after your frantic call, a toolbox in hand and a determination in his shoulders that you can’t argue with.

You’re struggling with a project for work? Well, Aran may not understand what it is you’re doing, but he’s right beside you as you work through the issue, rubbing your back and smiling at you, encouraging you with smile and compliments each time you make a small breakthrough.

He’ll be there at a moment’s notice, dropping literally everything just to run to your side, like a loyal puppy desperate for its master’s affection and approval.

And of course, Aran doesn’t expect anything in return – he hopes for your love, for you to think of him as your protector and greatest confidant, but he’ll never ask for money or time in return. He’s simply happy to just be of use to you, to feel wanted, needed, like you wouldn’t survive without him.

He’s always slipping into daydreams of ways you’d repay him, how you’d pepper kisses across his cheeks as a thanks for helping change your flat tire. He’s smiling bashfully as he imagines how you’d fuss over him and make him dinner after he’d moved something heavy in your apartment, maybe moving furniture of helping put it all together. He imagines the way you’d sink to your knees and insist on repaying him with pleasure, on making him feel because you make me feel good, too, Aran, and I wanna make you feel so good that all you can remember is my name…

He just wants you to view him as a necessary part of your life, and to see your attention on him and only him for a few moments – anything to get you thinking of him just as much as he thinks of you.

Clingy

Tying into his more selfless traits, once Aran’s feelings for you develop, it’ll be extremely difficult to avoid him. He’s never felt this overwhelmingly for someone before, and because you take up so much of his thoughts, he finds it incredibly difficult to not be thinking of you constantly, to be idly wondering what you’re doing, what you’re thinking about, who you’re with, what you’ll be doing next.

He’s obsessive in that he’s almost always got you on his mind, and consequently he finds himself just so ‘happening’ to run into you all the time. He knows the places you frequent – certain cafes or restaurants that you like, learning your orders and preferred drinks. He knows the times you tend to frequent them, suddenly finding that his schedule is – surprise – open during that time too!

He’ll always just be there; his presence isn’t intimidating to you in any way, and as a result it’ll take you quite a while to recognize just how often these ‘coincidences’ seem to happen. It’s nearly daily, with the spiker always feigning surprise that you’re there, because what are the chances?

And once your friendship (relationship, at least to Aran) progresses, slowly he’ll stop trying to make excuses and instead simply reach out to you. You’re getting texts almost every hour from him; questions of whether you’re free, designed to not only get you talking with him, but suggesting activities to do together.

He’ll ask you if you’re free and interested in going to the bookstore with him, because there’s this new series he’s heard about that’s supposed to be so good, and oh, what’s this? It’s the same series you’ve been anxiously waiting to be published? What a coincidence!

He’ll invite you out to get a drink with him and a few of his teammates, but aw what a shame, they can’t make it! They had to cancel at the last minute, but it would be a shame to waste a perfectly good night of drinking, wouldn’t it? So just sit down and let him buy you drink after drink, his face loosening up as time passes, letting some questionable things slip from his lips.

(Slurred words referring to you as his, telling you you’ve been on his mind all day, cheekily complimenting the blue panties he knows you’re wearing under your clothes, all things that seem strange but only make your alcohol infused brain shrug.)

You’re getting texts that are simply asking questions – they’re designed to get a conversation flowing between the two of you, so that your attention is sporadically on him and he can learn more about you. He’s asking you what animal you would be, what superpower you would have, if pineapple belongs on pizza, whether you want children, everything and anything under the sun.

He likes having you speak with him, if only because it makes him feel special, like – if only for a moment – he’s taking up as much of your thoughts as you do his. It’s a thought that makes his cheeks feel hot, his whole body tingling, his muscle tightening up as he stands up to walk and get fresh air because god, why is it so hot in here?

He’s sending you photos of things that reminded him of you throughout the day – a pretty wildflower, an aesthetically pleasing photo of the clouds, gifs of animals with hearts. He likes the way you respond to him so quickly, the three little dots appearing on his screen making his heart pound, nerves eating away at him because what will you say?

He gets simultaneously excited beyond belief and nearly ill every time his phone chimes, your responses making his palms sweat and his heart race because god, you took the time out of your day to respond to him, to give him enough thought to create an answer to his question?

And once you’re actually physically with him, Aran is in seventh heaven – he’s always in your personal space, though it’s difficult to grow mad at him when he’s giving you that shy smile, his words and voice like honey. His hands are always near you as well – he’ll never touch you, because despite how wonderful, euphoric his skin against yours feels, he doesn’t want you to find him creepy or invasive, so he keeps his hands to himself.

His fingers twitch occasionally, the urge to reach out and simply touch your soft skin, squeeze at the fat of your tummy or thighs nearly overwhelming him.

You won’t notice his clinginess much when you’re still unaware of his obsessive feelings towards you – he always seems to be around, but what’s the harm in that? Aran is nice, funny, attractive, a talented volleyball player, and seems to be interested in you, so what could you possibly be upset about?

But once he’s got you in the sanctity of his own apartment, your perspective on his clinginess will change drastically. Now that he’s bitten the bullet and plunged into the process of officially making you his, Aran sees no reason why he should hold back any longer.

Suddenly, he’s always beside you – his hands are on your waist or shoulders, idly playing with your hair or rubbing circles against your skin. You’re always in his lap or within touching distance, his dark eyes fixed on you ninety percent of the time.

He’s always wanting to do things with you; watching TV (often reruns of his games, with him sneaking anxious glances at your reactions each time he spikes a ball, hoping to see you impressed with his strength and skills), cooking together (he does everything involving cutting or heat, so you’re basically resigned to stirring and measuring duty), anything that involves contact between the two of you.

He’s lovesick, truly, and despite being suffocating once he’s got you under his roof, Aran’s not too terrible – he just wants to be with you, and is that such a crime?

Is it a crime to want to touch you, to kiss you and lick you and squeeze you and fuck you and make him your everything, just as you are his?

Protective

In general, Aran views himself as your provider. He likes the idea of being the stereotypical man that protects you from the world, whether that be through financially supporting you, giving you a nice, warm bed to sleep in, or keeping any creeps away from you.

He likes to feel important to you, as if he’s a vital part of your life, and as his obsession develops Aran slowly becomes dependent on this idea of himself being your provider.

He likes to pretend that everything he does affects you in some way – like his every action is for you, designed to keep you safe and make you happy.

When he gets up at the crack of dawn and enters the gym with his teammates for pre-practice working out, he’s fueled by the thought of growing his muscles and stamina so that he can better protect you. With every rep of bench presses, he’s forcing himself to go harder, to push more because in order to intimidate any guy stupid enough to approach you, he needs to look the part of the scary, strong boyfriend. To get any creep to leave you alone when they come wandering too close to you and make you uncomfortable, Aran needs to be able to easily throw them away, to easily pick them up or beat the shit out of them so that they get the fuck away from you, where they belong.

He’s training harder in volleyball practice, slamming the ball with a ferocity that makes the coach and his teammates slightly concerned, but Aran is doing it all for a purpose. The harder he trains, the more impressive his playing, and thus the more impressed you’ll be when you come to the next game he invites you to.

(He almost always invites you to watch his games; he gets you free tickets – they aren’t actually free, he just pays for them and lies saying he got a player discount – and despite how nerve-wracking it is to know you’re in the audience, hopefully watching him, it’s worth it to hear the cheering when he spikes. And if he tries hard enough, he can even pretend to hear your individual cheering out of the masses – chanting his name as loudly as you can, perhaps even your voice yelling I’m so proud of you, good job Aran…)

He’s cleaning himself up more for pre and post match interviews, hoping to look his best in case you’re watching, because he wants you to find him attractive, to think he’s handsome as a thin sheen of sweat lies on his forehead, his biceps nearly bulging out of the volleyball top uniform he’s sporting.

He’s wearing only large hoodies around his home, manifesting the idea that if he keeps wearing them, they’ll retain more of his natural smell, so that when you wear them later it’ll smell like him – you’ll smell like him.

He likes the idea that everything he does affects you in some way, and while it obviously doesn’t, it feeds his view of himself as being your provider, as giving you everything you need in order to be happy in life.

And of course, he takes this mindset into more literal terms with you as well – anytime the two of you are together, he’s employing everything he can think of to keep you safe.

When you’re walking along a sidewalk, he’ll be closer to the traffic, so that if a car happened to swerve off the road, he’d be injured instead of you. He’s holding doors open for you, making sure they don’t slam closed and catch your ankle or elbow.

He’s helping blow on your food to cool it down, because despite what you say it’s still too hot for you to eat, he’s sure.

It’s mildly embarrassing, and while you may think it’s strange how insistent he is on making sure you don’t hurt yourself, you likely won’t fight it too much. After all, if you were to ask him why he seemed to care so much, he’d only blanch and rub the back of his neck awkwardly, telling you that he just wants to help keep you safe. And isn’t that just so romantic and sweet? This big, strong, athletic man caring enough to keep you safe, to use his time and energy to make sure you’re taken care of, that you’re in pristine condition and happy.

It’s only natural to be flattered – who wouldn’t be? Except, once Aran lets his walls down a bit, exposing just how truly obsessed with you he’s become, it suddenly shifts from sweet to creepy very, very quickly.

What started as endearing when he’d walk on the traffic heavy side of the street becomes concerning when you learn he didn’t want anyone in the cars to see you, because what if someone saw you and decided to pursue you, breaking your heart and stringing you along in the process? Besides, wouldn’t it be just so much better if no one else knew you, if Aran was all you had? At least then he’d know you wouldn’t be associating yourself with the wrong sort of people.

What started as a sweet gesture when he’d gotten you the pocket taster to keep in your purse suddenly becomes much more sinister when you discover the tracking device placed into the taser’s side, designed to help him keep tabs on your location discreetly, so that you wouldn’t know.

Once you’re trapped inside his home, every desire, thought, fantasy and urge coming to light, you’ll know that Aran is not nearly the protector he claims to be – at least, in some ways. Of course, he’s largely successful in making sure you don’t get harmed. He won’t let you near anything sharp or hot, always supervising when you’re in the kitchen or supplies that have even the potential to injure you.

He’s always playing guard dog to you, making sure you’re happy and safe, and that nothing and no one can touch you. You’re his, and while it makes him giddy and light headed to think of himself as your protector, don’t think this role is entirely selfless – if you were to be hurt, killed, altered in any way that changed the core of who you are, Aran wouldn’t be able to function.

You just mean too much to him – you’re his life, his love, and he’ll be damned if he’ll let you walk away, scathed or unscathed. You’re just too precious to him, and isn’t that just so damn romantic?

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

When it comes to dealing with rivals for your affection, Aran is surprisingly good at controlling himself.

He’s not a particularly forceful yandere; in general, he wants you to want him. He wants you to be in a relationship with him because you deem him a worthy partner, because you’re in love with him and want to spend every waking moment by his side.

He doesn’t like the prospect of isolating you – there’s something underhanded and dirty about getting you to be his that way. There’s something cheap about not letting you have any contact with any other men in your life, or women for that matter. He’s not naïve; he understands that you’re gorgeous, that other people are more than likely interested in you too.

And how could they not be? Aran worships the ground you walk on, and is it so strange to assume that other men likely do the same?

He knows that he’s not the only one vying for your attention and heart, but this only furthers his reasoning that he wants you to want him, that he wants you to choose him. And so, while it kills him inside, Aran doesn’t outwardly try to run off his competition. He’s not immediately threatening the men that stare longingly at you, their palms sweaty as they slowly build up the courage to approach you and talk to you. It hurts his heart, yes, and it’s the worst torture he can imagine to watch, but he has to.

It makes every muscle in his body seize up as his dark eyes bore into the back of the man chatting with you, his frame so rigid that passerbys are concerned, even asking him if he’s alright. It makes his lungs feel like they’re being crushed, the breath difficult to suck in, his every bit of attention devoted to simply watching, praying that you don’t fall victim to the man’s charms, that you won’t be wooed by his clearly inadequate attempts at flattering you.

He’ll be mentally chanting that this stranger, this piece of shit, doesn’t deserve someone as lovely as you. They’ll never be able to care for you like he can; no one knows you as well, no one is willing to go to such extreme lengths to make you happy.

He’ll always be watching, if only because he’s always slightly on edge – not even just out of fear that you’ll develop interest in another man, but simply because he’s terrified that you’ll somehow be hurt. He’s scared that you’ll be taken advantage of, that this man will reach out and touch you, that you’ll develop bruises and scream and cry because Aran couldn’t protect you like he’s supposed to.

He’s scared that if he looks away for even one moment, you’ll disappear, gone forever, the love of his life. It’s a horrible feeling, one that claws at his chest and eats at his heart, but Aran almost thinks the torture of watching is worth it. It strengthens his love for you, and with every refusal you give, every awkward smile and lame excuse of why you need to be going, he feels his chest swell with pride.

You want him, he’s sure of it. Why would you be denying so many other men if you weren’t already in love with the spiker himself? It’s obvious, and while it hurts more than anything he’s ever experienced, Aran has to let other men approach you, at least unless they hurt you.

It’s the only way to know for sure that you’re his.

Aran frowns as he notices the way the man behind you in line keeps glancing at you. You’re still waiting to order your sandwich, the line at the deli decidedly long. Aran already had his – you’d claimed you weren’t hungry, and despite Aran’s insistence, you didn’t allow him to buy you any food.

However, as you watched him eat his sandwich, something in your attitude must’ve changed – you should’ve let him wait in line for you, to pay for the sandwich he knows is your favorite, but you didn’t.

He should’ve insisted more, been more forceful, but it’s too late now – most definitely too late as the man behind you puffs up his chest, clearing his throat and telling you something. You jump slightly and turn around to face him, a small smile on your face as you answer whatever question he’d asked you.

Aran’s too far away to hear what you’re saying, but with the way the man laughs, he can’t help tightening his hand into a fist under the table. His blunt nails dig into his palm, surely leaving indents in the calloused skin, but he can’t find it in himself to care. His gaze is fixed on you, his sandwich pathetically forgotten on the deli paper before him. His lips are slightly parted as he watches, murmuring under his breath to ignore him, ignore him please, don’t laugh at his jokes, don’t smile at him, stop touching her…

He doesn’t even realize he’s speaking, but it hardly matters – because despite smiling at his joke, the man doesn’t seem to realize that you aren’t nearly as interested as he thinks, because a moment later he’s reaching out and lightly touching your arm.

You recoil immediately, shrinking back slightly as your smile turns tight, and suddenly the air in the room has returned, Aran heaving a massive, massive sigh because you obviously don’t want him to touch you. You obviously don’t want his filthy hands on you – but you do want Aran’s, if the way you let him touch you is anything. You don’t shy away from his small touches; a hand on your back to guide you, a pat on your head when he calls you short or fun-sized because he knows it annoys you. He bounces his foot against the ground, internally swearing that the line would just hurry the fuck up, so that you can come back and get away from the man who has now fallen quiet, fishing in his wallet for nothing.

You order your sandwich, keeping your back to the stranger, and as you return, the intensity in Aran’s gaze surprises you.

Those dark eyes are fixed directly on you, not wavering even the slightest bit, and a small shiver wracks your spine because fuck, why does his gaze feel so heavy and crushing?

You shrug it off, however, when he smiles at you, the grin so bright that it almost blinds you. There’s something making him indescribably happy, you can tell, but you don’t know what. You make some comment about him not having finished his sandwich yet, but Aran doesn’t pay any attention – he’s too focused on the fact that you didn’t want that man.

You rejected him essentially, and instead chose to come stay with him, with Aran, the only one who really loves you. He’s too lost in his fantasy happy land to return the teases you give him, instead relishing in the the warm, fluttery feeling in his heart, his eyes occasionally darting to the other man to watch him hurriedly walk out of the sandwich shop, sending you a last cursory glance before slamming the door behind him.

Pride swells in Aran’s chest, and once you’ve both finished, he’s quick to place his hand on the small of your back, opening up the door for you. And to his intense happiness, you don’t flinch. You let him touch you, let him guide you, let him care for you and lead you out onto the busy street.

He’s in heaven, and as he smiles like a fool, you won’t suspect a thing. He’s always been so happy, it’s just who he is – his labored breathing and the excited, desperate twitch of his fingers to keep touching you has nothing to do with you, right?

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

Because many aspects of Aran’s relationship with you are normal, kidnapping you isn’t something that crosses his mind until very, very late into his obsession with you.

He likes the idea of keeping things somewhat natural between the two of you; organic and warm, with nothing too forced. He wants to woo you, to have that perfect romantic courtship where he brings you flowers, making you flustered, takes you on lavish dates by candlelight at the most expensive and exclusive restaurants in town because he can afford it.

He wants you to feel spoiled and loved, and most of all he wants you to choose to be with him. He wants you to want him out of all the other men you know, for you to decide that he’s the one for you just as he knows you are for him.

And so, while the idea of having you knowingly in his home, kept safe, pristine, and his is extremely appealing, Aran struggles to let go of his desire for your willingness in the arrangement.

He can’t deny that having you stuck at home, spending your days safely under lock and key gets him feeling strangely domestic, butterflies igniting in his stomach as he bites back a smile, his cheeks feeling hot. He’s always daydreaming about how you’d look so pretty chopping up vegetables in the kitchen when he gets home, maybe a cute apron around your waist as you hum and sing to yourself, only stopping when he hugs you from behind, letting yourself melt into his arms.

(Of course, he’d never let you actually chop anything alone – too scared of you cutting yourself with the knife, but the fantasy is still appealing.)

He’s fantasizing about you doing the laundry, him coming home to a house that smells like detergent and new sheets on the bed; soft, warm, and oh so pristine.

(Though, they won’t be by the time the night is through – you’ll have to scrub out the new white stains, but that’s nothing new.)

He’s imagining the way you’d lay your head on his chest while you shovel popcorn into your mouth, the wool blanket strewn over the both of you making him feel all warm and fuzzy as you stare intently at the TV screen, the movie he'd chosen capturing your interest perfectly.

He’s got all kinds of domestic fantasies in his head, and Aran is terrified that by kidnapping you, he’s ruining any chance of any and all of these daydreams from becoming real. He’s too attached to the idea of seeing you with his baby on your hip, your pretty face smiling at him while you coo at the child, nursing it and telling him that you were wondering if you could take Friday off, I’ve been feeling awfully lonely around the house, and the baby’s normally asleep for a few hours during the afternoon – maybe we could break in those new sheets we got last month?

He’s too attached to the idea of having a normal, healthy, perfect life with you to really seriously consider forcibly relocating you.

However, Aran is nothing if not practical – and so, while it pains him immensely to do so, if something serious were to happen to you, he’d be left with no choice but to steal you away. It’d have to be something quite significant, however; perhaps an attempted home invasion, or a robbery, or maybe you were hit by a car or contracted some horrible virus that meant you needed care at all hours of the day.

Whatever the reason may be, he’ll be sighing and wringing his hands, but nonetheless gathering the softest rope he can find, setting up pillows in the back of his car so that you’re comfortable on the ride over, even going so far as to keep his face covered during the event, so that he can perhaps fabricate some story of how he was saving you from another robbery – and isn’t he just such a good guy for doing that?

For being so considerate, kind, being your knight in shining armor?

As a captor, Aran can be described mostly as incredibly giving. In a lot of ways, you’ll be terribly, rottenly spoiled; he’s giving you anything and everything he can think of.

When you initially wake up in his home, terrified and changed into a set of clean, soft pajamas (though thankfully your panties and bra are still on, helping relieve your anxiety just slightly), you’ll notice immediately how lavish the bedroom you’re in is.

The walls are a pretty emerald color, mahogany drawers and dressers sitting along the wall. There’s a window – it’s easily six feet tall and six feet wide, with a window seat and big, billowy white curtains, though there’s something odd about the glass – you get up to examine it, only to find it feels brittle, harder, even flexible. (Bulletproof glass, you later learn, placed there in case you got any ideas about braving the twenty story jump.)

All sizes and shapes of pillows adorn the bed, the best quality sheets and a heavy comforter that traps heat so well you’ll nearly be sweating in December. The closet is full of pretty clothing you don’t recognize; all colors you love, neutral pieces that flatter your form and make you feel more expensive than you’ve ever felt in your life.

Aran’s only buying the best quality food, always making sure you have a healthy balance of vegetables, protein and carbs, even occasionally indulging you with exquisite chocolates and pastries. He’s always got music playing in every room of the apartment; quietly, so as not to distract you, but you’ll notice it’s a playlist of your favorite songs. The ones that relax you, that make you smile, that bring back sentimental memories.

He’s got all the supplies for your hobbies set up in ‘your room’, as he likes to call it. Anything from easels and paint brushes to a baby grand piano will reside in the room, and despite your pleas for him to not spend so much money on you, Aran will just laugh and poke your nose lightly, telling you to not worry, that he’s got more than enough money to buy a pretty lady like you pretty things.

He just wants you to be as happy as humanly possible, and while he knows you’ll always be at least a little bit unhappy, he’s hopeful that he can help make it up to you by being the perfect partner – indulging you in all the romantic cliches and dreams you may have had when you were young.

Besides, he’s a romantic at heart, and while it feels maybe just a tad bit overkill to have the rose petals on the table and candlelight as you share a meal he cooked, Aran doesn’t care. Because when you’re wearing the dress he custom ordered for you, your curves looking magnificent and your face so warm and flustered, how can he care about anything at all except this moment?

He spoils you, yes, but you’ll not forget your kidnapped immediately – no, you can’t, not when he’s insisting you share a bed from the beginning. He’ll never try to touch you or force you into anything, but his insistence on letting him cuddle you, on letting him place a hand to your hip while you drift into sleep with your face pressed against his chest is perhaps not your first choice for how to sleep.

But really, aside from a few small quirks of Aran, you’ll find yourself growing disturbingly comfortable disturbingly fast. After all, he’s a charmer – and though you may try to hate him for kidnapping you, for being so horribly, disgustingly, wonderfully obsessed with you, he’s like a puppy.

One desperate for your affection, always bringing you a new bone or toy, and one who’ll do anything for you at a moment’s command. So really, just let him pamper you, let him spoil you, even if it makes you uncomfortable.

It makes him happy, and he’s sure eventually it’ll make you happy, too – and won’t it? Won’t it, really?

PUNISHMENTS:

Aran doesn’t ‘do’ punishments.

They just simply aren’t his thing – he wants you to love him, for your relationship to develop as organically as it possibly can (considering he’s kidnapped you and essentially been stalking you for months, of course), and the concept of disciplining you for misbehaving doesn’t fit his hopes for a normal, healthy relationship.

And so, Aran is really quite lenient when it comes to you – he doesn’t get mad very often, instead preferring to keep a steady, calm disposition, because if he wants the best possible chance of you falling in love with him, doesn’t it make more sense to be calm, happy, warm?

Doesn’t it make more sense for him to approach you with loving arms, gentle touches, soft smiles that make your cheeks heat up, that get your stomach feeling fluttery and light because fuck, has anyone ever looked at you with so much adoration and unfiltered joy?

It’s overwhelming, and for the most part Aran’s method of not punishing you works exactly as he wants it to. It’s not long before you’re moving past your hatred of him for ruining your life by stealing it for himself, and while you hope to never forgive him for what he’s done, you’re looking past it remarkably fast.

Too fast, you could even say, though with every compliment he gives you, it becomes harder to find issue with this development. With every hand picked present that you’re sure is much too expensive being given to you with that flustered, wide grin on his face, you’ll slowly find yourself forgetting about the rage you promised yourself you’d never forget.

It’s scary, really, how he’s able to mold you into what you hoped you’d never become – loving, submissive to him, wanting to please him so that the love and care you’ve come to grow addicted to is never cruelly ripped away from you.

It’s terrifying just how easily Aran is able to mold you into his ideal lover; he’s not trying to change you by any means, but after a few months with him, you’ll discover that you don’t fully recognize yourself anymore. He isn’t trying to break you down and rebuild your personality to be exactly what he wants, if only because he already loves you exactly the way you are – why would he change anything?

And yet, despite him not trying to, it’s impossible to ignore the way you’ve never been this happy before.

When you look in the mirror, you’ll find yourself smiling much more than you used to; there’s laugh lines starting to appear on your cheeks, surely formed from all the horrible jokes and sweet nothing Aran whispers in your ear with that dashing smile and those callused, gentle hands caressing your body against him.

You’ll discover that you look healthier than you ever have before – your body looks to be at a good, manageable weight, your hair shiny and healthy, your skin cleaner than you remember it being when you were on your own.

And really, who do you have to blame but Aran?

He’s so diligent in taking care of you, so loving and overwhelmingly giving when it comes to making you happy and healthy that you really can’t ignore the way your body and mind has changed. You feel happy, loved – by your captor, no less.

And so while you may have initially been so, so enraged and terrified of him for stealing you away from your old life, eventually the rage will subside, your love and devotion to him taking its place. Aran couldn’t be happier; this is exactly what he wanted, and seeing the way you morph into greeting him when he returns home from practice with a big hug and a flurry of kisses against his cheeks and lips couldn’t be more appreciated.

He just really, really loves you, but that isn’t to say the beginning of your relationship was more rocky, your behavior and feelings towards him not even a shadow of what they are now.

Even at the beginning, Aran was never one to actually hurt you. He hates the idea of physically touching you in anything other than love or in teasing, and so he absolutely refuses to harm you, to punch or scratch or slap or bruise you.

(You’ll notice early on into your intimate life with him that bruises are left often, but only because Aran needs you as close as physically possible when he’s fucking you, keeping your warm body next to his without an inch of space because god, how can you feel so damn good?)

And so, even when Aran gets mad (which is already a rare occurrence), you’ll never have to worry about being on the receiving end of a swinging fist, or having blood pooling anywhere on your body.

He would die before he harms you in that way – it would break him, truly, to the point where he may actually consider ending his life, but only if yours is taken alongside his as well, so that the both of you can be together in life and death.

And so, when Aran does get mad, he’s not even trying to punish you.

A few things can set him off – the main one being any sort of an escape attempt by you.

He’s livid the first few times you try this; he understands why, rationally, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. You’re trying to escape him, to run away from him, clearly showing you aren’t happy. And why aren’t you happy? Doesn’t he give you everything he possibly can, everything you could possibly want?

What more is there for him to give you – he’s already given you his heart, body and soul?

Sunlight is streaming through the window when Aran wakes up, his lashes fluttering as his face scrunches up into a grimace, the bright light not welcome. He groans, rolling over onto his side and instinctually reaching for you – he always sleeps with you in his arms, your warm body against his. He finds it helps him sleep, and often he’ll wait until you drift into a slumber before he stares at your face, tracing the lines of your lips and cheeks with his thumb while he marvels at how beautiful you are.

Except his hands don’t feel you. His eyes shoot open, and at the empty space where your body should be in the bed, immediately he’s bolting out of bed, scrambling to open the bedroom door. The boxers he’s wearing are haphazardly on his hips, and normally he’d be embarrassed that you see him in such a messy state, but he doesn’t fucking care.

Where are you? You’re never up before him – it’s five o’clock in the morning for Christ’s sake, you’re surely not making breakfast.

He’s quick to check the living room, seeing no sign of you anywhere. The kitchen is next, and while he’s relieved to not find a lifeless you bleeding out on the floor, it does little to calm his anxiety.

It’s only once he reaches the front door that he sees you – you’re on your knees, hands desperately working the bobby pin at the deadbolt’s lock, your movements frantic yet obviously trying to stay silent.

Aran stares for a moment, before his face hardens, his legs bursting forward as he scoops you up into his arms. You yelp and kick at him, telling him to let you go as you thrash, but with your every move Aran only finds himself getting more and more angry.

Soon he’s setting you down on the couch (not nearly as gently as he normally does, you distantly note), before taking a few steps back, his dark eyes fixed on you. He’s rubbing at his temples, clutching at his jaw, shaking his head and murmuring something under his breath that you don’t hear.

You’re mad, too, and your mouth opens as you prepare to accuse him. Why did you stop me? I was so close Aran, so close to getting out of this goddamn apartment!

And that’s it, really – it’s enough to have the extremely thin control over his rage snapping off. Why the hell are you trying to leave? What’s wrong with you?

He’s yelling, his voice so loud that you physically cower back into the couch, the cushions soft but not enough. You’ve never heard him sound like this before; this angry, this hurt. His fists are clenched at his sides, the muscles in his torso and arms visibly flexing as he continues on.

I do everything for you, do you understand? I give you every fucking thing I own – my heart, my money, my home, my love! And you what? You squander it? Throw it away like it means nothing? How ungrateful can you be?

He’s lost himself, he knows it, and yet he can’t stop. The prospect of you running away from him is just too much – he's tried too damn hard to get you to love him, to woo you for you to even think of leaving him behind. How can he survive without you?

He’s still yelling, but you’re not listening anymore. You can’t, not as a stinging, hot sensation in your nose leads to tears, your sniffles and small hiccups going ignored by Aran as he continues on.

It’s euphoric, in a way, expressing himself, but as his dark gaze moves from the ceiling (which he’d been yelling at) and towards you, the words die in his throat. Your hands are at your eyes, wiping away the tears as you sob, the emotions overflowing you. The yelling, the escape attempt, the months of trying to repress the way your desire to leave was slowly dwindling was all just too damn much –

You didn’t even realize it had gone quiet in the room until Aran’s arms are around you, your smaller body pressed against his broad chest. His face is against your neck, and you see his shoulders shaking slightly.

You wonder if he’s crying, too.

It’s silent for a few moments as your tears continue to flow, but you hug him back slowly, whispering in a dry, hiccupy voice that you’re s-sorry Aran, ‘m so sorry, I don’t – I don’t know why I tried to leave, I’m happy here. I wanna stay with you, please let me stay with you, please d-don’t leave me, please!

Your arms are fully around him now, clutching onto him with as much vigor as he you, and Aran stiffens slightly. He shouldn’t have yelled at you; that was uncalled for, and he’d made you fucking cry, something that was making him feeling physically ill. And yet, you were saying you didn’t want him to leave you, that you want to stay with him, that you’re happy…

And sure, maybe it’s a ploy to calm him down, but Aran doesn’t care. How can he, when you’re separating after a few moments, a small, sad smile on his lips as he wipes away your tears with his thumb, his voice much softer as he tells you I’ll never leave you, I promise. Shh, shh, it’s okay, I love you, I’ll never let you go. Now c’mere, I’m makin’ us a bath.

He’s quick to call out of practice that morning, settling you into the large white tub in front of him, your head leaning on his chest as the scent of lavender surrounds you both.

He holds you, letting you get the last few tears out, all the while reminding you that he loves you, you’re perfect, you’re his everything, and how can a man live without his whole world?

OVERALL DANGER:

Overall rating: 4/10

Aran really isn’t so much dangerous as he is effective. He’s not intentionally manipulative – no, of course not.

He doesn’t want to trick you into anything, to lure you into falling in love with him. No, he wants your heart honestly, to have you falling in love with him on your own terms, in your own time, so that when you do eventually make him your world, you’re doing so willingly.

However, Aran isn’t adverse to helping you along the path; he’s spending time with you, complimenting you as often as he can, buying you expensive gifts and taking you out on dates (though, you’re never quite sure if he means them romantically or platonically, and you’re almost too scared to ask), anything he can think of that’ll have you falling for him. He just wants you to enjoy being around him, to crave him like he craves you, to return the level of sick devotion he holds for you.

You’re perfect; genuinely everything he could want in a woman, and while it’s a bit embarrassing how horribly whipped and desperate he is for your attention and validation, Aran slowly begins finding that he doesn’t care.

After all, how can anything else besides your love matter?

How can he find it in himself to care whether he comes off as pathetic when he sends you a bouquet of roses on your birthday, the pretty card he spent hours writing (both to solidify what he wanted to write, and also to practice his cursive so you’d think it’s pretty and worth keeping) describing how beautiful you are, how he’d love nothing more than to hold you, kiss you, mark you up so that no other man could ever take you?

Aran slowly loses himself to his obsession with you, and while he’s not particularly delusional or violent, Aran is dedicated. So much so that it’s almost futile to run from his love – he will eventually have you falling for him, returning his feelings whether you realize it or not.

And he couldn’t be happier; the day you willingly return his hugs, initiate kisses, grind down on him with that tight fucking pussy is the happiest day of his life.

Because it means you want him, and who doesn’t like being wanted? Especially by the woman they’ve spent years pining for, obsessing over, watching and fantasizing about like some lovesick teenage boy?

Not even an upstanding man like Aran would resist that – so congratulations, because once he’s hooked, he’s never, ever letting you go.

not your baby

warnings/tags: minors DNI, f. reader, DUB-CON/NON-CON, abo verse, yandere!Oliver (more like he's unsettling but yk), omega!Oliver, omega!reader, obsessive behavior, forced intimacy, manipulation, drugging, heat manipulation, set in the EPL, mentions of hair being run through (brief), appearances from other bllk boys, implied previous isagi x reader but they're platonic at the time of the fic, I'm still finding my footing on Oliver's characterization sorry about him LMFAO, these tags are not exhaustive word count: 13.4k summary: We are assigned roles but those are not without caveats. As predators cannot exist without prey, Oliver is learning he cannot exist without you.

Yoichi calls you in the middle of the day. 

You’ve been staring at your code for the past two hours trying to figure out where it all went wrong so at first, his call is a welcome reprieve. Then he starts talking. 

“Rin broke my nose.” 

“On or off the field?”

“Off,” comes his disgruntled response. There’s a cacophony of noise in the background and you hear Yoichi hiss as someone presumably touches his nose. “Can you bring me one of my scent blockers?” 

You quickly glance at your code and decide to cut your losses and shut down your computer. If it hasn’t been figured out by now, it won’t be figured out for a while. “Yeah. I’ll be there in twenty.” 

You head over to his room and make a beeline for his bathroom. You rifle through his drawers until you find his scent blockers. He asked for one but you pocket the whole box. 

It takes you longer than twenty minutes to get to the stadium due to traffic but you don’t rush as you walk in through the back. He won’t be able to play regardless.

A staff member leads you to the locker room and after a quick discussion with the assistant coach, she waves you in. 

You make eye contact with Yoichi immediately, wincing at the dried blood on his lips and chin. You hold the box up wordlessly as you go to him, already pulling your sleeves over your hand to wipe at his face. 

“They didn’t want to clean you up?” you ask, scrunching your nose as your sleeve drags across his skin.

“Wouldn’t let them,” he says moodily. He’s trying not to glower at Rin who is making a halfhearted attempt at remorse by standing in the vicinity of Yoichi. Rin shuffles to the side awkwardly when you give him your full attention. His pupils are blown out and his fingers tremble with his annoyance. He’s clearly still pissed at Yoichi but your arrival has forced him to act like a respectable alpha. And with the way he’s cautiously eyeing you, he probably fears triggering an early heat with how intense his pre-rut is. 

The smell of it makes your stomach curdle. 

You keep yourself from rolling your eyes in front of him. The education in every country is so bad it would be laughable if it didn’t cause such disturbances in general society.

“You okay?” 

Rin’s surprised your question is aimed at him. “Yeah.”

“Rin’s love language is violence,” a deep voice teases, looping an arm around Rin’s shoulders. He tries to shake it off but the guy adds some weight to his hold and forces Rin to take it. His two toned eyes flick over to you, heavily-lidded with interest. It takes you a moment to connect the dots. 

Oliver Aiku. Arsenal’s captain along with the national team of Japan. He’s an enigma to you out of all of Yoichi’s teammates. 

Stupidly, all that crosses your mind upon seeing him is that he’s tall. 

You have known this. Centre-backs are known for their height and strength. And yet, you are still caught off guard. 

His smell is distinctly omega but his stature implies an alpha nature. He’s large and imposing, taking up more room than any omega you have ever met. He notices the tilt of your head. Tension briefly lines his shoulders but he forces a nonchalance to his stance. He brings his nose upwards and smells you. Even from this distance, you can see how his focus sharpens and his posture becomes more welcoming, a camaraderie solidifying between the two of you amongst all these alphas and betas.

If possible, his smile widens when he notices what you’ve given Yoichi. 

You grimace at the dried blood now speckling your shirt. “You must love Yoichi a lot then.” 

“Too much one could say,” Oliver says, earning an attempt at an elbow from Rin. 

“Did they fit or is your nose too swollen?” you ask, bending down to look at Yoichi’s nose. They set the break though it still trickles with some blood.

He shakes his head. “It’s too swollen,” he says, wincing as he hands you the bloodied scent blocker. 

Oliver intercepts you, tossing the half-used scent blocker to an open locker. It takes more of your focus than you will ever admit to not shy away from him. You know he’s an omega but you can’t shake off how his alpha-like appearance unnerves you. Surreptitiously, he wipes his fingers on Rin. “You came quick,” he says, looking down at you. Somehow, you get the impression you’ve let him down.

“I live to serve him,” you say seriously, pointing at Yoichi.

Yoichi stutters for a second and then groans. “Shut up,” he whines, rubbing his temples. “Did you drive here?” 

You twirl your keys around your finger. “Unfortunately.” 

“I’ll go with you. My head’s killing me.” He shoots a glare at Rin who raises his eyebrows at him.

“Did they check if you have a concussion already?” 

“Yoichi’s too hard-headed for a concussion,” Oliver says. But Yoichi will do a lot for game time and you don’t know if he let them check him probably so you can’t trust his words if Oliver didn’t oversee the checkup. You nudge Yoichi insistently. 

“They looked over him. He’s good to go. Except for the, you know, broken nose,” Oliver reassures you. You give him a brief dip of your chin before focusing back on Yoichi.  

“Are they going to give you the black mask?” 

An excited light enters Yoichi’s eyes. “I hope so. That’d be sick.” 

“Maybe you’ll play better and have the fans wish you always had a broken nose,” you muse, grabbing his jaw and moving his head side to side. It’s going to be a shame when he covers his face. 

“Think they’ll give me a nickname?” 

“Egoist ain’t enough for you?” Oliver says, hands on his hips. Flutters erupt in your stomach. He’s uncomfortably good looking, you realize. The sort where self-consciousness begins to take shape. You leave it be. After all, you’ll either see Oliver enough to get used of his face or you’ll see him so infrequently, the twinge in your gut will be far and between. 

-

It takes a few weeks for you to come to the conclusion that Oliver is kind of an asshole. 

He’s friendly enough, more so than most people if you look at him objectively. But still, he’s an asshole nonetheless. 

You think you’d like him more if he didn’t make your skin crawl. 

Oliver introduces you to the rest of the team and their friends as Yoichi is making his way towards you from the entrance of the coach’s house. Oliver recites your name with a lazy grin and warns them to treat you nicely. You wave shyly at the amount of eyes trained on you, ready to sit down when Oliver continues. 

“Though, imagine our surprise when Yo-chan,” you mouth the nickname, endeared, “Said he was moving in with a friend.” 

The almost explicit implication doesn’t match the lack of curiosity in Oliver’s expression. But you can feel how the rest of Yoichi’s teammates wait with a baited breath for the confirmation of what they suspected. 

You don’t bother to defend you or Yoichi. Their opinions are already set. 

“It’s always good to have a familiar face whenever you’re far from home.” Your smile is strained. 

“That is true,” he agrees. He elongates the last word as if he’ll keep going and your stomach sinks at the thought. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for why an alpha and omega live together without being a bonded pair. 

Yet, Oliver backs off immediately. (His interest only ran as far as he deemed necessary for his team to have.) He seems to have only asked for the sake of the rest of the team and their loved ones. You marvel at how easily he can control the atmosphere and settle any doubts they may have had towards Yoichi. It isn’t common to see an unpaired alpha and omega in such close quarters after all. 

“He’s nice, right?” Yoichi mutters in your ear, having finally made it to you. He’s too quiet for anyone other than you but Oliver shifts as if he can sense the compliment. His scent is affable and he sends a quick wink aimed in your direction. He’s got the type of charisma that has people drifting towards him without thought but a firmness that keeps others from coming too close. 

And yet, something in your gut itches. 

“I guess,” you say eventually. You look at Yoichi’s blue eyes and see the blind trust he holds towards his captain and you amend your statement. “He’s good for the team. A proper captain.”  

“Our final wall,” Yoichi says proudly. 

You don’t frown necessarily but it’s something close. “Is that his nickname?” 

“Yeah. I mean unofficially. The god snake is his other one.” 

Creativity is left to the midfielders it seems. “Start with that one. The final wall sounds stupid,” you advise. 

“You don’t think it sounds sick?” 

“He’s a defender so it’s kind of a given, no?” 

He considers this. “I guess. It’s still cool though. Especially considering he’s an—” Yoichi’s mouth shuts. 

You brush off the aborted comment immediately. “They usually play midfield,” you hum, regarding the nickname in a different light at the reminder. It’s hard to reconcile he isn’t an alpha given how imposing he is. You sound like a broken record in your own mind for having to be reminded of his secondary gender. That nickname has probably bolstered his image more than any other nickname could have in his position. “Fine. It is a cool nickname then.” Begrudgingly so. 

“See? Oliver is cool. He was so intense during that U-20 game.” 

“He played?” Yoichi’s made you watch the game a couple of times but most of the guys are a blur in your mind. “Did Sae involve him in any plays?” 

Yoichi cuts you an unimpressed look. “Sae wasn’t the only player there.” 

Sae was certainly the prettiest, however. 

“He was the only omega,” you point out and then correct yourself, “Or so I thought.” 

“I told you about Oliver!”

“Yeah but I didn’t know you meant him.” You jerk your thumb in Oliver’s general direction. “My bad.”

Yoichi stares at you and then laughs, shaking his head. “I think your nickname would’ve been ego breaker.” 

“That’s so lame.” 

He chuckles, steering you towards the snack table. “Sorry, I was late. Traffic got my ass.” 

“What did coach have to say about that?”

Yoichi winces. “I have to run twenty extra laps next practice.”

“He’s intense.”

“You don’t even know the half of it.” 

The party goes on and Yoichi leads you around. It’s clear to see he’s found a place in this team already. Joy radiates off of him as he introduces you to more of his teammates and coaching staff. You’re met with warm welcomes despite the somewhat frosty beginning. It takes a few teammates for you to find your footing and be able to joke around with Yoichi properly. After some time, he’s whisked away. There’s an apologetic pat on your back before you’re left to your own devices. With your skin prickling with self-consciousness, you sit on the couch and try not to look as out of place as you are. You’re replying to a text when you feel the couch dip beside you. A familiar scent tickles your nose. 

“Yoichi abandoned you?” Oliver doesn’t give you a chance to respond before saying, “First, he’s late. And now he’s leaving you to the wolves.”  He whistles. “That’s two strikes.” 

Your tongue presses against the back of your teeth. Your irritation sparks but you douse it. He’s only making conversation, that’s all. “Three.” You hold up said amount of fingers. “He forgot to bring the wine.” 

“Coach isn’t impressed by stuff like that,” he says and then grimaces. “Believe me. Some of the kids have tried.” 

He’s not that much older than the rest of the squad but you bite back your smile. You incline your head in agreement. “But his wife would appreciate it.”

“Schmoozer, eh?” 

“What can I say? I love to see beautiful women smile.” 

That gets a proper laugh out of him. “Yeah, alright.” 

Silence lapses between you two yet you don’t try to break it. You’d rather Oliver find someone else to talk to especially if this is for pity.

“You enjoying the party?” He shifts so the top half of his body is facing you. Something gleams in his eyes. “Did Yoichi send you that video? The one of him with the bicycle kick?” 

“Oh yeah! He did. Did he show you it yet?” 

Oliver shakes his head, earnestly looking at you. Immediately you start scrolling through your messages with Yoichi. He’s sent you countless soccer videos alongside mini vlogs of his training so it takes you longer to search for the particular one Oliver is asking about. He sits closer to you, thighs spread enough to encroach onto your space. His shoulder leans into you as he angles his head to look at your phone.

“Hm? Is that it?” he asks, pointing at the video on screen. A video that is clearly not the one of Yoichi he was asking about. 

You’re overly conscious of the body heat that is radiating off of him. He’s so close you don’t want to move a muscle in fear of touching him more. 

“Give me a second,” you say, trying to lean away in a way that doesn’t look obvious. But he follows you further into your space, going as far as to lean his head down close enough to almost rest his chin on your shoulder. 

“Hi. Sorry to interrupt.” You look up to see a woman shifting on her feet. She sniffs the air delicately, a pleased little smile dimpling her cheek. You go a little slack jawed at her beauty. But your interest doesn’t matter as her eyes are not on you. 

You inhale softly. Beta. 

Risking a peek at Oliver, you see him smile an easy smile at her. There’s a certain amount of unspoken charm to him now, exceeding his normal amount. His posture shifts and you realize this is what Oliver looks like when he knows someone’s interested in him. His vested interest hasn’t been triggered yet but he knows how to play the game. And you suppose from your limited knowledge of him, this is the part he enjoys the most.

You don’t want to stick around for it. You don’t bother with a proper goodbye, not with the way she hesitates to continue talking to Oliver with you still there. 

Yoichi is still with Hiori so you make an escape to the very nice patio you could never afford in this lifetime. Surprisingly, there is no one else out here. 

Relief sags your shoulders. The air is balmy and weighted as if to remind you of how hard this all really is. Everything about London is so different you feel like a fish out of water. It’s been a few weeks but you are no closer to adapting to this environment than you were when you first step foot in this city. Yoichi has more friends than you realized within the English league. What are you even doing here? 

“Fuck,” you mutter. You should’ve told Yoichi you’d come until he adjusted to London rather than move in with him. 

You turn to see if Oliver’s made any progress with that beta. He’s smiling at her indulgently, head tilted as if he’s listening intently. But his eyes keep sliding towards your direction and his placid smile twitches each time he does so.

You bite on your cheek. He’s such a strange man. It’s a wonder Yoichi has him so figured out because you cannot get a grasp on him. And you keep failing whatever tests he’s concocted in his mind and it’s driving you up a wall calculating your words the way you are.

You scroll through your phone for a lack of something better to do, praying Yoichi puts you out of your misery and tells you he’s ready to go home. 

“Oh.”

Flinching so hard you nearly toss your phone onto the ground, you whip around at the voice. It’s Rin. 

He’s schooled his face into something neutral. He shuffles backwards and then decides you don’t own the patio and comes closer. Rin doesn’t stand by you but he lingers around you politely. It’s so reminiscent to how he acted when he broke Yoichi’s all those weeks ago you have to laugh. 

Your throaty laugh startles him enough to narrow his eyes suspiciously at you. “I don’t bite,” you say. 

He weighs the choices you’ve put into his hands and then faces you. “I know.” 

“Hi Rin,” you say, enunciating the two syllables expectantly. 

He repeats after you. “How are you?” His arms are crossed over his chest. The corner of your mouth twitches. Oh, it’s such a burden for him to make small talk. 

“I’m a little stressed out but you know.” By the blank look that enters his eyes, he doesn’t. Though, while it may be mean to think, Rin tends to have an empty look on his face whenever soccer isn’t involved. “How are you?”

“Fine.” 

Silence fills the space between you two and after a while, Rin begins to face forward but you won’t let him off that easy. 

“So you’re on loan?” you prompt, earning back Rin’s attention. 

He nods. His lips thin as if he’s pouting but trying to hide it. “Sae figured I’d have an easier time grasping this system first and then playing for Real Madrid and coach agreed.” He tips his head upwards so he’s looking at the dark night sky. “And here I am.” 

“Has it been good so far?” 

The loan system is unfamiliar despite Yoichi explaining it to you every time you ask. You can’t wrap your head around playing somewhere for a season and then coming back to your original team. Is there no fear of swapping hidden tactics? Or leaking locker room exclusive secrets? Or worse yet, falling in love with a team you know you are destined to be at for only a short amount of time? 

“I like here. Not more than I like it at Real Madrid but it’s fine,” he says.

“Is it for the full season or…?”

He drops his arms from their crossed state. A brief stint of regret makes his lips purse as he says, “Full season. Seemed stupid to go for only a couple months.” 

If Rin hates it here, these next seven months will be hell. But if he falls in love with Arsenal, the end of the season will be brutal. You don’t think you could handle the uncertainty. 

“That’s tough.” 

“If it’s what it’ll take to be the best, I don’t care.” 

You don’t know how Yoichi made it out of Blue Lock with enough of his sanity intact to masquerade as a functioning human being if this type of person is who he was surrounded with for months on end. You don’t doubt Ron’s love for soccer but Yoichi’s particular brand of intensity has you wondering if Rin will be devoured in a different way this time around. 

So you pivot. “Your rut go okay?”

From Yoichi you know Rin had to go on a stronger suppressant. The stresses of moving teams and subsequently countries shifted his hormones enough to make him more susceptible to his pre-rut. Yoichi immediately started taking a higher dosage to mitigate a similar reaction and he’s been grumpy as a side effect. Rin is grumpy as his default so you can’t tell if anything has changed for him. 

Rin is quiet for long enough you begin to wonder if you overstepped. Then he says, “It was fine. Standard.” 

“I hope Yoichi’s is standard,” you mutter under your breath. You’re forcing him to do his own laundry otherwise. 

“You take care of Yoichi during his?” Rin’s curiosity is mild but you’ve captured his full attention. 

This must be payback for your earlier question. “Not anymore. It’s easier if we don’t blur those lines.” You leave it at that. 

But it piques Rin’s interest further. Unconsciously, he leans towards you. “So you go to another alpha during your heat then?” 

That makes your eyebrows raise. There’s nothing suggestive other than his wording but you take advantage nonetheless. 

“Why? You offering?” you tease, laughing when Rin tenses up. 

“I wouldn’t—shut up,” he snaps, turning away from you. But you don’t miss the way his ears redden with his newly cut hair giving way to the sight. You laugh harder. He set himself up.

“Relax, you baby. I don’t even like alphas,” you say. 

“You don’t?” He doesn’t mean to sound like he’s accusing you of lying but distrust lies heavily between those two words. 

It curbs your good mood. “Would you?” 

“But biologically—” 

“Technology’s advanced these days,” you cut in sharply. He’s young but not so young to be this ignorant. “Just because something is idealized doesn’t mean it’s the only correct way to deal with a heat.” 

A charged quiet lies between you two. And then, “You’re right. I didn’t mean it that way but I guess there’s no other way it could be meant if I say it like that.” 

You loose a breath. “It’s fine.” And then you peek at him. An admonished Rin is a little too irresistible even for you. “But if you are offering…”

He turns back around with a glare. “Don’t.” 

You hold your hands up, a grin tugging at your mouth. “I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind,” you sing, faking a step back when Rin’s glare intensifies. 

“Wouldn’t mind what?” 

You both twist at the familiar voice. Oliver ducks his head underneath the door frame as he steps onto the patio. He’s got an impersonal smile you don’t think he realizes you can pick up on spread across his mouth. 

“Rin as my heat partner.” “Nothing.” 

If looks could kill, Rin would have set you on fire right about now. 

“Okay, I’ll stop.” You yield. No wonder Sae can’t stop pushing Rin’s buttons. If he looks this cute with just a little poking, you think you’d do the same. 

You go to share a teasing look with Oliver but to your surprise, he looks thrown off. He recovers quickly, that same impersonal smile pulling at the corners of his lips again, and he says, “Yo-chan’s looking for you, Rin.” 

Oliver notices your slight pout and smirks a bit. “Guess you’re stuck here then.” 

After a moment of staring, Rin nods at you guys before heading back into the house. He looks back, a small wrinkles between his brows before he shakes it off and disappears into the living room. You’ll give Yoichi some more time before you head out. You don’t think you can last much longer trying to scramble for conversation topics.

“Rin would be an awful heat partner,” Oliver says suddenly. “Selfish.” 

The sudden comment forces you to let out a flabbergasted laugh. “And you aren’t?” Your eyes widen at the slip of tongue. That is not at all what you would have said if you actually too more than a second to think. “Sor-”

“I’m not,” he says after a moment. He’s not offended so his tone is very matter-of-fact. “I could show you if you want.” 

His voice is lined with just the right amount of flirtatious to not make you feel stupid if you do say yes. But you can’t take a guy like Oliver seriously. His reputation precedes him and you’d rather go with what you’ve heard around than what you’ve heard from his friends when it comes to this aspect of his life. Not that Yoichi spends an incredible amount of time explaining those specific details but Yoichi is privy to an Oliver most do not get to know, you included thus far. 

“Pass.”

“Oh come on, baby. I could show you a good time,” he says almost reflexively. The flirtatious note in his voice gives way to joking which you appreciate much more. 

Though, the endearment tickles the wrong part of your brain. And your mistake is you don’t nip it in the bud immediately. He notices the way your shoulders raise up to your ears a bit at the pet name. And his smile broadens. 

“Not your baby,” you reprimand. “What did Yoichi need Rin for anyway?” 

Oliver blinks and then grins conspiratorially. “He didn’t. You just looked like you were giving Rin a hard time.” At your disbelieving raised eyebrows, he pats his chest. “I have a bleeding heart.” 

He makes you giggle. It’s awful. And what he said is not even particularly funny. You just like the idea of Oliver coming to save Rin because you know Rin would rather eat his own foot than have someone swoop in to help him out. 

“Captain my captain,” you recite mockingly, saluting him with two fingers. “It’s cute they all call you that.” 

Oliver sucks in his cheek. “You think so?” 

The respect Oliver has earned from his team is admirable considering how young he and the squad are. The older members defer to him as well without resentment, content to shuffle the responsibility over to him. “Yeah.” 

He brings his hands up to rest on the back of his head. He’s so large his elbows dip into your space but only slightly so you don’t back away. The sleeve of his shirt tightens underneath the swell of muscle, seams straining. You quickly divert your attention to his face. Luckily, he’s focused on the sky, lip tucked underneath his teeth. He makes a sound of agreement but it lacks any substance. 

“You don’t think so?” You can’t help to ask. 

“No, it is nice,” he agrees, though he opts to not address the choice of word you used to describe it. His voices deepens into something wistful. “You just reminded me of something.” 

You don’t ask for clarification and he doesn’t offer it. You don’t like him anymore than you did at the beginning of the night but you think you are seeing what it is Yoichi is talking about when it comes to Oliver.  

-

Weeks pass and you see Oliver more often than you think you should. 

You slip out of your shoes, nose wrinkling at the vaguely familiar scent floating from the living room. Peeking your head around the corner, you see a mop of dark hair and then you see the body it’s connected to. 

Oliver sits languidly on your couch with his shirt half up his body. You eye the curves of his stomach and waist getting a grip on yourself and put your shoes in their proper place. 

“Hey Oliver,” you say once you step into the living room. 

He doesn’t startle, clearly having smelled you as soon as you walked in, and gives you an indulgent smile. His clean scent wraps around you in some semblance of comfort but it only serves to make your skin crawl at the casual intimacy he’s thrust upon you. But you work to control your own reaction, careful to keep your own scent from becoming bitter through sheer will alone. “Hope it’s cool Yoichi let me have the code,” he says.

Your eye just about twitches. Omegas are not plentiful so it makes sense why Yoichi assumes you would be okay with a fellow one flitting in and out of your home if he feels comfortable enough with Oliver. But the lack of heads up irks you. You also understand he feels a sort of kinship to Oliver, born from his Blue Lock game against him all those years ago, and assumes you won’t make a fuss as you aren’t ought to do. 

Your tuck your bottom lip under your teeth, worrying the skin. Yoichi would be right to think that. You trust his instincts, but you trust your gut as well. And you don’t trust Oliver for some inexplicable reason. 

“I mean, you have it now, so,” you shrug, neither an agreement or accusation. 

He watches you and then he nods good-naturedly. “He said he’s gonna be late for dinner. Should we order something?” 

Your teeth bite down harder on your skin. So he won’t be leaving any time soon. Fantastic. 

“There’s a pho place down the road if you’re fine with that?” you offer hesitantly, hoping it’s a food he hates. 

His smile widens enough to show his top row of teeth. “Sounds good. Let me know the name and I’ll order. My treat,” he adds unnecessarily.

It takes half an hour for the order to come. Oliver spends it trying to sneakily get you to join him on the couch to watch some reality show he’s been into lately. He’s frustrated with your denials by the time you have the bag in your hand. You cut him some slack and bring the food to the living room. Only then do you take a seat on the couch at a casual distance from him, curling up your legs and setting your pho on your lap. 

“You find a heat center yet?” Oliver asks, sucking up some noodles. 

You tap the container with your nails and then shake your head. Heat centers aren’t your preference and you say as such. Unlike Rin, he’s a fellow omega so you feel less guarded telling him this not-quite taboo. 

He looks a little surprised. “You handle them yourself?” 

Shrugging, you say, “Mine are pretty mild so there’s no need. If it gets really bad, Yoichi helps out but,” and you trail off, embarrassed you shared so much so without thinking. Aiming to shift the topic, you ask, “Do you usually use heat center?” 

He chuckles and steals a piece of beef out of your bowl. Through a swallow, he says, “Nah, not really. We have mandated heats during the season so there’s no need. Yoichi said yours were pretty irregular so I was just wondering.” 

You hide your grimace behind a spoonful of broth. Leave it to Yoichi to leave your personal business on the table. “Is it tough having your heats regulated like that?” 

Oliver chews thoughtfully. From Yoichi you know that alphas can keep playing well into pre-rut. The idea is that the quickness to aggression stemming from the hormonal imbalance will aid in their game. The safety concerns do not matter as long as the league gets an explosive game out of the thinning patience of their alpha players and so certain precautions have to be exerted by the players rather than be regulated by the league. Yoichi tends to play with a mild scent blocker even at the cost of it affecting some of his playing style. One three-match ban was enough to keep him corralled. 

There are so few known omegas in all of soccer, and especially in the English league, that you don’t think there are any leniencies when it comes to heats. A low grade preheat forced your old company to send you home in fear of inciting the alphas so you can’t imagine the league handles heats any better. 

“It’s necessary,” he says finally, shrugging. “I guess I’ll find out if it was a bad call in a couple years.” 

In professions like his, mandatory heats are a necessity though there isn’t much research to support they aren’t harmful. Summer break is when they’re allowed off whatever medications their medical team has deemed needed but those pitiful thirteen weeks aren’t enough to regulate their hormones. 

You’d feel worse for him if he wasn’t getting paid millions to kick a ball around a field. 

“That sucks,” you say but not without empathy.

“Could be worse. They could’ve banned us outright.”

It was only in the last twenty years omegas were publicized in the athletic world. Oliver is one of few who hasn’t hidden their secondary gender behind one more favorable. 

“Could be better,” you sigh, pushing your bowl towards Oliver. You hate that he has to take his wins where he can scavenge them. “I guess having a schedule for them can be kinda nice,” you admit begrudgingly. Only in recent years have your heats stabilized enough to be expected at a similar time every two months. 

“It makes life easier,” he agrees. Oliver abandons his empty bowl for yours. You will never have to worry about leftovers so long as you remain surrounded by professional soccer players. 

“Mine used to be so irregular and so intense. It’s insane they let alphas play almost to their rut if those ruts are anything like what my heats used to be,” you say, leaning back on the couch. The league would rather be demolished than lose money in the name of player safety. You mentally shake your head. Those sick bastards. 

Oliver chews on his food. He swallows and then says casually, “If you ever need a partner, just let me know.” 

You’re so stunned you can’t speak. There’s a dry patch where your voice should be. He goes on, shifting his position to face you. “Doesn’t matter when. Promise.” 

When he moves closer, the room feels terribly small as if dwarfed by this abrupt unsettling intimacy. He only needs to put his hand on the other side of your waist to trap you and it twitches as if predicting your train of thought. You wish he wouldn’t reach out his hand like that.

The front door bangs against the wall. You immediately jump off of the couch, uncaring of the bean sprouts you spill. Oliver’s hand drops atop of the blanket. 

“You won’t believe what coach had me doing,” Yoichi whines, hand braced on the wall as he unties his shoes. 

“What did he do?”

Yoichi launches into his story, scarfing down the pho in between complaints while you listen intently. His eyes bore into the side of your head when Yoichi’s attention drifts to the TV as he talks. 

You don’t speak to Oliver for the rest of the night.

-

“Oliver comes over a lot,” you say unprompted. 

Yoichi’s deciding between shin guards so it takes him a second to process what you said. He continues weighing each shin guard in his hand but glances at you, mouth turning up at the corner sheepishly. “Yeah.”

“You know, just because we’re omegas, doesn’t mean we’re gonna get along,” you say to Yoichi with a little more sharpness than is warranted. You close your eyes, wishing you could better keep yourself from taking your frayed nerves out on him.   

His gaze drops to the ground and he nods. “I know,” he says, stamping down on his defensiveness. “I just thought it’d be nice if you had another omega around. There’s not many in the league and you don’t know anyone here.” He scuffs at the ground with his cleats. “I don’t want you to be lonely.” 

Sticky affection clogs your throat for a moment. “I’m not lonely,” you grumble. But Yoichi sees right through you and reaches out to squeeze your hand. “I have you,” you insist. 

“You do. But you should also have someone you can rely on that understands what I don’t.” He ducks his head sheepishly. “Oliver’s the one who told me to put that essential oil in your bath to help with your,” he motions towards your lower belly, “You know.” Yoichi’s been around the block enough to not be embarrassed but the reminder of how he ended up helping you out makes the both of you look to the side. 

Whatever it was Oliver told Yoichi to mix into your bath did help tremendously even if it made you lightheaded with desire. You should thank him next time. “You’re right, I’m just being annoying.” Then you point at him. “He should start paying rent since he’s here all the time.” 

“You don’t pay rent.”

“Do I make millions for playing with balls?” you point out, sticking out your tongue. 

“You know I’m too dumb to do anything but kick a ball around,” he says, tucking his shinguard into his socks. 

You mutter, “I’ve met some of your teammates. You are the last one I’d be worried about if you had a different career, believe me.” 

He grins at you. “Good thing they’re pretty too, huh?” 

“Beauty, brains, and brawn cannot all exist at once. You gotta pick two.” 

“And your diagnosis for Rin?” 

Your answer is instant. “Beauty.”

“Hiori?” 

“Beauty and brains.” 

“Oliver?” he teases. 

“I plead the fifth.” 

“That’s such a cop out.” 

-

It’s the third time Yoichi’s late from work. 

Your nose stings from the cold air. Last time, Hiori kept you company while you waited. Out of Yoichi’s teammates so far, Hiori has been the one you’ve taken an instant liking to. You’re hoping he’s stayed after again but with your luck, you should expect the worse of two evils. 

Oliver tucks his phone into his pocket once he makes eye contact and begins to jog over to you. You quicken your pace to meet him in the middle, a question on the tip of your tongue he answers within the second you’re in earshot. 

“Coach is talking to Yo-chan.” 

“Ah,” you say, slowing to a stop in front of him. “I’ll wait for him then.” 

“I’ll take you home. We can get dinner while we’re at it,” Oliver says easily. 

You look towards the stadium doors, a refusal on your lips when Oliver gets one hand on your shoulder and one on the small of your back and spins you around. “It’s going to take a while and he said to tell you to not wait up.” 

The obscenely casual touch sends goosebumps down your arms. The sleeves of your shirt scratch against the sensitized skin and you shy away from Oliver. He pauses when he notices you curl into yourself but he doesn’t take his hands off of you right away. His palm slides off of you slowly and then he brings his gloves to his teeth, pulling them off by the finger. He bends down until he’s eye level with you. He peers at your face with a strange look. “Your eyes are red.” He points at them and then lays his hand flat against your forehead. “And you’re warm,” he says to himself. 

“Am I?” you ask, bewildered. Your cheeks felt a little flushed earlier but you figured it was because you put too many layers on. You haven’t quite figured out how to manage the London weather yet. 

Then he leans towards your neck, sniffing so close to you the tip of his nose caresses your pulse. Your heart jumps at the barely there contact but Oliver is already straightening up before you can scold him. 

“I thought your heat wasn’t till the end of the month?” 

“Huh?”

He sniffs the air again, face scrunching up. “You smell like preheat. It’s really faint but,” he says, confused, “Isn’t it too early?” 

“Why do you know when my heat is supposed to be?” you ask suspiciously. You make yourself scarce whenever your heat approaches seeing as it can vary on the exact day. Some months, you even miss your supposed scheduled time by a week or two. Yoichi is one of a handful of people you allow around you when you’re more than suspecting of it coming up. A misplaced alpha can send you from a manageable state to something unbearable in a split second. 

“Yoichi,” he says obviously. “He told me to keep an eye on you at the end of every month just in case.” 

Your puckered mouth softens. While invasive and inconsiderate of your comfort, Yoichi is well-intentioned. 

“I don’t feel anything,” you say, puzzled. Usually, there would be some discomfort between your legs and a noticeable ache in your lower back. But you feel remarkably fine if only a bit warmer than normal now that he’s mentioned it. “It’s probably something else.”

“No, it’s not,” Oliver says assuredly. His tone is final. “I can smell it.”

“Yeah, but you could also be smelling one that’s a week or two away.” You’re almost certain you are the only other omega Oliver interacts with on a regular basis so it’s not surprise he’s especially attuned to you. Though, you should give Oliver more credit for picking up on the slight shift of your scent given omegas are sensitive towards any minute changes in another omega. The confirmation of it is alarming however. Perhaps Oliver staying over so often and surrounding himself with your scent has signaled something to him. 

He gives you a disbelieving frown. “If you say so. I think I have some stuff that helps keep it at bay.” He adjusts his duffel bag to pick through the pockets. Within moments, he produces a small pill bottle. He shakes it at you. “This will lessen the symptoms.” Digging through another pocket, he sucks at his teeth when he finds it empty. “I have one that delays it but I forgot it at home.” 

Having taken the orange pill bottle from him, you roll it around in your hand. The pills are small, white, and harmless looking. Curiously, the label is blacked out. The cap is marked off with a green stripe but there is nothing to indicate what he’s given you is what he says it is. 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” 

Oliver freezes at the accusation. Genuine insult creases his mouth into a line. “What?”

You shove the bottle back into his duffel bag. A laugh catches in the back of your throat at his bafflement. You’re the one who’s baffled. “I’m not gonna take some random pills. You don’t even have these labeled.” 

“Why the fuck would I lie to you?” He’s at a loss, glancing from you to the pocket you slipped the bottle back into. “What the fuck? These are my travel pills. We have to have them unlabeled in case I lose them.” Your suspicion doesn’t lessen so he relents. “Fine. Come over and I’ll show you what they are so you can look them up.” 

“‘Preciate it but I’ll pass.” 

You think he would be less shocked if you outright slapped him than he is at your adamant refusal. His jaw is ajar. “Dude, I wouldn’t—we’re both omegas. Why would I—” Oliver stalls, unable to finish a thought.

“I’m not saying you are trying to do anything. Besides, those probably won’t work on me like they’re supposed to.” 

“But you’re not not saying that. You’re implying it.”

Anything that will come out of your mouth will make the situation worse so you stay silent. And it’s silence that follows you home as you drive back alone. 

-

You’re sidelined for six days by an unexpected heat. It’s one that knocks you on your ass. Yoichi is concerned enough to actually offer taking off from training for a day or two to help you out. You shoot him down instantly. His position in the starting eleven is still up in the air and like hell you’ll let your heat keep him from securing his spot.

But then it happens again. Instead of your usual two month break between heats, you find yourself in the same position a mere four weeks later. Rather than you’re normal four days, your heat has now lengthened to last the full week. The effect on your body is immediate. It takes you a while to recover from the unforeseen shift in your heat cycle. 

Yoichi puts a hand on your forehead worriedly. You sigh as coolness emanates from his palm. “You’ve been getting sick more often since we moved here,” he says, frowning. 

Your eyes flutter shut and you press your forehead a little more insistently to his hand. He lets out an amused puff of air and starts running his hand through your hair, scratching at your scalp. “My hormones have been so sensitive lately,” you say sleepily. “They’re like a live wire.”

His hand pauses. “Do you think it’s because,” and he swallows thickly, “There are not a lot of omegas here?” 

You open your eyes to level him with a scathing look. “I have friends outside of you, you know.” You wrangled your anxiety into something manageable and found some omega friends to commiserate with when life in London got too much. They were soothing company but did nothing to worsen nor alleviate your fluctuating hormones so you suspect the fault must lie with you. “It’s gotta be something else. Stress probably.” You heave out a weighted breath. 

Yoichi clicks his tongue. “I don’t know,” he trails off, “You weren’t like this when we were in Germany.” You hear his unspoken worry. You had even less of a support system there.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say dismissively. “I’ll probably be back to normal in a couple months. Remember how long it took me to be normal after I got off of birth control?” 

Yoichi makes a face at the reminder. “Shit, yeah, that was awful.” 

“I’ll be fineeee. No need to worry your pretty little head.” 

He goes back to scratching your scalp. “Look, I don’t want to leave you alone, especially since I’ll be having to fly back and forth for a while. Oliver’s injured so he’s out for a couple weeks. I can ask him to check up on you.” 

Your answer is a resounding, “No.”

He frowns. “I thought you guys got along.”

You have skirted around telling him how pissed off Oliver has been since you last saw him.You aren’t quite ready to admit you did more than wound his pride, especially to Yoichi. He won’t approve of your scathing distrust for his captain given how unwarranted it seems to an outsider. “Doesn’t mean I want him taking care of me.” 

He kisses his teeth. “Seriously? He’s probably better company than I am for this sort of thing.” 

As much as his insistence that somehow your cure would be another omega irks you, you don’t want to fight. “Whatever. He’s injured anyway, you should let him rest. I’ll be okay.” 

Yoichi eventually leaves to catch a flight after almost calling in to take a day off despite it being impossible for him to do so with his schedule. He nearly misses it with how long he lingers. He tucks you into his bed and makes you promise to at least text him every hour with an update. At your bleary stare, he sighs and mutters, “Forget it. I’m calling someone.” But you’re asleep before his words enter your ears. 

Hours later, or so you assume, you wake up. It’s warmer now but the heat is external rather than internal. It’s a comfortable warmth that makes you want to sink into it further and so you do with a happy little sigh. 

“Comfortable?” 

Your eyes pop open. Yoichi’s blanket is up to your nose so it is his scent that filters through but you know that voice. Peeking over your shoulder, Oliver lays beside you. His head is held up by his hand with an amused smile. The sight of him muddles your already lagging brain so you ask, “Where’s Yoichi?” 

Oliver’s smile dims. But he recovers before you can ask him what’s wrong. “He had to go to Spain. So you’ll have to make do with me,” he cajoles. 

“Oh.” Right. He almost missed his flight before you fell asleep. “Did he make it already?”

His voice is flat as he answers, “Yeah. A couple hours ago.” 

“Ugh, and he called you right after?” you whine with a scratchy throat. Yoichi didn’t even give you a chance to prove yourself. 

Oliver continues to run his fingers up and down your back. You enjoy the soothing feel of his skin against yours before reality sinks in. “Why are you in bed with me?” you ask, scooting away from him. This is the type of strange behavior you can’t explain away with any rational though nor use his personality as an excuse for. Who the fuck did Yoichi entrust you to? 

“You’ve been getting a lot of preheat symptoms lately,” Oliver says, ignoring you. He wipes away the sweat on your hairline. You tug your blanket closer to your chin, flipping over so you’re facing the wall instead. He laughs at your attempt to ignore him and instead, wraps himself around you. His legs are longer than yours and he throws one of them over you, pulling you to his chest and tightening said leg over your hip. 

You want to blame him for why your heats have suddenly become irregular but you know you will sound ridiculous. This stuff didn’t happen before Oliver started haunting your home. 

The caramel notes to his scent deepens as he buries his nose behind your ear. The comfort of another person is too strong for you to yell at him or bite at the hand that’s slowly inching to your waist. The latent buzz in your head slows to something manageable.

“All bite and no bark,” he murmurs affectionately. 

“Shut up. Get out of my bed.” 

“Isn’t this Yoichi’s bed?”

“Su cama es mi cama.” 

“I don’t think that’s how it goes,” he says, chuckling. 

“What’s his is mine.” 

“Mm, still not right.” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be helping?” You turn around abruptly to face him. Shooing at him, you gesture towards the door. “Go be helpful and clean the living room.” 

He doesn’t move to get off the bed. Instead, he pulls you closer with his leg. “Want me to wear a maid costume while I do it, baby?” 

“‘M not your baby,” you snap. 

“You’re mine to take care of so,” he shrugs. 

You squint at him. “You’re supposed to be injured. You need to take care of yourself first.” 

He holds his hands up. “Doctor’s orders were to rest. So we should both go back to sleep.” 

“You can sleep. I need to eat something.” Untangling yourself from the blanket and from Oliver’s hold, you get up. The world tilts and the edges of your vision blacken but you quickly steady yourself before Oliver can try and do something uncouth like carry you out of the room. He groans but gets out of bed as well. 

“Yoichi ordered soup. It’s still in the kitchen.” He swings his head to look out your door and then waves his hand at you. “Get back into bed. I’ll bring it.”

You don’t need much convincing to crawl under the blanket. He laughs at your quick acquiescence, scratching at his stomach as he walks over to the kitchen. It doesn’t take long for him to come back. Multiple bowls are balanced on his arms along with a towel. He places the soup containers on your desk and sets one of your mixing bowls on top of your nightstand. Water sloshes dangerously close to the edge but he manages not to spill any. At your confusion, he explains, “A cold towel usually helps me out.” 

It’s surprisingly thoughtful. “Thanks.” You dip the cloth into the icy water. A shiver runs through you as you place the wet cloth over the back of your neck. 

He nods and then picks up one of the books cast aside on your table. It’s a fantasy novel you haven’t gotten around. He taps its spine to the edge of your dresser, kissing his teeth. “You hide your raunchier books or something?” He surveys your bookshelf, analyzing each of the titles with a quick eye. 

You lean back on your hands. “No. They’re on my phone.”

“Don’t want anyone knowing what you’re reading?” 

You shake your head. “More that it’s easier to read with one hand if it’s on your phone.”

It doesn’t compute until it does. Before he can respond, you make grabby hands at him. “Can you pass me the soup?” 

You take the container from him. You wait for him to settle on the bed before balancing the bowl on his thigh. The warmth of the soup on your skin along with the slowly warming towel on your neck is bordering on overstimulation so you make it Oliver’s burden to bear. 

“Want me to feed you or something?”

The way you consider it makes Oliver laugh. “You’re spoiled, huh?” 

You scratch at your cheek, feeling a little sheepish. “A little bit. I’m used to being babied rather than doing the babying.”

“You baby Yoichi.” His voice pitches strangely.  

You take off the wet cloth. He doesn’t have enough time to smooth out his frown. “You jealous?” you joke. 

He takes the cloth from you and soaks it once more. With a hum, he wrings it out and places it back over your neck. The chilled water is less intense against your cooled skin but you flinch nevertheless. Flipping his hand over, he rests it on your skin. “If you took those pills I gave you, you wouldn’t be dealing with this. You keep getting sick because your heat’s unregulated,” he says pointedly. 

“Aren’t those tailor made with you in mind?” you grumble. You weren’t expecting him to bring it up until after your heat passed. 

“Not really. I have to be able to give them to another omega player in case something happens. So it’s specific but not that specific.” 

The guilt that washes over you scalds you. “I didn’t handle that night well.” 

“Yeah, no shit.”

It takes you a second to string together your words but Oliver waits patiently for you to find them. He’s unreadable but not unreachable. You swirl your spoon in the broth, watching as a whirlpool forms. “The first thing my mom taught me was to never trust anything anyone gives me concerning my heat unless it was from her or a doctor I knew. So I’m extremely distrustful to a fault. Like…it’s to my detriment.” Not that anything excuses you ripping Oliver’s head off for trying to help another omega. “Doesn’t mean how I chose to react is okay. I shouldn’t have ripped into you like that. I’m sorry.” 

He lets you sweat for a full minute before nodding. “Okay.”

“We’re good?”

“Yeah, we’re good.” The words are soft, at odds with the almost violent intensity of his lidded eyes. Then he smiles, erasing what you think you saw so quickly you reassure yourself your heat addled brain is filling in spaces that do not exist. “Omegas gotta stick together, right?” 

-

This is the first time you’ve visited Oliver’s apartment. 

With the unusual resurgence of your heat cycle, you broke down and asked Oliver for some medical intervention. Yoichi tore into you when you finally admitted what you said to Oliver, appalled you could even think he would try to pull one over on you. His disappointment didn’t last long but remembering the sheer disbelief on his face sends shame sluicing through your veins. Which is why you are in front of Oliver’s door as if by taking the medication you so vehemently refused will absolve you of all sin. 

It’s bad timing on your part seeing as Oliver is on the cusp of his preheat but he insisted on you getting some of his extra strength medications to tide you over until you can get an appointment with a heat doctor. 

He opens the door. His face is flushed and there’s a pretty sheen of sweat on his skin. He’s without a shirt, a considerable amount of bare skin on display. You can’t help how your eyes immediately zero in on the outline of his half hard cock confined within his sweatpants but somehow you manage to flick your eyes back to his face in record time. His scent isn’t potent yet but it’s stronger than you’re used to. Saliva pools in your mouth as his scent works its way through your system. Something fierce begins to ache in your gums. 

He ushers you inside and you slip off your shoes. You don’t have any time to look around before Oliver is crowding into your space. 

“Can I borrow something of yours?” he asks quietly. 

That question alone is enough to lift you out of whatever haze Oliver’s preheat has put you under. A refusal is on the tip of your tongue until you give his question some more thought. There aren’t many omegas in the league and you’re sure Oliver isn’t close to any of them given how he spends the majority of his time with his omega-less team. It’s natural he’d want something of yours. The relief his presence brought you still lingers so you concede. 

Peeking over his shoulder, you see his laundry strewn on the couch. Assuming they’re clean, you nod your head towards them. “Swap with me.”  

His eyes brighten and he nods. He goes to grab one of the shirts, allowing you to properly step into his home. With a cursory glance, you note that he’s organized and clean. His taste runs more on the neutral side which surprises you for some reason. He hands you a jersey, some worn out one from a training camp, and waits earnestly. You motion with your finger for him to turn around. 

“Aw, no show, baby?” 

You give him a withering glare. “Not your baby. Turn around.” 

He obliges with minimal pouting. It takes him longer to drag his eyes away from you than it does for him to turn his body around but eventually he’s facing the wall. You quickly strip off your shirt and yank his spare jersey on. Predictably, it’s huge. It’s less comfy than you expected which is unfortunate. 

“Here.” You hold out your shirt. He turns back around, grin nearly splitting his face in half. He doesn’t bother to hide the deep sniff he takes of your shirt. 

You don’t think you need to warn him considering your scent is more of a comfort thing than something that will stoke his desire but you still sternly say, “Don’t jerk off on it.” At one point, you had to buy some cheap shirts and a value pack of underwear for Yoichi’s ruts so he’d stop using the actual clothes you wear as a cumrag. 

Oliver’s eyes crinkle. “No promises.” 

“Hilarious. Where’s the medicine?” 

“All work and no play makes for a very sad omega.”

You push past him and say over your shoulder, “I don’t think that’s how it goes.” 

He’s quick to follow after you. Yet his pace is casual, relying on the long length of his legs to keep you within reach. While you are planning to snoop around your immediate vicinity once he disappears to wherever to grab the medication, you want a glass of water first. 

“Where do you keep the cups?” 

“There’s a clean one in the sink.” 

You find said glass and fill it up with the tap, wetting your dry throat. Sweeping the kitchen with your eyes, you scrutinize how bare it is. He has the bare essentials to make a functional kitchen but there is no personality to glean off of. The only intriguing thing is the line of pill bottles laid out on the counter. You don’t mean to read the labels but they catch your eye anyway. Oliver notices how you stall, transfixed by the medicine bottles lined up on his counter. 

“They’re suppressors and inducers,” he says, coming up behind you. His hand brushes against your waist as he goes to pick up one of the glass containers. You flinch at the touch but he doesn’t move. He leans his free hand on the edge, bare chest grazing you and holds the medicine to his eye level. “It’s usually a shot I take but I opted for pills this time around.” 

You take the container from him and twist it around. There’s an innocuous sound of pills knocking against one another. It’s hard to imagine these pills are either strong enough to stop a heat cold or strong enough to induce a heat that will keep a player hormonally balanced for three months. They’re more normal than you expected them to look nor do they look like they will be lodged in your throat if you try to take them. 

The miracles of modern medicine. 

“Why pills this time?” you ask. You try to move away from him secretly but Oliver uses his other hand to pluck the bottle from you, placing it gently back on the counter. Then he steers you towards the living room, cutting an imposing figure behind you as he doesn’t let you try and weasel your way closer to the front door. 

He hums. “Just felt like something different.” He’s close enough to you that you can feel the ripple of muscle as he shrugs. He’s huge and he never lets you forget it. 

“Isn’t a shot easier?” 

“Depends. I don’t really like needles.”

“Wow, Arsenal’s final wall can be defeated by needles.” 

And then Oliver’s scent becomes intense, cloyingly so. You can’t resist the urge to bring your hand to your nose to block the smell but you try to play it off as rubbing your nose. He falters, resting his hands on your hips to center himself. Your gums ache once more. It borders on painful so you dig your teeth into the meat at the base of your thumb to keep you from doing something ridiculous like sink your canines into Oliver’s scent glands for a taste. 

The taste of blood blooms on your tongue. The salt cuts Oliver’s sweetness. Shit, he’s supposed to be another day or two from a full fledged heat but that isn’t how he currently smells. 

“Do you have everything you need for your heat?” you ask worriedly. You spin around, apologetic at how your shift in position makes him whine. 

“Why? You offering to take care of me, baby?”

Your worries dissipate marginally at the pet name. “Not your baby,” you remind him. “I thought your heats were planned to the minute.” 

“Forgot a dose last week,” he admits. You wince. That was when he was taking care of you. 

“Sorry,” you say weakly.

“I’ll be fine. ’S not my first heat alone,” he says casually. “Unless…” And his fingers make indentations into your side. His pupils are blown out with predatory intent. You try to edge away from him to no avail. A drop of sweat slides from his jaw, splattering onto his collarbones and the thread snaps. Your resolve cleaves into two and both sides fall into the abyss. 

He’s too close and you’ve let him get too close. 

You are not overly sensitive to omegas but Oliver in heat makes you hungry. Swiping your tongue over the remnants of blood coating your teeth, you rip yourself from his tightening grip. You cling to the metallic taste as a lifeline. 

“I’ll leave you to it. Have lots of fun. Bye!” 

You forget your shoes as you escape. But you manage to keep your, and Oliver’s as a byproduct, dignity intact and that will have to be a worthy trade. 

Slamming the apartment building’s door behind you, a cold shiver wracks your body that has nothing to do with the chilled London air. 

-

Turns out, the medicine doesn’t help. In fact, you’re starting to suspect it makes you worse. 

After Oliver’s heat finished, you went back to his apartment and took enough meds to last you at least two weeks if you spaced them out. You could only manage to take it for a week before the symptoms became too much for you. There is no one to blame but yourself relying on a quick fix rather than find a medication adjusted to your specifications. 

“Captain!” 

Oliver’s head swivels to the call, hand already going up in a half-wave at the white haired man heading over to him. He’s of equal height to Oliver with an astonishing amount of muscle. You don’t need to rely on your smell to know he is an alpha. 

“He’s an ex-teammate,” Yoichi whispers in your ear as he nods at the guy. 

“Ah. Small world.” 

You were supposed to be going to watch a movie on one of Yoichi’s rare free days and somehow, Rin and Oliver were roped into it as well. Rin is the last one to arrive so you are all hanging out by the entrance. 

The guy trails after Oliver, speaking quickly in a different language as Oliver rejoins the two of you. He’s easy on the eyes. Then his scent drifts to you and a near instantaneous nausea erupts in your gut. 

His clunky scent stings your nose. He’s definitely an alpha. You migrate to Yoichi and Oliver, leaning a cheek against Yoichi’s arm to clear your head. His fruity scent is peppered with Oliver’s muted sweetness but you much prefer this to whatever it is the other guy has going on. 

Oliver notices how still you have gotten and adjusts himself so he’s closer to you. With a few words, he’s able to dismiss the man and your head begins to feel clearer. But a wrongness continues to cling to you. Yoichi’s scent, while soothing, does not manage to ward away your discomfort. 

Rin frowns when he sees how the three of you are huddled and heads over. “What’s wrong with you?” 

Oliver waves him off. “Probably preheat symptoms,” he explains away lazily. Rin’s concern quickly morphs into discomfort and he tries to slink out of reach. His hands hover near you but his fingers close in slightly as if he doesn’t know if his touch will be welcomed. With a swiftness that stuns even you, you wrap your hand around Rin’s wrist and bring his pulse to your nose. His icy scent breaks through your cloudiness and the queasiness rolling in your gut begins to recede. “Not preheat,” you mumble. “That guy’s scent just makes me sick.” 

“It did?” Oliver asks. A barely detectable hint of glee pulses in his scent. 

You drop Rin’s wrist, disregarding his lightly scandalized expression. “That’s never happened before,” you say, more to yourself than as an answer. “I think I’m dying.” 

“Shut up.” Yoichi flicks the back of your head. “Didn’t you start some new medication?”

You duck away from him which sends you directly into Oliver seeing as he is determined to be an immovable object in your path. “Nah, not yet. The doctor said I still need to wean off the meds I took from Oliver.” 

“But you went cold turkey.” 

“…yeah.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Rin chimes in helpfully. 

“I took them for like a week. It can’t be that bad.” 

“You should listen to the doctor instead of doing your own thing,” he scolds. He even wags his finger in your face and you threaten to bite it. 

“Come on dude, it was just a week,” Yoichi protests, smacking his finger away. 

“You a doctor now?” Rin snaps. 

“You don’t need to be a doctor to know it’s probably okay to can go cold turkey on a medicine you only took for a week.” 

“Is your head just for show or is there actually a brain in there?” 

Rin and Yoichi devolve into their usual arguing. Naturally, Yoichi gets in Rin’s face which leaves you and Oliver to the side like some discarded toys. 

“Is it like this in the locker room?” you muse. Rin is one second away from shoving Yoichi’s face from his. 

Oliver sighs but amusement twinkles in his eyes. “It used to be worse but now coach said they’re banned from talking to each other before games.” 

“Not after?”

He slides out his phone and pulls up a video. Oliver rests his chin on your head, wrapping an arm over your shoulder to hold the screen in front of you two. After your mistake in visiting Oliver during his heat, he’s become much more blatant with his friendliness towards you. You don’t know how to put a stop to it and you fear it is too late for you to make a fuss, having let it become a norm. You try not to stiffen against his touch too noticeably. He scrolls through his camera roll before finding a video of Rin and Yoichi discussing the match, the streaks of sweat and dirt indicating this is after a game. 

“Wow, they’re like puppies you have to run ragged to get some peace,” you laugh, zooming in on the disgruntled look on Rin’s face as Yoichi writes something in the air. 

Oliver lets out of an amused puff of air and moves his head from atop yours.  Instead, he tucks his nose into your neck, skimming the tip against your scent gland. The gesture toes the line of disrespectful and yet no one milling about bats an eye at Oliver. He takes a subtle whiff, tongue darting to lick the salt off your skin before he straightens up. The light warmth from the tip of his tongue renders you speechless. Your hand goes to your neck and you can’t even muster a glare as you try to reconcile that he just licked you in broad daylight. 

“Did you jus—” 

But Oliver cuts you off by drawing Rin and Yoichi’s full attention to himself, joining in on their now civil conversation. You’re left feeling like the odd one out as you try to make sense of what just happened. He licked you. He fucking licked you. 

And when it’s your turn to contribute to the conversation you have heard none of, Oliver simply winks at you over Yoichi’s head. 

-

You start to smell Oliver on yourself.

It’s noticeable enough you’ve begun to receive teasing remarks about it. Yoichi can’t stop laughing at how aggressively you deny the accusations, placating you with ‘mm hmms’ and ‘of course I believe you’. 

The teasing is exacerbated by Oliver’s continued presence at your house. Without realizing it, you have started setting out a third plate whenever you make dinner. It’s gotten to the point where some of his training jerseys have made their way into your laundry. You’ve taken to throwing them in Yoichi’s basket to keep yourself from tossing them into the garbage.

It’s infuriating.

“Wanna watch a scary movie?” he asks, watching as you flick through the movies available. Somehow, despite you seating yourself on the very edge of the couch, Oliver has managed to corral himself into being right next to you. His arm is slung around your shoulder having dropped from resting on the back of the couch. He points at some slasher film in the guise of choosing something but it’s only to draw himself closer to you. He’s only just managed to get his thigh pressed to yours when you decide to move to the loveseat instead. He can cuddle Yoichi if he wants to be necking someone so badly. 

It’s unfortunate you have to use his thigh as to prop yourself up and the second you push off of him, Oliver curls under your chest and drags you to him. His teeth scrape against your gland and you jump out of your skin. Your elbow ricochets off of his sternum sending an aching pain radiating up your arm and Oliver to the side. He clutches at his chest, more shocked than hurt by your reaction. 

“Sorry,” you say automatically and then want to hit yourself. 

“What happened?” Yoichi calls out, poking his head out from the kitchen. He’s toweling off his hands with another slung over his shoulder. 

Oliver doesn’t acknowledge him. “Do omegas not do that here?” he asks. His eyes are wide with polite curiosity but he isn’t apologetic. 

“Omegas don’t do that anywhere!” you say incredulously, bringing your hand to your neck. The skin is sensitized whether it be from your imagination or something Oliver has done.

Yoichi makes a dissatisfied noise. “Oh.” And then he ambles back into the kitchen, uninterested in what he’s deemed omega affairs. 

But this isn’t an omega affair. This is something much more bizarre. 

“It’s common in Sweden,” is what he offers at your accusing glare. 

You don’t know anything about Swedish customs to disprove him so you must remain stewing in your irritation like some chastised child. “Don’t do it to me,” you order. You’re torn as to whether you should be pissed off or frightened by his nonchalance. 

“Did it scare you?” he mocks meanly. His tone ices your core. 

“Just…don’t do that again,” you mutter. Your stomach knots in on itself and you can’t stand to be here with this sick bastard a second longer.

Oliver seems to realize he’s overstepped into oblivion this time for he immediately drops the teasing cruelty for some derivative of repentance.  “I’m sorry. I thought it’d be funny—”

“No, you’re completely right. It’s real fucking funny.” You don’t care if you draw Yoichi out by your raised voice. 

Tears well up in your eyes. The frustration spilling out of you is overwhelming, corroding your rationality into hysteria. The sharp edges of the discomfort Oliver has forced upon you skins you layer after layer until all that’s left is a pile of shredded sanity. 

You want to go home but this is your home. So you have to leave and force yourself to act as if it is your independence fueling the choice and not cowardice. 

“Fuck, I’m leaving,” you say, grabbing your keys. Yoichi’s head is wildly swinging between you and Oliver. Their words are incomprehensible in the face of the blood pounding in your head. You’ve interrupted him but you don’t care to repeat yourself, shaking off Oliver’s hand as you head to the door. 

You don’t remember getting in your car nor the drive to the hotel but you do remember looking in the rearview mirror and seeing a nick on your scent gland. 

By the next morning, your skin is rubbed raw from how furiously you tried to wash away any traces of Oliver. 

-

You no longer eat dinner at home. In fact, the only times you find yourself home are during Arsenal’s training or right before bed. No matter Yoichi’s pleas, you do not budge. And miraculously, your heats begin to stabilize again.

You link it to the stress you always brushed aside when it came to Oliver. You hardly see him anymore and that alone has done wonders in settling whatever discrepancies he caused in you. 

A flicker of heat begins to warm your lower belly. Yoichi is visiting some old teammates in Germany for the weekend so you have a couple of your sex toys laid out on your bed charging. You never thought there would be a day you’d be so relieved feel your regular heat symptoms again. The insatiable horniness that has afflicted you these past few cycles had you worrying for your clit’s safety. 

A knock on the door has you flinging your blanket over your toys before you realize how ridiculous you are being. You ordered groceries for the weekend and they must have already arrived. The delivery guy probably already left as soon as he knocked. 

You open the door. You are only able to open it enough to know it is not your groceries outside.

“Wait.” And then there is a foot jammed between the door and the frame. You have half a mind to pull the door back and slam with your notably reduced strength just to hear him squeal. Preferably, you would also injure him enough to cause him to be benched for the next four games. But you are a nice person with a gentle heart and a fear of being sued so you keep the door where it is. 

“We need to talk. I know you’re mad but it’s been weeks,” he pleads, “Please.”

“Okay.”

He waits. When you don’t move to open the door wider, he says, “Can I at least do this inside?”

“No. Say what you want to say and go away.” 

He’s kept a polite distance, despite his foot blocking the door, but now he peeks into the opening. He’s about to speak when his nostrils flare. 

Oliver doesn’t bother to keep up his polite facade and practically rips the door off of its hinges.

You stumble backwards, alarmed at his sudden flurry of movement. 

“You’re in heat.” He says it as if it’s a shock, as if it’s something you should have informed him about. 

“Oliver, you have to go,” you say, rubbing your temple. An ache is festering in you and you can tell it will tip into lust soon. And you do not want Oliver to have the privilege of hearing how you fuck yourself through your heats. 

However, he doesn’t leave as you ask. Rather, he shuts the door behind him softly. 

“Oliver,” you warn, taking a step back. Fatigue has begun to weigh down on you as your heat begins to spread. The simmering embers start to flame out and you can feel yourself become damp.

In a horrifyingly short amount of time, he’s cleared the distance between you two. He’s got your chin tipped upwards before you can make an attempt for your room. 

Oliver’s kiss is both invasive and possessive as if he owns every inch of you. It’s a graceless one, born of need for substance than anything else. But he catches you with your mouth open, the beginnings of an argument on your tongue, and he must taste it for he swallows you whole. He kisses you deeper, practically fucking your mouth with his tongue. 

The drag of his tongue is potent in the same way alcohol poisoning can be considered intoxicating. 

He backs you into the couch, knees braced on either side of you. Oliver pulls back just enough to let you breathe but it’s a useless effort for he slips you out of your shorts in the next moment. The brush of his fingertips against your wet cunt steals all air from your lungs. 

Your fight-or-flight instincts have abandoned you. The fear that should be jellying your knees has become conspirators with your increasing lust. The low heat simmering in your stomach is stoked into a roaring fire as Oliver’s weight pins you down. 

His fingers slide in slowly underneath your underwear, testing how far you’ll let him in. You take him to the last knuckle, breath punching out of you when he crooks them. He pumps his fingers in and out of you leisurely and it feels like agony. Pleasure begins to spark at the base of your spine but only the sort that brings forth nothing satisfactory. The ache in you grows worse as Oliver’s fingers fuck you with brutal precision. His rhythm is steady and slow and aggravating. Your push your hips down but all Oliver does is laugh. 

“Oliver,” you whine, raising your hips now to see if that’ll spur him into action instead. 

His fingers still. You keen at the loss. “Mm?” He’s looking down at you through his lashes, mouth slightly open in awe at how easily you part for him. 

You don’t want to ask so you settle with a quiet, “Please.”

“Use your words, baby,” he chides playfully. 

Fury roils in your gut at his sadism but it soon dissipates into your overwhelming lust. A searing heat burns within you and you press a pitiful kiss against the corner of his mouth. Everything feels so unbearably hot you can’t stand it. “Please fuck me.” Your shame is hollow when you realize the plea doesn’t taste of betrayal. 

His face blanks out before a delirious grin splits his face. 

“You don’t know what you need, baby,” he shushes, slipping off his pants. “That’s why you need me.” 

Even in your heat-addled brain, you defy him. “I don’t.” 

And for an ungodly moment, nothing exists save for the feel of Oliver’s cock against your clothed entrance. “Not before,” he concedes, catching your underwear at the sides and pulling down, “But you will.” 

—12:05 am

Matsukawa Issei x f!reader (ft. Makki)

summary: ( post time skip ) He loved to tease you. Didn’t matter when, where or why. He just wanted to. He loved you of course but he also loved how needy you become after pushing your buttons which was so easy since you were such a crybaby. But he loved that too. It was supposed to be another normal night out with friends but for some reason, he felt particularly meaner tonight.

warnings : pwp, mean dom!Mattsun , mean dom!Makki, daddy kink, sub/dom dynamic, slight degradation, cuckholding, breeding kink, fingering, public setting, car sex, spanking , overstimulation, blowjob, kinda mind break? kind of birthday sex cause it’s like before his bday

words: 5.5k

a/n: so yeah, this came about because it was Mattsun day, so I just had to write it. Supposed to be a Mattsun centric fic where he’s just being a mean dom, but I just had to add Makki to the fray cause idk they’re like a packaged deal asdfghjkl anyways! enjoy lovely people!!! this just proves that my recent obsession are these two 

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