#I don’t usually like point and click but I will live..

[ourseasone]

CHAPTER 001 ✱ THE FIRST DEATH

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“This white area right here,” the doctor says, pointing to a section on the screen. “This is the tumor.”

Your gaze shifts from the glowing image of your brain to the doctor sitting across from you. Your eyes lock onto the man’s face, trying to process the words you’ve just heard. You blink once, then twice, and then a third time, hoping the reality of it will somehow change, or at least make more sense. But no matter how many times you blink, the words remain — brain tumor. Your chest tightens. Your breaths feel short and shallow. Your heart rate spikes, and suddenly, the room feels smaller. You’re not sure if it’s the shock, the disbelief, or the wave of panic rising in you, but your world feels like it’s spinning out of control.

“A brain tumor?” Your voice is barely a whisper, barely audible, as though if you say it too loudly, it might become too real to bear. “A brain tumor…”

“Yes. And a very dangerous one.”

Your mind tries to make sense of it all, but nothing clicks into place. Instead, a faint smile, almost involuntary, forms on your lips. Your eyes drift back to the computer screen, staring at the scan of your brain. The image is clear — six large, distinct spots, each one a reminder of something that shouldn’t be there. You stare at it, unblinking, as if maybe by looking long enough, the truth will somehow change. A tumor. In your brain. It doesn’t sound real. It’s like something out of a bad dream, one that you’re not ready to wake up from.

A few days ago, you’d come to the hospital after passing out at the boxing gym. It had started out like any other day — training, working through the motions, feeling the usual aches and fatigue. But that night was different. You felt a wave of nausea hit you, but you pushed it aside. Just tired, you thought. Then came the dizziness, the piercing headaches, until, finally, you collapsed. When you came to, your coach was hovering beside you, his face filled with concern. That was when they decided it was time to get checked out. The scan was supposed to only offer some clarity. And now here you were today, hearing something that felt impossible. A tumor. A dangerous one. In your brain.

The words hang heavy in the air. Your chest tightens again, and you can feel your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Do I have to get surgery?” You ask, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

The doctor hesitates, his expression turning even more serious.

“It’s inoperable, Y/N. Because of the location, surgery would be too risky. It’s not something we can touch safely.”

You let out a nervous laugh. It sounds hollow, almost forced, and the sound catches in your throat, thick with the weight of what you’ve just been told. You feel an overwhelming lump form there, as though your body itself is betraying you. Your eyes burn, and you bite your lip, trying to keep the tears at bay.

“But then… what happens to me?” Your voice cracks on the last word, and for a moment, it feels like your chest might collapse under the pressure.

The doctor’s face softens, but you don’t need sympathy right now. You don’t want that look. Not from someone who’s supposed to help you.

“There’s nothing we can do for now,” the doctor says, his voice quieter, more reluctant. “We can only hope that the tumor doesn’t grow. That it stays the same size. We need to monitor it closely.”

Hope. The word echoes in your mind, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Hope? That’s it?

“So I’m just supposed to live with this? And hope it doesn’t get worse?” The frustration in your voice is evident, a mix of fear and disbelief. “What happens if it does get worse? What happens to me then?”

The room feels colder, more suffocating. The future, once filled with possibilities and the simple joy of living, suddenly seems like a distant memory, slipping further out of reach with every passing second.

“So I’m going to die young?” You don’t even know if it’s a question anymore. It’s more like a statement of fact, a brutal realization that you can’t undo.

The doctor shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He takes a deep breath, as if trying to gather himself before responding. His eyes flicker with something — pity, maybe, or just an overwhelming sadness that a young person like you has to face this. You don’t want pity. You want answers. You need to know.

“Doctor,” you say, your voice suddenly more forceful than before, though it’s thick with the pain of everything you’re processing. You straighten up in your seat, willing yourself to face the truth, no matter how much it hurts. “Tell me the truth. How long do I have left to live?”

The words are out, and now there’s no taking them back. The air feels heavier, charged with the weight of the question, and for a long moment, the doctor says nothing. He just looks at you, his gaze steady but reluctant, as if bracing for what comes next. And finally, the doctor exhales slowly, his eyes never leaving your face.

“Nine months. Maybe a little over a year if you’re lucky. In your current condition, it’s possible you might live a bit longer. But that’s all we can give you. Time. We just have to wait and see how things unfold.”

Nine months. Or a little over a year.

The doctor’s words hang in the air like a dark cloud. They’re vague, but the message is undeniable: neither option leaves you with much time. You feel the weight of it, crushing you from all sides. Suddenly, your throat tightens, and you feel a sharp lump rise in it, choking you. You want to cry, scream, punch something, break everything in sight — yet, all you do is stare blankly at your hands, fingers fidgeting with a nervous energy that doesn’t seem to help. You can’t breathe. The walls of the office feel too close, the air too thick, the entire space too small. All you want is to escape. To run. To make it stop.

In just over a year, you will be dead. And the most horrifying part is there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

“I know this is difficult to process,” the doctor’s voice continues, soft, almost too compassionate. “I sincerely hope you’ll take the time to talk to someone about it. We’ll schedule another appointment next week for more details.”

You nod, though you don’t truly hear the doctor anymore. His words blur into a meaningless murmur, lost in the buzzing noise that has overtaken your thoughts. You stand up automatically, your limbs moving without conscious thought, too numb to feel anything. Your body feels disconnected, like you’re watching yourself from the outside. Your eyes are empty, like the world around you is out of focus, and the doctor’s mouth moves in slow motion. You catch a few words here and there, but they hold no weight. Only the echo of your own thoughts fills your mind, reverberating louder than anything else.

With a faint bow, more out of habit than anything else, you grab your bag, your hand shaking as you sling it over your shoulder. The floor beneath your feet seems to stretch farther with each step you take. Your body is on autopilot, moving mechanically toward the door. The cold, sterile scent of disinfectant hits you as soon as you step into the hallway, more suffocating than it ever was in the office. The familiar scent of the hospital now feels foreign and harsh, like the smell of a place where people come to die, not heal.

Your feet drag as you walk. Your eyes are locked on the ground, watching the tiles pass beneath you, but your mind is a whirlwind, spinning with a thousand thoughts, none of them clear, none of them making sense. You’re lost. Completely lost. Should you tell someone? Your mother? Suho?

But no. No, you can’t tell anyone. Not yet.

Your mother… She wouldn’t understand. She’d probably just dismiss it. Her cold, indifferent attitude would be the same as always. She might even accuse you of making it up for attention, a sick attempt to get sympathy. You could already hear her voice, the dismissive tone, the lack of care. Even the rare times you visited her at the retirement home, she barely acknowledged you. Why would this be any different? You could already hear the words, feel the sting of them, the way they would cut through you.

And Suho… No. Definitely not Suho.

You know your best friend too well. You know that hearing this news would break him — completely and utterly. Suho would break at the mere thought of it, at the simple thought of losing you. Maybe Suho wouldn’t show it outwardly, maybe he would try to stay strong, to hold it together for your sake. But you’d see it. You can already picture the sadness in Suho’s eyes, the way it would completely ruin him. You couldn’t do that to him. No, you couldn’t break him like that. You can’t bear the idea of that. You can’t bring yourself to do that to him.

The doctor had said you had about a year left, give or take. A year. That’s time, right? Time to hide it. Time to lie about the headaches. Time to fake your way through each day, pretending nothing’s wrong. It should be easy enough, shouldn’t it? You’d just keep quiet. Keep everything to yourself. No one needs to know. You could hold it together for a little while longer, couldn’t you?

Because once people know, once they learn that your days are numbered, they’ll look at you differently. They’ll see you as broken, fragile, like something already slipping through their fingers. They’ll treat you like a dying man, as if you’re already been buried six feet under. They’ll pity you. And that… that is the last thing you can bear. The thought of people looking at you with those eyes, speaking to you with that soft, sorrowful tone, treating you like you’re already gone — that would kill you long before death ever touches you. The pity would be worse than the tumor itself.

And your first death has already happened. It happened the moment the doctor told you about the tumor.

▅▅▅▅▅ 𑁍 ▅▅▅▅▅

If there’s one thing you absolutely despise, it’s waking up early. Especially this early. According to the cold, unfriendly numbers blinking on your watch, it’s 5:49 AM — a time that feels almost inhuman to you.

The sky is still cloaked in deep gray, and the streets are eerily silent, the world not yet awake. Step after slow step, you drift down the road toward Byuksan High School, your right hand shoved deep into the pocket of your school uniform jacket, the other clutching a small paper bag, warm with the smell of fresh pastries. Your backpack hangs carelessly off one shoulder, and the low thrum of music filters through your earbuds, though you’re barely listening. Your mind is far too crowded with heavier, louder thoughts.

Today, you’re ridiculously early compared to your usual schedule. Way too early.

Then again… you hadn’t been able to sleep a single second after the soul-crushing news you received yesterday.

You hadn’t gone to your part-time job at the convenience store, hadn’t dragged yourself to the boxing gym either, texting your coach some excuse about feeling too sick to make it. Which, to be fair, wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth. Instead, you had stumbled home, dropped face-first onto your bed, and stayed there. No dinner. No phone. No distractions. Just hours of thinking. Endless, restless, useless thinking. Memories, regrets, fear — they all tangled together in your mind until you couldn’t tell one from the other.

By four in the morning, you gave up trying to fight it.

If sleep wasn’t coming, you might as well move. You pulled yourself out of bed, took a shower, threw on your uniform, and decided to leave the house absurdly early, hoping that maybe, with a long enough walk, the fresh air would sweep the chaos out of your head.

( It hadn’t. )

But at least you had enough time to stop by the small bakery a few blocks from home — the one Suho loved — and pick up a few pastries.

You now move calmly through the deserted halls of Byuksan High, your footsteps echoing slightly against the linoleum floor. The school is eerily silent, only the faint hum of the old heaters breaking the stillness. The sky outside has started to shift — not fully light yet, but no longer pure darkness either. That grey-blue hour between night and morning where everything feels suspended, floating.

Stopping in front of Class 1-5, you gently push the door open, cringing at the small creak it lets out. You step inside, instinctively making as little noise as possible. The classroom is empty, save for one person ; Suho. Sprawled across three desks at the back of the room, his arms dangling loosely, mouth slightly open, fast asleep — exactly how you expected to find him. The sight makes something tight and painful twist in your chest, but outwardly, you allow a small, genuine smile to tug at the corners of your mouth.

You close the door behind you with a soft click and make your way to your seat — also in the back, right in front of Suho’s. As you pull out your chair and quietly lower yourself into it, you notice Suho stir slightly.

Shit. Did I wake him up?

You freeze for a second, then slowly place your backpack down on the floor, setting the bag of pastries carefully onto your desk. You glance over your shoulder just as Suho shifts again, grumbling something incoherent under his breath, and — hilariously — sniffs loudly the air, his nose twitching like a dog catching a scent.

“Seriously?” you mutter to yourself, a laugh bubbling up in your throat despite yourself. “He can smell food even while he’s sleeping?”

At the sound of your voice, Suho stirs again, this time cracking one eye open sluggishly. He squints toward you, clearly still halfway trapped in a dream. His head lifts slightly from the desk, and for a second, he just blinks at you in confusion, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

His gaze drifts around the empty, dim classroom, then back to you, disbelief written all over his sleepy face.

“Y/N…?” he croaks, voice hoarse from sleep. He shifts upright, stretching his arms with a groan before rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What time is it? Why the hell are you even here already?”

“It’s probably around 6:30 or something,” you reply casually, lifting the small paper bag in your hand up to head level, the scent of fresh pastries practically leaking out. “I brought us food.”

Suho blinks again, as if processing the information slowly, before his face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning.

“You absolute legend,” Suho says, practically scrambling to sit properly on top of his desk now. His hair is a complete mess, sticking up at odd angles, but he looks so genuinely happy that you feel a deep warmth bloom in your chest — bittersweet, but comforting.

You chuckle softly as you toss a couple of items toward Suho : two custard-filled donuts, a few mini cakes neatly wrapped in wax paper, and a strawberry milk — plus a banana milk for good measure. You had picked up the exact same for yourself, except you opted for two strawberry milks because you’re basically addicted to them. Suho catches the pastries clumsily, practically hugging them to his chest like precious treasure.

“You’re saving my life right now,” he says seriously, already unwrapping one of the donuts with the urgency of a man who hadn’t seen food in weeks.

You just lean back in your chair, resting an arm over the backrest, watching him with a small, warm smile.

“Thought you might be hungry,” you say simply, taking a lazy sip from your own strawberry milk.

“How are you even alive right now?” Suho jokes between bites, his cheeks puffed out adorably with donut. “You literally hate mornings.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, tearing into a piece of cake and popping it into your mouth. “Miracles happen.”

The two of you fall into an easy, quiet rhythm — chatting about nothing in particular as you eat. You listen to Suho ramble between mouthfuls of donut about how brutal yesterday’s math homework was, how Coach Kim wants the both of you to sign up for the upcoming school sports festival, how someone allegedly flooded the boys’ bathroom on the second floor again. Normal things. Stupid, everyday things.

And you soak it all in like it’s air you desperately need to breathe. The sound of Suho’s laugh, the way he talks with his mouth full even though he knows you hate it, the excited sparkle in his eyes when he’s telling a story — it’s all so real, so vibrant, so painfully alive. It hits you harder than you expect, how much you want to protect this for as long as you possibly can. How desperately you want to freeze time, to keep this version of Suho untouched by the reality waiting to crush you both.

No, you think firmly. Not yet. Not for a while.

You’ll keep the secret. You’ll keep pretending. Because once you tell Suho, there’ll be no going back. And the smile currently lighting up Suho’s face would never quite look the same again.

“Hey, earth to Y/N?” Suho’s voice cuts through your thoughts, waving a hand in front of your face. “You good?”

You blink, startled, then huff out a soft laugh, reaching over to steal half of Suho’s second donut without permission.

“Yeah. Just thinking about how ugly you look when you eat.”

Suho lets out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest.

“Rude! I am a vision of beauty,” he protests, spraying a few crumbs across the desk.

“You’re a vision of something, alright,” you tease, grinning widely.

You both burst out laughing — real, genuine laughter that fills the classroom and bounces off the empty walls. For a while, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in your own little bubble of silly jokes and sugary pastries and the kind of friendship that feels unbreakable.

The sun finally pushes itself up over the horizon, light bleeding slowly into the classroom through the grimy windows. Little by little, the rest of the world wakes up. Students start trickling into the classroom, chattering sleepily, slamming their desks, and unpacking their bags. The noise grows louder, the day begins like any other — and you don’t even notice, too busy trying to etch this fleeting, perfect moment into your heart.

For now, life goes on. Just like it always has.

And you’re determined to make it stay that way — for as long as you possibly can.

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note ∘ ∘ ∘ and the first chapter is finally here! im so so excited to write even more for this fanfic >~< also, this story is available on my wattpad too with a male oc if you ever feel interested!

taglist ∘ ∘ ∘ @suunani @naelvze @ecrvea @eijizwrld @dudekiss3r @ten0rikuma @nnryota @yeon103 @strawberrywith-chocolate2 @daichiwkmi (let me know if you wanna be added!)

[thatlongspringnight]

Couple: Caleb Xia/ MC

Word Count: 6147

Content Warning: Smut, omegaverse, tooth rotting fluff, yapping

Summary: You think Caleb just has a cold, but upon further inspection, maybe its something else.

“Open the door.”  It's more frustrated than pleading at this point, as you jiggle the doorknob for what feels like the 12th time. “Caleb, you're sick, just let me take care of you!” You just don’t understand, can’t bring yourself to understand why he won’t let you in. Why won't he let you take care of him. “What are you so afraid of?” It slips out, quieter than the rest. 

He’s so - so stubborn, you think to yourself with a groan. He has been since you two were little kids, although…

Well he usually gives in to you, which adds another layer of distress to this entire situation. Was your Caleb really so far gone? Had the chip taken the part of him that was soft for you?

No - No this is still your Caleb, still the same Caleb that comforted you when you cried, that made your favorite food, that is currently acting like a big dummy. “You can’t keep me out forever you know.” You tack on, reaching into your wallet to pull out a card. Fine, if he won’t let you in, you’ll just break in.

And sure, part of this is guilt, guilt about leaving him out in the rain, guilt because you’re likely the reason he’s sick in the first place. Guilt, the emotion that eats at you more and more when you’re with him.

He can’t even trust you to take care of him when he’s sick, what kind of - what kind of alpha are you? You can’t escape the thought as you slide the card into the gap in the doorframe, using a trick he taught you against him. 

Alpha, respect you don’t deserve and didn’t earn. Great - now you’re spiraling into self loathing, this is EXACTLY why he can’t trust you to take care of him, you can barely take care of yourself. Without him to pick up your pieces, you find yourself stepping on fractured glass daily. 

*Click* You are triumphant, sliding to the ground as you hope he doesn’t notice, the last thing you need is an unlocked door kept shut by a grumpy gravity user. 

You take a breath, and find the sweet scent that meets you relaxing enough that you can’t help but just sit there. Its Caleb, whatever sort of body wash the Beta uses, or his cologne, or deodorant or something - has always made you want to sink into it.

Warm, clean, soft, safe. Caleb. It reminds you of summer sunshine, and sweetness. 

And perhaps, in retrospect, this should have been your first red flag. Why would he always smell so strongly of the same thing? Why did you allow yourself to believe that little lie for so long.

Xia Caleb, renowned Deepspace Pilot, hero, your best friend - How could you have known him for so long and not see the truth that was in front of your face.

Until it's in front of your face.

The door is open, and you’re standing there, and the scent, so sweet and calming from outside the door, is overwhelming. It's heady, heavy, sinking into you like the feeling of falling into a fresh and warm comforter, straight from the dryer. 

“Ngh - I’m fine.” Caleb says, sounding anything but, and you can feel it, the tug of his evol - but it stutters. He’s too weak, or too unfocused to use it. 

And you’re glued to your spot, standing in the doorway, staring at him. 

“Caleb, you - you’re an omega.” You blurt, tactless as always, looking at him sprawled weakly onto his bed, a sheen of sweat covering his body. “No - No that can’t be right - Grandma said - “ She had always said he was a beta.

“Grandma wasn’t always honest.” He says, his voice hoarse as he looks away from you, as he rolls away. “I was on - mmmph -” and he grimaces, flushed and in pain. “I was on suppressants, it was - it was just easier.” 

“Easier?” and You’re crossing the threshold finally, marching up to him. “Easier to lie, Caleb? To not…to not tell me?” “To not tell anyone.” He answers, flinching when you reach down and brush your hand against his cheek, his forehead. “Omegas don’t live easy lives, and my goals…” But that doesn’t seem right, you think, that can’t be the answer.

“Why are you still lying?” You ask, and it's softer this time. “Caleb why didn’t you ever tell me, why - why would you keep this from me - “ “Ugh…” and he doesn’t answer, his eyes looking everywhere but at you. You find yourself kneeling at his bedside, the porridge you brought with you now forgotten on his bedside table. 

“Caleb, just talk to me - “ “You - you are too close.” And what was hoarse before, is positively pained now. “Can’t you see that this is why - “ He doesn’t finish his words, but his hands do press pitifully against his eyes. “You smell like apple blossoms.” He murmurs, sounding half broken. “I - I can’t think right now - please -” 

And maybe you can’t think either. Because he’s sniffling, the beginnings of desperate, hot tears, blooming in his eyes, and the moment you realize, it's like a switch goes off in your brain.

You’ve always been a piss poor alpha, if you really think about it. Never good at taking care of others, always relying on…well on Caleb, to take care of you. Along the same vein, you’ve never, ever felt the call other alphas talk about - the pull, the need and desire.

You had just assumed you were a bit broken, maybe it was something with your heart? Maybe it was whatever had happened at the lab when you were young. You had accepted it, thrived in it even. You didn’t need suppressants, there was nothing to suppress, after all. 

At this moment, you realise that no, you aren’t broken - well at least that isn’t broken. 

“Caleb.” You murmur his name, softly, gently - but firmly. “Caleb - “ and you feel it again, the weak push of his evol as he tries to stop you coming closer. “Don’t hide from me.” and when your hands find his face again, it is to gently pull his own from his eyes, the sweet purple of them contrasting with the reddened irritation from his tears. 

“You can’t be in here, pipsqueak. Not while I’m like this.” He groans at your touch, at your grip on his wrists, but you’re too engrossed in trying to figure out WHY he’s so upset to notice. “Ngh - Seriously - “

“How did this happen?” You ask him, and you reach down to cup his cheek, happy when he can’t resist nuzzling against your palm. That’s the Caleb you know. “Caleb, even if - even if you kept this a secret - why?” “I wasn’t thinking.” His eyes are still glassy, half glazed and pitiful. “It's been so long - “ and you wonder what exactly that means. How long? And how had he coped before?

“You should have told me.” You answer him. “Even if Gran didn’t want you to -” “And what if…what if you thought I was weak?” he questions. “What if it changed how you saw me, what if you couldn’t rely on me -” “Caleb.” And your tone makes him go quiet, and you can see the unsettled look in his eyes. Omegas can be sensitive, especially to Alphas when they are…when it's their…

“I always relied on you.” You remind him. “But - but now that we are both adults, I don’t want to ONLY rely on you, I want to stand by your side.” And you are stroking gently at his cheek, hoping to calm him, to quiet those tears. “Caleb.” “The chip should have stopped this from happening.” He admits, something you know in your bones he wouldn’t have admitted if he wasn’t so - so overwhelmed, his skin is on fire - and you just want to…

You find yourself on the bed, leaning over him, brushing your lips against his forehead. He whimpers at the touch, a sound you aren’t sure you’ve heard from him before, but one that touches you in a way that leaves your heart pounding. “You’re burning up…” you murmur, and he laughs weakly. 

“You aren't helping.” But he curls himself closer to you, his lips meeting the skin just above your knee, and it's something like a kiss he leaves there. “Pipsqueak…you really need to leave.” and he takes a ragged breath. “I'm hangin’ on by a thread here.”

“No.” And you thread your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly in protest. “No, I'm not leaving you.” ” And you yelp when his teeth nip at your thigh, not soft but not too hard. “Caleb, what the hell -” “I want to give you - ah - I want to give you the benefit of the doubt, but it feels like you wanna punish me.” Caleb says, and he sounds as amused as he does raw, pained. “You - you can’t be THIS naive.”

“I’m not naive.” You are quick to protest, feeling something like a pout falling on your lips. “Seriously, you - you’re sick and you still have time to bully me?” “I’m not sick.” He grits out, suddenly pushing himself up, and suddenly you are nose to nose, you can feel the warmth of his breath, and you feel dizzy, dizzy from the heat of him, from his scent. “I’m not sick, you dummy, I’m in heat.” 

He says it, and you wonder idly if he’s in heat or if you are - staring at his flushed cheeks, at his eyes, shining in the dim light of the room. You grip at the material of your pajama shorts, wondering how he can be so calm, even in his condition. 

He’s always trying so hard, you think to yourself, to be strong, to be solid - no weaknesses. 

But here he is, at his weakest point - so close, so so close to you. You wonder if he’s going to kiss you, seeing the way his eyes fall on your lips.

But Caleb, so damn proper, too damn proper, just moves his hand up, covering your mouth, covering the temptation that is you, and he looks away.

No, no, nonononono - Your brain, your biology, can’t take it anymore. You grab his hand, holding him still as you press a kiss to the inside of his palm, before tilting it down, biting at the warmth of his flesh. 

And the sound he makes, something breathy, like a moan, the whisper of your name - you want him, no - it's more than want, its need. You need him, you need to take him.

“Fuck - No - No we can’t, pipsqueak - you don’t want to do this.” Why is he always speaking for you, and why is he always so wrong? 

“Don’t act like you know what I want, Colonel.” You say, and your hand finds his chest, pushing him lightly - knowing he’ll fall - and he does, laying against the pillows as you stare down at him. “You - you think you do, you think you’re protecting me - but - who are you protecting me from, exactly?” and your hands are on his wrists, pinning them down on either side of his head. It's all for show, Caleb is strong enough, even like this, to make light work of you if he wanted, but he won’t. You know he won’t.

“Why are you trying to protect me from you?” You ask him, straddling his waist, hearing the way his breath quickens. “Caleb wouldn’t hurt me.” “Who - Who says I’m protecting you from me?” He manages. “Maybe it's the other way around.” 

“I wouldn’t hurt you.” You answer and he just shakes his head, sullen and stubborn. “Caleb, tell me.” It's cheating, and you know it, an alpha commanding an omega. But playing fair with him has never been your strong suit. 

“You would.” He says it, and coming from his lips it's less accusation and more resignation. “Because you don’t want this. You don’t want me, like this.” And you frankly don’t know where he ever got such a foolish idea. “You - you would have me, and then what?” His voice cracks and you press your cheek to his, gently nuzzling him, first there and then his neck.

“Caleb is a big dummy.” You mumble in his ear. “All this time, I’ve been waiting for you, and it turns out you’re a coward.” But you don’t give him time to react, time to process what you’ve said, instead you slam your lips against his with all the fervor and clumsiness of someone who has never done it before.

Because you haven’t. 

Caleb is a beta, you could remember Josephine saying it, firmly. “You’re an alpha, it's not surprising he wants to support you but - remember sweetheart, you have different lives.” 

What a joke. You realize in the moment what Caleb had meant about her lying, and why. He is yours. Taboo or no, past or no, Caleb is yours. He is the other half of your coin, the missing piece of your heart. You come from the same stardust, woven together like a tapestry. 

He is yours by birth and by right. She might have meant well, but you would have waited a lifetime for him. 

It's about this moment in your musings when you realize that his lips are so, so soft, even if they’re chapped. Your tongue glides across them, and your teeth graze, rewarded with him opening his mouth, a puff of air that tickles at your skin. 

He’s noisy, you think, slipping your tongue into his mouth, watching how his fingers curl against the sheets. He tastes good. 

“Pip - “ He is the one who ends it, although it's not without some effort, desperation dripping from his tone. “You can’t take this back.” But his tone is husky, and his hands are on your hips. He wants this, you realize. Not just because of the heat. 

“I won’t take this back.” You counter. “Caleb is mine.” You speak childishly, the only way that feels comfortable. “You’re mine.” And his chest stutters as his breath hitches. “I’m yours.” 

“You don’t - “ “Caleb my tongue was just in your mouth, I mean it.” and your hands are everywhere they can touch. His cheek, the smooth line of his neck, ghosting over his eyes, his cheeks. “I want you.” 

“Ngh…” And he’s silent, so silent, the ruddiness of his cheeks bleeding to the tips of his ears. And you are softer this time, seeking out another kiss, gentle, assuring. 

“I wanna make you feel better.” You murmur against his mouth. “I wanna make you feel good. Let me - let me take care of you for once, okay?” 

“Hah - I - we shouldn't, what if you -” and you silence him with a kiss, another kiss. Kissing is great, you decide. Spectacular even. 

“Nope.” And you shush him before he can even finish the thought. “I just gave you my first real kiss, at my big age.” You announce, sitting up. “I've waited ALL this time. Caleb. Are you going to make me wait even longer?” 

“Your first kiss.”  he says, wide eyed at you. “No, you didn't waste that on me.”

“Caleb is so handsome when he shuts up.” You sing song at him. “It's not a waste, it's what I want. Accept it. I - I know you want me too.” And it's an experimental touch to his stomach, to the skin that's peeking out.

And he's so warm, shivering lightly at your touch. But the look in his eyes is unreadable. Even as he sucks in a ragged breath, watching you push his shirt up. “...don't you?” You ask, even though it's obvious, right? It's obvious he wants you, but that look in his eyes, his silence. 

You wonder if you're wrong, if all that desire was heat related -

“More…” he grabs your wrist, pulling your hand from under his shirt, lifting it up to his mouth, he mimics you from earlier, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Hah, more than anything, don't you get it? You are the only one I want, my only desire. My only reason -” and his breath shudders. “But I'm in heat, and you…you have to feel it.” What he doesn't say is all you can hear. 

“You aren't taking advantage of me.” You answer his unspoken worry. “I feel this way even when you aren't.” And your nostrils flare. “Even when you aren't sprawled out so pretty for me. Even when you aren't in heat.” you take a moment to lean down, to rub your nose against his affectionately. “We aren't doing this whole heat and rut thing right are we?” And he laughs, an easy, gentle sound, that settles right into the place in your heart that is just for him.

“No.” And this time, he's the one reaching for you, lighting brushing his warm fingers across your cheek. “We aren't.” but there is a shift in his tone, reluctance replaced with yearning, with that all-too-familiar wistful look. “Was this really your first kiss?”

“Yes.” You kiss him again, just because you can, and it finally seems to click in him that this is real, this is happening. His fingers slide to press the back of your neck, to hold you close enough that you can't help but smile against his lips. “And it won't be the only first of mine I'm giving to you tonight, Caleb.” It's teasing and before he can speak you continue. “You are mine, first and last. My Caleb.” 

“Ngh -” and his cheeks are so beautiful, when they're flushed like this, your eyes counting the soft freckles across them. He's so beautiful, and he’s looking at you like you hung the moon. “I am yours.” He answers softly. “I've always been.” and he presses his lips to yours, gentle and wanting, but this time the softness fades fast.

He is even noisier this time -  the sounds of his breath leaving your stomach clenching as he chases your kisses, and you want to touch him, so you do, your hands pushing up the dark blue of his sleep shirt, your nails running gently up the line of his stomach, marveling at how firm, how strong he is under your fingertips. 

He groans, your name falling off his lips almost as quickly as his shirt falls off of him, tugged off by your less than nimble fingers. 

“Caleb…” you trail, and your gaze takes him in. He is truly a work of art, a sculpture to be worshipped. “Where should I start?” Your searching gaze finds his and he has the audacity to offer you a cheeky grin.

“I dunno pipsqueak.” You're happy just to see him happy. “What part of me is calling to you?”

“Can't you ever just be greedy?” You answer him, and he sort of shrugs, giving you a sweet look. 

“I wanna see how greedy you can be, instead. That's what I want.” and he looks away, suddenly shy. “I want to see how greedy you are for me.”

“Oh, I see.” And you pinch one of his nipples, rewarded with a whine, as he jolts. “Well, I definitely want to be greedy with you…” And it's a delighted sigh as you shift your hips, the movement sending a bolt of pleasure up your spine. He's so firm, you can't help it. “You sound so pretty.” 

“Do I?” He asks, something like fluster in his voice. “For you, I can't help myself. I can't be quiet.” Of course he can't. He's your certified yapper. But you love it. Dragging your fingernails across his chest, watching the little red lines blossom across his skin. “A-Ah - “ and you don't answer him, hands planted firmly on his chest as you rock your hips again. 

Jeez, even that friction just feels so good. He wants you to be greedy right? Your mouth is pressed against the pulse point of his neck, the thrum of his heartbeat almost as delicious as the faint salt of his skin. The warmth of his scent is nearly dizzying at this point. 

And you find the rise of his Adam's apple, unable to resist biting it, grinning at the hiss of his breath.

“You - you bit me.” He pants. “Ngh -”

“I'll leave marks.” you murmur against his skin. “You can hide them under your uniform, if I'm nice enough.”

“Be mean.” Caleb answers. “Leave marks where everyone can see, be bold - hngh - “ But you know better to give into that desire, the young colonel had made more than enough enemies, he didn’t need to appear to have a weak spot. But, that doesn’t mean you aren’t sinking your teeth into him.

There are plenty of spots below the collar just waiting for your teeth. Plenty of places you know will bruise prettily, that will be sweet-sore reminders of you when he is at work. And you find them, from the juncture of his neck to the sensitive skin of his ribs, and further down, you paint him in love bites until he is trembling, hips bucking as he moans, as he whines. 

And OH, that's a feeling. He's hard, you know that, but when he bucked up into you….

You roll your hips, and before too long you're sitting up, breath quickening as you grind against him. 

“P-Pipsqueak.” Caleb is absolutely wrecked already. “Fuck, you're - this is drivin’ me crazy.” And you are happy to dry hump him like a horny teenager, happy to grab the hem of your sleep shirt, letting it land on top of his when you toss it to the floor. He groans, hands coming to cover his eyes, a shuddered breath leaving his lips.

“You better look.” You are pouting. “Seriously, Caleb?”

“If I look - ngh - if I look right now, I'm going to cum.” He says, like the thought alone isn't hot enough to make you squirm.

“Then cum.” You say, gripping at his hands to pull them off his face. “And look at me, while you do it.” 

“Shit -” and he is staring at you, staring at you as your tits bounce from the effort of grinding against him. “you're so beautiful.” He chokes out. “Ah - haaaaah -” 

“Caleb.” And you're panting from the exertion, Leaning over him again. “I - I told you to cum.” And he reaches up to cup your face, to pull you down flat onto him in a bruising, messy kiss, his body shuddering and then stiffening under you….but only for a moment, before he's shifting, a hand grasping at your thigh as he effortlessly moves you. 

The world tilts, and you find yourself on your back, looking up at him. 

His chest is glistening in sweat, and more than that, there is a wet spot on his sweatpants, evidence of his want, his desire for you. “I - I wasn't done.” You mumble, and now it's your cheeks that are warm, looking at his hungry gaze. 

“I decided…I wanted to take your advice.” Caleb brushes a strand of your hair from your face. “I want to be greedy.” 

“Greedy how?” You ask, still trying to chase the feeling of him pressed against your center.

“With everything.” Caleb is gentle at first, his fingers dancing across your skin. “I want everything, every part of you.” And you wiggle a little at the ticklish feeling. “But right at this moment.” And his hands find your shorts. “I want you here. I want to taste." The shy, reserved Caleb from before has been replaced, the hunger in his gaze making your mouth feel dry. 

“Then taste. It's all for you anyway.” You have no idea where the boldness comes from, you just want to match his energy. You want him to understand that he is what you desire most. He is who you want. 

“You - “ And he takes a short breath. “You’re going to kill me one of these days.” It's cheerful as he lifts your legs, as your shorts are removed with ease, joining the ever growing pile of laundry on the floor. His eyes widen, just a bit, as he looks you over, before settling on the growing damp spot on your underwear. “You smell so good.” Caleb’s grip on your thighs is bruising, but you like it. 

“Yeah? Like I was made for you?” You ask, trying to egg him on, all the breath leaving your body at once as his mouth finds your cunt, wet tongue against the fabric of your panties. “C- Caleb!” 

“You’re doing this on purpose.” he says, like he isn’t trying to tongue fuck you through your underwear. You can feel his nose bump your clit, a jolt of pleasure in your veins as he finally moves to take them off. “I’m keeping these.” He says, not even bothering to lie about it. 

“Should I tell everyone the Colonel is a dirty panty thief?” You ask, reaching to tangle your fingers in his hair. 

“Do it.” He grins, shoving your underwear into the pocket of his sweats. “Tell them whatever you want about me, Pipsqueak.”

“That Caleb's - ahhh - he's a pervert.” Your eyes widen, then squeeze shut at the way his mouth feels. So wet, so hot. “That he's a panty thief, and - and…and…and really good at …ah…at this.” Your hips stutter and suddenly you can feel it, his evol holding you still. 

“That's better.” He says, tilting his head up to catch your eye, his lips are glistening with you, and you whine, covering your eyes with your hands. “Hey - none of that.” and you feel the same pull from his evol, your hands pinned to the bed before you can realize. 

“This is cheating.” You grumble and he rubs his cheek against your thigh, then places a hot, open mouth kiss against your skin. 

“Think of it like kitty cards.” Caleb is teasing you. “You love to cheat at that.” but before you can reply, he's back to eating you out like a man starved. His tongue, you have no idea why he's so good at this, and really you don't want to know either. Right now, you just want to lose yourself in him, lose yourself to him. 

“Caleb -” you whimper his name, and your heels press into his back, trying to get him closer. “This feels so - I need more.” and he's more than willing to give you whatever you want, lips circling around your clit as he sucks, as stars burst behind your eyelids. Then it stops, and you can't stop yourself from complaining “why -”

“Hey…” he murmurs your name, kissing the softness of your stomach. “Can I…” and he holds his hand up, flexing his fingers. 

“Please, yes.” You agree immediately and he grins. 

“I'll go slow.” He promises and you huff, lightly nudging him with the back of your foot. Why’s he think you can’t take this? 

“Not TOO slow, colonel.” you answer him. “I'm not going to break.” And he laughs, a breathy, low sound.

“Are you sure about that, pipsqueak?” And he flexes his fingers again, before drawing them up to his lips, sliding them into his mouth to suck. Pulling away with a trail of saliva attached to his fingertips. “I have to make sure these are nice and wet for you.” His words are just a little slurred, a little messy like his fingers. 

And it's just, so unbelievably hot, your hips lift upwards and his free hand is planted right by your head. 

You remember, suddenly, just how much bigger he is than you, even as he moves to kiss you, swallowing the gasp from your mouth as he slides a finger into you, slowly - so slowly.

“”Ngh -! Caleb…”

“Yeah?” He brushes a kiss to your forehead. “It's okay….I'll go slow.” He repeats himself and you want to groan in frustration - How he can go any slower you aren't sure, but he waits until your body has relaxed, until the tension has melted from your face. And then he is moving. 

“I - I can take another.” You blurt. “I promise - ngh - I don’t want to be teased, Caleb.” and to your surprise, he listens, and the curl of his fingers inside of you makes you feel weak, makes you feel hot all over.

“You can always command me.” His voice is a low whine of want. “You’re my alpha. I…I want to please you.”  How can he sound so pretty with his fingers buried in your cunt? You wonder, but you’re hardly thinking as his palm rubs against your clit. His hands are rough, but in a way that feels so sweet against your skin, you just want….

“Ngh…” and you grab his free hand, forcing him to sit up a bit to steady himself. “C-Caleb -” 

“Is everything okay?” He is quick to be concerned, to slow his fingers but you simply press his palm to your cheek, turning your face to kiss his hand, then you are kissing at his fingertips, then you're licking at them, pressing them against your lips, your tongue. “W-what -” he manages before a hiss leaves his lips as you slide two of his fingers into your mouth, sucking at them. “Fuck -” 

“Exactly. “ You answer him. “Enough, enough foreplay.” And you lower his hand to your chest. “Your fingers aren't enough, for me or - or you. So….let me have you. Let me take you.” And the loss of his fingers inside of you makes your heart clench. 

No, you want him back, you want him inside of you, connected to you. “Caleb.”

“I - I -” and he is rolling off of you, hooking his fingers into his sweatpants and yanking them off. “Pipsqueak, will you -” and he doesn't even have to say it. 

“Oh yeah -” and you are looking down at him, hungry for every piece of him, especially his cock. So pretty and so…

Big. 

Yeah it makes sense for you to be on top - you think - so you can set the pace. You reach out, gently trailing your fingers up his shaft. He groans, your name is like a prayer when it leaves him. 

“Wait -” and his bedside table drawer flings itself open, a bottle levitating before falling into your lap. Its lube, and in your silence, he sort of half sighs. “I can’t - we can’t just do this without lube, dummy. Or…or it won’t feel comfortable…for you.” 

“You want me to…?” You trail and he nods, watching as you open the bottle, squeezing some onto your palm.

“More than that.” He tells you. “Don’t give me that look.” Caleb speaks before you even have the chance to give him that look, watching you squeeze more onto your palm. “There - good girl - ngh - “ of course, his praise is cut off with your hand on his dick, watching you slowly work the lube onto him.

He’s making all those pretty noises again, you think, and he feels so warm under your touch, so heavy against your palm. “If - if you keep this up - I’ll cum again.” He rasps. “I’m in heat.” It's both a reminder and a justification, one that makes you snicker.

“Caleb already came in his pants from me, maybe he can cum on my hand next.” But even as you speak, you’re crawling on top of him, sort of hovering over his center, as you align yourself with him. 

This is it. You think to yourself. There is no going back from here. You reach for him, both your hands finding his, fingers twining together as he helps to steady you. You take a breath. 

“Relax.” He squeezes your hands with his. “Being tense will make it worse. I don’t want to hurt you -” “You won’t.” You cut him off. “I’m…I’m not scared or anything.” You grumble. “You’re just…really big. It's intimidating!” You are whining, and he’s just - he’s just staring at you, his eyes soft as his thumbs softly rub at your palms. 

“Take your time, then…” He says. “Your little maneuver earlier…I’m not in as much pain anymore.” meaning his heat has somewhat abated, at least for now. “So…if you aren’t sure - we - “ “Stop trying to talk me out of this.” You huff, before taking in a long breath. “I don’t want you to cum on my hand, or in your pants, I want to feel it - I want to feel you, all of you, I just - I want to be connected to you.” and you’re doing this, slowly sinking down on him. 

“Hngh - “ He lets you go, but it's only so he can reach to support you, his hands on your waist, holding you steady. 

“A-Ahah - “ Now you’re the noisy one, gripping at his arms, digging your nails into his skin. “Caleb - “ “You’re doing so well.” He praises you. “You feel so good. You’re so beautiful, you’re always so beautiful…but especially like this.” His whole stomach is tense, the muscles taut as you take him as much as you can. You weren’t lying. He’s big. 

But you feel…even the sharpness fades to a tender ache. You feel full of him, and it's…it's perfect. 

“Mine.” Is all you manage to breathe out, and you rock your hips, rewarded with an obscene sound from him. “Caleb is mine.” Maybe it's his scent all around you, or his touch, or what is happening, but you just, you can’t stop the drip of tears on your cheeks, even as you ride him. 

“Pipsqueak.” The familiar nickname sounds so soft, so loving as he pushes himself up. “I’m yours, I’ll repeat it, as many times as you want.” He is kissing at your tears, his arms circling around you, comforting as your arms wrap around his neck, as you press against him, still shifting your hips as you cling to him in a hug. 

“I love you.” You breathe against his ear. The confession is quiet, a little secret just for him. “I love you, Caleb. My Caleb.” and you’re sniffling, his hand warm on your back as he rubs circles against your skin. “I - I want to be yours, I want to be by your side.” 

“Ngh…”His grip around you tightens as he buries his face against your neck. “You - you are my heart.” He says, the hoarseness back in his voice, for a completely different reason this time. “My weakness, and the reason I’m strong. You know I love you.” Caleb doesn’t hide it. “I’m yours, I love you, you - you are everything.”

“Mates?” You mumble feeling him stiffen just a little at the suggestion. And you can feel his heartbeat too, forced into calmness by the chip. 

“I’ve always been yours.” Is how he answers. “H-However you want me, I’ll take it, even pain, so long as it is from you…Just…please…” And he is pulling back to look at you, his eyes shining, no - glistening, in the dim light. “Don’t regret this in the morning.” “Never.” You kiss him, panting against his mouth. “I - I won’t regret this, ever.” and he’s helping you, you realize, you can feel the grip of his evol, moving your hips, as he drops a hand to circle your clit. Your tears turn into tears of pleasure, fingers digging into his back as his name falls from your lips over and over again. 

“My pretty girl.” He is so gentle with you, even as you can see he’s falling apart, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I love you.” Now that he’s said it, he can’t seem to stop. “I love you, I love you.” He’s kissing at your cheeks, your eyes, your forehead, your mouth, your neck, praising you as you lose yourself in him, in the warmth and comfort and safety and love of him…in his scent and his taste and his touch. 

He holds you as you fall apart, as the hidden waves inside of you swallow you up, leaving you satiated and trembling, and you hold him as his heat fills you to the very brim, as he pulls you back against the pillows, holding you tight against him. 

Caleb is still inside you, and you make no move to change that, far too content in the feeling, even as you yawn.

“Sleepy?” He murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Should I clean you up?” “Let's stay like this.” You answer him. “I’m not…I’m not done.” Even if you don’t mean it like that, he sucks in a breath.

“I’m in heat, but - but I might need to rest a little.” And at that, you snicker.

“The colonel is a panty stealing pervert, and he has bad stamina.” it's a joke made even as you snuggle closer to him, letting him pull the blanket over you. “...Caleb.” “Yeah?” He smiles a little as you smooth his forehead, as you gently pinch his cheek. “What is it pipsqueak?” “I love you.” 

“I love you too - “ “We knocked the porridge over.” You tack on and he audibly sighs. 

“....I’ll clean it up tomorrow.” 

[ghostboyravenight]

Making a separate post actually, because tumblr really does have an all or nothing problem when it comes to Palestinian fundraisers, and it’s causing several problems.

It is impossible to advocate for campaigns on pretty much any platform, not only because so many platforms will shut you down if you even mention the word “Gaza” but because everyone has instantly written off every fundraiser as being a scam. This is a form of genocide denial because it’s insinuating that Palestinians are not going through the kind of nightmare needed to raise funds to escape or to afford basic necessities, and therefore that must mean all campaigns are fake. Not only that, but it basically assumes that no Palestinians are online in the first place, which… shouldn’t even need to be debunked because obviously that’s not true?? Treating Palestine like this other worldly country without access to the internet or social medias is extremely dehumanising, and yet this mentality is so common when viewing non-Western countries. Yes, the internet in Gaza gets cut off regularly, but you think Palestinians don’t have phones? Don’t have blogs? Use your goddamn brain and stop being racist for one second. I have a Palestinian friend that I’m fundraising for, and I’m the one sending in the asks in the first place whenever he loses his internet access, so I’m not gonna sit here and pretend that the existence of a “real” Palestinian on tumblr is an unprecedented phenomenon. Try to actually start thinking of them as human beings rather than “a group of people going through a genocide right now.”

Imagine living through this nightmare and desperately needing money and you literally can’t raise it anywhere because every platform and its user base will instantly shut you down and call you a scam. That’s not just genocide denial, that’s full on genocide perpetuation.

However, this does not mean that EVERY Palestinian fundraiser is real, because obviously there’s always going to be shitty people out there taking advantage of tragedy. You should not let anyone make you feel guilty for not posting every single ask you get, because you’re better off just verifying a few and focusing on them, instead of trying to do everything. That’s not going to help, especially if you’re posting actual scams without realising.

A lot of people don’t really know where to start with verification, though, so here are some tips I’ve picked up that will ensure that you’re sharing real campaigns with as much accuracy as possible:

Delete any asks that are on anon. Every anon ask I’ve received have had similar messages and similar emojis, and I’m sure pretty much everyone else has come across them as well. They’ll start with something like “hello wonderful soul 🕊️” and then give you no information about their campaign or who they even are except for a random username at the bottom of their message. Whatever you do, do not click on the username. These are scams. They are a bullshit copy and paste message that will most likely lead you to a campaign full of stolen photos. Even if there’s a 1% chance it’s a real person, it is not worth taking the risk. There is no reason for someone to be on anon of they’re sharing a public campaign.

If the ask is not on anon, check if they have offered up their verification information. Usually this means they’ll end their message saying that they’ve been verified by @/gazavetters or @/90-ghost or another blog who verifies campaigns, and at this point it’s important to make sure they’re telling the truth. Don’t just take their word for it. @/gazavetters has a list, and if they give you their number, you can check to see if they’re on that list.

Don’t stop there, though, because they can still take real campaigns and fake their identity, but I emphasise real because those campaigns are still out there needing money, and you need to make sure you’re sharing the original one. If they haven’t been verified by major verification blogs yet, you can still do the verification yourself.

Search for their campaign on the GoFundMe website instead of clicking directly on their link, mostly because you should never click a link that someone you don’t know has sent you. If donations are protected, then that’s a good sign, because it means that everyone will be fully refunded if any fraud does happen. Scammers will usually do whatever they can to bypass this protection, such as using different sites that don’t have it and saying that their original GFM was shut down (note: this does NOT mean everyone who says their GFM has been shut down is a scam, because Palestinian GFMs are absolutely being targeted by GoFundMe and getting shut down for no reason. This is just an extra bit of information if the ask you’re getting is giving you any major red flags).

Reverse image search is your friend, and you can make sure that the images being used on someone’s campaign hasn’t been stolen from somewhere else. If you can’t find an original source, then it’s likely those photos belong to the person who made the campaign.

If everything check out to you, then it’s most likely safe to share. I don’t want to discourage people from sharing, because I’m watching in real time the consequences of distrusting every single Palestinian campaign you come across, and so many people are struggling to raise even 1% of their goal. However, sharing campaigns without being discerning is not going to help, because if you accidentally share a scam, you’re not only going to be harming the people who donate, but you’re also going to be taking money away from people who genuinely need it. If you’re able to focus on even just one or two campaigns that you’ve personally verified yourself, then you could really make a difference. If everyone did that, Palestinians would actually be able to reach their goals more quickly.

It is also a good idea to share around Palestinian organisations that do a lot of help towards a lot of people, so you know that your money is going directly to a good cause. I will always support the Sameer Project as they’re an organisation of Palestinians working within Gaza to bring food, water, tents, clothes, haircuts and other necessities to Gazans, and you can be confident that all of their aid is actually reaching Palestinians.

And obviously I’m going to share my friend @othmanjehad1 ’s campaign as I have personally verified it, and I am friends with Othman, so please consider donating because he has only raised just over €500 so far.

Keep sharing Palestinian fundraisers, but also be discerning to make sure your money is going to the people who need it.

[aquamarinebling]

Finally have time to play through detective beebo!!! it is so cute already and im not even 2 minutes in..

[madamechrissy]

Would you come with me?

Miniseries MASTERLIST

Part One -Part Two - Part Three (finished)

Pairings: Satoru Gojo x F! reader

Summary: You have been Satoru's best friend for such a long time, and one day he asks you a really big favor- marry him. What!?!? Well, Satoru has to take a wife as he's running the Gojo corporation, and what better way to get them off his back than 'marry'? In name only, just best friends living together for a year to calm them down, sounds so perfect and uncomplicated, right!!! Well, living with Satoru Gojo makes you both question everything, is this fake marriage feeling... real? and can you just be friends after this?

CW: NSFT-MDNI- Going to have smut at the end (three parts!) lots of sexual tension, light angst but mostly fluffy, friends to lovers AND marriage of convenience trope lol. Explicit sex, oral sex, it's me so a breed kink, gonna be a miniseries, Satoru is a lil sweetie and a lil freaky ass- falls hard, ya'll both down bad.

WC- 22 k- completed

Preview- click above for the chapters!

“You love me, right?”

You blink a bit, as you stare at Satoru Gojo, he’s been your best friend all throughout high school and even before you’ve known him. You’re sitting across from him, while he’s sipping boba with you, his Gucci shades perched on the bridge of that straight nose, a smirk on his glossy lips. You tilt your head curiously at him, of course you love Satoru, but he only pulls this when he needs a favor.

“What’d you get into this time, Toru?” You demand, he gasps then, affronted, a hand to his chest.

“Excuse me, missy? I’m just asking if you love me.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back in your seat in the little cafe. “Of course, you know I love your goofy ass.”

Satoru takes off his glasses, those swirling blue eyes wrecking you as they have all these years, usually you can put up enough of a barrier not to let them consume you, but apparently you haven’t today. You watch those snowy lashes lower when his eyes bore into you, swirling storms of bright blue, you have to snap yourself out of it.

Being Satoru Gojo’s best friend wasn’t for the weak.

“How much you love me, hmm?”

“What is it you need, an alibi?” He snorts then, shaking his head and wrapping his lips around the straw.

“M’not Suguru, shit… no, I need a really big favor. Like… the biggest favor, but if you agree, I can really make it worth your while.”

“Okay this isn’t a mobster movie, Toru, what is it?” Satoru looks down then, long fingers swirling around the top of his cup, before his eyes snap back to yours.

“What if I said I’d help you with all that student loan debt, and buy you a shiny brand new car?”

“I don’t want your money, I do fine okay?”

“Your car is old enough to drink.”

“Fuck off!” Your glare makes him snort in laughter. “It is not, it’s like… not even old enough to vote… I don’t think.”

“It’s old, sweets. Say you also had a place to stay, for free?”

“Satoru this isn’t Pretty Woman-”

“I love that movie!”

“Satoru! What are you getting at!?” You’re crossing your arms then, raising a brow at the lanky man across from you, whose legs are spread wide in his dark blue dress pants, he’s pulling just a bit at his silky black tie.

Satoru has taken a huge role recently in his family business, the conglomerate that owned a million different things, you know how much he detests it, but once Satoru graduated college his family pushed it more and more. At this point he was thriving, doing most of the work with his father taking much more of a back seat, his health starting to deteriorate.

You and Gojo spend more time together than ever, you know he needs his friend, especially with Suguru having left for some time, the two of them not together was always hard on him. You’d been friends with both of them, but Suguru seems to have left and found his own calling, swinging through to see you both from time to time, but much is different since those days at Tokyo high.

Not you and Satoru though.

For the longest time you pined away for him, but you never made that move, aside from one stolen kiss in a closet during seven minutes in heaven, and Satoru had it bad for you all of Junior and Senior year, but the two of you never risked it, your friendship. And now you’re glad to have him in your life, but it’s hard to even think of someone serious when he’s so brightly and firmly in your life.

“This is a huge favor I need, it’s… a lot to ask.” Satoru murmurs softly, you tense a bit, brows drawing together.

“What’s wrong, is everything okay?” Your voice is a low hum as you murmur, he nods just a bit.

“Yeah it’s fine just… I’m being forced to choose a bride, and they have many candidates.” He laughs humorlessly, and your heart breaks for him.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, Satoru. I thought you’d have longer?”

“Yeah, I wish.” He runs a hand through his silky white locks, looking down for a moment, lips that always smirk or maybe pout actually frowning. “I need to just get it done, get em off my ass.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, why not tell em to fuck themselves, hmm? Where’s my Toru!?”

“He’s exhausted.” He swipes a hand across his face, and you lean closer, hand on his leg, his eyes sliding back to yours.

“Do you want me to help find someone? I have a lot of good friends in high families… find you someone not money hungry, not a psycho? How much time do you even have?”

“That’s not what I'm asking.” He puts his big hand over yours now, sighing, leaning closer to you. “I’m asking if you want to.”

“If I want to, what exactly?”

“Marry me?”

“What!?” He chuckles then, but even that sound is exhausted.

“You forget you’re from a top family, nah it’s not the Gojo clan but…”

“Satoru…”

“Just for like a bit? To get em to leave me alone, let me gain some more power. All for show, and I’ll help you with anything, I promise.” He’s clutching your hand, and suddenly the room feels like it’s spinning.

“Wh-why me? We… you… I…”

“You’re my best friend, it would be like being roommates damn near. You could… do your thing as long as you’re discrete.” He murmurs, you want to laugh then, as if you’ve done anything in a couple of years now. “And I would be discrete, respectful, we’d just be in name, appearance. We’re best friends, it will be a piece of cake, and most of all… I trust you.”

You try to digest all the information, blinking and trying not to think the insane thoughts that come with it, but you fail. “But won’t they want… an heir?”

Satoru’s cheeks flush bright pink now. “We don’t need to… I’d never ask you to do that, ever I swear. I’d never be an ass like that.”

You feel your heart racing as you shove back all of the images you should not have for your friend. “I know, I know. But… they’d-”

“That’s the thing, a year or so and they’ll back off. Give me time to fix some mistakes, with dad being sick… I’m not saying I won’t miss him, but how he is running shit? No, I know I can make things better, take down these shitty higher ups who are so greedy. You just could give me more time, and I promise I’ll do anything I can to help you too.”

“It’s insane, this is marriage!” You blink a bit, shifting, his hand now brushing back a lock of hair from your forehead, a familiar gesture that now takes on something more intimate.

“It can just be for show, we’ll be the same best friends as always. I have no one I can imagine even living with but you, maybe Suguru but… he’s not a girl.”

“He has that long silky hair?” You both laugh a little, softly then.

“He sure does, but… you’re prettier to look at.”

“Flattery? Stop that. It’s insane, and… how would we even explain it in such a rush?”

“We’ve been friends forever. Who wouldn’t believe that we got together? It’s even easier. I mean, maybe a couple kisses and things for show, but… you’ve kissed me before, remember?” He’s grinning wide then, you shove at him playfully. “That closet was cramped, hmm?”

“Oh shut it, that was so long ago. I mean, if you really need me, you know I’ll do this for you. I don’t expect you to go all out on anything for me in return.” Satoru pauses now, watching how the light streaming in through the large cafe windows hits your pretty face, as you explain to him that you’d want nothing in return for this!? For this huge imposition on your life.

You have always been the sweetest, best friend he has had, so important to him he’s never dared to cross that line, and he knows it will tempt him to no end to do this, but he also knows he can trust you. “Let me just take care of a few things for you, you can almost see it as a job. There will be events, meetings with the other leaders, trust me. Like anything I can do, you’ll be helping me so much.”

“Alright.”

“What!?”

He’s hugging you tightly to him, you giggle a bit, breathless. “Yeah, I’ll do it… I need a nice car though, Toru. A BMW?”

“I’ll get you ten BMWs.”

“Jesus, no. Silly boy.” You giggle as you look up at him, your best friend, but then your heart falters when he’s just a bit too close.

“Should we practice kissing now?” He teases, voice husky.

“Satoru, you're insufferable.”

He pouts now, and you swallow down the fact that you don’t know if you can even handle kissing his lips.

permatags: @alt--er--love @seeing-stars-alt @indiewritesxoxo @nanasukii28 @labelt-san @makingtimemine @cuntphoric @loafteaw @aldebrana @n1vi @miizuzu @beachaddict48 gojo: @haruhatake @strychnynegirl @jinjen suggestion from the lovely @bunheadusa

Buy me a glass of wine🍷 - Gen Masterlist - ©All works by Madamechrissy you may not reproduce

[maiamore]

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐭

Masterlist | Joel miller x F!reader | 18+ | 4.5k wc

Summary: A one-sided crush was all it was. At least that’s what you told yourself to feel a little better about the fact that your orgasms always ended with his name.

Tags: f!masturbation, joel is grumpy as always, fingering, pinv intercourse, unprotected pinv, couch sex, tinge of voyeurism, mention of body hair, Joel struggling with reader being younger than him, unspecified age gap, instances of ambiguous consent

𐙚 resurrected due to my the carnal need for Joel, after clint blessed out lives. also this took fucking weeks with my flimsy ass drive to write, fingers crossed i don't dip again!

"...What if it had gone well? Would he be driving her home in his truck? Walk her to her doorstep, try to be a gentleman, give her a kiss goodbye. Or would he have gone in? Walk her backwards with a desperate kiss, fuck her nice and slow deep into her bed?"

It’d been nearly three hours since the power went out for the entirety of your neighborhood. The house was essentially a humid tomb by 2pm. Sweat accumulating in the worst places, like the back of your fucking knees. When did people start sweating there? At this point, you’ve stopped caring. You’d succumbed to stripping down to a cami top and boxers an hour ago–sprawled onto the ground like some civil war widow in front of your patio doors.

You were halfway through fantasizing freezing to death in a 7-Eleven beer fridge when three loud knocks had you begrudgingly lift your head to look at the front door. Whoever it was could wait till next week, you were not getting up. Well, that was until the lock clicked and your door creaked open.

“Don’t shoot,” Joel called out. “Brought somethin’.”

“If I did have a gun, shoot me with it instead.”

He grunts in response, signalling that he’d already been over your dramatics, even when he’d quite literally just arrived. There’s the thunk of something heavy being set down on the floor. You tilt your head off the ground just enough to see Joel setting a large grey box next to the backup generator he’d dragged in.

A portable AC unit. A real one, not the janky oscillating fan you whipped out of your dad’s attic.

Joel had a penchant for showing up at the slightest signal of your distress. As if you’d shone out a bat-signal that summoned him. Without asking or waiting for a call, he’d just show up with his tools. Last month, he’d fixed your garbage disposal. And the month before that? The creaky porch step he insisted you’d probably trip over and fall three steps to your ‘death’. It bordered on suspicion how quickly he finds out whenever you’re in trouble, but you were starting to think he just knew. 

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, curiosity getting the better of you as you squint at Joel. He's still fussing over the plug. Utterly oblivious to how you were staring holes into him. He looked...clean. There’s a fitted grey henley under a flannel that looked like it’d been worn less than twice—which said a lot considering he explicitly wore the ones that had holes and limestone chalkdust on them. Even the grey collars were left unbuttoned, enough to see the slope of his collarbone and speckled skin. And his curls, usually unruly, were brushed back. Neat. Intentional.

"You look good," you blurt without really meaning to, your voice slightly thick from the relentless heat. Your words hang awkwardly in the air. Joel stills for just a second before he goes back to wrestling with the cord.

"That so." he echoes skeptically, a slight twitch at the corner of his lips at your praise. "What, I usually look like shit?"

"Yes. Obviously." He doesn’t bother looking up, knowing you probably looked damned smug at your quip. “So? Why are you trying all of a sudden?”

Joel clears his throat, wanting nothing more than to avoid answering entirely. “…Had to.”

Your interest flares immediately and you sit up. Pulse picking up a little faster. “Hell does that mean?” 

What came in return was a deep sigh, as if he were about to admit to some crime rather than reveal something as trivial as his afternoon plans. “Tommy set me up on one of those damn blind dates.”

Something twists sharply in your gut. A strange and unwelcome ache that spread in you like venom. "Seriously?” You manage to sputter out your next few words with barely contained disbelief. Joel. Joel fucking Miller. A man that shot down gorgeous hedge-fund-botoxed bitches for a living, and even you on occasion when you dared to flirt after just having moved back into your dad’s place. “You? On a date?”

Joel gives another hum, a non answer that was…answer enough. You frown lightly, forcing a casualness into your voice you didn’t feel in the slightest. "And?"

"And what?"

"How was it?" you press. Unable to mask the edge in your tone. 

He wipes his palms on his jeans, visibly uncomfortable. "Wasn't much of anythin’. She spent half the time talkin' about how I should care more bout’ aging. Takin’ pro-robotic sup-lee-ments n’ whatnot."

“You mean probiotic.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

You snort, masking your amusement with an ill-timed cough. Ignoring just how relieved his miserable little recap made you feel. "Joel, she sounds delightful. Please tell me you're seeing her again."

He ignores your jab, focused on fixing up the conditioning unit. But you’re still staring, unable to stomp away at the vivid images of Joel at whatever bar Tommy fancied them to go to. Flashing that reluctant lop-sided smile he wasn’t aware of how much it made women swoon. Or maybe he was aware. What if it had gone well? Would he be driving her home in his truck? Walk her to her doorstep, try to be a gentleman, give her a kiss goodbye–or would he have gone in? Walk her backwards with a desperate kiss, fuck her nice and slow deep into her bed? 

You flop down onto the cooled floors with a thud, staring at the ceiling again, swallowing hard around the strange tightness in your throat–he'd clearly made an effort. How for someone else tonight, Joel tried. And in the next few dates, the chances of him taking one of those old floozies home grew more likely. It shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it had.

Joel flicks the switch on the AC, effectively sending you out of your spiral. You hear the machine hum to life, a gentle whisk of cool air brushes against your skin–instantly giving you pure relief. He glances back at you, and his mouth goes dry. He eyes the way you subtly roll your shoulders against the ground, rubbing the back of your neck in the barely there top of yours. It made his mind go to places he didn’t want to admit. "....Better?"

"Yeah," you softly exhale, eyes fluttering shut, "much better."

Joel nods, taking your approval as his cue. He gathers himself and starts coiling the leftover cords. Your chest squeezes with panic then when you see pack up from your peripheral. “Joel?”

He makes a noise. It could mean what, or what now. It’s hard to tell. You forge ahead anyway. “My shower isn't giving me cold water anymore.” When he looked over, it was an instinct to vomit more bullshit out. “Like, it starts scalding hot and just…stays that way.”

Joel considers calling you out on your excuse. Your shower all of a sudden not working? With the way you were fumbling about for something to say, it tugged the strings at his heart. You wanted him to stay. It dipped into territories he locked the vaults to, but he’d humor you. For now. The heel of his boot knocks against the AC unit. “‘ve already hooked this up for ya.”

“Uh huh.”

“An’ last week I changed out that socket of yers that damn near lit the wall on fire.”

“Correct.”

“...Replaced the hinges on yer doors.”

“Also true.”

Joel pushes himself up to stand up with a grunt. Leveling you with a look that could very well wither a plant. “You little shit. Do I look like Bob the fuckin’ Builder to you?” His hands falls to his hips and you swore you could see the gears turning. Like he’d been calculating how many more times you’d try to get away with this before he finally starts saying no to you for once.

You tilt your head. “C’mon.” Voice dropping to a lilt, meeting his gaze dead on, pairing it with a sad sheepish smile. It was your final card to play—you realised the effectiveness of it after the door-hinge-replacement saga that this particular ruse worked. What was it? Triangle Method? Whatever Vanity Fair said, really. “You want me to boil alive in there?”

He exhales long and loud, rubbing the bridge of his nose like you were a migraine that wouldn’t go away. 

“Fine.”

You sat on the edge of the tub with your palms gripped around the porcelain, watching him work. It’s strangely comforting, the sound of metal against tile. His occasional grunts, and the way he keeps his curses low but audible enough to let you know he wasn’t all that pleased about doing this.

“Christ. Goddamn oven in here.”

In fairness, the bathroom was damp. All the steam from your shower earlier before the power went out somehow sunk into the grout. But seeing Joel now, his flannel discarded on the towel rack, with the sleeves of his henley rolled up his forearms–sweat glistening at the nape of his neck, some locks perfectly dried in a little loopy c. 

Yeah. You’d deal with the heat. 

He starts fiddling with the knob, taking it apart in a practiced rhythm that makes it obvious this wasn’t his first rodeo. 

“Before you say anything, yes, I tried turning it all the way to the cold side. And yes, I let it run. Even kicked the knob to make sure it really didn’t work.” Of course, you knew it didn’t work. Your dad told you that before he’d left for his vacation with his new wife—calling the plumber was long overdue on your list. 

Joel huffs. Not a laugh, not quite. “Don’t think yer s’posed to be kickin’—...” He doesn’t get to the end of that futile sentence. Because why the hell wouldn’t you? He crouches down by the faucet, before settling back on his heels to decide just how deep of a problem this was going to be for him. “M’gonna hafta pull this thing off.”

You nod along, staring at the shower tap with a faux-worried look as if it was going to inconvenience you more than him. “She’s all yours.”

Joel starts work on it without further complaint, which was when you could usually tell when something was broken broken. You watch him dig around in his tool roll of his, prying at the panel behind the knobs. Something rattles loose, and falls into the tub with a loud metallic clang.

You jolted. “...Should I be concerned that things are falling off?”

“It’s not fallin’ off. I took it off.” He doesn’t look at you, “it was already halfway rotted through.” Another minute goes by and with a deep sigh, Joel backs up slowly with his palms on his thighs. 

“Well?” 

He wipes off the sweat accumulating on his forehead with the back of his hand. “Valve’s shot. Rusted out. Yer lucky yer gettin’ any water at all, let alone hot.”

You lift your eyebrows, toeing at the edge of your bath mat. “So…you’re saying I should be grateful for my sad lukewarm and/or scalding drizzle?”

“M'sayin’ you should start savin’ up for a real plumber if you keep breakin’ shit like this.”

“Or, I could just keep calling you.”

Joel shoots you the nastiest side eye paired with a slow head turn. Ah yes. The look of a man who’d regretted every decision that led him to this exact point in his life. He grabs a rag from the counter, wiping off the rust stains on his hands.

“I gotta run to the store,” he mutters, to himself mostly. “Pick up a new stem and a couple washers. Maybe a new handle too if they’ve got a set that’ll fit.”

“Sounds like a whole lot of plumbing words I don’t understand.”

Joel reaches for his keys in his flannel pocket,  glancing over where you perched all nice and polite on your bathtub. He looks away before the feelings bloom in his gut. “An’ that’s exactly why I ain’t leavin’ you t’do it without me.” You watch him head down the hallway, the distant jingle of his keys echoing back as your front door creaks open.

“Get me some peach rings while you’re out!”

“Not yer fuckin’ errand boy,” came his reply, not as convincing as he thought it was.

You slumped onto the couch shortly afterwards. Arms limp, hanging off the edge. The back of your thighs peel off the vinyl cushion with a soft, wet pull. You groan into the crook of your elbow, regretting the movement. The AC whiiirs faintly in the corner, wheezing out mildly cooled air. 

The living room still smelled like Joel. It wasn’t his cologne, or his soap. It’d just been…Joel. A warmth, the scent of clean laundry, sun dried and soft. Old Spice mixed in with the aftershave he used. All in all, it was a you-wanted-to-bury-your-face-in-his-shirt-and-stay-there sort of scent. It was annoying. And distracting. And very much not helping your body cool down.

The silence that followed his departure was thick. Dangerous.

You exhale roughly through your nose, flipping onto your back. Your top rode up with your movement, sticking to your ribs. An easy blame to all of this would probably be the heat, frustration, or the gnawing restlessness between your thighs that grew potent. But that would be dishonest.

Because it wasn’t just the heat. It was him.

The way he’d crouched by the tub, how his shirt tugged taut across his shoulders. The sound of his voice, low and steady, talking about broken valves. And how the veins on his forearms became prominent when he twisted the wrench. You wanted to run your fingers through his hair, curling your fingers around it. Kiss the pretty curves of his lips when he said he’d be back. Words he uttered that hinted underlying care and attentiveness. And it was all for you.

God, you were pathetic.

If your estimations were right, it’d be what? 5? 6 Miles? Joel wasn’t going to be back for at least half an hour. You mindlessly lifted your hips to inch closer to one of the cushions. Just needed to see if it helped at all. It’d be quick. If anyone knew better on how to get you off, it’d obviously be you.

You slink out of your shorts, toeing the fabric off your ankles before fully committing & grabbing the cushion. Shifting over to your side, you aligned yourself to trap the softness between your thighs. A sigh of relief leaves your lips when you notched the seam of your cunt onto the cotton piping. Angling it just right. 

“..Fuck..” 

The fabric eventually gives you just enough stimulation and your hips grind against the seams. It felt good. How it brushes just right against your clit. It was short lived. The sensation quickly fades after your hair gets caught behind your shoulders. You attempt to reposition yourself, combing it away from you. The heat wasn’t helping in the slightest, so you closed your eyes. Focusing. Your palm slides beneath your camisole, brushing over your nipples enough for them to stiffen.

Joel would’ve taken his time, you thought.

Your brows furrowed in concentration, two fingers dragging the wetness of your folds down before you ease a finger into your pussy, the softness sucking them in. 

It’d be way bigger to have his fingers in you. 

Swallowing the dryness of your throat, you slip another in. Nudge upward and deeper into your walls in a slow, rhythmic motion.

He’d stretch you out. Nice and slow. Probably would love how your hips would jump when he swipes against your clit. And he’d keep going, exactly the way you liked if he knew whatever he was doing was getting you to cum on his fingers alone. 

A breathless moan slips when you increase the intensity of your motion with your hips moving in tandem. The illusion would be enough. Thinking about riding him was enough. Your rolled your shoulders back, the knots in them easing when the fantasy had your cunt fluttering & squelching in pure pleasure. Ankles arched against the vinyl as your thumb circles around your clit, the cushion falling to the ground with an unceremonious thud.

“...O-h.. Joel.”

“Mhm.”

You huffed out in confusion when a foreign sound breaks your peace. Turning your head towards your kitchen, your heart sinks. 

Joel, with his arms folded against his chest—casually leaned up against your countertop. Behind him, the backdoor that opened directly into your kitchen left ajar. 

You sat up straighter, blood pounding in your ears as you attempted to make sense of it all. You couldn’t get a read of his expression. It wasn’t disgust, that’s for sure. You managed to somehow squeeze your thighs together on instinct. “W...when did you….”

“'Bout ten minutes ago,” he says with a seemingly composed tone. 

“...You...didn’t say anything...”

Joel shrugs, “didn’t wanna interrupt.”

You don’t know where to look. At him? Away? “I didn’t think you were—I..I thought you left.”

“I did.” His eyes flicker over your face, lingering on the heat blooming in your cheeks. “Came back. Forgot t’get the measurements.” Then, his voice drops, a thumb swiping over his lips. “Door was open.” 

Which was just another way of saying—you didn’t even lock it. I could’ve been anyone.

“Joel…I just—”

He doesn’t let you finish, the wood creaking underneath his weight. “That work f’you, hon?” Your brows knit in confusion when he approaches you. You’d attempted to scoot back into the couch. Not that you had anywhere else to go. Joel’s shadow quickly looms over you entirely, his palm resting on the vinyl rest next to your head. “What?” Your voice comes out breathless, too quick. His scent practically warms you further, inciting the dull ache between your thighs that border on unbearable.

“Fuckin’ yerself on that.” He nudges his head to the abandoned cushion on the ground. You could barely dignify him with an answer, and you hear him take a tone you’d never heard from him before. Like he’d been angry. You shudder from the graze of his fingers when he lifts the loose strap of your cami from your arm, back up to your shoulders. “Asked you a question.” He’s close enough and you can see the muscles that tick in the right side of his jaw. 

“What I do in my own house—”

There you’d gone, giving him an answer he didn’t want to hear. The couch dips in his weight, and he settles down next to you. Your cunt clenches around nothing at the jump. “Don’t give me that.” He harbours a pained expression. Gaze tearing away from the sight of your slick smeared around your thighs. “Moanin’ pretty goddamn fuckin’ loud earlier, my name at that.”

You bite down on your lips hard enough for the skin to break. Fighting against the embarrassment and hot flush that took over. Joel, on the other hand, drags a hand down his jaw, elbows resting on his knees. As though battling with his own sanity. The latter ends up taking precedence. 

“What yer gonna do now. Is put this shit back on.” He grabs your shorts that were left abandoned, tossing it back onto your thighs. “N’ we’re gonna move on.”

“We clear on that?”

“....No.”

He turns to look at you over his shoulders. Expression incredulous. 

“No?”

“You heard me.” You don’t give Joel time to react when your palm presses against his chest, pushing him flat back onto the couch. Your breath catches in your throat when the looming suspicions prove to be right. The unmistakable bulge in his jeans. 

“I’m done with you playing the fucking saint. Done with wanting you and getting jack shit from you, even when this is how you feel!” You gestured pointedly at his erection, though you’d awkwardly balled it up into a fist, retracting it when you realised how stupid you looked doing that. 

The rise in your voice seems to catch him off guard. The way his brows twitch slightly, he’s offended that you dared pin this on him. As if he was the one making things complicated. You force yourself upright, gathering whatever shred of dignity you had left. 

Because despite the urge to crawl back into your skin, you knew it wasn’t one sided. You’d seen it, in the way his gaze always lingered too long. And how he’d always come back to you. He just kept showing up for you, over and over, offering pieces of himself without ever letting you in.

“Go fuck the next withered old cunt for all I care.” You drag the cotton of your tank top down to shield your bits and pieces. Hell if you were gonna put on your shorts in front of him. Turning heel, you do your best to get the hell out of there as quick as you could’ve.

Joel lets you get a couple steps away before you feel his arm hook around your waist to lift you, fairly easily, positioning the both of you onto the couch. Leveraging your shock and lack of defense to hike your thigh over his hips. Your shoulder finds the back of the armrest, and you look up at him in confusion. He looks down briefly where your wetness dampened his jeans. You could feel how he was throbbing even through the thick denim. It was clear, he wasn’t hiding it anymore.

“You mean that?”

“What? That you should fuck a withered old cunt?”

He sighs deeply. “You wantin’ me, you-fuckin’-donut’.” He corrects with a tinge of annoyance.

“I’ve never hidden it.” You snapped defensively, squirming in his hold. The heat of him permeated into you. His palm spreads around the span of your hip, thumb smearing the slick around your thighs. As if he was considering. 

“I know.” A pause. “Just ain’t feel right.”

“Because I’m younger.” Your voice is steadier.

And he affirms. “‘Cause you’re young. Big fuckin’ difference.”

You thought about pushing him off, doing what he told you to. At least that way you could recover this ‘friendship’ between you two. But you don’t do that. Your hands wrap around Joel’s wrists instead and you lock your gaze with his. Guiding his palm against your pussy, nudging two of his fingers in. He curls his fingers in you instinctually. A shaky moan from you cuts through the silence between you two and Joel fucking breaks.

He groans, head slumped down to look at your glistening cunt, where his palm lay flat against the soft, cropped hair of your pubis, sticky with your arousal. He pulls his fingers out only briefly to tease your outer folds, smearing the sticky fluids down to the puckered hole beneath. “So fuckin’ soaked.”

Joel lets out a strained exhale before lifting his head, his expression bordering on desperate. He thrusts his fingers into you, moving it in a come hither motion into your warm, snug walls. Leaning in to place a chaste kiss onto your lips, stifling your mewls. Over, and over until the both of you groan into each other's mouths. 

He pulls out of your cunt, leaving you clenching around nothing. You hear the clank of his belt and zipper as he deepens the kiss, distracting you from the heavy warmth that bobs against your abdomen. “Gone for barely ten fucking minutes. And you up n’ do this shit.” 

Joel tuts at your attempt to feel around for his cock. You let out a grumble at that, looking down anyway and immediately regret it. Joel was big. You’ve seen big before, but not nearly as thick and…frankly–pretty as his. The tip slightly curved, milky pearlescent droplets streaked down the vein that travelled to the base. Joel senses your apprehension and nudges your face back up with his knuckles.“Easy. Don’t go scarin’ yerself.” 

He hikes you up with ease, the length of his cock wedged between your puffy folds. Rocking his hips against you, coating his cock with your slick. Gently, he kneads around your tits to ease your anxieties. “We don’t hafta do anythin’. Promise.”

You bit the insides of your cheeks, shaking your head almost immediately. Your hand holding over his assuredly as he rikes your top above your chest. Squeezing, rolling the softness in his palms. And god did it feel good with how rough his fingers felt on your skin.

His thumb swipes around your nipples, admiring the sight. “Tried to be the bigger person. I did.” He begins. Angling the tip of his cock into your entrance, soaked from your slick. You whine shakily, pussy fluttering, needing more.

“Told myself…you were outta bounds.”

He sighs, “yet you fuckin’ push…and test me.” 

“You aren’t all that inno—“ His palm slips to hold your jaw up firmly, and with calculated shift, he bottoms out in you fully. “—nhhhnnt!” Your thighs instantly tenses around his hips, nails digging into his shoulder. You claw around his back, pulling him closer. Your whines grow louder against his neck, the dull ache from the stretch blurring into pleasure with his slow, deep grinds.

Joel steadies himself on the armrest of the couch, doesn't waste any time before his hips snap into you with a steadied pace. Fucking his thick cock in and out of your pussy. The intensity of his gaze intimated you. Deep brown eyes admiring just how well you were taking him. He needed to see the exact look on your face when you’d finally broken your strong willed self. 

Broken and melted into him. 

“Jo—el!”

He presses his body weight into you, thrusting you into the couch. Grunting into your ears with every snap of his hips. “Fuck…fuck…pussy’s fuckin’—” And he lets out a rough exhale, he was close. So goddamn close. “—chokin’ my cock…” You couldn’t manage anything more than garbled noises. Uhn-uhn-uhns muffled against his shoulders. 

Joel brushes the sweaty strands of your hair away from your cheeks, peppering desperate kisses up your neck and jaw. He lowers his head to suckle around your nipples, fucking you slow and deep when the familiar feeling of his balls growing taut crept up. In a desperate attempt to buy himself some time, he squeezes around the base of his cock, painfully, brown eyes flickering up to meet yours.

You weren’t sure if you’d come either, the feeling felt foreign—your mind practically a puddle with the noises you weren’t even certain you were making. Joel leans down to slot his lips with yours, moaning lowly into it as his pace turned frenzied. The stifling weight of his body on yours tips you over the edge, your thighs quivering when the near white flashes draws out a choked moan out of you. Joel follows closely after, managing to pull his cock out in a moment of clarity, painting your tits with ropes of milky white.

He slumps next to you, forehead pressed against the side of your head. The kisses he presses by your jaw and cheeks drag you back to reality.

“Joel?”

“Mm.”

“Think the AC’s busted.”

The both of you look towards the temporary unit that he’d fixed up earlier, the machine sputtering and eventually whirring to imminent death. 

“…Fuckin’ hell.”

[pupsec]

𐔌 、toji　ﾉ　desperate for money, he takes a job from the dark web: break into a girl’s house for a twisted roleplay she’s willing to pay thousands for 𓈒　◟

cw: dubconノCNC roleplay ノ home invasion ノ explicit content ノdark themes ϑϱ

୨ৎ dead dove: do not eat！minors, blank & ageless blogs will be blocked ୨୧

You’re home alone.

That fact alone isn’t strange—it’s your night off, you’ve got leftovers in the fridge and no plans besides a bath, wine, and maybe one of those trashy novels you pretend you’re too good for. Your apartment is silent except for the quiet hum of the AC and the occasional creak of an old wall settling. Just the usual. Familiar.

And then you hear the front door open.

Not a knock.

Not a jingle of keys.

A click. A turn. A push.

You freeze on the couch, phone mid-scroll, your whole body tensing like a rabbit catching the shadow of wings overhead. There shouldn’t be anyone. You live alone. You don’t have roommates. You didn’t order food. No one should be here.

Your heart stutters.

You think about calling the cops—but something holds you back.

Something primal and wrong and crawling, like instinct knows before your brain does: it’s too late.

Heavy footfalls echo on the hardwood. Measured. Slow. Predatory.

You shoot up off the couch, but he’s already there.

Tall. Broad. Dressed in black. Combat boots. Tactical pants. A long-sleeved shirt tight enough to stretch across brutal muscle. A ski mask over his face. And in one gloved hand, a gun.

Pointed right at your chest.

“Don’t move.”

You do. Of course you do. You stumble back like a fucking idiot, lips parting to scream—but he’s already on you. That gun presses right against your sternum, and his other hand is fisted in your hair, yanking your head back.

“Scream and I shoot.”

Your breath hitches.

You believe him. God help you, you believe every syllable.

“What do you want?” you gasp, your voice breaking under the pressure of a fear that smells like sweat and adrenaline and the faintest twinge of arousal. “I don’t have anything, please—”

“I’m not here for your things.” The voice is low. Rough. Feral. “I’m here for you.”

You shake your head, confused, terror-stricken—but he’s already shoving you, guiding you backward, pushing you toward the hallway that leads to your bedroom. The cold steel of the gun never leaves your chest.

“I have money—” you offer, voice high, trying to stay calm. “I—I can get you cash, or my phone, or—”

“I told you. I’m not here for money.”

Then you’re in your room.

He kicks the door shut behind him with a dull thud that feels like a coffin sealing. Then he steps closer—looming over you, eyes unreadable behind the mask—and shoves you down onto the bed.

You struggle. You can’t help it. You twist and thrash and claw, but his body dwarfs yours. He’s pure muscle and violence, kneeling between your thighs and grabbing your wrists in one massive hand. The gun is pressed to your neck now, cold and unyielding.

“Move again,” he growls, “and I’ll paint your fucking walls with your brains.”

You whimper. Nod.

Then he rips your shirt open.

The sound of fabric tearing is violent, obscene, louder than your ragged breath or the frantic thump of your pulse. Your bra is next—cut in half by a blade you didn’t even see him draw—and your tits bounce free, nipples already hard from fear or the rush of blood, you don’t know.

His hand is at his belt next. Pants dropped. His cock is thick, long, heavy, the kind of weapon your body has no business trying to take.

He doesn’t even undress you fully. Just yanks your shorts and panties down around your ankles, leaving you bare and vulnerable, your cunt wet and twitching in spite of your fear.

“You sick little thing,” he murmurs, dragging the head of his cock along your slit, smearing your wetness. “You’re fucking soaked. Is this turning you on?”

“No,” you breathe, but your body says otherwise.

The next sound you make is a scream—muffled by the gloved hand he shoves into your mouth—when he thrusts into you hard and fast, splitting you open without warning.

It’s brutal. Deep. The air punched from your lungs.

You try to thrash but the weight of him pins you down. The gun’s pressed against your cheek now, kissing your skin like a lover, cold metal dragging through the tears on your face.

“You feel that?” he hisses, voice close to your ear. “You feel that cock splitting your little cunt open? You fucking like this?”

You hate how it feels. You hate how it hurts.

You hate how your cunt grips him like it needs him.

His hips slam forward again, hard, each thrust forcing a whimper from your throat. The way he fucks you is punishing, relentless. He doesn’t care if you cum. He doesn’t care if you bleed. He’s using you like a thing.

And god, it’s disgusting how much of you wants it.

“You were waiting for this, weren’t you?” he grunts, slamming into you. “Just lying here in this pretty little house, hoping someone like me would come ruin you.”

He pulls out suddenly—makes you cry out with the emptiness—and flips you onto your stomach. Then he yanks your hips up, grabs your hair like reins, and fucks back into you even harder, the gun now nestled against the base of your skull.

Your pussy is raw, soaked, stretched around him so tightly you can barely breathe. And still you take it. Still your body sings for it.

“Please,” you sob, not even sure what you’re begging for.

“Please what?”

“Don’t stop.”

A low, dangerous laugh.

Then his pace increases. Your ass is slapping against his hips now, the sound sick and wet and loud, echoing through the room like music from hell. You’re crying and gasping and clawing at the sheets as he ruins you from behind, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other presses the gun harder against your skull.

“I should blow your brains out,” he growls, fucking deeper. “But then I couldn’t keep this sweet little hole for myself.”

You feel the orgasm build before you even realize what it is. It sneaks up on you—hot and mean and wicked—curling your toes and making your legs shake. And when it hits, it wrecks you. Your pussy clamps down around his cock, milking him, screaming his name like you fucking own him.

But you don’t.

He finishes a heartbeat later, deep inside you, cock twitching as he fills you with hot, thick cum. He holds there—still buried in you, panting against your neck—before slowly pulling out.

Your cunt is wrecked, leaking, red and trembling, abused in the most obscene way.

He stands.

Tucks himself back into his pants.

Leaves you there on the bed, ruined and soaked and twitching.

Then, casually, he pulls out a phone. Checks a message. And blinks.

“Oh.”

You watch him from where you’re curled on the bed, barely able to breathe, still shaking.

He glances at you again.

Shrugs.

Wrong house.

[inlovewithl3vi]

I headcannon that devildom days are actually equivalent to two human world days so when MC gets there they just end up passing out randomly in the middle of the day till they eventually figure it out

Like you’ll be just casually playing on your phone in the living room when you start to get tired. You think it’s odd since technically it’s only midday. Until a few hours later your so tired you can barely get up so you just fall asleep.

Especially when it’s early in your stay into the devildom and it’s probably not safe to just fall asleep wherever you are in the middle of the day.

So you decide it’s just gonna be a scheduled nap time, so you have energy for the rest of the day.

I think the brothers would only figure out that you fall asleep in the middle of the day when they drag you with them somewhere.

Like if Mammon and Asmo decide to go to the mall after RAD. You know it’s during nap time but you go anyway. Until three hours later you’re so tired you can see it in your face. Mammon notices something’s wrong and asks you about it. You of course say you’re tired and that is usually nap time for you. Then something just clicks.

Mammons spent a lot of time in the human word, he knows how it’s different from his home. He knows human days are half as long as devildom days.

He obviously cuts the trip short and brings you back home, knowing Lucifer will chew him out if he kept you out any longer like that.

From that point on he let you sleep in his room so that your sleep schedule doesn’t get too messed up. Especially since you can’t just constantly stay up for two days straight. Of course he’d also let you sleep in your room if you wanted. And he would make sure to keep his brothers away (though he’s gonna deny it. The great mammon doesn’t care for humans! But he cares for this one)

Eventually the rest of the brothers find out once you start getting closer. Although he won’t admit it Lucifer is a little ashamed he forgot that humans need more sleep. Mostly since Solomon, aka the only other human, is already used to devildom days and can stay up for long periods of time.

Eventually you just start sneaking into their rooms when they’re gone and you need your midday nap. They probably don’t even notice you’re going into their rooms until one of them catches you asleep.

Don’t even get me started about Belphie😭 he would eat that up.

After you get close he’s definitely going to sleep with you. He would probably be a jerk about it too. Though don’t threaten him by saying you won’t nap with him, he will throw a fit till he gets what he wants.

Though with Belphie you’ll probably end up sleeping longer than intended. What would normally be a 6 hour nap to get you through the rest of the day could easily turn into 14 hours with Belphie.

Maybe it’s not entirely his fault though, his bed is the most comfortable (both the attic one and the one in his room) and he does naturally keep nightmares away.

[peachesofteal]

The wallflower.

Johnny clocks it immediately, your shoulders practically pinned against the pale-yellow wall, pint glass slick with condensation cradled between your fingers. Your eyes dart around and then away, finding something to study in the carpet, or the stairs, on the coffee table.

You’re not comfortable here, that much is clear.

He elbows Simon. “Poor girl looks nervous.” Simon gives you a furtive glance over the rim of his glasses, and nods.

“Probably only knows one person. Or got dragged here.” It’s Kyle’s wife’s birthday party. She has a lot of friends it seems, well liked in all facets of her life, work and otherwise. He clucks his tongue. “Sweet thing.” Someone bumps into you, and then pivots, reaching out to grab your arm in apology. You don’t tell him off or pull away. You just glance at his hand, meek smile stretching your lips sour. It turns Johnny’s stomach.

“She needs rescuing.”

“Johnny.” There’s a warning in Simon’s tone, a reproachful sentiment that he knows well. No strays. No projects. No more shelter pets.

“Ach c’mon. Look at her.” That one muscle in Simon’s cheek feathers, the one that says everything without Simon saying anything at all. Broken resolve.

He sighs. Johnny grins.

“Ye alright?” The man who’s taken up a residence at your shoulder is now speaking to you. Worse, he’s asking you if you’re alright.  

“I… I’m good. Yeah. Fine.” You grip your glass tighter, ignoring the flip of your stomach. You snuck at glance at him when he first came over, and that was enough. He’s very handsome.

And you’re, well-

You’re… you.

“Someone ditch ye?” Oh god.

“Uh, no. My friend is over there.” You point to Anna’s back. She’s in the kitchen, laughing so loud you can hear her from across the living room.

“Ah. She did ditch ye.”

“No!” You glare at him, “No.”

“But she didnae offer to introduce you to anyone?” You wince, and his eyes flicker with sympathy. “Ah, she did.”

“I’m not good with… people.” The understatement of the year. You don’t do people. People are too unpredictable, too much of an unknown. A pattern of behavior will only take you so far, and it’s hard to forecast their actions, reactions, words, emotions… everything.

You prefer safer bets. Predictable things. Equations, mostly.

“Ye’re not good w’people, but ye’re at a party.”

“Yes, it’s quite a feat.” You snap your mouth shut, expecting him to give you a weird look, but he laughs.

“If ye’re uncomfortable, why stay?”

“Because, social interactions are good for me. And I promised myself a slice of cheese pizza if I made it an hour.” He should laugh. Most would. Most would think it’s fucking hilarious, how you’re bribing yourself, dangling a carrot in front of your face.

But this guy doesn’t. He doesn’t laugh. He cocks his head, and frowns. “So… ye’re torturing yourself so ye can earn a slice of pizza.” A nervous giggle bubbles up and out your throat.

“It sounds bad when you put it that way but-“

“It is bad.” A deep voice sounds from over your shoulder, and you jump.

“This is Simon.” Your new… friend, Johnny, motions to the hulking man at your side, and you manage a nod, spitting out your name. “He’s no’ scary, just looks it.” Johnny reaches for his hand, and the equation clicks to together with ease.

Oh.

“You here with a friend?”

“Uh. Yep.” You point to Anna, again, and they exchange a look.

“She ditch ya?” Same question, different accent, and you’re about to give the same answer, when Johnny intercedes.

“She’s here so she can have a slice of pizza.” Yeah. It sounds bad.

“Wot?”

“I… It’s good for me to be around people so I said if I could do it for an hour, I could have pizza.” They’re both wearing expressions you can’t translate, two faces you don’t understand, and it twists you up.

“Do you usually ransom yourself pizza?”

“N-no.”

“Is it… an eating thing?”

“Oh, no. It’s like… I’d rather be at home, but everyone says socializing is… important. So, for doing something I hate, I get pizza.” Simon sighs.

“Trying to fit a square into a circle.” The comment is puzzling, but as you’re trying to put it together, Johnny links his pinky with yours and tugs you closer. The room is quiet, the music, the laughing, the chatter, all of it goes silent. There are dozens and dozens of people in here, but right now, it’s just you and these two. Staring at one another. There’s a web thin string spinning from him, to you, to Simon, and it’s wrapping you up, cocooning you, holding you tight.

“This okay?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Ye wannae go get that slice with us?” Do it. Just do it. Do something. You take a deep breath.

“Sure.”  

They look comical, shoved into the pleather red booth across the table from you, Simon far too wide to comfortably accommodate Johnny, but they don’t seem to mind. “So, cheese then?” You nod, picking at the faded corner of a menu. This was a bad idea, this was stupid. What were you thinking? Why-

“Three slices of cheese please.” You hadn’t even noticed the server, and you panic when she starts to turn away.

“And a coke!” You blurt, immediately embarrassed. She stares at you for a second before nodding, forcing a smile, and walking off. Fuck. You press your palm down on the table, trying to focus on the texture, the feel of it.

“Hey,” Simon says softly, “you didn’t do anything wrong.” You bristle.

“I know that.” Of course you know… don’t you?

Clearly not.

They don’t try to force you into conversation, but they do talk to you. They don’t ask you pointed questions or try to dig into you, instead choosing to tell you about themselves, their dog, their jobs. They keep you involved without dragging you in unwillingly.

It’s nice.

You’re halfway through your slice when you realize they’re watching you.

 “What? Is there something on my face?” You frantically wipe at your chin, your cheeks. Simon’s mouth quirks.

“Nothing on your face, sweet girl.” Your brain scrambles. Words fail. You don’t think anyone has ever called you something like that before.

“Oh. Okay. Well. Good.” Stupid.

“Go on and finish up.” He instructs, pointing at the grease laden slice, and you bring it to your mouth obediently. “Want to come for a walk with us after this? Our favorite park is around the corner, and the moon is really bright tonight.” A walk. With them. A walk? What does that mean? Just like, a walk?

Do it. Just do it. Do something. Be brave.

You roll your shoulders, and take a bite of your pizza, chewing slowly and swallowing.

And then you nod.

“Yes.”

[mggslover]

spencer and readers first fight ! can you possiblyyyy do something along the lines of spencer said something sassy/petty/mean which results in reader giving spencer the silent treatment and he crashes out begging for her to speak to him 🤓☝🏼

your first fight with spencer genre: slight angst, fluff word count: 1,7k a/n: i've been so excited to write this one! honestly way too long for a drabble, but i hope you enjoy it

“That’s okay. Your mind wouldn’t be able to comprehend a concept like this."

Spencer didn’t understand the gravity of his words before you huffed out a sigh, placing your hands on your knees as you lifted yourself up from the spot next to him on the couch. His eyes followed your body as you walked straight toward your shared bedroom, opening the door before shutting it behind you with a bang. The click of the lock echoed through the now silent living room.

Spencer sat frozen in place, his gaze fixed on the door as if you’d magically reappear in front of him.

Everything about your body language hinted at you being angry, but he couldn’t grasp why. He replayed the situation back in his head in an effort to decipher the reason.

You had cheerfully greeted him when he entered the apartment. He’d been away on a case for several days, not having had the time to speak to you over the phone or give you any updates on how he was doing.

As much as he preferred keeping clear boundaries between his personal and professional life, Spencer couldn’t resist telling you the details of some of his cases when coming home. Not when the psychology behind the unsubs fascinated him so much. And especially not when you eagerly pulled him toward the couch, pushing him down onto the soft cushions as you handed him a cup of freshly brewed coffee, ready to hear about his day.

You sat cross-legged in front of him, eyes twinkling with admiration as he told you about today’s case. He explained how he discovered a pattern in the way the unsub took his captives, using the numbers 11235 — the first five numerals in the Fibonacci sequence.

He noticed the frown forming between your brows as he got into more detail.

“Can you explain that to me? I don’t get it,” you asked.

“That’s okay. Your mind wouldn’t be able to comprehend a concept like this.”

Spencer wasn’t lying. He remembered how his coworkers had blankly stared at him when he analyzed his theory — how Emily made eye contact with JJ, their silent looks saying there he goes again, and how Hotch had to cut him off to tell him to get to the point. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to explain it to you, he just didn’t see the point in doing so, not when he knew this was a connection only he could understand.

After a couple of minutes, there was still radio-silence. Spencer got up and walked to the bedroom, knocking softly on the door. “Angel? Can you open up for me?”

“Just go away, Spencer.”

Your voice cracked, like you had been crying, and the sound made his heart sink.

“Please open the door so we can talk. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong?” Your scoff vibrated through the door. “I don’t even want to talk to you if you can’t understand what’s wrong.”

Spencer swallowed hard, his hands turning clammy. He didn’t like confrontations and especially not with you. You’d never fought before. Rationally, he knew fights weren’t necessarily a bad thing — conflicts usually stemmed from deeper fears and feelings that get triggered, and confronting these feelings could lead to creating an even stronger bond. But right now, all he wanted was to turn back time and make sure those words never left his mouth.

His mind blanked in situations like these, so the only logical fix he could come up with was to call Derek.

“Hey,” Spencer spoke through the phone, balancing the device between his ear and shoulder as he nervously paced through the living room.

“Hey man. What’s up?”

“I messed up.”

Morgan’s chuckle sounded through the speaker. “Our genius making a mistake. Who would’ve thought the day would come?”

Spencer sighed, losing his patience. “It’s serious.”

Derek paused before responding. “Alright, slow down. Tell me what happened.”

Spencer repeated the conversation for what felt like the hundredth time that day, his guilt accumulating with each repetition. He gulped when he heard Derek take a sharp inhale at the other side of the line. He could almost see him shaking his head.

“Okay,” Derek began. “Now listen to me. When it comes down to it, all women are the same, they just need some loving and appreciation. Go buy her some flowers before the store closes.”

Spencer didn’t need to be told twice. He glanced one last time at the still-locked bedroom door before heading out.

Thankfully, Spencer’s apartment was close to downtown. He hurried into the first flower shop that he spotted, his eyes scanning the bouquets until they landed on a pair of bright colored lilies. The outer corners of the petals shone with a radiant shade of pink, fading into a soft white at the center.

He cleared his throat as he placed the flowers on the counter. “Can I have these, please?”

The woman behind the counter started wrapping them in pink paper, reaching out for lint to tie a bow. “Trouble in paradise?”

Spencer blinked, not often experiencing someone seeing right through him. Besides his coworkers. And you.

“Ya know, I see so many men come in here on the daily. You can just tell they got in trouble with their lady; sweating bullets and rushing to pick a bouquet the second before the store closes.” She twirled the bouquet in her hand as she pulled on the strings of the lint bow. “At least you picked a nice one.”

“Do-,” Spencer hesitated, his voice softening in an uncertain whisper. “Will she forgive me after this?”

“Depends on what ya did,” she answered with a lift of her shoulders. “What I can tell you is that flowers don’t do much fixing.”

Damn it, Derek.

The florist turned around, rummaging through a drawer, before pulling out an envelope and sliding it across the counter.

“Write,” she stated in a single syllable. “We need words. We need to know that you care, and we need you to put more effort into it than paying ten dollars.”

With a new plan in mind, Spencer hurried home. The apartment was still silent when he returned, the door firmly closed and no signs of you having left the bedroom. He sighed and made his way to his desk, shoving aside piles of books and papers until he had enough space to write. He opened the envelope the florist had given him, and carefully pulled out a sheet of blank stationary.

My Lover Dearest,

It is ironic that I have read so much poetry and so many books in my life, and yet I cannot find the words to describe how much you mean to me.

Sometimes, I find it difficult to believe that someone as wonderful as you would want to be with me. That I’m allowed to deserve the love that you give me.

My mind works in strange ways, and as much as you’ve praised me for it, it can work as a curse as well. I am scared to overwhelm you, to talk your ears off (which would be a shame, because you have beautiful ears) to the point that you grow tired of me.

I never had the intention to cause you pain, or to initiate that you’re any less brilliant than you are. You are the brightest part of my life. I feel grateful every time I get to talk to you, and I would love nothing more than to explain any concept you’d want me to. I’m sorry for not having understood that before.

I love you. I love you. I have been wanting to tell you this in a special way, please know that I am not just saying this to ask for your forgiveness. I love you.

Sincerely, Spencer

The clock chimed 03.00 a.m. by the time Spencer finished his letter. His hand ached and he could barely keep his eyes open as he stumbled to the bedroom door. He turned the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. With a resigned sigh he slid the letter under the door and sat down against it. It didn’t take long for exhaustion to overtake him.

The repeated knocking of the door against his back woke him.

“Spencer?”

Your voice sounded like a siren, and he instantly scrambled away from the door, allowing you to open it fully.

You stood there, holding the envelope in your hand as your eyes softened when you glanced over him, mouth forming a small oh. “What are you doing here?” you asked in worry.

“The door was locked,” he answered, voice still hoarse from sleep.

A curse escaped your lips as you pressed your hands against your face. “I am so sorry. I must have fallen asleep with the door still locked.”

Spencer’s lips lifted into a small smile, relieved that you hadn’t locked him out intentionally. “It’s okay. Orthopedists actually recommend sleeping on the floor from time to time. Sleeping on a hard surface encourages a more natural position for your spine, which can reduce back pain. It even strengthens certain muscles, so the pressure on your body evens out. As a matter of fact, anthropological studies have shown that-”

He stopped mid-ramble, blushing when he noticed the faint smile tugging on your lips.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’ll stop,”

“Don’t you ever stop,” you replied as you lowered yourself on the ground next to him. You reached for his hands, placing them into your lap.

Spencer’s blush deepened, and he struggled to suppress a grin. Your encouragement reassured him, and he went on about groups in Japan and Tanzania who experience significantly lower rates of back pain due to their minimal use of furniture.

“Spencer,” you gently interrupted after a while.

He blinked at you, seeing the gleam in your eyes as you adoringly stared at him. “Hm?”

“I love you too.”

[wandaslovey]

ᴍʀꜱ. ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴏꜰꜰ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜱᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴏᴡ

➺ dom!wandanat x sub!fem!reader

word count ~ 7k

authors note: i’m so excited to share this with you guys - this was so much fun to write! i’m planning on writing the first few parts as chapters where one will pick up right after the other and then once i get to a certain point i’ll do random time skips within the same au. oh also! i’m starting a tag list, so comment below if you’d like to be included on the next chapter! enjoy loves! 💕 as usual, this is not proofread.

content warning(s): legal age gap (w=30, n=33, r=23), natasha and wanda being two hot intimidating lawyers (except natasha kinda steals this show in this part, especially in the beginning. don’t worry though, wanda will have her time to shine!), conversation about kinkery and reader knows very little

if you’d like to read the drabble that inspired this series, click here

═════════════

you stand in front of the mirror, adjusting your white button-up blouse for the 10th time. you huff, frustrated that your wardrobe just wouldn’t cooperate with you this morning. as you look yourself over in the mirror—the rest of your outfit consisting of a mid-thigh black pencil skirt, some black nylons and black combat boots—you couldn’t help but wonder if your attire was okay for the interview.

the interview…you can’t believe you landed an interview at thee M.R. law firm. you knew how unqualified you were for the position, so you felt extra pressure to compensate somehow with your appearance.

you turn to the side in the mirror, first left and then right, scrutinizing yourself at every angle. you readjust the pieces of hair framing your face that you pulled out of your bun, before deciding you’d done all you could to look your best.

you glance at the clock on your nightstand in the reflection of the mirror, seeing it was time to go. you grab your knock-off brand purse and slip out of your apartment. when you walk down the stairs and open the door to the outside, the noise from the city fills your ears. the sounds of cars, horns, sirens, music and people all blended together, creating a sort of hum all new-yorkers were familiar with. you step out onto the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding some tourists that were taking a picture in front of the trendy restaurant you lived by. you hail a cab, quickly sliding into the backseat and telling the driver your destination.

now that you were settled in your seat with only the taxi drivers quiet music to distract you, the nerves you’d been attempting to snub out suddenly hit you full force. there was no way you could do this. you were sure you were just wasting your own time and the poor person who had to interview you. you knew your 6 months working as a receptionist at a dentist office nowhere near qualified you to manage things at M.R. law. you mentally curse yourself, thinking you must’ve been half asleep and entirely too desperate when you sent in your application at this place. you needed a job though—urgently. with your roommate moving back home, and no one else taking her place, you were stuck with paying the rent on your own. on top of that, you were still paying back loans for school. you knew you should cut your losses, leave new york and transfer to a much more affordable school, but you really wanted to stay as much as you could help it.

every stoplight you hit along the 20 minute drive only makes you more nervous. the fluttery feeling in your stomach turns into full blown pterodactyls by the time the driver has pulled up to the very tall M.R. building. you pass some folded up cash to the driver, mumbling out a quiet ‘thank you,’ and then step out of the car. you stare up at the intimidating building, the lettering of “maximoff-romanoff law” taunting you—daring you to step inside. you let out a stubborn exhale, squaring your shoulders and walking in with a confidence as fake as grape flavored candy.

you stride over to the front desk, noticing that the only employees in sight are all women.

“hi, i’m here for an 11 o’clock interview,” you tell one of the women behind the desk. she offers you a polite smile, giving you instructions to head into the elevator and up to the 8th floor. you nod your head, thanking her and make your way to your doomsday interview.

as the elevator doors shut behind you, you find yourself all alone in the small space. there was no background music to distract you now. you stare at the floor, noticing a slight glint to the black tiles you were standing on. you listen to the beeps counting up each floor, your eyes dragging up the stainless steel panel when the number reads 8 and the final beep sounds. the doors open and you’re immediately greeted with the sight of more women pacing around the place. some seemed to be in a rush while others were leisurely walking across the floor while chatting with a co-worker. you walk over to the front desk again, repeating what you had told the other kind lady downstairs. she gestures for you to take a seat on the couch in the waiting area, letting you know someone will grab you in a few minutes.

you take a seat on the black leather couch, figuring this piece of furniture probably costed more than the rent for your apartment. you cross your legs, interlocking your fingers together at your knee. you glance around the office, taking in the decor. it was very tasteful, some touches of greenery that went nicely with the black and dark woodsy vibe this floor was going for. you try your best to ignore the bile rising in your throat and the pterodactyls still swarming in your stomach. it was a good thing you didn’t eat breakfast this morning.

as two minutes turns into ten, and then fifteen, you can’t help but feel the urge to just get up and leave. you felt so out of place here; you couldn’t imagine working at this place with all these women who were so obviously out of your league.

just as you were settling on the idea of ditching this interview, you hear clacking footsteps making their way over to you. you didn’t dare look up yet, pretending to be very interested in the tiny hole in your pantyhose just above your knee.

“miss (y/l/n)?” the most heavenly, sultry voice calls out to you. your eyes slowly trail along the tile, up the woman’s legs covered in black slacks, her blouse and matching black suit jacket, and then finally her face. it was her.

thee mrs. romanoff.

mrs. romanoff was the person who was going to interview you? you couldn’t believe your eyes, or the situation. you clear your throat, realizing you had yet to acknowledge her calling out to you.

“yeah, that’s me,” you reply, standing on slightly wobbly legs. you watch as mrs. romanoff’s eyes slowly take in your appearance, her eyes lingering on your frame. you feel a little scrutinized, wondering if you really did mess up with what you were wearing.

“follow me.” she turns and leads the way. you stumble a bit as you follow behind her, not expecting her to have as long of a stride as she does.

“you’ll have to forgive me for the wait—we had a couple meetings run over this morning,” she talks to you over her shoulder, slowing her walk a little when she notices you’re not directly behind her like she thought.

“oh, no worries. i didn’t mind the wait.” that was technically a lie, but it wasn’t the wait that bothered you as much as the fact that you were left alone with your thoughts a little too long.

she rounds a corner at the end of the hall, pausing and gesturing for you to enter in one of the two doors that were side by side on the wall to the right. you walk through the doorframe, stepping into what you assumed was her personal office.

“have a seat, miss (y/l/n),” she says in a low voice, walking from behind you and around her desk to sit in her chair. you sit in one of the two chairs across from her, your heart thudding violently in your chest from being in such close proximity to her.

you adjust your seating position three times before finally settling in place, forcing yourself to sit still. mrs. romanoff humors you, remaining silent and patient through your nervous fidgeting.

“so, i have to say i was a little surprised to see your application come through to my desk,” she starts and you immediately feel your cheeks grow hot, the feeling of being in a place you don’t belong filling your whole body with dread.

she pauses, and you realize she was waiting for you to respond. right. this was supposed to be where you attempt to prove yourself adequate to work in this position.

“yes, um… well, admittedly i myself did think it was a stretch to apply here, but then i figured, i’m a fast learner, i’m very thorough in all i do and i enjoy learning new things. i thought i’d try my hand at something i haven’t done before.” you rattle off an answer that while it was true, it was also something you rehearsed 20 times in the mirror while getting ready before you got here. you were almost positive the slight robotic edge in your voice was noticeable.

mrs. romanoff hums in acknowledgment, nodding slightly at your rehearsed answer. “how well can you handle multi-tasking in a fast paced environment?” her lack of acknowledging your first answer puts a damper on your already fake confidence. you shift in your seat again, finding it harder to maintain eye contact with the sea of green that was her eyes.

“i would say i fare pretty well. i’m usually very good at managing stressful situations.” that was a complete lie—but most people bullshit their way through interviews, don’t they?

“usually?” she echoes, tilting her head to the side. she purses her lips, half attempting to hide a small smirk. she easily picked up on all your nervous antics the moment she saw you. you averting her gaze, walking unsteadily, fidgeting in your seat and the cute rose-y blush currently coloring your cheeks.

you clear your throat, interlocking your hands together in your lap. you notice they’ve already started to feel damp with sweat. “yeah, yeah most of the time i’d say so.”

“well, miss…” she glances down at what appeared to be your application and resume sitting in front of her on the desk. “(y/n)..you don’t sound very sure of yourself.” she sits upright in her chair, crossing her arms and leaning over the desk. your heart beats impossibly faster, the feeling of intimidation settling deep into your bones.

“no, i mean, i am sure—totally 100%.” you try to laugh, but it comes out sounding as nervous as you feel.

“okay, if that’s how you’d like to proceed…” she trails off, looking down at the papers in front of her again. you didn’t know what she meant, but your eyes fall desperately to the same papers she was looking at, as if they could provide some sort of answer to you. “what are your greatest strengths and weaknesses?”

you internally breath a sigh of relief. this was another answer you’d rehearsed in the mirror, it just needed to sound less robotic this time. “i’d say my greatest strengths are, i’m very punctual—i’m always on time if not early—um, i do all things thoroughly, as i mentioned before…i’m very reliable—hardly sick or need time off for family things, and i enjoy a good challenge. my greatest weakness is that i like to be very organized and sometimes i can spend a little too much time completing a certain project before moving onto the next.” you exhale after you finish talking, your eyes flicking across her face to try and get a sense of how she’s taking in your answer.

as you speak, you can’t help but notice that she was watching you so meticulously. it seemed that she was taking in not only your words, but your facial expressions, hand gestures and body language.

she looks at you for a moment as if she’s thinking hard on something. without taking her eyes off of you, she presses a button on her desk, the small ding from an intercom sounding. “joan, please track down mrs. maximoff and have her come into my office right away.”

your heartbeat now thrums loudly in your ears, your breath picking up its pace. you were not only going to be in the presence of mrs. romanoff but now mrs. maximoff too? never in your life had you seen such a powerful couple—and that was only in photos and billboards you’d seen around the city!

“is everything okay?” you ask nervously, feeling the permanent blush on your cheeks travel to the tips of your ears.

“everything’s fine, (y/n),” she gives you a smile but it was anything but reassuring. in fact, there was something about the expression that felt more intimidating with how devastatingly beautiful she was.

she grabs a pen and starts writing something on the paper. whatever it was was brief, but you couldn’t see clearly from your seat.

a quiet knock comes from the door and your posture becomes rigid as you hear who you assume to be mrs. maximoff entering the room.

“you called for me?” mrs. maximoff asks as she walks the length from the door to mrs. romanoff’s side. she walks around your chair and stands next to her wife, placing her palm flat against the desktop and leaning some of her weight on it.

“yes, i wanted you to meet our new interviewee,” she smiles with her lips and gestures to you in your seat. you look between the two beautiful, impeccably dressed women, feeling extremely small and insignificant. mrs. maximoff turns to look at you for the first time, a warm smile gracing her features.

“hi,” she offers simply, extending her hand to shake yours. you sit forward, reaching your arm out to shake her hand across the desk. her hand was incredibly soft and a little cold to the touch, but you wouldn’t expect anything less since the office was kept at such a cool temperature.

“mrs. maximoff is going to sit in on the rest of our interview. is that okay with you?” mrs. romanoff asks, her eyes daring you to object.

you quickly shake your head from side to side, shifting once again in your chair. “no, no that’s perfectly fine,” you reply easily, though you were feeling anything but fine. you notice mrs. maximoff giving her wife a curious glance but she doesn’t otherwise question it.

“let’s move over to the couches so we’re a little more comfortable,” mrs. romanoff stands up and heads over to the long olive green velvet sofa. you follow suit, except you take a seat in the smaller sofa, designed for only one person. mrs. maximoff sits closest to you on the long couch, brushing some of her pretty brown hair behind her shoulder. you watch as she glances back at her wife, mrs. romanoff giving her a certain look that you weren’t sure what it meant.

“so, (y/n), tells us what your career goals are,” mrs. romanoff proceeds with the interview as if the interruption never happened. you find yourself even more nervous to respond now that there were two, hot, older women sitting before you.

“umm…for now i really just need something steady that will simultaneously be giving me good work and life experience.. long term though, i’d like to become a therapist once i finish my masters program.” you bite your tongue once you finish your sentence, realizing this is not the sort of job where you tell your interviewers you’d like to pursue something that has nothing to do with their company.

“what appeals to you about becoming a therapist?” mrs. maximoff chimes in, tilting her head to the side curiously, just like mrs. romanoff had done earlier in the interview.

you lean back in your chair, a little surprised at her interest in your reply. “well, it’s a cliche answer, but i’m very passionate about helping people. it’s impossible to go through this life without getting seriously hurt and dealing with trauma. the vast majority of us have no idea how to cope or process through our experiences, so just knowing what i know, i’d like to try and be of some help for those who need it.”

the two lawyers look at you thoughtfully, mrs. maximoff nodding her head as you speak.

“that’s a very admirable passion. are you currently enrolled in a masters program?” she asks, crossing one of her legs over the other as she gets more comfortable in her seat.

“i am,” you reply with a shy smile. you never wanted to come across as bragging about your education, so you always sought to speak about it in the most humble way.

“you like school?” mrs. romanoff chimes in, leaning forward as she speaks.

your smile turns a bit rueful as you reply. “yes..i do. i know so many young people my age loathe school and all the hard work that needs to be put in, but…i love everything about it. i love taking notes, making flashcards, studying, taking tests, everything about it, i just love. i know it sounds a little crazy.” you laugh once, suddenly feeling more relaxed as you speak about something so genuinely. you feel a little more surprise again as you hear mrs. romanoff chuckle with you, nodding her head towards her brunette wife.

“sounds like somebody i know. this one here was a school addict. i had to practically pry textbooks out her hands just so we could do anything other than study,” she chuckles again, mrs. maximoff joining in with her.

“i won’t apologize for being so pointed about my studies. we both got straight A’s, didn’t we?” she jokes light-heartedly and you find yourself smiling warmly at their light banter.

mrs. maximoff turns back to face you, a smile still touching her lips. “what else do you do aside from school?” her question makes your face fall slightly as you now had to admit you were technically unemployed. you knew that didn’t look good for potential employers.

“right now, not a whole lot. just keeping busy with my studies,” you respond vaguely to which they both hum in response.

the pair of them continue asking you questions, except they become progressively more personal until they don’t attain to work or working at this position at all.

“do you like living alone? or do you prefer living with others?” was one of the questions mrs. romanoff asks you after you had explained you were currently without a roommate.

even though it was strange, you find that the more you talk about yourself, the more relaxed you feel. mrs. romanoff and mrs. maximoff both noticed it too. they could see more of your personality showing through as the nerves slowly but surely dissipated.

it had been near 40 minutes by the time mrs. romanoff checked her watch and noticed the time. she looked at her wife, mrs. maximoff seeming to sense her eyes on her as she automatically looked to the side. they shared a look, one of them nodding to the other before turning back to face you.

“well, we’ve kept you here much longer than was intended—i apologize for that.” mrs. romanoff says as she stands, mrs. maximoff following suit. you stand also, smoothing your skirt back over your legs. as you stand so closely to them now, you notice how they were both taller than you by a few inches, making you feel small again like you had earlier.

“it’s no big deal. i’m in no rush,” you smile shyly as you look up at the two of them. you extend your arm out, shaking both of their hands before getting ready to leave. they both give your hand a gentle squeeze and when mrs. romanoff shakes your hand, she grasps on longer than her wife, holding your gaze with a certain intensity.

“we’ll be in touch, miss (y/n),” she says smoothly, calling you out by your first name, and for some reason the combination between her voice and her eye contact made your knees feel weak.

you swallow thickly, nodding your head and thanking them both for the interview before turning away. mrs. maximoff leads you to the door to exit and walks you all the way out to the elevators. you pace the short distance in somewhat comfortable silence. when you turn to face her to say your final goodbye, your surprised to see mrs. romanoff behind her. she was following so quietly that you didn’t notice her presence.

“bye! thank you again,” you smile, stepping into the elevator once the doors open. the two women stand side by side of each other, giving you a near identical smile which portrayed some sort of knowing behind it, almost like they were expecting something.

“it was a pleasure meeting you miss (y/l/n),” mrs. maximoff calls out to you as the elevator doors slide closed.

you exhale a breath you didn’t now you were holding, slumping back against the elevator walls.

『 °*• ❀ •*°』

that evening, you cook up a box of mac n cheese, too lazy to try and find the ingredients to make anything else. not to mention, your mind was still a little bit jumbled after your interview with thee lesbian power couple.

mrs. romanoff’s words kept echoing in your head.

”we’ll be in touch” she’d said. but didn’t your interview totally blow? especially at the end. it wasn’t so much an interview but rather more like a conversation where people try to get to know each other better. maybe they were looking for a personality hire? you really doubted that though.

you eat your mac n cheese while staring blankly at the wall, thinking over the whole exchange with mrs. romanoff and mrs. maximoff. as you mindlessly feed yourself spoonfuls of your dinner, you realize you didn’t even know their first names. you remembered you had once seen them on a billboard somewhere but didn’t remember exactly what they were. mrs. romanoff’s first name was natalie or something similar? you were at a loss with mrs. maximoff. you decide to google them to put your curiosities to rest.

pulling out your phone, you google their names and the law firm. after doing just a little bit of digging, you see their full names: natasha romanoff and wanda maximoff. ah, so you were close with mrs. romanoff’s name. you wonder if they only go by their last names at the office. it definitely seemed like their vibe to have things be so professional.

as you go throughout the rest of your evening, showering and getting ready for bed, you continue thinking about them. the longer your mind lingers on them, the less “professionally” you think about them. you couldn’t help but notice how utterly beautiful they both were. they both carried themselves with a confidence that anyone would find intimidating. there was something so forceful about their presences, but not necessarily in a bad way. it seemed like natasha—mrs.romanoff—was a little more rough around the edges, but you could see she easily held a soft spot for her wife and life partner. mrs. maximoff gave off a much more approachable vibe, but she was still intimidating in her own way.

as your mind continues wandering, you find yourself becoming more tired before you finally drift off to sleep, your brain fatigued from all your analytical thinking.

『 °*• ❀ •*°』

the first thing you notice when you wake up is the light shining through your thin curtains. you blink a few times, slowly adjusting to the light. you blindly reach over to your nightstand, unplugging your phone from the charger. as you unlock your phone, you notice a missed call from an unknown number nearly two hours ago. you shoot up into a sitting position in your bed, suddenly feeling much more awake. it was just passed 10 am. was the unknown number a call back about your interview?

your fingers furiously swipe on your phone, quickly googling the number for M.R. law. you breath a sigh of relief when you cross reference the digits in your phone and the number online, realizing it was just a random unknown caller. you let your body fall back limply on the bed, your leg dangling off the side as you clutch your phone to your chest. that would’ve been humiliating if they called offering you the job and you didn’t pick up the phone.

as you go about your morning leisurely—not having any classes this day—you try to push the two hot lawyers out of your mind. there was no point in dwelling on them if you’d never hear from them again.

you leave your face bare of makeup, not intending on leaving the apartment and you opt for wearing comfy clothes—or “frumpy” clothes as you called them—instead of something nice.

you head into the kitchen, pouring yourself a bowl of frosted flakes cereal. you let it sit there for a few minutes to soak up the milk, as soggy cereal was your favorite. you’d argue with anyone who claimed crunchy cereal was best. as you wait, you power up your laptop, intent on working on some homework.

you’re munching on your cereal, blue-light filtered glasses adorning your nose as you work on your computer screen. you were mid-bite when you hear your phone buzzing on the counter next to you. you glance down at your phone and frown slightly when you notice it looks to be the same unknown number from earlier.

you continue chewing your bite, raising the phone to your ear as you accept the call.

“hello?” you ask, your voice mumbled a bit as you still had some food in your mouth.

“good morning, miss (y/n),” you hear a warm, velvety voice greet you. after almost an hour interview with her yesterday, you’d recognize this distinct voice anywhere.

“mrs. romanoff?” you just about choke on your food as you swallow, your body tensing slightly as you feel much more alert.

“that would be correct.” you hear her chuckle softly into the phone, your tone laced with obvious surprise she must have found endearing.

“i’m so sorry! i think i missed your call earlier? i didn’t recognize the number- i had no idea it was you, i’m sorry!” you apologize quickly, thinking that if she was actually calling to offer you the job, you might have just ruined it.

“don’t worry about it. i would be surprised if you recognized it given that this is my personal number,” her voice was low and warm. it was entirely too enticing.

“oh.. umm, right. well, good morning,” you stumble slightly over your words, unsure what else to say to her.

“are you normally a late riser?” she asks with humor in her voice.

“what? oh no, not normally no. i just don’t have classes today,” you explain, a little embarrassed at her having called you out on your sleeping habits.

“i see. well, we just wanted to call and ask if you’d meet us for a coffee,” her question came out as more of a statement and you were left wondering why on earth she would want to go out for coffee with you and…wait.. did she say we?

“we?” the words echo aloud from your mind.

“yes. my wife and i,” she reiterates calmly. you look around your small excuse for a kitchen as if the reasoning behind her posing this question was written on the walls.

“like today?” you ask stupidly. of course she meant today.

“yes - today. can you meet us in 15? we’re going on lunch break. i’ll text you the address.” your eyes zip to the digital numbers plastered on the microwave. you only had 15 minutes to try and look presentable, get a cab and meet them.

“ummm..yeah. yeah sure,” you nod your head as if she could see you through the phone. you quickly hop off the stool you were sitting on, walking briskly to the bathroom with the phone still held firmly to your ear.

“perfect. we’ll see you soon.” she hangs up and you all but toss your phone on the bathroom counter, staring down at the device as if it’s offended you. you quickly snap out of it, only having 5 or so minutes to un-hobo yourself. you quickly apply some concealer on your dark spots, powder on a little blush and brush on a coat of mascara in record time. in your haste, you stumble from the bathroom to your closet, trying to find something to quickly throw on. you grab a simple white baby tee, putting it on and then aggressively stepping into some loose light wash jeans. grabbing your belongings, you half jog out the door, nearly slipping down the last two stairs of your apartment.

you quickly get a cab, thanking whatever higher power there is in your head that there was very little delay in one driving by. as the taxi driver takes you to the address you gave him, you sit forward in your seat, gathering your hair in a pony tail near the top of your head. you secure it with an elastic you always keep around your wrist and pull some pieces out to frame your face. you glance in the cab rear view mirror, seeing you looked fairly presentable. you exhale shakily, sitting back in your seat as the same nerves you felt yesterday on the way to your interview were coming back now.

what was this about? i mean, you knew it wasn’t normal to meet with potential employees for coffee. it was especially suspicious because it was mrs. romanoff *and* her wife.

your thoughts are interrupted as the taxi slows to a crawl and he pulls up to the coffee shop. you’d never been to this one before, granted there were hundreds of shops all over the city so there were probably many you hadn’t gone to. your heart leaps in your chest as you see both mrs. romanoff and mrs. maximoff waiting outside for you.

you pass the driver the money, thank him and slip out of the car. as you step onto the sidewalk, mrs. maximoff greets you with the same warm smile she’d given you when you first met. mrs. romanoff smiles too, though it’s not as wide as her wife’s.

“hello again, (y/n).” your heart skips a beat as you hear mrs. maximoff use your first name for the first time. mrs. romanoff had been calling you by your first name since you’d stepped foot into her office. you liked the way your name fell from both of their tongues.

“hi, good to see you both again,” you smile despite your nerves, making eye contact with both of them in a polite manner.

“shall we?” mrs. romanoff suggests as she opens the door for you, her wife placing a gentle hand on the small of your back to usher you inside. you inhale shakily, the unexpected contact surprising you in a pleasant way.

as the three of you file in behind the small line of people waiting to order, your eyes skim the menu, even though you already knew exactly what you wanted.

“cute outfit,” mrs. romanoff murmurs from behind you. you could hear what sounded to be amusement in her tone but you weren’t sure.

you turn to the side to face her, her being on your left and mrs. maximoff on your right just a half-step behind you. “thank you. i threw it on—literally. i was wearing something a lot less presentable when you first called.” you glance down at both of their outfits. the duality between yours and their outfits was almost laughable. they looked impeccably fashionable and you were just in street clothes.

wanda chuckles lightly at your comment. “what were you wearing before?” she asks.

“just an oversized tee and some biker shorts,” you shrug, crossing your arms casually over your chest. you always felt more comfortable when you had your arms wrapped around yourself.

as the line moves and you’re next, mrs. romanoff quickly stands in front of you, her body moving between you and the counter. “what’ll you have?” she gives you an expectant look, ready to give your order.

“an iced mocha?” you ask a little shyly, her show of putting herself between you and the cash register did something to you for some reason.

she nods, and turns to the barista, repeating your order along with hers and her wife’s. you’re about to protest, wanting to tell her she doesn’t have to pay for you, but you feel mrs. maximoff’s hand return to the small of your back, swiftly maneuvering you away from the line and over to the small cluster of tables.

you sit down in a chair she pulled out for you and you scoot yourself in as mrs. maximoff settles in her own seat across from you.

“you really don’t have to pay for me, you know,” you pipe gently, glancing over at mrs. romanoff who was standing at the counter waiting for the drinks before you turn back to mrs. maximoff.

“of course not, we want to. plus, neither her nor i would ever allow you to pay for yourself even if you insisted,” she smiles winsomely, her eyes gleaming with something warm and bright.

mrs. romanoff returns with all three coffees, somehow handling all three and setting them down in a graceful manner.

“thank you,” you give mrs. romanoff a gentle smile as your fingers interlock around the cup and you drag it closer to you.

they both take a sip from their coffees—which were both hot—before mrs. romanoff clears her throat, her eyes narrowing in on you as she leans forward on the table.

“so, i imagine you’re wondering why we asked you here.” she throws a glance at her wife who was already looking at her speak.

“it may have been on my mind…” you trail off, sounding as innocent as possible.

mrs. romanoff smiles knowingly, her eyes appraising you in a way that made you squirm slightly in your seat.

“it’s not about the job, as i’m sure you might have figured, but rather about offering a different type of position,” she begins. your brow furrows in confusion. what did she mean?

“a different position? like a cleaning job or something?” you immediately go to thinking about jobs that require little to no experience, figuring that might be all they’d have to offer given your background.

they both laugh at your guess, mrs. romanoff being the one to shake her head no.

“no, not a cleaning job,” she pauses, seeming to measure your expression before continuing. “(y/n), have you ever heard the term bdsm?”

your face goes blank and you look from mrs. romanoff to her wife who appeared to be watching you just as carefully.

“um…i think so? i’ve heard the term a few times before.” your legs feel like they’ve turned to jelly, an unfamiliar pit settling into your lower tummy at the abrupt shift in the topic of conversation.

“what do you know about it?” mrs. maximoff chimes in, tilting her head to the side which causes some of her neatly curled hair to fall forward.

you look between the two of them, unconsciously shrinking further down into your seat. this was such a taboo subject to talk about it public; you found yourself already growing warm from just the thought of this discussion.

“well, it’s..sex stuff…right? like being tied down and whipped?” you speak hesitantly in a small voice, throwing quick glances at the strangers littered across the coffee shop.

“those things can be a part of it, yes—if all parties discuss that’s something they like to participate in” mrs. romanoff explains and then continues. “what else have you heard about it? or is that the gist of what you know?”

you shrug, your shoulders slumped forward and your head bowed slightly to try and obscure your flushed cheeks. you suck your bottom lip into your mouth—your nervous habit.

mrs. maximoff pipes in again after noticing your bashfulness. “a lot of people have that imagery in mind when they hear the term ‘bdsm,’ so it’s understandable that that’s your impression. there is so much more to it though. really, bdsm is about exploring people’s sexual interests in a safe space. you learn about your limits, what you like, what you didn’t expect to like, and so much more.” you listen to her explanation intently, your mind immediately wandering and wondering where this conversation was going to go.

mrs. romanoff picks up off her wife’s words. “some people simply dabble in certain aspects of bdsm while others treat it more as a lifestyle—and for my wife and i, it is a lifestyle.”

you nod hesitantly as they both pause for a second, watching you digest this information. you’re unsure how to respond, feeling progressively more restless in your seat.

they both give each other a look before mrs romanoff nods and mrs. maximoff speaks.

“normally, for people who live this lifestyle, they draw up contracts between themselves and the person they want as their submissive.. now we know this is all very forward, but there’s just no other way to put it. we’d like to have you as our new submissive.”

your face turns bright red for reasons you’re not fully aware of. you weren’t quite sure what being a “submissive” all entailed, but you couldn’t wipe the imagery of being helplessly tied down and whipped from your mind. you’re silent as your brain flits through one imaginary scenario to the next. you were so clueless though, you weren’t sure if the things you were thinking up were things people actually did or if they were just shown in porn.

“me…? i just..well it’s just that..i’m-i don’t know if i would be your ideal candidate,” you stumble out, your eyes glued to the table as you avoid looking at either of them at all costs.

“on the contrary, (y/n), i singled you out almost immediately at our interview. i knew i wanted you. that’s why i had wanda join us.” her face softens as she notices your slight uneasiness. being a bit of a sadist though, she couldn’t help but find your innocence and embarrassment so incredibly gratifying. it only made her want you more.

your teeth worry into your bottom lip again as you look between one set of green eyes and then the other. “do you guys normally.. share, uhm..submissives?”

“not always, but we do like to when it’s possible,” wanda shares, a reassuring smile on her face. you purse your lips, chewing on the inside of your cheek as more questions arise in your head.

“how does that work? sharing i mean.” you knew there were people who participated in polyamorous relationships, and you had no issue with it, you just had trouble visualizing the dynamic.

natasha grins wickedly to herself, realizing now how truly innocent and unknowing you were. she suspected a little yesterday at the interview, but had no idea the true scope of your innocence. wanda also found herself undeniably more attracted to you after this conversation. her hands twitch in her lap, thinking of all the things she could do to you that you probably haven’t ever dreamed of.

“it works (y/n), trust me…” mrs. romanoff says seductively.

“we know this is all very foreign to you, sweetheart. you don’t have to say yes today, just think about it?” mrs. maximoff reaches across the table and affectionately holds onto your wrist. your stomach does a little flip-flop at the term of endearment paired with the affection.

there were so many thoughts and feelings swirling around you, but one thing stuck out above the rest. you wanted to learn more. you didn’t want to say no and close a door on something that you might enjoy.

“i want to.. i mean, um, i will think about it,” you clear your throat for the umpteenth time that day, pulling your hand back from mrs. maximoff’s light grasp. it was suddenly feeling like her hand was searing your skin.

“you want to what?” mrs. romanoff presses, her eyes looking at you with intensity again.

“i just meant that i want to learn more..about this,” you reply quietly, peeking at mrs. romanoff through your lashes. you notice her clench her jaw and flex her fingers that were resting on the table, but you weren’t sure what it meant.

“well, there’s a lot to learn, but luckily i’d say we’re both pretty good teachers,” mrs. maximoff grins more wickedly this time, her expression giving you a new glimpse into something you hadn’t seen in her until this point.

“why don’t we meet up again sometime this weekend? we can answer any questions you have—help you learn more about what we’re asking from you,” she adds, to which you surprisingly feel eager to agree to the idea. you find yourself already wanting to learn more, especially if the people who were going to educate you were two of the hottest women alive.

“yeah…let’s do that,” you nod once, your blush slowly creeping off your cheeks though a slight honey glow was still present.

you all begin to gather your things, mrs. maximoff noticing their lunch break was just about up. the three of you hardly touched your coffees, the conversation too intense to take swigs of the drinks.

the two of them walk you out of the shop, mrs. romanoff hailing down a cab for you. you turn to say goodbye to mrs. maximoff and find that she’s standing closer to you than expected.

“i look forward to seeing you again so soon, dragotsennaya veshch’,” she murmurs, reaching to give your arm an affectionate squeeze. you smile at her, unsure what she said but not caring much to know now.

you step closer to the cab after mrs. romanoff opens the door for you. before you can slip inside the car, mrs. romanoff leans down, murmuring in your ear.

“if you have any questions before the weekend that simply can’t wait, don’t hesitate to text me. you have my number.” her voice was a little rough which makes you shiver.

you nod slowly, sucking on your bottom lip again. you give mrs. maximoff a shy hand wave which she mimics with an amused grin. you sink down into the car seat, mrs. romanoff shutting the door behind you.

as the taxi drives away, you can’t help but look behind you as the two women grow smaller and smaller on the sidewalk. as the car turns a corner, the couple remain standing there until you disappear. you sigh and turn back around in your seat, resting heavily against the cushion behind you.

what just happened?

——————————

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[kateschi]

get them fangirls away!

synopsis: katsuki’s greatest battle isn’t on the field—it’s surviving relentless fangirls. good thing he has you to shield him

pairing: secondyear!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

katsuki doesn’t run away from fights. he’s a fighter—loud, explosive, and always ready for a challenge.

but this?

this is different. this is a nightmare of his own making, and no amount of explosions is going to fix it.

“dynamight-senpai!” the shrill voices echo down the hallway like a siren’s call, and katsuki’s eye twitches.

his palms spark with irritation as he quickens his pace, trying to lose them in the maze of ua corridors.

but they’re relentless, chasing after him like their lives depend on it. why the hell don’t these brats know when to quit?

“dynamight-senpai! wait for us!”

he clenches his jaw. they’re like a pack of wolves, except these wolves ask for autographs and selfies instead of sinking their teeth in. still, they’re dangerous.

his eyes dart around, scanning the hallway for any possible escape route, when he spots you up ahead.

you’re leaning casually against your locker, completely unaware of the chaos barrelling toward you.

a plan clicks into place immediately.

he pushes off the ground, sprinting towards you with quick, desperate steps.

the frantic pounding of his footsteps catches your attention just as he skids to a stop behind you, ducking down to use you as a human shield.

“katsuki—what the hell are you doing?” you ask, eyes wide with confusion as you turn to face him.

“fangirls!” he hisses, crouching even lower behind you, his breath slightly ragged. his red eyes flicker toward the hallway entrance where the fangirls are rounding the corner, their faces lighting up the moment they spot him.

before you can ask any more questions, the first-years come to a screeching halt in front of you, out of breath but still buzzing with excitement.

they don’t even seem to notice you, their eyes locked onto katsuki who is half-hidden behind you like a kid caught in trouble.

“dynamight-senpai!” the leader squeals, pushing her way to the front of the group. “we’ve been looking all over for you!”

katsuki grits his teeth and curses under his breath, barely peeking over your shoulder. his hand grips your shoulder a little tighter, holding onto you for dear life.

“go away,” he growls, but his usual explosive tone is muffled by your presence, sounding more irritated than intimidating.

the fangirls, however, are undeterred. in fact, they seem even more excited by the sight of their idol so close—and apparently, within reach.

“we just want a picture, dynamight-senpai!” one of them pleads, her eyes sparkling with admiration. “just one, please?”

“no,” he snaps, but it’s lacking the usual bite. his eyes dart to yours, desperation flashing across his face for a split second. “damn it, why won’t they leave?”

you bite back a laugh. the mighty katsuki, hiding behind his girlfriend from a group of over-eager first-years. this is too good.

taking a step forward, you square your shoulders and block katsuki from view even more. “I think you heard him. he said no.”

the leader of the fangirls blinks, her enthusiasm faltering just a bit as she finally acknowledges your presence. “wait... are you...?”

you raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into a knowing smirk. “yeah, I’m his girlfriend.”

the words hang in the air for a moment, and you can practically see the wave of shock that ripples through the group.

the girls exchange stunned looks, their expressions ranging from disbelief to awe.

“dynamight-senpai has a girlfriend?!” one of them whispers, her eyes going wide.

katsuki smirks as he straightens up a little behind you. “yeah, you heard her. my girlfriend. and if you don’t back off, she’ll beat your asses into the ground.”

you glance back at him, giving him a pointed look. “seriously? that’s your plan?”

“damn right it is,” he mutters, crossing his arms as if he’s made the smartest move ever. “they’re annoyin’ the hell outta me. figured I’d let you handle it.”

one of the girls in the back gasps, clutching her hands to her chest.

“wait, we didn’t mean to upset him! we’re just...we’re such big fans of dynamight-senpai! he’s so amazing!”

“yeah!” another chimes in, her eyes wide and pleading. “we didn’t mean any harm!”

you sigh, looking them over. they’re not bad kids—just... overly enthusiastic.

but katsuki is your boyfriend, and while you’re used to his temper, you’re not about to let anyone, even a group of fangirls, mess with him.

“look, I get it,” you say, your tone softening slightly, though you still keep it firm.

“you’re excited and all, but katsuki isn’t some kind of photo op. he’s just trying to get through his day. how about you give him some space?”

the leader looks embarrassed now, her earlier excitement faltering. “we didn’t mean to bother him...”

katsuki huffs from behind you. “you did.”

you glance at him over your shoulder, shaking your head slightly. “so helpful.”

he grumbles under his breath but stays quiet, letting you handle it. you turn back to the girls, offering them a small smile. “just...be respectful, okay?”

the leader nods quickly, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “y-yeah, we’ll leave him alone. sorry for bothering you, dynamight-senpai and h/n-senpai.”

katsuki grunts, obviously relieved they’re finally getting the hint. the group lingers for a moment longer before they start shuffling away down the hall, their chatter much quieter now.

once they are gone, you turn to katsuki, raising an eyebrow. “so... hiding behind your girlfriend now? that’s a new one.”

he scowls, though the faint blush creeping up his neck was hard to miss. “shut up. I wasn’t hiding.”

you can’t help but laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “sure, ‘cause using me as a shield isn’t hiding.”

“tch. you handled it, didn’t you?” he shoves his hands into his pockets, avoiding your gaze. “better than blowin’ ‘em up.”

you smile, leaning in to give him a quick peck on the cheek. “you’re lucky I’ve got your back.”

he grumbles something under his breath, clearly too stubborn to admit you were right, but he takes his hand out of his pocket to intertwine your fingers together.

of course, that isn’t without a side-eye when you grin.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[shidoglazer]

Hii! Nagi and breeding? Pls (⁠ᗒ⁠ᗩ⁠ᗕ⁠)

🔞 req nagi seishiro oneshot mdni breeding kink

thanks for sending this in ! 🤍

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･'(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)'･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*

nagi seishiro? everyone describes him as lazy and sloppy. and you were no exception to that, whenever you two went out? he’d be walking like he was half-dead. morning routines? it takes a war tank just to pull him out of bed. even during sex, you practically have to beg him to pull out whenever you felt his dick twitch inside of you, signalling he was about to cum, “n-nagi! pull out! fffuck, mnngh!” “mmn, i know, i know. you jus’ feel so good, angel.” he mumbled against your shoulder before he pulled out, lifted his body up and giving his cock some shallow pumps as he came onto your stomach.

one day, nagi suddenly went out without you. weird. you didn’t think much of it, maybe he was with reo, or a game caught his eye when you were out the other day. you were sat at the living room on your phone while waiting for your boyfriend to come back.

your head snapped to the main entrance as the lock made a “click!” sound, nagi didn’t have anything on him, but a square-shaped thing in the pouch of his hoodie. “sei! welcome back, where were you?” “mmh.” he responded hesitantly, going over to where you were at and sitting next to you, reaching into the pouch of his hoodie and taking out a box, handing it to you.

…birth control. you stared at the box dumbfounded for a bit, then staring back at him, waiting for him to say something while his blank face was still staring at you, swallowing the lump in his throat as he started to speak softly. “pulling out’s a hassle. and you don’t like condoms. so,” he pointed towards the box.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

you were on top of nagi, hands on his shoulders as your body was bouncing up and down onto his cock, it hitting your g-spot everytime you slammed down onto him as usual. he had his eyes shut, moaning each time gravity pulled you down as he kept his hands on your hips. “y-you’re 100% sure this’ll be okay? mnngh,, cuz i’m on the pill n everything,” “yes. jus’ keep going, sweet girl.” in all honesty, he had no idea. he was more than willing to take care of you if anything went wrong, so what was there to worry about?

you couldn’t help but trust his gentle words, his tender voice, his soft expression . . . it was all so attracting. you nodded gently, falling limp onto his body as you let your hips do the work, the slapping from your skin being able to be heard echoing down the halls to downstairs. nagi placed multiple hickeys onto your neck while his hips jerked upwards occasionally to contribute to the pleasure. your lower body was burning, yet you couldn’t help but to keep chasing your high in desperation.

eventually, you tapped out , being a panting mess as you laid atop of your boyfriend. nagi caught on quickly, holding onto your waist and starting to thrust upwards, earning a moan from you from the unexpected contact to your cervix. “mmmgggahhh! ssseiii!!!.. right there!, ffuck babe,” your body arched towards him as he placed tender kisses onto any patch of skin he could find. “g’na cum inside you, mmkay?” he mumbled against your neck, feeling his dick twitch inside you.

“uhuhhh.. pleaase seiii..” your moans were staggered all around. you felt yourself getting closer, gripping onto nagis shoulders out of the pleasure you were feeling. “nagi!! gonna cum, gonnacumgonnacum!!—” he let out a hum before you released onto his cock, feeling a sea of his cum filling your stomach. he whimpered softly, throwing his head back as he placed one last thrust into you to make sure everything went in you. “fffuck angel.. lift y’rself up for me. lemme see.” he said in a demanding yet soft tone.

you slowly lifted yourself up with the support of your legs as one of his hands trailed to your lower stomach, feeling the bulge there caused by his cum and his cock filling you up. he let out a low hum at the sight, pulling you back down and kissing your temple, slowly pulling out of you, letting everything leak onto the sheets. “mmnn. we should do this more often.” he muttered. nagi felt a sense of possessiveness and ownership over you when he saw you take such a big load of his arousal into your petite hole. safe to say, you need to make trips to the pharmacy every once a month to get more pills for yourself now.

🍓

hii thanks 4 reading throughhh sorry for any mistakes or ooc parts & sorry its a bit shortt my creative juices are not flowing..

★ check out my masterlist !

[yukinohiko]

something about bratting with caleb and infringing into his work with the farspace fleet. it’s early in the morning, and he’s walking around his apartment impatiently. his keys aren’t on the usual hook by the door, his uniform cap is missing, and he’s running late looking.

it isn’t until he finds you in the kitchen, lazily pouring yourself a cup of apple soda, that something clicks in his mind.

“you’re up early.” he leans against the island table. “normally, you’re still lounging in bed at this time. but look at you, having breakfast before eight.”

you grin. “what can I say? early birds and whatnot.”

he smiles vaguely, but drums his knuckles on the table. “hand them over.”

“hand what over?”

he meets your innocent gaze. your coy act. humming, he chucks your chin and continues to play nice. “as much as I love playing with you, pipsqueak, I’m running late for work. so let’s stop this charade, hmm? hand over my keys and cap.”

you make a show of taking a sip of soda, swallowing without moving your eyes off him. shrug your shoulders, letting the oversized sleeve slip down your arm ever so slightly in calculated fashion.

“I don’t know what you mean, gege,” you say. “I haven’t seen your keys or your cap. perhaps you misplaced them?”

“did I.” he sounds vaguely amused, indulgent as ever. “I misplaced the things I use on a daily basis, in my home, that I’ve been living in? that’s what you’re going with?”

you nod. “very careless of you.”

“it is. I suppose I have been very careless, to have neglected you to the point that you play shenanigans like this,” he taps the tip of your nose, “to attract my attention.”

“I’m not —”

“it’s cute.” he fixes the sleeve of your shirt back up your shoulder, and slides his hand into your back pocket. he pulls out the keys you’d hidden. “gege will spoil you nicely after the fleet’s clean up is done. for now, why don’t you hand over my hat before we need anymore wandering hands?”

[alygator77]

ᰔᩚ motherhood and matrimony I ch 4 ᰔᩚ

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, slow burn, smut, fluff, bit of angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, some triggers of domestic abuse (emotional abuse but it can be a bit suggestive/interpreted as physical, from naoya not satoru) » 【note, this chapter contains extreme emotional manipulation from naoya, reader discretion advised】

ꨄ words: 9.3k

ꨄ a/n. okaaaay time for some angst ya'll. this series is taking a serious turn 🥲 also, as i said earlier, originally this chapter was 20k words buuuut i decided to split it up. i know ya'll said you wouldn't mind one long chapter but it's just, there are moments that i really want to give more time to breathe. you'll get ch 5 soon though, enjoy ♡

ꨄ taglist: closed (ao3)

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ch 4 // shadows of doubt

“…you sure you’re okay watching Haru?” you ask, hovering by the doorway, your fingers lightly brushing the doorframe as you steal one last glance into the living room.

The television screen casts a soft glow over Satoru and Haru, nestled together on the couch.

Satoru’s brow is furrowed in concentration as he fumbles with the TV remote, cycling through the menu. His lips are pressed into a thin line, his tongue peeking out slightly at the corner in a classic expression of someone deeply focused.

His usually tousled white hair is messier than usual, as if he’s run his hands through it a few too many times in frustration, and his sweater hangs loosely on his frame, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

It’s a stark contrast to the sharp, tailored suits you’re used to seeing him in.

But that’s because right now, he’s just Satoru—the guy who’s clearly struggling with something as simple as setting up a kid’s TV show, and yet, there’s something incredibly endearing about it.

Haru, oblivious to his difficulties, swings her tiny legs back and forth in a rhythm of excitement as she sits beside him.

It’s a picture of domesticity that feels almost too perfect to disrupt—a scene that brings warmth, but also a sharp pang of guilt.

Guilt—of what you are about to do.

“Yes, of course,” he replies without missing a beat, light yet reassuring. He glances up at you briefly, offering a warm smile. “Do what you need to do, it’s important to have time to yourself.”

Right now, it feels like you don’t deserve that smile.

The ache in your chest intensifies at the sincerity in his words, making the lie you’re carrying out feel even heavier.

Finally, after a few more clicks, the TV springs to life, and a triumphant grin spreads across Satoru’s face as the familiar Digimon theme song bursts through the speakers.

The sound seems to ignite a spark of joy in Haru, her face wide eyed as she turns her full attention to the screen.

“Besides, I promised her we’d watch Digimon together,” Satoru says, his voice laced with affection as he glances at Haru. “Now’s the perfect time. Right, Haru?”

Haru beams, her small body practically vibrating with excitement as she snuggles closer to him.

“Wow, look ‘toru, look!” she exclaims gleefully, her voice high-pitched with exhilaration as she points at the screen.

Her eyes sparkle with wonder, completely captivated by the vibrant colors and lively characters dancing across the television.

“Yay!” she claps her hands together.

A tender smile curls upon Satoru’s lips as he shifts his gaze from Haru to you. His blue eyes, always so vibrant and full of life, are soft and inviting, radiating a sense of calm—a calm that should put you at ease, but why does it fill you with more guilt?

“See? We’ve got it all under control. Go do what you need to do, and don’t worry about a thing.”

His words are spoken with such warmth and trust—it should comfort you, but instead your unease twists further in your gut.

You force a smile, trying to push away the shame that threatens to rise to the surface.

“Alright,” you murmur, “I won’t be long.”

But you linger for just a moment longer, unable to tear your eyes away from the heartwarming sight before you.

The way Satoru drapes an arm around Haru, pulling her closer as they both become engrossed in the show—you realize something profound.

It’s in the subtle details—the way he listens intently to her excited chatter, how he nods along, genuinely interested in every little thing she points out, even if it’s something as simple as a colorful character on the screen.

Satoru isn’t just watching Digimon with Haru; he’s immersing himself in her world.

He’s someone who takes the time to enjoy the things she loves, someone who listens to her with the patience and attentiveness she deserves. He’s supporting her curiosity, encouraging her to explore and express herself, making her feel valued in a way that is both gentle and profound.

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted for Haru—a stable, loving figure in her life, someone she can depend on, someone who can always be there for her. Someone who makes her feel safe, cherished, and free to be her true self.

Someone Naoya never was.

But this relationship is a contract, a charade—a lie.

And now, this new lie you’re about to bring to the table, casts an even darker shadow over this picture of domestic bliss.

There is a storm cloud, threatening to break at any moment—to drench you in an unforgiving rain. And that storm cloud is your reality.

The reality that this relationship has always been a lie, hasn’t it?

So... is what you’re doing really any different?

As you turn to leave, your body feels heavy, burdened by the deception you’re carrying with you.

Closing the door behind you, the soft click echoes in your ears as you begin to walk down the hallway, away from the warmth of the living room and into the cold reality of the decision you’ve made.

ꨄ

A soft jingle rings above your head as you push open the glass door to the coffee shop—a sound almost too cheerful considering what’s to come. Once the door closes behind you with a muted thud, your fate is sealed.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee hits you first, rich and earthy, mingling with the sweet, buttery aroma of pastries that line the display case. It’s a combination that would normally invite comfort, a location for quiet relaxation.

Today, however, that feels entirely out of reach.

Only a few patrons are scattered about, each lost in their own world—reading books, typing away on laptops, or simply enjoying company. The soft murmur of conversation barely registers in your ears as your eyes sweep across the room.

Within moments you spot Naoya, seated at a corner table in the back, a place where the dimness nearly swallows him whole, casting long shadows that seem to cling to him like a second skin.

His chosen spot is strategic, offering both a sense of privacy and an air of intimidation.

It’s a stage he’s set perfectly.

The way he sits—one arm draped casually over the back of the booth, the other cradling a coffee cup—exudes an unsettling confidence, as if he’s already decided the outcome of this meeting.

His minacious eyes rake over you and he registers the trepidation in your step, causing a shiver to run down your spine as his lips slowly curl into a predatory smirk.

Setting down his cup of coffee with a practiced ease, the porcelain clinks softly against the saucer. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he waves you over, the gesture so casual it’s almost insulting, as if he were summoning a servant rather than inviting a conversation.

You lower yourself into the chair across from him with measured deliberation, desperately trying to project a façade of composure even as anxiety, anger, and guilt roil within you like a brewing storm.

Unfortunately, the table between you and Naoya feels woefully insufficient, a flimsy barrier against the man who once wielded a terrifying influence over your life—a man who now threatens to shatter the fragile peace you’ve painstakingly pieced together.

“y/n,” he begins, his voice smooth and slick, like oil spilling over water, spreading tendrils of unease. “I’m glad you decided to show up.”

You force a tight smile, though it feels more like a grimace.

“You didn’t exactly leave me much of a choice, did you?”

A low insidious chuckle leaves Naoya’s lips, the noise grating on your nerves. His cold calculating eyes hold your gaze as he tilts his head to the side, and for a moment, you feel like a mouse caught in a trap, every avenue of escape cut off, leaving you with nowhere to run.

“Tch. What else am I supposed to do?” his tone drips with mock innocence, as if he’s genuinely puzzled. “You don’t answer any of my calls. It’s almost like you’re trying to avoid me.”

His eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something dark and unreadable passing through them.

“You look well, though. I’ve missed you.”

The casual cruelty in his tone, the way he throws out those words—words that should carry weight—as if they mean nothing, as if he hasn’t been tormenting you.

It makes your skin crawl.

“I didn’t come here to chat, Naoya,” you say firmly. “What do you want?”

You catch a flash of his white teeth in the dim light of the coffee shop, but there’s a cruel twist to his lips, a smugness that makes your stomach churn with unease.

“Straight to the point, I see. I always loved that about you,” he drawls, his tone almost affectionate.

He leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other in a posture of relaxed arrogance.

There is a beat of silence as he pauses, as if savoring each moment of your discomfort, drawing it out and relishing the control he has over the situation.

The control he has over you.

“I think you know what I want, y/n,” he continues, tone almost patronizing, as if speaking to a child who just doesn’t understand. “I want what’s best for Haru. I’m sure you do too.”

“You’re threatening to take her away from me. How is that what’s best for her?” you scoff, though the defiance in your voice barely masks the trembling fear underneath.

His gaze roams over you, assessing, calculating, and it takes everything in you not to shrink under the weight of his scrutiny.

When he speaks again, his voice is a low, dangerous whisper that sends a shiver down your spine, cold as ice and sharp as a blade.

“Because,” he hisses, the word dripping with venom, “you’re not thinking clearly. You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment. Haru deserves stability, a future where she’s not dragged into whatever mess you and Satoru are involved in.”

The accusation cuts deep, and despite your best efforts, you flinch slightly at his words, the reaction small but not unnoticed.

Naoya’s eyes glint with satisfaction, feeding off the fear and uncertainty he’s managed to briefly instill within you.

Before you can muster a response, he leans in closer, his tone shifting, becoming smooth and insidious, like poison seeping through the cracks of your resolve.

“Oh y/n,” he sighs, voice dripping with false sympathy, “I know this thing with Satoru is just a charade. You may think you’re merely playing house, but what you’re actually doing is setting Haru up for confusion and heartache. What kind of future is that for her?”

It’s like he’s pulled the rug out from under your feet. The air around you seems to thicken, making it hard to breathe. Because deep down, a part of you has feared how this arrangement may affect Haru.

The doubt that Naoya is sowing isn’t new—it’s something you’ve deliberately tried to ignore.

The connection Haru is forming with Satoru, the bond that’s growing stronger every day—isn’t it built on a foundation of lies?

What happens when it all crumbles—what happens to Haru then?

What if you’re setting her up for a heartbreak that she’s too young to understand?

Ah…but that’s what Naoya is good at, isn’t it?

He thrives on stirring a visceral reaction within you, on playing your emotions like a finely tuned instrument. And you know better—you know better than to believe that his actions have anything to do with Haru’s well-being.

After all, Naoya has only ever used Haru as a tool to control you, to manipulate you into doing his bidding.

He doesn’t truly want Haru—he never has.

This is just a twisted game, another attempt to bend you to his will.

“Naoya,” you begin, voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation, “this isn’t about what’s best for Haru. Cut the crap,” you snap, the frustration seeping through your words, giving you a fleeting sense of strength. “Don’t play games with me. What are you really after?”

Naoya’s response is a soft, chilling chuckle, a sound so unnerving that it slithers around you, making your skin prickle with unease.

He tilts his head slightly, regarding you with a twisted sense of satisfaction, the corners of his mouth curving into a smirk that’s as sharp as a knife’s edge.

“You’re not as naïve as you look,” he murmurs.

With a deliberate elegance, he runs his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back and straightening his posture as if ready to present himself for something significant. He then leans forward, fixing you with a gaze that feels like a vise tightening around your heart.

“I’m willing to make a deal with you.”

You swallow hard, forcing the question past the lump in your throat.

“What kind of deal?”

His eyes glisten with satisfaction, a spark of triumph lighting them up as if this is the moment he’s been waiting for all along.

“Do you remember the case that was quietly swept under the rug a few years back?” he begins, tone almost conversational. “The one that could have destroyed the Gojo family? Well of course, you don’t—because the Gojos made sure no one remembered.”

A cold dread settles in the pit of your stomach as the gravity of what he’s saying begins to sink in. You try to piece together what he could possibly mean, but the implications are too terrifying to fully grasp.

“…what are you saying?”

Naoya’s smirk widens, a cruel light flickering in his eyes as he watches your reaction.

“Oh, don’t play dumb, y/n. You know exactly what I’m talking about. The Gojo family isn’t as squeaky clean as they’d like everyone to believe. That closed case—it’s a time bomb waiting to go off, and I’m the one holding the detonator.”

With a casual elegance, Naoya places his elbow on the table and rests his chin in the palm of his hand, his gaze never leaving yours.

“I want you to help me reopen the case,” his voice now a silky, dangerous murmur. “I need inside information, something to poke holes in the Gojo family’s defense. Satoru trusts you, doesn’t he? He’s practically handed you the keys to the kingdom.”

Your blood runs cold as you grapple with the enormity of what he’s asking.

“You want me to spy on Satoru? To dig up dirt on his family?”

Naoya shrugs, the gesture so casual, so dismissive, as if the request is the most natural thing in the world.

“Spy is such an ugly word. Let’s call it… protecting your daughter’s future. You help me get the information I need, and I’ll make sure this custody battle disappears. You’ll never have to worry about losing Haru.”

You feel sick to your stomach as the full impact of his ultimatum crashes down on you.

Your skin crawls at the way he frames it—to him it’s as if he’s offering you a lifeline, a way out of an impossible situation. But the reality is, he’s trapping you, coercing you into betraying the one person who has given you a chance at a new life.

Betray Satoru?

The very thought twists like a knife in your gut.

Satoru—the man who has shown you nothing but kindness, who has gone out of his way to make you feel safe, to make you feel valued. The man who has opened his home to you and Haru, who has treated your daughter with a warmth and love that you never thought she would receive.

How could you possibly betray him? Be his downfall? The mere thought of it makes your chest tighten, your heart aching with the weight of the impossible decision that Naoya is forcing upon you.

But then, the other side of the coin looms large and terrifying: the risk of losing Haru forever. The thought of her being taken from you, of her being dragged into Naoya’s world, is a nightmare you can’t bear to even consider.

The two most important people in your life, and Naoya is forcing you to choose between them.

How can you possibly make such a choice?

“I…I can’t do that, Naoya. Satoru—he’s done nothing wrong,”

The words feel hollow, desperate, as if you’re grasping for some semblance of control in a situation where you have none.

Naoya’s expression darkens, the cold veneer of civility slipping as a more menacing presence takes over. He leans in closer, the air around him growing colder, heavier with the weight of his intentions.

“Satoru and his family deserve whatever’s coming to them,” he hisses. “You just have to decide whose side you’re on. Corporate malpractice, insider trading, possibly even a cover-up. The Gojo family has skeletons in their closet, and I intend to expose them. But to do that, I need information. Inside information.”

“No, Naoya,” you say more forcefully, your voice trembling slightly but growing steadier as your resolve hardens. “That would destroy Satoru.”

For a moment, there’s a flicker of something in Naoya’s eyes—frustration, perhaps, or irritation at your defiance. But it’s fleeting, quickly replaced by a darker, more calculating expression.

“You think this is a game, y/n?” his voice drips with disdain. “You think Satoru won’t throw you to the wolves the moment things get tough? He’s a Gojo, through and through. They protect their own, and you’re not one of them.”

A cold dread washes over you as his words echo in your mind, sinking into the darkest corners of your thoughts.

Wait…is he actually, right?

No—you push back against the rising tide of doubt. Satoru wouldn’t do that. He’s been nothing but kind, patient, and understanding. He’s given you no reason to believe he would ever abandon you, especially not in a moment of crisis.

But… then there’s the stipulation in your contract. The one that states any poor publicity to his name would result in being cut off from all financial support.

The words of the contract flash in your mind, stark and unforgiving.

You had brushed it off as a mere formality when you first signed it, a precautionary clause meant to protect his reputation. But now, under the weight of Naoya’s words, it feels like a ticking time bomb, ready to go off the moment anything goes wrong.

Doubt seeps into your veins, intertwining with the fear that Naoya’s threat might have more truth to it than you’d like to admit.

Could Satoru really turn his back on you if the situation spiraled out of control? Would he prioritize his family name, his legacy, over you and Haru?

Seeing the flicker of hesitation in your eyes, Naoya’s expression softens, adopting a mask of concern. His voice lowers, becoming almost gentle, as if he’s offering you a lifeline.

“But if you help me,” he continues, silky and persuasive, “you’ll have leverage—real power. You’ll be in control. Think about Haru. Think about what’s best for her.”

“I… I don’t think I can do it,” the words escape your lips in a trembling whisper.

Naoya’s eyes narrow, and his voice hardens.

“You don’t have much of a choice, y/n. You’re in this mess because of your own decisions. Instead of relying on me you chose him. But lucky for you, I’m offering you a way out—a way to keep Haru safe. But if you refuse, I will use every legal trick in the book to take her from you. And believe me, I will win. I always do.”

The finality in his words leaves no room for doubt—Naoya isn’t bluffing.

He’s a man who gets what he wants, no matter the cost, and the ruthless determination in his eyes tells you that he’s more than willing to destroy your life to achieve his goals.

“You’re a monster,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Naoya’s response is immediate, his smirk widening with satisfaction.

“I’m a lawyer,” he corrects, his tone dripping with smugness. “And I’m very good at what I do.”

You look down, unable to meet his gaze.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” you whisper.

Naoya’s eyes gleam with triumph as a victorious smirk curls upon his lips. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a slim envelope.

With a deliberate slowness, he slides it across the table, the paper making a soft, ominous rustle as it comes to a stop in front of you.

“Inside this is everything you need to help me. I want information, y/n. Information on Satoru. His business dealings, his vulnerabilities—anything I can use to gain leverage over him.”

The envelope sits there between you, a tangible representation of the impossible choice you’re being forced to make.

Your hands twitch at your sides, but you can’t bring yourself to reach for it—the burden of its contents is far too heavy.

Naoya leans back in his chair, watching intently for any sign of hesitation, his gaze unyielding. He presses you again, his voice a smooth, sinister whisper.

“You help me, and I’ll make sure this custody battle disappears. You’ll never have to worry about losing Haru.”

Your hand trembles as you extend it, hovering over the envelope. Naoya’s grin widens, his eyes gleaming with triumph, anticipating your surrender.

But just as your fingertips brush the envelope, you stop.

The smile slips from Naoya’s face, replaced by a flicker of surprise, then annoyance, as you push the envelope back across the table. The cold edge of the paper scrapes against your skin, the sound eerily loud in the tense silence between you.

“I’ll need some time,” you say finally, your voice quieter now, more controlled, though it takes everything in you to keep it steady. “This isn’t a decision I can make lightly.”

Naoya’s expression darkens, his patience clearly waning. With a swift, almost irritated motion, he snatches the envelope and tucks it back into his coat pocket.

“I’m not a patient man, y/n, you know this,” he warns, the threat clear in his tone. “You have one week. If I don’t get an answer by then, the custody battle begins. And trust me,” his tone drops to a menacing whisper, “you don’t want to fight me in court.”

“I’ll let you know,” you murmur, unable to meet his gaze as your eyes are fixed on the table between you.

Naoya’s smirk returns, a slow, victorious curve of his lips.

It’s a look that says he’s already won, that he’s confident you’ll bend to his will.

“Good girl. I know you’ll see reason. I’ll expect your call soon.”

He stands with a deliberate calmness, smoothing the front of his jacket before tossing a few bills onto the table as if this entire conversation has been nothing more than a routine business transaction.

The casualness of his movements, the ease with which he holds your fate in his hands, only serves to deepen the pit of dread forming in your stomach.

“Think it over, love. I’ll be in touch.”

With those final words, Naoya turns and strides out of the coffee shop, leaving you sitting there, feeling as though the walls are closing in around you.

You can’t shake the feeling that no matter what you decide, something precious will be lost.

ꨄ

It’s much later than you intended—a few hours past the time you told Satoru you’d be home. But after your meeting with Naoya, you simply couldn’t summon the strength to face him.

How could you possibly stand before him now?

The very thought of looking into his eyes feels like a betrayal in itself, as if the truth you’re hiding might spill out just from his gaze alone.

Naoya’s words continue to echo in your mind, twisting around your thoughts like a serpent coiling tighter with each passing moment.

You can almost hear the whispers of scandal creeping through the corridors of the Gojo Corporation.

Surely this custody battle would bring poor publicity to Satoru’s name… knowing Naoya, it would be a spectacle—a media circus designed to tarnish every aspect of Satoru’s life.

Your heart races as you picture the headlines splashed across every tabloid, the relentless swarm of reporters, cameras flashing like a thousand tiny daggers aimed at your very soul.

They’d dig into every corner of your lives, twisting facts and fabricating lies until the truth is buried beneath layers of sensationalism.

You’ve seen Satoru’s world—perfectly organized, meticulously maintained, a reflection of the man himself. But Naoya has the power to create cracks in that perfect image, to expose the vulnerabilities hidden beneath the surface.

He would ensure it—he’d savor every moment of watching Satoru’s pristine reputation crumble, brick by brick.

What would Satoru do if you told him Naoya’s intentions?

Would he support you, or would he choose to protect himself, his legacy, over you and Haru?

The very thought makes your heart ache, a sharp pang of fear twisting through your chest—fear of losing the delicate balance you’ve found with Satoru, of watching it all unravel because of Naoya’s malice.

What is the right choice to make?

The question loops endlessly in your mind, a never-ending cycle of doubt that gnaws at your resolve.

You don’t know what to believe any more.

You need time—something you don’t have an abundance of right now. After all, you can’t avoid Satoru forever—he’ll wonder where you’ve been, what’s kept you away for so long.

And so, reluctantly, with a heart heavy and unresolved emotions, you return home.

ꨄ

The faint ticking of the grand clock echoes in the house as you creak open the door and re-enter. The sound, which usually blends into the background of your day, now feels loud—almost deafening in the silence of the home.

Rounding your way to the living room, the dim glow of the television casts flickering shadows on the walls—the only thing that seems alive in the stillness.

But the sight you are met with is something entirely unexpected—something that pushes away the darkness inside of you, if only for a moment.

Satoru sits on the couch, his posture relaxed but his expression one of bemused helplessness, as though he’s found himself in a situation that he’s not quite sure how to navigate.

His long legs are stretched out in front of him, but there’s a tenderness in the way he holds his arms around the small figure resting against him.

Haru, curled up on his lap, is nestled against his chest, her tiny body rising and falling with each gentle breath as the steady rhythm of his heartbeat seems to lull her deeper into sleep. One of her small hands clutches the fabric of his shirt, as if seeking comfort even in her dreams, while the other is tucked close to her body, holding her favorite plush toy—Pikachu.

The TV is on, but the volume is muted, playing some late-night rerun that neither of them are paying attention to as the soft flickering light illuminates against them.

Satoru glances up as you enter the room, eyes brightening as he spots you. A sheepish smile tugs at the corner of his lips, a mixture of relief and quiet joy at your return.

“Hey, welcome back,” he says softly, careful not to disturb Haru.

It’s moments like this, that make it impossible to doubt him. The warmth in his voice makes the knot of tension in your chest loosen, if only a little.

You manage a small smile in return.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

As you begin to set your things down—your bag, your coat—Satoru’s gaze follows you, soft and attentive.

“Did you enjoy your time to yourself?”

It’s such a simple question, yet it’s loaded with the weight of the lie you’re living.

You force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels, and nod, trying to keep your voice steady and light.

“Yeah…it was nice to have a little break.”

A tender smile curls upon his lips, his relief evident as he nods back.

“Good. You deserve some time for yourself.”

The words are filled with such warmth and care that it almost breaks you. But you swallow down the guilt, knowing you can’t afford to let it show. Not now.

As you make your way towards him, your gaze softens, drawn irresistibly to the sight of Haru. You kneel down beside the couch, your eyes tracing the delicate lines of her face, so peaceful and content as she rests in Satoru's lap.

“She fell asleep?” your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, shifting slightly but careful not to wake her.

“Yeah. We were watching Digimon like I promised, but she conked out halfway through. I didn’t know what to do, so I’ve just been sitting here for the past two hours.”

Your heart swells at his words—the thought of Satoru sitting there, his world seemingly paused just to let her sleep undisturbed, truly that is real… right?

You reach out and gently brush a strand of hair from Haru’s face, your fingers lingering for a moment on her cheek.

Her skin warm and smooth, her breathing steady and calm, the gentle rise and fall of her chest—each element is a testament to the trust she’s placed in this space that Satoru has helped create.

She looks so at peace, so completely untroubled and…it’s all thanks to Satoru.

You can’t stop the words from slipping out, even though they’re laced with the bittersweet ache of everything that’s happened.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your eyes meeting his. “For everything.”

He smiles at you, that soft, understanding smile that always seems to reach his eyes.

“Of course. She’s a wonderful kid. It’s my pleasure.”

Leaning down, you gently scoop Haru into your arms, cradling her small body against you. She stirs slightly, her little face scrunching up in sleep, but she doesn’t wake, simply burrowing closer to you as you hold her, seeking the comfort of your warmth.

“I’ll put her to bed,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

Satoru watches you with a fond smile, his eyes following you as you move towards the stairway.

“y/n,” he calls after you, his tone a little hesitant.

You turn back to face him, noticing the subtle way his expression has shifted—an unspoken concern lingering in his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“There’s something I need to tell you…” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck—a gesture you’ve come to recognize as his way of showing uncertainty. “It’s kind of short notice, but we were invited to a big charity gala tomorrow night. It’s a pretty important event, and they’re expecting us to attend. And, well… we’re anticipated to do an interview this time.”

Ah—the discomfort returns in an instant, like a cold shiver racing down your spine.

The weight of his words settles heavily on your shoulders, adding yet another layer of complexity to the tangled web you find yourself ensnared in.

The thought of standing in front of cameras, of answering questions about a relationship that is already so fraught with secrets and lies, sends your mind spiraling into a storm of anxiety.

But you can���t let any of that show. Not now.

Not when Satoru is looking at you with such sincerity, his blue eyes filled with a quiet expectation, clearly relying on you to be by his side through this.

You force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels.

“Another gala, huh?”

He nods, his expression softening slightly, but the tension doesn’t leave his eyes.

“Yeah, this one’s for a good cause, and, well, appearances matter. It’s important that we present a united front.”

Appearances matter. A bitter reminder of Naoya’s taunting words.

Satoru is a Gojo after all—and for a Gojo, appearances are everything. The pristine image he maintains is not just for show; it’s a fundamental part of who he is, of the world he navigates with such ease.

But where does that leave you? What happens the moment you mess up?

You’ve always been terrible at public speaking, and now you’re expected to partake in an interview?

Will his soft expression turn cold the moment you fail to meet his expectations?

Your heart races, but you push the fear down, locking it away behind a carefully constructed mask of composure.

“Okay,” you swallow. “We’ll figure it out.”

Satoru’s expression softens with visible relief, and he stands up, stretching slightly after having sat in the same position for so long. As his arms extend above his head, the hem of his shirt lifts, revealing a fleeting glimpse of his toned abs.

“Thanks, y/n. I know this whole public thing isn’t easy, but… I really appreciate you doing this with me.”

“Of course,” you manage to say, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “…we’re in this together, right?”

“Yeah. Together.”

The words feel like a betrayal, a dagger of guilt twisting in your chest.

How can you say that when you know what you’re hiding?

How can you say that when you doubt the very man in front of you?

Pushing those thoughts away, you try to focus on the moment, on Satoru’s gentle, almost boyish grin. Despite it all, it’s the kind of smile that makes you want to believe everything will be okay, that makes you want to cling to the hope that maybe, just maybe, you will get through this.

There is a beat of silence as you shift Haru’s weight slightly in your arms.

You study his face—the subtle vulnerability there, the softness, it makes you think—maybe, just maybe, you can open up to him. Test the waters, gauge his understanding.

Let’s start small… what if you told him your fear of public speaking?

The words hover on the tip of your tongue, a confession that feels both terrifying and necessary.

Would he laugh? Would he brush it off with one of his easy, confident smiles?

Or would he understand, see the anxiety that lies beneath the surface, and offer the reassurance you so desperately need?

Your heart races as you weigh the options, the fear of rejection battling with the desire for connection.

Finally, you take a deep breath, deciding to take the plunge. It’s a small step, but it feels monumental in the moment.

“I’m… I’m not really good with public speaking,” you admit quietly, your gaze lowering to the floor. “Maybe we could practice a little? Just so I don’t mess up.”

For a moment, there’s silence.

When you finally dare to look up, you see Satoru’s expression softening even further, a gentle warmth radiating from his eyes as he gazes at you.

The way he looks at you, so full of understanding, so free of judgment—it makes your chest tighten.

“Of course, we can. I actually prepared a script earlier today, just in case you may need it. We can go over it together after you put Haru to bed.”

You let out a small sigh, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly.

“Thank you, Satoru… that would really help.”

Why did you doubt him?

Did Naoya instill that doubt? Or has it always been there, lurking in the shadows of your mind, waiting for the right moment to surface?

The question lingers, a quiet whisper that carries both regret and self-reproach.

He had anticipated your need, had prepared for it without you even asking.

On one hand you feel relief that he’s so understanding, but guilt practically consumes it because now his trust feels like a weight you can’t bear.

It seems at this point, there is no winning for you.

No matter which way you turn, you’re trapped—caught between the desire to commit to him completely and the fear that you’ll inevitably fall short of his expectations.

Your mind is at a constant battle.

“No problem,” he says, his voice pulling you back to the present. He reaches for the remote, turning off the TV, the screen fading to black as the room is cast into a quieter, more intimate atmosphere.

He glances back at you, his expression warm but focused.

“Meet you in the study after you put Haru down?”

Not trusting yourself to speak, you nod, and turn, heading up the stairs towards Haru’s bedroom.

In the quiet of Haru’s room, you smooth the covers around her small, peaceful form and press a soft kiss on her forehead.

You take a moment to just sit there, watching her sleep—a moment to collect yourself before you return to Satoru.

The soft rise and fall of her chest, the slight twitch of her fingers as she dreams, it all serves as a reminder of the innocence you’re trying so desperately to protect.

You can’t risk losing her. Haru is everything to you.

But how long can you maintain this lie, this pretense that everything is okay, when the truth threatens to tear it all apart?

The mere thought of Haru being taken away, of Naoya sinking his claws into her life, makes your blood run cold.

Right now, you want nothing more than to break down, to cry, to let the tears that have been welling up inside you finally fall.

But you can’t afford to do that. Not now.

Sometimes the difficult thing about being a parent is putting on a front that everything is okay... that everything will be okay, even when it feels like it will not be.

You have to be strong, not just for yourself, but for Haru. She needs you to be her rock, her anchor in the storm, even if you feel like you’re barely holding on.

You pull back, your hand lingering on the edge of her bed for just a moment longer, savoring the last bit of peace before you straighten up, steeling yourself for the next challenge that you must face.

ꨄ

As you enter the study, the door closes behind you with a soft click.

Satoru looks up, sitting at the large mahogany desk, papers spread out in front of him as he offers you a small, reassuring smile. He gestures to the chair beside him.

“Ready?”

You nod, pulling out the chair and sitting down, the leather cushion sinking slightly under your weight.

Leaning forward, Satoru props his elbow on the table as he studies you with soft, focused eyes.

“So, let’s start with the basics. They’ll probably ask how we met, what drew us together... you know, easy stuff.”

He slides the script over to you.

You take the paper, your eyes skimming over the questions—questions that are so casual on the surface.

They’re questions that, for most couples, would evoke warm memories and easy smiles. But the simplicity of these questions only highlights the complexity of the situation.

They should feel easy to answer—answers that would roll off the tongue naturally if your relationship was carved from normal circumstances.

But, that’s not the situation you find yourself in.

The reality of your arrangement makes each question feel like a test—a hurdle you need to clear without revealing too much.

If only it were different—if only the answers could come from a place of truth rather than a carefully constructed narrative.

But it’s not.

This relationship is a contract, a charade—a web of lies.

You nod again, the knot in your stomach tightening.

“Alright,” Satoru says, his tone encouraging. “Let’s give it a go. I’ll ask, you answer.”

He clears his throat and starts with the first question.

“So, y/n, how did you and Satoru first meet?”

You take a deep breath, the familiar answer already on the tip of your tongue.

This one is easy because it’s part of the story you’ve both been telling from the beginning. Still, your fingers fidget with the corner of the script, as if grounding yourself in the words.

“I was looking for a new job, and Satoru needed someone with my expertise. It was professional at first, but we just… clicked. Like it was meant to be.”

“Perfect,” he says, tone approving.

He leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Now…what drew you to each other?”

You hesitate, your gaze dropping to the script in your hands. The paper crinkles slightly under your fingers as you try to commit the answer to memory, but the words feel heavy, loaded with the pressure to say the right thing.

Satoru notices your pause and tilts his head, a gentle smile lingering on his lips.

“I was thinking we keep it simple,” he suggests, his eyes locking onto yours with a reassuring calm. “I’ll talk about how I admire how you always put Haru first. People eat that stuff up.”

“Right,” you nod, your voice a little lighter now. “Then how about I talk about how you’re always so supportive and how you’ve made Haru and me feel safe.”

Satoru’s grin broadens, the corners of his mouth curling into a familiar, playful expression. He lets out a contemplative hum, as if considering your words carefully, and then reaches over to tap the tip of your nose playfully.

The touch is light, almost teasing, but it carries with it a sense of warmth, of genuine affection.

“And you can say something about how I’m the most charming, good-looking guy you’ve ever met.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips, the sound carrying with it a sense of relief you hadn’t realized you needed—like exhaling a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Your heaviness lifts, replaced by a lightness that feels almost foreign in the midst of all the pressure.

Satoru always seems to know how to break through your tension.

It’s one of the things you’ve come to appreciate about him during this arrangement—the way he can make you laugh, even when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.

“Of course, because modesty is your best trait,” you grin, and without thinking, you poke his side gently, eliciting a small chuckle from him. “If I say that, I’m certain it would only go straight to your head.”

“Hmm, what can I say? Confidence is key,” he grins, eyes twinkling with that mischievous spark you’ve come to recognize.

You lean back and fold your arms across your chest in a mock gesture of contemplation, your eyes narrowing slightly as you consider his words.

“Confidence? Or arrogance?” you retort, a smirk playing on your lips. “It’s a fine line, Satoru.”

He gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his heart as if you’ve struck a mortal blow.

“Arrogance? Me? I’m wounded, truly,” he declares, his voice dripping with exaggerated hurt, though the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth betrays the act.

“Right…I think I might have to bring you back down to earth,” your voice carries a note of a playful challenge.

“Glad to know I can count on you,” he replies, leaning back slightly as he comfortably puts his hands behind his neck in a relaxed confidence. “But let’s not forget—you’re the one who’s supposed to be singing my praises. Remember? Charming, good-looking…”

“And don’t forget humble,” you add, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Ah, yes, the humblest,” he agrees, nodding solemnly as if he’s just imparted some great wisdom.

But the solemnity only lasts a moment before he breaks into another grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I’ve always been known for my humility.”

You can’t help but laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief at his antics. This fleeting sense of normalcy was everything you needed. It almost makes you forget the storm of emotions raging inside you.

“Wow. At this point, I think your ego has its own zip code,” you quip, rolling your eyes.

He grins, but then, with a small, exaggerated sigh, he drops his head down onto the table, resting it on his folded arms as he pouts dramatically.

“Okay, okay, I’ll try to keep my ego in check,” he mumbles, his voice slightly muffled.

Here is a man who commands boardrooms and makes decisions that influence entire industries, pouting like a child in front of you.

It’s kind of cute, actually, that the powerful CEO can be this… unguarded, this silly, this human.

In these moments, all the layers he wears—of strength, of authority, of responsibility—seem to peel away, leaving behind just… Satoru.

After a moment, he lifts his head just enough to look at you, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint.

“You know… people tell me I’m charming and good-looking all the time, but… I think it’d feel different coming from you. I wouldn’t mind hearing it… just once.”

Your breath catches for a fleeting moment as you observe a glimpse of something in his eyes, something deeper than the usual teasing.

The way he says it, with that mix of playfulness and sincerity, makes your heart flutter in a way you’re not entirely prepared for.

Would it be so bad to indulge him?

“You’re… easy on the eyes,” you say, your voice softer, almost shy.

It’s not quite the grand compliment he was fishing for, but it’s enough to make him smile—the kind of smile that lights up his entire face, making it impossible not to smile back.

“Well, I’ll take that,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm, and for just a moment, everything else falls away.

But then, as if unable to resist, Satoru props his head up in the palm of his hand and leans in just a little closer, his smile turning slightly smug.

“You know, you could say it again if you really wanted to. I mean, I’m all ears.”

You raise an eyebrow, a grin tugging at your lips as you catch onto his game.

“Don’t push your luck, Satoru,” you warn, though your tone is more amused than serious. “Let’s get back to work.”

Satoru chuckles, leaning back with a mock surrender.

“Alright, alright. Back to work it is.”

The world outside fades away—the complications, the secrets, the uncertainty of what tomorrow holds—all of it dissolves into the background as you share this brief moment of connection with Satoru.

It’s as if time itself has slowed, allowing you to bask in the warmth of this exchange, to let the comfort of Satoru’s presence ease the weight of your worries.

But the moment can’t last forever.

The reality of your situation looms just beyond the edges of this moment, reminding you of the stakes, of the careful balance you’re trying to maintain.

After all, there’s still work to be done, and as much as you’d like to linger here, in this bubble of lightheartedness, you know you need to keep moving forward.

ꨄ

The hours slip by, and you go over each possible scenario, each potential curveball the interviewers might throw your way.

The script between you becomes both a shield and a lifeline, something to cling to as you navigate the complexities of everything.

Satoru’s voice is steady and reassuring as he guides you through your responses. When you stumble—when the nerves threaten to get the better of you—he’s there with gentle corrections.

His words never harsh or critical, but rather encouraging, help you find your footing again. And whenever he senses the tension rising—the anxiety creeping into your expression—he cracks a joke, designed to draw you back from the edge of your worry.

You find yourself leaning on him more than you expected, his confidence bolstering your own, his belief in you seeping into the cracks of your self-doubt, and with each passing hour, the fear that had settled in your chest begins to ease, replaced by a cautious optimism that maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to pull this off.

After running through the script for what feels like the hundredth time, Satoru leans back in his chair—the soft smile tugging at his lips telling you that he’s genuinely pleased with your progress.

“I think you’re ready,” his voice is filled with a quiet confidence. “You’ve got this. Now, you should probably get some rest... it's getting late.”

His words are a welcome relief, washing over you like a balm after the tension of the evening. You nod, feeling the exhaustion from the long day finally catching up to you—all you can think about is the comfort of your bed.

But as you begin to stand, you notice that Satoru remains seated. His posture, which had been so relaxed just moments before, now seems slightly more tense as he appears to be focused on something distant, something you can’t quite place.

The shift is subtle, but it’s enough to give you pause.

“Aren’t you coming?” you ask mid-step, your voice tentative, a hint of concern creeping in.

Satoru looks up at your question, the distant look in his eyes fading as his focus returns to you. His expression softens, the edges of his smile returning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“No,” he replies, tone gentle but firm. “I’ve got some other business I need to take care of. But don’t worry about it,” he adds quickly, as if sensing your concern. “You should get some rest. You’ve done more than enough for tonight.”

There’s something about the way he says it, the way he brushes off your concern so easily, that makes you hesitate.

Is there something he’s not telling you? Or perhaps, choosing to handle on his own?

There’s a slight droop of his shoulders and his fingers absently drum against the armrest of his chair—a silent rhythm betraying the thoughts running through his mind.

You want to push, to ask him what’s really going on, but something holds you back.

Maybe it’s the way his eyes seem to plead with you to let it go, to trust him when he says it’s nothing you need to worry about.

Or maybe it’s the exhaustion that’s finally settling into your bones, making it harder to think clearly, to muster the energy for another round of questions.

So, instead, you nod again, offering him a small, understanding smile.

“Alright.  Just… don’t stay up too late, okay?”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, and though it eases some of your worry, it doesn’t completely dispel it.

“I’ll try not to,” he promises, though you’re not entirely convinced. “Go on, get some sleep. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Making your way down the hallway, the soft light of the bedroom is a welcoming beacon at the end.

The prospect of finally getting rest is almost too tempting to resist, but as you near the door, something tugs at you—a nagging feeling in the back of your mind that refuses to be ignored.

It’s not fair, you think to yourself—pausing just before the threshold of your bedroom.

Satoru stayed up late, helping you with the interview questions, guiding you through each potential challenge with patience and care...and now, he’s left alone to handle his own business needs while you get to sleep.

There was a weariness in his eyes that you hadn’t noticed before, a quiet weight that he seemed determined to hide from you.

Why is he shouldering the responsibility when you agreed you would lead Gojo Corporation together?

The thought gnaws at you, making it hard to turn away.

You sigh, torn between the exhaustion weighing you down and the guilt pushing you forward.

Finally, you decide it’s only right to offer your help, even if just to make sure he’s not taking on too much by himself—and so, with renewed determination, you turn on your heel and quietly make your way back down the hall.

As you approach the door to the study, you’re about to knock when you hear his voice, low and serious, coming from inside. You pause, your hand hovering just inches from the wood, and listen.

“No. That’s not an option. We can’t afford any negative press right now, especially with everything that’s happening.”

Satoru’s voice is firm, almost biting, a tone you’re not used to hearing from him. The usual warmth that so often laces his words is gone, stripped away and replaced by something colder, more calculating.

There’s a pause, and you can faintly hear the murmur of someone on the other end of the line, though their words are indistinct through the phone.

Whatever they’re saying seems to only harden Satoru’s resolve.

“I don’t care what it takes,” Satoru continues, his voice dropping lower, the words coming out with an icy sharpness that feels almost like a threat. “Take care of it. Make sure this stays under wraps. My image can’t take a hit like that, not now.”

Your heart skips a beat, an uneasy feeling creeping up your spine—the warmth of the moment you shared earlier evaporating in an instant.

He sounds different—distant, devoid of the tenderness you’ve come to know… cold.

The man who just hours ago was patient and supportive, who made you feel safe and cared for, now seems like someone else entirely—replaced with this man who seems to care more about maintaining an image than anything else.

Whatever the voice on the other end of the phone says next makes Satoru sigh, a tired, almost frustrated sound.

You inch closer to the door, your breath shallow as you strain to hear more, but his voice drops lower, slipping into a tone that’s more guarded, more secretive.

“Yes, I know it’s not ideal, but it’s necessary,” Satoru says, his words clipped, as if he’s weighing each one carefully before letting it fall. “We have to protect the Gojo name at all costs. And that includes… well, you know what it includes. Just handle it.”

You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest.

…what does that include? The vague words hang in the air and you feel a sharp stab of anxiety.

You feel a lump form in your throat as you back away from the door, the doubts you’d tried so hard to push aside earlier now crashing back with full force, overwhelming you.

What is he talking about? What could be so important that it needs to be kept under wraps at all costs?

Questions race through your mind, each one more unsettling than the last.

And what did he mean by “protecting the Gojo name”? Is that all this is to him—just a carefully crafted image that needs to be maintained, no matter the cost?

The thought stings, a sharp pain that cuts deeper the more you dwell on it.

You can’t help but wonder, as you stand there in the dimly lit hallway, if you’ll ever truly know where his priorities lie.

The man who once seemed so open, so transparent with you, now feels like a stranger—someone who might not be as trustworthy as you’d hoped.

Will he choose to protect you and Haru, or will he always put his image, his family name, first?

The doubt gnaws at you, growing with each passing second, until it feels like a weight you can barely carry.

You retreat further, your heart pounding in your chest, the sound of it almost drowning out the murmured conversation from the study.

The light at the end of the hallway seems so far away now, the warmth and safety you’d felt earlier slipping through your fingers like sand.

As you finally turn and make your way back to your bedroom, each step is heavier than the last—a shadow cast on everything you thought you knew.

The warmth of the bed offers you little comfort as you slip under the covers, and your mind replays the conversation over and over again.

As much as you want to believe in him, in the connection you share, the seeds of doubt have been planted.

You're uncertain if you're ready for what's to come—the interview, the public scrutiny, or the complicated feelings that have begun to tangle between you and Satoru.

But throughout all this uncertainty, there is one thing that is without a doubt evident.

You still have a decision to make.

poor y/n can't catch a break...girl is going through it. man i cannot tell you how much i enjoyed writing the coffee shop scene with naoya though, idk it was just so satisfying to write, i literally despise naoya so much lol. and satoru being so clueless with haru 🥲 he sat there for two hours 🤭 he's such a goof. anyways, i really hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and i hope you're ready for what's to come! thanks so much for reading 🥺 seriously, your comments make my day. much love 🫶🏻 → onto the next chapterꨄ

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[ivyues]

Echos of Home: Stray Kids' reactions to their S/O not being close with their parents

Bang Chan

The front door clicks shut, quieter than usual, but it’s enough for Chris to hear from the living room. He frowns, glancing at the time on his phone. You weren’t supposed to be back for another few hours.

“Babe?” His voice carries through the apartment as he stands up, walking toward the entryway. When he sees you, his expression softens, but there’s still a flicker of concern in his eyes. “You’re back early.”

You nod, setting your bag down a little too carefully, like you’re keeping yourself in check. “Yeah. I’m back.”

He studies you for a moment, his head tilting slightly the way it does when he’s trying to piece something together. He knows – has always known – that things with your parents aren’t exactly smooth. There’s no big, dramatic fallout, no abusive history, just a constant, lingering sense of not quite fitting in with them. Conversations that feel like walking through a minefield, small comments that chip away at you, a love that never feels warm enough.

Chris takes a step closer, reaching for your hand. “What happened?”

You shrug, not really wanting to get into it. “Nothing new.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, grounding, patient. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head. “Not really.”

He just tugs you into his arms, wrapping you up in a hug that is nothing like the ones you get from your parents – half-hearted, obligatory. No, this one is firm, warm, steady. You melt into it before you even realize how much you needed it.

His chin rests atop your head, his voice gentle. “You know you don’t have to go if you don’t want to, right?”

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. “I know.”

“And you know that no matter what, you always have a home here with me?”

Your throat tightens, but in a good way. In a way that makes you feel safe. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I know.”

Chris squeezes you a little tighter before swaying side to side, humming softly. You’re home. That’s all that matters.

Lee Know

It wasn’t unusual for you to be at his parent’s house; in fact, it was almost expected at this point. His parents had practically adopted you into their family, treating you like one of their own. His mom always insisted you stay for dinner, and his dad would ask you about school or work like he would his own son. With the cats curling at your side, it felt warm here – comfortable, safe.

That’s why, when Lee Know casually mentioned, “You know, I think you spend more time at my parents’ house than at your own parents’,” with a teasing smile, he didn’t expect the way your body tensed ever so slightly.

It was brief, almost imperceptible, but he caught it.

You let out a small laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe you're right.”

He didn’t press, not yet, but the thought lingered in his mind. And then, as if the idea had just struck him, he said, “Maybe next time, I should come over to your place. Your parents probably think I don’t exist.”

Your reaction was immediate. A flicker of hesitation crossed your face, and for a moment, you looked like you wanted to say something – anything – but then, you just shrugged. “They’re busy,” you said vaguely. “They wouldn’t really care.”

That didn’t sit right with him. You had always been good at avoiding certain topics, but this one was different. This wasn’t just avoidance – it was reluctance, something deeper.

He tilted his head slightly, his voice softening. “You never really talk about them.”

You forced a smile. “There’s not much to talk about.”

Lee Know didn’t push. He knew you well enough to understand that if he did, you’d only retreat further into yourself. Instead, he nudged your arm lightly. “Well, if they’re too busy, you know that you can come over any time. I start to think that my mom already likes you better than me.”

Changbin

Changbin slumped onto the couch beside you, letting out a dramatic sigh. “When was the last time you even visited your parents?” he joked, nudging your shoulder playfully.

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Oh, you know,” you said with heavy sarcasm, “got yelled at for every life decision I’ve ever made. Good times.”

The teasing glint in Changbin’s eyes disappeared in an instant. He frowned, tilting his head to get a better look at your expression, but you avoided his gaze, pretending to scroll through your phone. His heart sank at the forced nonchalance in your voice.

“Wait… what do you mean?” His voice softened, laced with concern.

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “You know how they are. Nothing I do is ever right. I could be a literal millionaire and they’d still find a way to tell me I messed up.” You let out a small, humorless laugh. “It’s just how it is.”

Changbin didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. “That’s not how it should be, though,” he murmured. “You deserve better than that.”

You blinked at his sincerity, feeling a lump form in your throat. “It’s fine, Bin. I’m used to it.”

He sighed, shifting closer so your shoulders touched. “That doesn’t make it okay,” he countered, his brows knitting together in frustration. 

You hesitated for a moment before speaking again, voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes, I wonder if I could ever be a good mom,” you admitted. “like… I never really got to experience what having a good mom feels like. What if I mess up the way they did?”

Changbin’s eyes softened, and he gently cupped your cheek, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Hey,” he said firmly. “You are already so full of love and care. The fact that you worry about that proves you’re going to be amazing. You won’t be like them. You get to choose the kind of parent you want to be.”

Your heart swelled at his words, warmth spreading through your chest. You had always carried the weight of your strained relationship with your parents alone.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I know.”

Hyunjin

Hyunjin had never been one to push too hard when it came to personal matters. He understood boundaries, respected them even. But every time the topic of parents came up – his or yours – you always managed to steer the conversation elsewhere. And most importantly, you had never once mentioned introducing him to them.

At first, he brushed it off, thinking you were just taking things slow. But after nearly a year together, it stung. It made him wonder if there was a reason, a reason that had everything to do with him.

That thought festered in his chest until one evening, it finally slipped out.

“Do you not want me to meet your parents?” His voice was soft, uncertain.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I mean… we’ve been together for a while now, but you never bring it up.” He forced a small chuckle, trying to keep his tone light even though it felt anything but. “I just… I guess I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of me.”

Your heart sank at the vulnerability in his voice. “Hyunjin—”

“Is it because I’m an idol?” He cut in before you could explain. “I know that might be weird for some parents, and if that’s the case, I get it. But I just—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his hair. “I don’t know. It feels like you don’t want to include me in that part of your life.”

You swallowed hard, guilt settling in.

“Hyunjin, it’s not that I don’t want you to meet them,” you said carefully, fingers gripping the fabric of your sleeves. “It’s just… my relationship with my parents isn’t great. It’s complicated.”

His eyes searched yours, confusion flickering across his face. “Complicated how?”

You hesitated. “We don’t really… talk much. When we do, it’s tense. We just don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things.”

Hyunjin’s expression softened slightly. “Then why didn’t you just tell me that?”

“Because I didn’t want to talk about it,” you admitted. “It’s messy and frustrating, and I didn’t want to drag you into that.”

“But I want to be dragged into it,” he said, leaning forward. “I want to understand what’s going on in your life. That includes the bad parts, too.”

You looked away, the weight of his words settling in. “I guess… I was embarrassed.”

Hyunjin’s brows furrowed. “Embarrassed?”

“I don’t have the kind of parents who are loving and supportive,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “And I didn’t want you to see that and think less of me.”

“Y/N, I would never think less of you because of something like that.” He reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. “I just wanted to understand. I thought… I thought you didn’t want me to meet them because of me.”

You exhaled shakily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

Hyunjin shook his head, lips pressing into a thin line before he let out a breath. “I just want you to trust me enough to talk to me about these things.”

“I do,” you said quickly. “I just… I didn’t know how.”

Han

"So you don’t want me to meet your parents?" Han repeated, his voice softer than you expected. Not quite hurt or offended – just… concerned.

You swallowed hard, nodding. "It’s not that I don’t want you to. I just— I don’t think it’s a good idea."

He tilted his head, studying you. "Can you tell me why?"

You hesitated. Han had always been so good at making you feel safe, but there was still a deep-rooted instinct inside you that told you to keep this part of your life locked away. It wasn’t that your parents were abusive, not in the way people might think, but they had never really seen you. Not truly. Their love came with conditions, with expectations you could never quite meet.

"I just… I don’t want to put you in a situation where you're not treated well," you admitted, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "They don’t respect me, Han. And since you’re with me, they won’t respect you either. I don’t want that for you."

"I get it," he said quietly, his voice steady. "And I love that you’re thinking about me. But, baby… you don’t have to protect me from them."

You opened your mouth to argue, but he shook his head before you could.

"I’m not saying we have to go to a family dinner or anything," he continued. "But you don’t have to carry this alone. I know it’s complicated, and I know it sucks. But I don’t want you to think that you have to shield me from this part of your life just because you’ve been dealing with it alone for so long."

Your throat tightened. "But they’ll—"

"They can think whatever they want about me," he interrupted gently. "What matters is what you think. And if they don’t respect you, that’s on them. That’s not a reflection of who you are, and it’s definitely not going to change how I see you."

You exhaled shakily. "I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to let you meet them. I've spent too much time hoping they'll change."

Han smiled, squeezing your hands reassuringly. "That’s okay. We’ll take it at your pace. Just… don’t shut me out, okay? I want to be here for you. For everything."

Felix

Felix stretched his arms, groaning slightly as he leaned back against the couch. The two of you had been catching up on life the whole evening. He had just been telling you about his latest video call with his parents, laughing about how his mom still worried if he was eating enough.

"Honestly," he said between bites of the cookies he had brought over, "I think I see my parents more often than you see yours."

You froze, your fingers tightening around the mug of tea you were holding. The playful lilt in his voice made it clear that he hadn’t meant any harm, but the words hit you harder than you expected. Your mind ran through the last time you had actually visited your parents.

Felix must have noticed your sudden stillness, because when you looked up at him, his brows were slightly furrowed, eyes searching yours. 

"You’re not wrong," you admitted quietly, sipping your tea to avoid his gaze. "I think you really do."

"Oh. I— I didn’t mean to... I was just joking."

"I know," offering him a small smile. "It’s just… true."

A beat of silence stretched between you. Felix set his cookie down, shifting closer until his knee bumped against yours. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you never talked about your parents, but it always felt exhausting to explain the complicated mess that was your relationship with them. They weren’t cruel or absent, just distant – close enough to be in your life, but never truly present.

"Not much to say, really," you murmured. "We just don’t talk much. It’s always… weird. Like we don’t know how to be around each other."

Felix listened, nodding. "That sounds really lonely."

Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the simple truth in his words. "Yeah," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "It kinda is."

Felix didn’t say anything at first. "You know," he said, voice warm and sure, "family doesn’t have to be just the people you’re born with."

Your chest tightened, not with sadness, but with something gentler.

Felix grinned, before nudging you playfully. "Well, for what it’s worth, my parents love adopting people into the family. You might already be part of it without knowing."

Seungmin

The living room was quiet except for the occasional tapping of Seungmin’s phone as he scrolled, stretched out comfortably on your couch. You sat beside him, your head resting against the couch cushion, feeling the warmth of his presence next to you. 

Then, your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

Mom flashed across the screen.

Seungmin glanced at it briefly before looking at you, expecting you to reach for it. But instead, you pressed decline without a second thought.

He blinked, his brows furrowing slightly. "You’re not gonna answer?"

You shrugged. "Nope."

He sat up a little, setting his phone down. "Why not? It could be important."

"Unlikely," you muttered, avoiding his gaze.

The confusion on his face lingered for a moment before realization set in. "You don’t really talk to her much, do you?"

You sighed, leaning back against the couch. "Not if I can help it."

Seungmin didn’t respond right away, just watched you carefully. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "You guys don’t get along?"

"Not really," you admitted. "We just... don’t see things the same way. Talking always turns into a disagreement, and honestly, it’s exhausting. It’s easier to just not deal with it."

Seungmin hummed, a quiet sound of understanding. 

For a moment, he just sat there, thinking. Then, without warning, he leaned over and lightly nudged your shoulder with his own. "You don’t have to pretend you’re fine."

You glanced at him, surprised by how easily he saw through you.

He tilted his head, his expression unreadable yet undeniably gentle. "You’re allowed to be upset about it. You don’t have to act like it doesn’t bother you."

Something in your chest loosened. You hadn’t even realized how much tension you’d been carrying until now.

"Thanks," you murmured.

He gave you a small, reassuring smile. "Anytime." 

I.N

You sighed as you scrolled through your messages, the same feeling of disappointment creeping in. Your parents had sent another message in the family group chat – one of their usual updates about your sibling, filled with admiration and excitement. You were happy for them, truly. But every time you saw their name being praised while yours was barely acknowledged, the ache in your chest deepened.

I.N sat beside you on the couch, watching your face shift from neutral to something more distant. He nudged your arm gently. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You hesitated before tilting your phone toward him. He skimmed the messages, his features tightening as he put the pieces together. He already knew the story – how your relationship with your parents had grown distant ever since you chose a different path, how they seemed to relate more to your sibling, leaving you feeling like an outsider in your own family. He also knew you weren’t looking for pity.

Instead of offering empty words, I.N put your phone aside. “Does it hurt?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “A little,” you admitted. “I mean, I moved out as soon as I could, and I’ve been independent for a while, so I shouldn’t care so much. But… it’s like no matter what I do, I’m not enough for them.”

I.N frowned. “That’s not true. You are enough. They just… don’t see you the way they should, and that’s on them, not you.”

You looked at him, feeling a flicker of warmth in his gaze. He wasn’t trying to fix it. He wasn’t telling you to move on or pretend it didn’t matter. 

“You’ve built a life for yourself that you love, haven’t you?” he continued. “That takes courage. And just because they don’t recognize it doesn’t make it any less real.”

A small, wobbly smile broke through your somber expression.

I.N grinned, giving your hand a playful squeeze. “I just know you. And I know that you deserve to be seen, to be valued. Even if they don’t show it, I will.”

You exhaled, leaning into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “Thank you, Innie.”

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