#fake dating fics | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

celestie0 · 2 months ago

Text

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch4. in a mother’s eyes

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 4/x

ᰔ words. 10k (omg a whole number...very sexy)

a/n. hellooo my ihm friends! hope you're all doing well. ahh i'm glad to finally be posting this chapter lolol. it's a littleee off tangent from what happens in ch3, but still has some important plot developments. it does dive into feelings of depression & anxiety, so just wanted to give a warning on that! but yea other than that i hope you enjoy and see you at the bottom!! :) also so sorry if there are errors i only had time to skim through it once :((

nav. ch1 :: ch2 :: ch3 :: ch4 :: ch5 (pending)

“Just go ahead and sign right here for me.”

You take the pen from the hospice nurse’s hand. It’s cheap black plastic with a pink fuzzy pom pom attached to the end of it with peeling glue.

Your eyes briefly flit across the paragraphs detailed in printed ink until your gaze lands on the highlighted lines at the bottom of the page. Your signature. Spouse’s signature.

“We’ll need to have your husband come here to sign the paperwork as well, since he’ll have to add your mother on his list of dependents, but we can certainly get started on expediting this process for you since the insurance has already been pre-approved,” the nurse tells you as she accepts your signed paperwork and then neatly tucks it into one of the compartment holders.

The afternoon goes by smoothly, with your mother surprisingly patient as she sits in the waiting room while you wait for the nurses to formally show you to her new room.

You thought that you could put off putting her in hospice for a little longer, because in all honesty, you weren’t prepared to let her go just yet. You weren’t prepared to not have her in the house anymore. But lately, she’s been putting herself in lots of danger, like attempting to take her own medications when she does not know the correct dosing, and forgetting things on the stove when she attempts to cook.

But the last straw was when you came home from a very brief run to the grocery store at night a couple days ago to see a handful of your neighbors out on the front lawn with your mother at their side. She had apparently gotten out of the house and walked down the neighborhood, then fallen on the sidewalk but was unable to get up. When your neighbors had found her, a miracle as they were just coming home from dinner and caught sight of her in the illumination of their headlights, they tried to help her get up but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even tell the firefighters that came by to help her what her name was, or what year it was, or where she lived.

It was when you realized you couldn’t even keep her safe anymore that you had to let go.

“Is that a wedding ring?” your mother asks, pointing a trembling finger to it as she lays tucked inside her new hospice bed, “are you married?”

You glance down at the ring Gojo gave you in the courthouse, almost surprised to find that you were still wearing it in good faith. “Yes, mom. I am.”

“Why am I here?” she asks you, “I don’t want to be here.”

You stiffen a little. Although you were mentally preparing yourself to answer these questions, the preparation didn’t make it any easier. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just for a little short while, okay? The doctors want to run some tests on you.”

“Who are you married to?” she asks.

“To Satoru,” you tell her, “our neighbor.”

She lets out a small gasp. “The sweet boy who fixed our A/C?”

You roll your eyes. not sure why your mother has hyper fixated on that memory with Gojo when most days she’ll look at you like you’re a stranger. “Yes mom.”

“Oh, I like him,” she tells you with an affectionate nod. She hesitates slightly, wearisome of some other thought that flashes through her mind. “How long have you been married?”

You let out a small sigh. This is already a conversation you had with her a couple days ago, and it doesn’t feel good to lie to her. It was hard enough to do once, but to have to constantly lie to her over and over again over all the smallest things just so that she stays calm and safe and happy seems to drain you of all your energy and happiness you had left in your bones.

Little white lies, that’s what they are. Harmless ones. That’s what you tell yourself to absolve yourself of the guilt.

“I’ll come back soon, okay? I’ll tell you more about him some other day,” you say to her, speaking gently in the way an adult would speak to a child. The way she used to speak to you. You could never exactly pinpoint when those roles became reversed.

You finish discussing some more insurance matters with the front-desk nurse as she puts together a small folder of documents for you. While she works, you glance at the little counter shelf that includes a plethora of pamphlets on how to deal with the complicated feelings that arise from putting a loved one in hospice care, and dealing with the emotions of having a relative with advanced stage dementia. They are pretty brochures, lovingly creased at the folds as if looked through multiple times by people who walk in and out of this facility, but seemingly only few take them home. You slip one of each into your folder when the nurse hands it to you, manage the best smile possible, and then turn on your heel to head out the hospice doors.

The sun is setting outside as you take the walk back to your car, which was purposefully parked a half mile away to afford you the luxury of a melancholic stroll. Somehow, you feel like you’ve left a piece of yourself back at the hospice. A feeling you can’t quite shake from your bones.

Your feet stop walking somewhere along the sidewalk on their own, the street lights above you flickering brighter into life as the sky is now a dusty gray with only streaks of purple. There’s a liquor store you spot across a small parking lot to your right, and you’re guided towards it, but not without a sickening feeling in your chest.

When you open the door, the bell at the top jingles, and you glance to the right where you see a lanky young man playing some sort of shooter game on his phone by the cash register. You grab a bottle of vodka, a bottle of white wine, some packs of skittles, one of the mini pizza boxes at the hot food station, and then dump it all onto the counter.

The young man scans all your items without even so much as sparing you a glance, but does take a look at your ID, then says, “Total’s $68.65, cash or card?”

“Card.”

Just before you tap your card, something displayed behind the cashier counter catches your eye. Something familiar, something tempting, something you weigh in your head about twenty times within one millisecond all due to the cortisol coursing through your veins and you eventually say, “Uh, and could I get one of those, too?”

The cashier looks behind himself to what you’re pointing at before turning around. “Sure.”

The same jingle is heard on top of your head as you leave the store, now with a burning hot mini pizza box in your hand as well as a plastic bag that carries your candy and the two clinking bottles of alcohol.

“Oh!! omg, y/n,” you hear a feminine voice call out and you’re instantly wincing. The last thing you wanted was to be bothered right now. You just wanted to go home and get drunk and then pass out on the floor of your living room. But alas, the world is small.

You turn around to see Hana come running across the sidewalk lot towards you, and when she’s about a few feet away, she glances down at your hands and all the things you were carrying. You quickly shove your last-minute purchase into your jacket pocket with a shameful conscience, and try to hide the plastic bag of liquor behind your calves. There was no hiding the pizza box, but at least that was the least incriminating.

“Oh, Hana, wow! What a coincidence seeing you here,” you say to her, pressing your lips into a small smile.

“Yeah, I um,” she points over her shoulder towards the hospice that’s standing tall in the darkness of night, cells with windows illuminated with light. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was a prison. “Remember I told you my friend’s mom is sick and she’s at this hospice?”

“Yeah,” you say.

“I was just visiting her mom with her,” she tells you.

“Aw,” you comment, “I see, I see.”

You adore Hana, you really do. She was there for you when the whole Yuna and Choso thing went down, picking your shifts up for a good week when you couldn’t stomach going into work when your ex-best friend’s stupid face was gloating in the halls over how she stole your boyfriend. Hana was there for you when you were a new hire and all the doctors were being bitchy about a “newbie in the ED”, but she stood up for you, even cussed the fuck out of one of attendings for the whole hall to hear when you were being disrespected by one of them. She’s someone you can beam about how hot the EMT and Firefighter men that stroll into the ED are, too. A priceless companion.

And even though you two have hung out after hours sometimes, it was still always a little awkward to see a coworker outside of work.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I actually, um, was going to tell you at our shift tomorrow, but I just admitted my mom to the hospice too,” you say, “and…thanks a lot for telling me about it. I really appreciate it. It seems like a wonderful facility.”

Her eyes briefly widen with surprise before they soften once again. “Oh, that’s wonderful, love. I hope all goes well. And your little insurance scam worked! Good for you!”

“Shhh,” you hiss at her, looking around yourself with paranoia, “the feds are everywhere.”

She laughs, sweet in the air, before the sound settles and she looks at you with something reminiscent of well-intentioned concern. Her eyes flit to the plastic bag you were still holding behind your legs. “Hey…um, if…if you ever want some company when you come to visit your mom, just let me know. I hope you know you don’t have to do everything alone.”

You blink at her, sucking in a short breath to respond, but it only leaves you as a slight puff of air. There’s a silent gratitude that you give her, because it’s hard for you to express any feelings with words, but you’ve found that the people in your life who know you best can always read you without them.

“Thank you, Hana,” you manage to say with a slight croak to your voice because you were fighting back tears.

She smiles at you. “Take care, okay? And see ya tomorroooowwwwww,” she coos at you, coming up to you to give you a small hug, a squeeze of your upper arm, and then she heads back towards the direction of the hospice.

You watch her walk away until you can’t see her anymore. And then you head towards your car.

When you arrive at your neighborhood, you park in front of Gojo’s house. You have a feeling that you won’t be able to bear the vast emptiness of your home now that your mother is elsewhere, and so you drag your feet up the stone stairs of his house with a heavy heart instead.

The spare key that he gave you weakly pushes into the keyhole with about as much force as your fingers can manage, and you realize they almost feel atrophied.

The house is dark when you step inside, spare for the ambient street lights shining through cracked open blinds on the windows, and the curtains rustle gently from the draft of the AC, a chill that reaches you too by the time you make it to the staircase.

It doesn’t seem like Gojo’s home. A glance at the clock tells you it’s close to 8pm. You briefly consider texting him to ask where he’s at, why he’s out so late, when he’ll be home, and what’s for dinner, but you can’t even bring yourself to pull your phone out of your coat pocket.

Weak legs manage to take you upstairs and you’re about to pass through to your room when the slightly open door to the master bedroom taunts you, like a peephole into some other wordly dimension. Like the wardrobe in the chronicles of Narnia. A portal into your fake husband’s life.

With a palm pushing on the door, you slowly crack it open, and you know the anxious voices in your head are getting worse by the day when the creaking of the door hinges sounds like a lullaby to you.

Was this an invasion of privacy? And did you really care if it was?

The room is big, with a king sized bed off to the left, sheets neatly made and duvet primly tucked under, like the way hotel beds are set up. You feel a slight flush of embarrassment when you remember you haven’t been making your bed in the mornings for the past couple days you’ve been living here so far, and you wonder if Gojo would judge you for something like that. If he’d think you were a messy or undisciplined person. If he would think less of you.

Truthfully, in a lot of ways, you still felt like a child. You barely weathered a lot of your formative adolescent years when dealing with your parents’ divorce, and you’ve had to put so much of your life on pause to take care of your mom ever since she got diagnosed. So here you were, in the body of a 29-year-old woman, yet still feeling so painfully juvenile. One that forgets to make her bed in the mornings, and on most nights can’t seem to stomach anything other than cereal for dinner. It was like you were still at a party that everyone else had left, except all it ever was is hell. Your life was such a stark contrast to the lives of other adults you’ve come across. The ones that wake up at six to go on runs, the ones that have paid off mortgages with five figures in their retirement accounts, oh god, the ones that meal prep, and the ones that, all things considered, have their lives together. The ones that don’t spend at least an hour of every day, in fetal position on their bed, sobbing until tears soak through the sheets of the pillow down to the feathers like bone, because you’re so overwhelmed with stress and preparing yourself for the grief of losing your mother which you know that, no matter how hard you try to save her from, will inevitably one day come.

You used to cook dinner every night, make your bed every morning, and go to pilates on the weekends. Back when you were a little younger and healed and excited to live life. But now, you barely get by. Your priorities are with your mother. You can’t remember the last time you did anything nice for yourself, including something as simple as the luxury of getting to come home to a clean house because you hardly ever had time to clean it, not with all the doctor’s appointments you were driving your mother to, not with all the extra shifts you were picking up at the hospital to pay off your debt, not with all the times you felt too depressed to even get out of bed.

But your mother is in hospice now, so you’ve made time, right? You’ve made the decision that everyone in your life has been begging you to finally do. So why do you still feel so empty inside?

By a quick survey of the room, you notice Gojo doesn’t really have many framed photos hung up on the walls or perched up on surfaces. None, actually. Only a contemporary painting above his bed frame and then a faded vintage horror movie poster plastered up near his desk. Not terribly odd, since in your experience most men don’t really do the whole “cluttering the house with millions of photos of their family” thing until they at least have a couple of kids and some purebred dog. The thought of Gojo someday setting up a little portrait photo at his desk with his wife’s—his eventual real forever wife’s, pretty face in it, posing with their two beautiful kids, makes an oddly melancholic feeling waft through you. You wonder if he would keep a two-by-two in his wallet, too.

Your feet move one in front of the other as your finger traces the surface wood of a dresser cabinet, something that looks a little vintage and oaky, in stark contrast to the modern minimalist vibe Gojo has set up in the rest of the room. A family heirloom, maybe? There’s no dust that coats your finger, which surprises you. If you were to run your finger across your dresser at home you’d have collected enough dust to snort down your windpipes like a recreational drug. But Gojo’s a real estate agent, making a living off of dressing houses up in perfect cosplay so that monetarily stable middle class families feel inclined to buy them. So you’re not exactly surprised he’s invested in keeping his own house in pristine condition too.

There is a little bit of chaos, though. Like the shirt he has haphazardly hung over his chair at his office space over to the right. There’s a coffee mug sitting there too, porcelain and reflecting the moon light off, but upon peering inside you see that it’s half empty with stale coffee. He’s got pens sprawled across the desk, in a fashion that suggests he accidentally knocked them over in a rush, and slowly, like some grounding exercise, you place them one by one back into the paper mache pencil holder. It briefly occurs to you that he has a lot of paper mache containers of sorts around the house. You lift up the pencil cup, turning it in your hand until your eyes catch something written on it with glittery pink gel pen.

i luv u unkle toru! -yur BEST FREND 4EVUR juno!!! :D

A small smile makes it onto your face. The handwriting was messy, more like scratches than smooth lines, and nothing less than what you would expect of a child. You remember making paper mache and clay trinkets at preschool for your mom and dad when you were younger. And you’re sure if you were brave enough to open the box of memorabilia that sits in your attic some day, you’d see your own scratchy scribbled handwriting on them. An innocence that is long gone and buried, never again to be delicately placed on desks or counters for all the living.

The draft from the AC reaches you once again, brushing over your skin and causing a chill to shiver down your spine. It kicks at the curtains as well, causing them to ruffle up towards you, baring the dark outside world into the streets. And you notice in that momentary glance that there’s a roof just outside the window that overlooks the backyard. A roof? Spotted by a depressed woman going through a quarter life crisis? There was nothing more tempting than that.

The window was easy to open, which only caused unease over the revelation of how easy it would be for someone to rob this house. You make a mental note to tell Gojo to get a ring camera or security system of some sort since he doesn’t seem to have one, but you can already picture him telling you something about how statistically low the crime rates are in this neighborhood compared to all the other neighborhoods, and then you’d tell him that it’s just for your peace of mind. But whether he’d compromise or not after that, you’re really not sure.

You take a seat on the roof, a little scared as you sit because of the slight slope, but it’s comfortable once you’re settled. You sit criss-cross-apple-sauce, staring out into the neighborhood of perfectly lined up suburban houses. You’ve got a better view into some neighbors' backyards, noticing that a couple of them had pools while some of them have big gardens. There's a cat resting up on a fence in the distance. A car drives by with headlights illuminating everything in its proximity briefly before zooming off. You glance up at the sky, and notice the full moon, but it’s too cloudy to see any stars. Or perhaps it was just the light pollution from the lamps making it difficult to see.

On instinct, your hand reaches inside your coat pocket for your phone, but your knuckles hit something else instead. A moment of brief confusion flickers through your head, but then you immediately recall the last-minute purchase you made at the gas station.

Your hand pulls out the object, and then you stare down at it. Squinting your eyes a little, because it’s a sight that feels familiar but also one you haven’t seen in so long: a pack of twenty Marlboro red cigarettes.

You’ve tried a lot of things to manage your stress over the years. Excessively working out, eating a lot of sugar, going on six hour hikes to touch grass, flirting with random men at bars, fucking Choso until he was rendered speechless, multiple types of antidepressants, you almost tried smoking weed once with your roommate in college but you wimped out last second. But the habit that had gotten you through the years of 21 to 24 is held loosely in your hand right now. It’s been five years since you quit, but resolve was often a fickle thing. As the saying goes, once an addict, always an addict.

There’s a brief moment of hesitation as you slowly peel the plastic off of the back, but then it all comes back to you like a reflex you’ll never forget up to where you slide a cigar up out and then pinch it between your two fingers. Forgetting to buy a lighter with the cigarettes is definitely something you would do, but because you remembered it was something that you would do, you remembered not to do it. The flick of the flame coming to life is ASMR you didn’t know you were painfully nostalgic for, and you balance the cigarette between your lips in that sort of movie-star way people used to obsess over back in the day. But just as you bring the lighter up to the end of the cigarette, and just before you can light it—

A hand shoots out in your periphery, grabbing your wrist and entirely stalling the movement.

You gasp, lips parting enough for the cigarette to fall from them and into your lap. The hand wrapped around your wrist is large and masculine, and you briefly consider screaming, but when you snap your neck to look at the perpetrator, you see Gojo crouched down next to you on this roof. You notice he’s wearing a black suit, a tie that was loosely secure hanging from his neck into the space between his spread thighs as he’s crouched, and whatever gel he had in his hair from earlier only barely remains as strands fall over his forehead haphazardly. He looks like he’s on the other end of a long work day.

You blink at him, expression plastered with surprise, but his is only earnest. With breathtaking blue eyes that you realize he could easily use to surrender a person just by looking at them, like the way he’s looking at you right now. His lips are pressed together into a firm line, as if to suppress some emotion, but the slight crease to his brow makes you feel like you’re in trouble somehow. Like he was silently scolding you for something.

“I—” you stutter.

He lets go of your wrist and discreetly pulls the lighter out of your hand. And then his hand reaches for the pack of cigarettes you were balancing on your knee, but on some reflex that you don’t even think about, you try to snatch them away from him, and now you’re both tugging at the same pack of cigarettes.

“y/n,” he says, “let go.”

“No,” you say stubbornly.

He sighs and tugs a little harder. “Give them to me.��

“But—” you stammer, voice becoming softer to see if that’d work on him, “I’m…” Your grip on them tightens. “I’m stressed.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, then finally loses his patience and snatches them right out of your hand. He stands up from his crouched down position to toss the pack off to the side onto the roof somewhere. You’re surprised when he lets out a sigh and sits down next to you on the roof, as if he felt the obligation to. His legs stretch out in front of him, but still bent slightly at the knees, and he leans backwards with his body weight braced on his palms laid flat on wood paneling behind him. “There are better ways to relieve stress,” he tells you candidly.

��Like what?” you ask, and just when he opens his mouth to speak, you clarify, “and don’t say sex.”

He shuts his mouth and his eyes flit up to the sky for a brief second. “Damn. I didn’t have a back-up answer.”

You roll your eyes, releasing a deep breath, then draw your knees to your chest before resting your chin on top of them.

“I didn’t know you smoke,” he says after a century-long minute.

You wince a little, because you were half hoping he was going to just drop the subject all together.

You bite your lip nervously and hug your knees to your chest tighter as if to hide yourself from him. “I don’t. Well, I haven’t. Um, not for a while.”

“Huh. I see,” he says.

Another silence passes, and as he shuffles next to you, the fabric of his suit brushes against the fabric of your coat, and you’ve become entirely too aware of the feeling.

“So,” he says, breaking the awkward silence, “your mom’s in hospice now?”

You nod, enthusiastic enough to where you won’t look like you’re entirely depressed about it.

“That’s good,” he says, “no issues with the insurance?”

You shake your head. “They need you to sign some papers by the end of the week though,” you tell him. “We’ll have to go in person.”

He nods slowly to affirm he’ll make time for it. “I really hope things get better for your mom,” he says, voice soft as he stares off into neighbors homes like you had been doing ten minutes ago. You see the cat that was resting on the fence get up, do a big stretch, and start walking along the length of the fence. Your eyes briefly glance at Gojo, and you notice his gaze is tracing the cat’s path.

“My—” you start, hesitant all of a sudden by the vulnerability you already feel swelling within you, most definitely due to sitting with someone on a rooftop late at night, but you decide that you’ll be nice to him for once, “…my mom seems to remember you a lot. More than she remembers me.” You let out a small humoring laugh, as if that fact doesn’t completely destroy you. “She was blabbering to me again for the seventh time about how you apparently fixed our AC.” You try to bite your tongue, but can’t help it when you say, “although I’m pretty sure you just pressed a bunch of buttons until it started working again.”

“Yup. That’s exactly what I did.”

You roll your eyes and sigh.

Another awkward silence.

“Can I ask you a question?” you say.

“Sure.” His voice sounds deeper, like he’s sleepy.

“Why did you agree to marry me? That’s not something people just do out of nowhere.”

He glances over at you, and you flicker your eyes to him. “Why? Having regrets?” he teases, with a slight nudge of his elbow to your side.

“Just answer me.”

He lifts his palms up from behind him and leans forward, placing his hands on his knees instead. “I don’t know. If something I could do would help someone out that much, I wasn’t going to say no.”

You hum quietly, still confused by his intentions. But you’re too jaded to question them.

“It costs nothing to be nice,” he adds.

You run soothing circles over your thigh through the fabric of your jeans. For some reason, your mind wanders to Choso. Thinking of all the years you wasted staying with him even though you knew his affections were long gone, just because you didn’t want to break his heart. Only to realize that you never had that privilege in the first place.

“I think,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you draw your knees closer to your chest, “that sometimes it does.”

A gust of autumn wind breezes by, ruffling the trees that the two of you are at eye-level with at the moment. You're pretty sure you’ve completely lost Gojo’s interest at this point, where he’s finally too tired to deal with your oddly cryptic attitudes and overall generally displeasing vibe, assuming this based solely on his prolonged silence beside you. You’re ready for him to get up and abandon you here on this roof, left to ponder every single thing you’ve done wrong in your life. It was any second now.

“Sometimes,” he instead speaks up, and it’s so surprising to you that you jolt a little bit, “you can do everything right, and people will still find a way to fuck you over. But I don’t think that’s any reason to stop being nice to others.”

You glance over at him, your eyes widening slightly, but he just continues to peer off straight into the night. His blinks are slow, lingering on being closed for a moment before he opens them again, and you’re mesmerized by the sight. The skin under his eyes is slightly dark from exhaustion, heavy with character that makes you aware that he’s just a person too. And for what feels like the tenth time this week, you realize that he’s—…handsome. And for what feels like the tenth time this week, your heart flutters in your chest.

He scoffs suddenly and dusts his hands off. “I sound like a fucking youth pastor.” He lets out an exhale before suddenly standing up onto his feet before you can think more on it. He looks off into the night again and lets out another exhale that sounds more like a sigh this time. “God, it’s getting a lot colder these days. Might have to start running the heater.”

You blink up at him with no commentary to add.

He looks down at you. His face is relaxed, but you can tell those eyes are distracted. A shimmering blue ocean in its own world while he attempts to stay present in this one.

He holds his hand out to you, and you stare at it blankly like you’ve got no clue what he intends for you to do with it. But you finally take the hint and curl your hand around his palm so that he can pull you up onto your feet too.

You stumble a little, falling forward from the sudden blood flow to your brain, but he holds you steady by the strong grip of his hands on your elbows. He’s close to you, close enough to where you can smell the faint lingering scent of his cologne. Something different than that expensive one he wore to the courthouse, but it’s comforting somehow. A fragrance that’s more him. And you feel nervous as you look up at him underneath pale moonlight.

He lets go of your elbows. You feel cold from the loss of his touch. But his right hand moves to gently hold your left hand in his palm, holding it curled as his thumb barely grazes the stone you wear on your ring finger; the one he gave you.

The way his thumb prods at the silver band is like he’s inspecting its quality, as if it has to pass some test to be worthy of sitting on your finger. Or maybe just any finger, if you were to quell the delusion. You’re not sure if he’s satisfied with his inspection.

“Where did you get it—” you blurt out.

His gaze flickers up to your face briefly before he’s back to examining the ring. “It was my mom’s.”

Your mouth gapes slightly in shock, heart dropping a little in your chest, and all of a sudden you feel guilty. Guilty that he put his mother’s ring on your finger for something that was fake, something that was essentially a business deal, something exchanged to you out of fraud when it was a precious family heirloom that should be exchanged with love. And maybe he didn’t care about it much, some people don’t care about the sentiments of objects. But your mind thinks of the oaky vintage dresser in his room, so out of place in the aesthetic of its surroundings, a decision you can only imagine him of all people, mr. “everything in this house has to look like an IKEA catalog”, would do if the dresser held some importance to him that was more than meets the eye. And so you’re compelled to think that maybe this ring did, too.

“Why would you give me this?! You could’ve just gotten a cheap fake diamond ring from a pawn shop and called it a day,” you ask him, suddenly feeling burdened by it.

“Well I wasn’t exactly given much time to think of other options.”

“But—” you start, only to realize you have no counter arguments for that.

He lets out a huh noise, like the sound someone makes when they’re pleasantly surprised by something, as he looks down at your hand that he still held in his. “It’s kinda crazy that it fits you perfectly. I wasn’t sure.”

Your mind wanders to when he slipped the ring onto your finger in the courtroom, followed by the kiss. Soft, sweet, the lingering warm sensation of his palm on your cheek as he cupped your face, the same way those heartthrob actors do in all those romance movies and kdramas that you watch on Friday nights while snuggled up in a blanket, wondering when anyone will ever kiss you like that. You remember the ghost sensation of his hand hovering over the small of your back, fingers lightly grazing the nape of your neck, his frame blocking out everything around you as he kissed you, just to pull away and for the two of you to then pretend like it never happened, as if it wasn’t one of the sweetest kisses you’ve ever known.

You slowly pull your hand out of his, the moment feeling too tender for your liking, and you clear your throat before flitting your eyes up to his.

“Rule #1,” you remind him with a soft whisper, “no touching.”

You purse your lips, watching his round eyes blink once, then twice, before he shoves his hands in his suit pockets. He rocks back and forth on his heels for a few seconds, nodding slowly in submission, and then he turns on them to head back to the house. You’re standing a little stunned from the abrupt ending to this trance of a moment on the roof, and you’re also a little surprised with how your chest is heaving a little bit with fast breaths, but you eventually snap out of it to follow him inside too.

You two make it back inside the house, with little words exchanged. You pretend to not notice the way Gojo tilts his head at his desk, like he’s confused about why it looks tidier than when he left it. You’re prepared to feign innocence or ignorance, but he doesn’t press you about it.

“Y’know,” he says from behind you, his chest briefly brushing against the back of your head as he pushes the bedroom door in front of you open so that you can head out into the loft, “those oversized 1800s-esque nightgowns you’ve been wearing around the house kinda make you look like a less-hot version of Ebenezer Scrooge.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

•��┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

“Sign right here for me, sir.”

You watch as the nurse slides the papers across the high-raised counter of the hospice nursing desk towards Gojo, his eyebrows narrowing as his eyes skim the words on the paper and land at the highlighted lines where he’s been intended to sign. You feel nervous for some reason, as if he’d suddenly find something disagreeable and refuse to sign, then take you to the courthouse first thing to finalize a divorce and send you off to prison while claiming he was blackmailed into the whole marriage in the first place.

Instead, he pulls a pen from the chest pocket of his suit jacket, clicking the end of it and scribbling his signature onto the paper with some jet black ink that looks like it takes a second to dry. How pretentious of him. The pink pom-pom pen was right there.

The nurse behind the counter continues to chat with him about something, blah blah dependents, blah blah tax claims, blah blah you’ll receive an itemized bill in the mail. You’re trying your best to eavesdrop in on the conversation, but most of your senses are being occupied by examining all your surroundings. When you dropped your mother off at the hospice, your feelings were at the forefront of conscience, but now that you’ve had a couple days to come down from that overwhelming emotional high, you’re here to scope out the quality of this place you’ve just dumped your mom at.

The facility is clean and sleek, with a color theme of red and an ocean blue across the signs, the furniture, even with the paperwork they hand out. All the workers had color-coded scrubs based on their occupation or specialty, and none of them had stains on the fabric. You take a glance down at the modest leather pumps you were wearing past the creases of the long skirt, and notice that the floor was shimmering off their reflection in a perfect polish. It wasn’t bad, this place.

“Thanks, you too,” you hear Gojo say to the nurse behind the counter. He has a professional smile on his face, but still kind and genuine, which makes the woman at the computer something bashful and unable to make eye contact. He folds something that looks like a receipt into his chest pocket before tucking his pen back in there too and then turns to face you. You make a mental note to pay him back for whatever he just paid for, at least once you move some money around.

Your eyebrows lift, feeling a little dazed as you blink at him blankly.

“Alright,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, the sound of his shoes on the polished hospital floors satisfactorily tapping in your ears as he took a couple steps towards you, “where’s your mom’s room?”

“Huh?”

“What’s her room number?” he asks you.

“Y-You wanna go see her??”

“Of course I want to,” he says, “she’s my mother-in-law.”

You roll your eyes and pet the fabric of your skirt to smooth the wrinkles out. “You’re getting a little too invested in this role of fake husband.”

“I get to annoy you all day and ride the adrenaline rush of committing a federal crime,” he says, “of fucking course I’d get invested.”

You sigh, tossing some of your hair to behind your shoulder before glancing up at the signs, squinting slightly to locate the ward where your mother’s room is, before you hear an extremely high-pitched and somewhat catty feminine voice call out from behind you. You glance at Gojo’s face as he peers off to whoever’s behind you, and you see him visibly stiffen a little.

“Is that Dayton county’s sexiest realtooorrr???” the voice purrs, and you turn on your heel to see a blonde bombshell of a woman clacking her kitten heels down the glistening floors of the hospice, with another brunette bombshell just a few paces behind her. Bombshell #2 sighs something like “it issss” before they walk right up to your fake husband and take turns at giving him a playful squeeze of his bicep. You have to physically stop your jaw from dropping at the sight.

“Wow! Ladies, so–...so great to see you two,” he says out of polite obligation, and you immediately clock the fact that he doesn’t address them by name.

Bombshell #1 turns to look at you, all of her hair moving as one solid entity with the motion from all the hair spray that’s probably holding it up, and she points at you with a long slender finger that narrows into a french-tip. “Oh who’s this?? Another one of your clients??”

“Oh, no, she’s my–”

“I’m his wife,” you interrupt him, irritated for some reason.

Both the women chirp something out like oh! before their faces twist with confusion.

“I didn’t know you were married,” Bombshell #2 says in a thick New Jersey accent.

Gojo lifts his left hand up, the silver band on his hand glimmering under fluorescent hospice lighting. “Very happily,” he says, as if someone was holding a gun to his head.

Bombshell #1 crosses her arms, and you try not to stare at how nice her boobs look in the low scoop-neck jaguar print top she was wearing. You were no better than a man. And now you’re pissed off at the idea of Gojo glancing down too, but a flick of your gaze up to his face tells you he’s safe. For now.

“You weren’t married when I asked you if you were a month ago,” Bombshell #1 sneers at him. It’s true, the math wouldn’t make sense, but in his defense, this marriage was a fraud.

“Or when you took me out for dinner last week after I bought my house,” Bombshell #2 snarls with an undertone of hurt.

Gojo clears his throat beside you before pointing at Bombshell #2. “How is that, by the way?” he asks in an attempt to change the subject, “the half acre down on Maple Ave, right? You, uh, enjoying the pool?”

The woman let out an offended scoff and–were her eyes sheening with tears?? She puts her hands on her hips. “No. Mine is the three bedroom house with the cedar gazebo on 14th street.”

Her friend next to her rolls her eyes and smacks her gum between her cheek. “I’m the one that bought the half acre down on Maple Ave, jerk. Ugh!” She grabs her friend’s arm with a high-pitched hmph noise leaving her throat, and you can hear the other one sniffling subtly as she wobbles on her heels with her friend’s pull of her arm.

Right before leaving the two of you alone, Bombshell #1 turns to you and says, “I hope you find someone who treats you better,” and then they storm off together down the hallway, their perfectly blow-dried hair bouncing in sync with each stomp.

You blink at the sight, a little flabbergasted from the interaction, and then flit your faze up to Gojo. You see him awkwardly scratching at the back of his head with a grimace on his stupidly handsome face.

“That’s what you get for being a manwhore,” you tell him.

“I’m not a manwhor–”

“You went on a date with another woman while you were maaaaarrrieeeddd?!” you coo as you let out a fake gasp and slap your cheeks with your hands, “despicable, really.”

He lets out some disgruntled noise, the source coming from deep within his throat. “No. We weren’t fake-married yet,” he vindicates himself, “and it wasn’t a date. I just bought her dinner as a congrats for buying a house. Not a big deal. I do it for all my clients.”

“Satoru. You do realize you’re leading these women on, right? I mean, I’ve seen the way you talk to them. Even if you think you’re just being friendly, please know that your definition of friendly is most people’s definition of flirting.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true.”

He raises an eyebrow as he glances down at you. “Alright, how come this flirting in disguise of friendliness hasn’t worked on you then?”

You scoff in disbelief before crossing your arms. Maybe you did deserve a better fake husband. “You’re never friendly with me. You’re always rude to me.”

“What? I’m not always rude to you.”

“Well, you’re certainly much more rude to me than you are to other women,” you say, tapping the tip of your shoe with irritation.

“Can we not do this right now? We’re in the middle of a hospice.”

“God, you’re such a cop-out,” you mumble as you forcefully push past him towards the hallway that’ll lead you to your mother. You can hear that Gojo’s on your tail, following you down one of the more dimly lit hallways, and you can tell he needs to stall the strides of his Daddy Longlegs to not overtake your pace.

“What the fuck is a cop-out?” he asks you from behind.

“Look it up on urban dictionary, Grandpa. Unless you don’t know what the Internet is, either,” you spat.

You waltz right up to your mother’s room just in time to see a nurse making her way out with a clipboard in her hands. She glances over to you when she sees you approaching in her periphery.

“Hi! How can I help you?” she asks.

“Is it alright if we visit my mother?” you ask her.

“Oh! Sure, let me just clean her bed pan really quick.”

Your brow furrows. “B-Bedpan?? Why is she using a bedpan??”

The nurse stops in her movements. “Well, yesterday and today, that’s just what she has decided to use.”

You immediately become hostile. “That’s not right. She never needed to use one at home. Why is she suddenly using one here? Is that not a clear sign of deterioration? The restrooms must not be kept well enough here if she doesn’t want to use them.”

The nurse becomes something meek, her eyes widening as her mouth gapes slightly. “Ma’am,” she squeaks out, “we see this commonly with patients as they begin to adjust to hospice life. We’ll urge her to use the restroom, but as of right now, we need to prioritize what she finds most comfortable.”

Your expression softens, your shoulders relaxing from their tense position, and you duck your head a little with guilt. “Right…I’m sorry.”

The nurse presses her lips together with a well-meaning smile before shuffling into the room and closing the door behind her. You sigh and lean your back against the wall next to the number plate, cheeks flushing slightly from the confrontation. You have no idea how loud your voice was or who heard you. But you try to convince yourself that you’re just stressed and trying to look out for your mother, although the guilt still sits.

You glance up to see Gojo staring at you with slightly wide eyes, his hands shoved into his pockets, and he tilts his head to study your expression.

“What?” you snap at him.

“Are you doing okay?”

“Just fine, thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

“Satoru,” you cut his questioning off by raising a palm into the air, “just—…just stop.”

His brow furrows together slightly, but before he can show any further concern, the nurse exits the room and holds the door open for the two of you.

“All set!” she chirps, and Gojo moves to hold the door open in her stead, and then the nurse bolts down to disappear somewhere down the hallway.

You hear Gojo let out a small huff of a scoff as he stares down in the direction the nurse ran off in. “Glad to know I’m not the only one that’s scared of you.”

You roll your eyes and walk into the room through the open door.

Your mother lays in her bed, looking out the window with her hands resting on top of layers of white linen sheets, her skin looking slightly paler than usual. You approach her bedside slowly and she finally turns her head to look at you.

“Hi mom,” you gently greet her, sitting down on the stool beside her bed, “how are you doing?”

Her eyes dart across the features of your face, and you briefly glance towards the wall to the right where you see Gojo standing from a slight distance.

“Oh, hi dear,” she says with a smile, and relief washes over you.

You match her smile with your own. “Mom, I brought someone here to see you.” You glance over at Gojo, who starts to close distance now as he approaches the foot of the bed, “this is Satoru, my husband.”

Your mother’s eyes widen, “Oh! I know him,” she scoldingly swats a hand at you, like you’ve embarrassed her somehow by assuming that she doesn’t know who he is, “he’s my neighbor!”

You sigh, “yes mom, the one that fixed the A/C?” You attempt to finish her sentence for her.

She looks confused for a moment, but slightly nods as if to avoid any further confusion for herself. “But—…but, why…” she trails off and then looks at you, “I’m sorry, are you my nurse?”

Your shoulders drop slightly. “No, mom, it’s me. Your daughter. Do you remember?”

Her face scrunches before it entirely relaxes to keep some image of composure despite the haze you know she feels in her head. “Oh…yes, yes…my little girl. I remember you, of course!”

Your eyes become layered with a slight sheen of tears, “I’m glad.”

“Where’s your father?” she asks, “he said he’d bring me some…oh dear, what—…he said he’d bring me tea. I’ve been waiting.”

“Mom, dad is—” you pause for a moment to think on your feet. You could either tell the truth, or a little white lie. You never know what to do. And either one comes with either guilt or sorrow. “Well, he’ll be here soon, I just wanted to come see you.”

“Oh okay…” she trails off, her eyes squinting at you once more with that same look of confusion on it, but then they drift towards Gojo. “Oh you’re a very handsome young man! You look just like my neighbor.”

Your eyes flicker up to Gojo, and he walks up to your side by your mom’s bed. “Yes, Mrs. l/n, I am your neighbor.”

“With the lemon tree!”

“The avocado tree,” you correct her with a small sigh. “And he’s my husband mom. And also our neighbor.”

“Oh I see I see…” she says, looking up at him, and in a moment that shocks you, she holds her hand up for him to take.

There’s a slight moment of surprise on his face too, but he accepts her frail hand in his, and you glance over to your mom to see her look at him with some look of peace on her face.

“Oh, sit down here, won’t you?” she tells him, and you both blink at her in a moment of hesitation.

He pulls a stool up to the side of the bed right next to you and takes a seat down onto it. Your mother holds his hand with both of hers now, soothing her palm over the back of it before she taps on it lightly.

“Oh, my little girl is very sweet. She would bring me flowers from the garden when she was,” she glances at you, confused once more, “well I remember her when she was so little but she looks…a little older now. Ah, but she would bring me such pretty flowers.”

Your heart aches in your chest. You never knew what version of you your mother would remember. Some days, you’re still supposed to be an angsty teenager that shuts doors in her face, some days you were just as you are right now, and other days, you were just her little girl. And it confused her, the image of not seeing you in the way that she remembers. In the only way she knew how.

“You’ll take good care of my sweet girl, won’t you?” she asks him.

And it knocks the wind out of you.

It drops your heart to the center of the earth.

The thought that, after so many moments where she doesn’t remember you, she still knows that you’re someone she wants to keep safe.

Your mouth gapes slightly, tears welling in your eyes and you try your best to blink them away, but you see Gojo’s hand slip out from being held by your mother’s hands, to instead use both of his to hold hers. Your eyes snap to his face, and you see that same earnest expression you’ve been growing used to seeing these days.

“Yes,” he responds, eye contact level with hers, “I will.”

A small puff of air leaves your lips, a single tear streaming down your cheek and you quickly swipe your trembling fingers to remove any evidence of it before you huff out a shaky, “excuse me.” And then you’re standing up off the stool, and in a few hurried steps across the room as more tears continue to stream down your face, you make it to the door to push out into the suffocating air of the hallway.

It’s hard to breathe, huffs and puffs barely leaving your lips as you struggle to pull air into your lungs while you storm down the hallway at a fast pace, your heels clicking underneath you in a way that only sets you off further. Suddenly, all the sounds around you make you sick to your stomach, a wave of nausea washing over you, and your nose burns with the intensity of the tears that continue to stream down your face. A few hospice staff look at you with concerned expressions, and you eventually reach a heavy-duty door that leads you out into a secluded staircase hallway where the dim lighting serves to relax at least some of your senses, but you still feel like you’re about to pass out.

Even in the haze of your emotions, there’s this glimmer of a memory that comes to mind. One from when you were younger and you were pushed on the playground at school. You cried and cried and cried in your mother’s arms, but even then, you didn’t want her to baby you. You would say to her, I’m a big girl now! in that same way a child knows nothing of what it truly means to brave the world.

That little girl had no idea that one day, there would be moments where she wouldn’t be remembered as her mother’s little girl anymore.

No matter how old you grow, you will always be my little girl, your mother’s voice echoes to you, the feeling of her squeezing you in her arms as she holds your sobbing little form in hers casting a ghost sensation across your skin.

In a mother’s eyes, you’ll always be her baby.

And that’s why it hurts.

Because it’s all fake.

It’s phony.

It’s not real.

This arrangement you have with Gojo.

And if your mother were to die tomorrow, there would be no one to take care of her little girl anymore.

Not in the way she believes there will be.

Of all the white lies, this one pierces you straight through your heart in a way that leaves you gasping for air.

Amidst your whirlwind of thoughts, you hear the door push open harshly, and when you glance over, you see Gojo standing in this dimly lit hallway as he turns his head quickly to the left and sees you standing there.

“Hey,” he says, catching his breath as he lightly jogs up to you, “hey, hey, hey,” he repeats with more concern now when he sees the state you’re in, and he seamlessly pulls you into a hug, your cheek pressing against his chest that feels warm even through the fabric of his suit jacket and shirt, and that familiar scent of him completely engulfs you.

You sob quietly, wiping your snot on his tie and your tears on the felt fabric beside it, your hands balled into tiny fists at your chest, squeezed between the two of you. You feel him tuck your head under his chin and his arms wrap around you tighter. You don’t even realize it at first, but suddenly, it has become easier to breathe.

Then, you wail, and you cry, and you sob, because you don’t have the words to even explain how you feel, about not just this, but with everything, a buildup of everything that has been suffocating you in your life that just comes crashing down on you all at once.

“I know,” he says, his palm resting on the back of your head as he holds your face to his chest, his voice soothing in your ears while you sob until there’s nothing left to cry. “I know.”

You two stay like this for another minute or so as you come down from the cries, your remnant sniffling echoing in the hallway while you wipe more of your snot on his jacket. You make the first move to pull your face away from his chest, but he still keeps his arms wrapped around you when you look up at him.

With your gaze darting across his face, you take in the blue in his eyes. Eyes that are looking at you so softly it’s suddenly hard to breathe once more. And when those eyes flit to your lips, your mouth parts slightly as you two breathe in unison.

It’s possible that you could have dreamed the moment you saw him lean down slightly towards you, his eyes still set on your lips, but it didn’t matter because you’re pushing him away with strong fists before you can even register the thought in your head.

He lets go of you entirely, his eyes wide once more, and you glance down at your feet.

A tender moment, just like on the roof, broken just because you can’t handle that—…that way, that intense way that he looks at you. New rule, no looking at me longingly like you want to kiss me. I won’t allow it.

“I want to go home,” you whisper, still examining your shoes. And you suddenly feel embarrassed that he had to see you this way. He’s supposed to be scared and intimidated by you, not holding you in his arms while you cry.

He’s silent for a moment, but you can tell he’s searching for things to say. “You don’t want to say bye to your mom before we go?”

You swipe your palm against the wetness on your cheek. “No. I just want to go home.”

“y/n,” he tried to convince you.

You finally look up at him. “Please.”

He breathes in a few breaths as he studies the features of your face in a way that makes you feel so seen that it’s frightening. But he slowly nods, then says,

“Okay.”

[end of chapter 4]

a/n. hi friendsss i hope you enjoyed :'') yea like i said at the a/n in the beginning, this chapter is a slight off-tangent from last chapter, but ch5 will continue with a lot of the stuffs that were brought up in ch3. but yea i wanted to explore the whole process of emotions reader would go through putting her mom in hospice, since it kinda felt like a big thing, hence why it got its own chapter. aaa i hope to see you in the next one!! much love from me :''0

➸ you're all caught up!

note: please do not ask me for updates or when i will next update (read rules)

🏷️ @tremendousbouquetflower @semra4 @noctuaism @gojonegs @reinam00n

@bloopsstuff @bbyxxm @yungbloode @elloredef @spriteshawtyy

@joemama-2 @luniunia @4y3sh4 @ironhottubstranger @lushafterglow

@hermizery @manyno @idiot-juice-enthusiast @fairyflorasworld @teramisuyhin

@mmeerraa @bnha-free-writing @xenop0p @spaghettinewt @pngjpn

@anniegojo @rirk-ke @chiyokoemilia @higurumapet @pickuptruck01

@electrckchild @vi-ola666 @arishaxml @lavender-hvze @starmapz

@sxnkuna @billiondollarworth @fallintothechasm @mavvsmm @satorubluu

@ricaliscious @satxoru @oyaoya-bungeegum @satowooo @samistars

@ifartmangos @andeverden @13-09-01 @lindyloomoo @tvdumarvelhpsimp

note: i’m starting to transition towards tagging interacts to make sure i’m tagging active readers! but as always let me know if/when your taglist preferences change :)

taglist is closed

943 notes · View notes

carebeardean · 22 days ago

Text

Charles has always left Edwin little notes slipped between the pages of his favorite books, in his science equipment, places he knows Edwin loves. Just silly things—post its that say “hi Edwin :)”. doodles of Edwin with his nose stuck in a book. reminders to stock up on wolfsbane. but.

Then, post canon, Edwin tentatively starts dating people. And it’s ridiculous, because Edwin’s right there, all the time, but Charles..misses him a bit. And his heads a mess, and he can’t sort out what the hell he’s feeling most of the time, and whenever he tries to say any of it out loud it comes out rubbish.

So. He writes down some of the shit he can’t say right, and because he’s a coward, hides them so he doesn’t have to see Edwin’s face when he reads them.

then Edwin starts writing back.

Neat lilac blue little envelopes appear in Charles coat pockets. In his bag. Once, in his shoe? Some nights, Edwin will clear his throat and mention something from a letter, offhand, like they’re just picking up conversation, and Charles can pretend they are. That they always have talked about the basement, the belt, the nameless fear that chokes him every time Edwin walks out the door with someone else on his arm.

Sometimes he can’t. The words get stuck in his throat. Edwin’s not mad, he’s maddeningly, stubbornly kind about it, which is worse.

Some nights they trade. A secret for a secret. Charles learns about the novels Edwin used to hide under his mattress, about all the lonely years before Charles got there. About Simon.

Meanwhile, Edwin is losing his mind, because Charles has accidentally stumbled onto what was a fucking courting ritual in his time. Love letters were something engaged couples treasured for years, kept and reread over and over. (Edwin does. keep them in a special box, will take one out and trace the words, tuck it in his breast pocket for courage).

Edwin would rather have to reattach a limb again than lose Charles trust, all the dark and beautiful things he shares with Edwin only. He knows—knows Charles doesn’t mean to make him fall more in love with him.

#payneland #dbda #dead boy detectives #charles rowland #edwin payne #mini fic #charles x edwin #chedwin #fic #anyone is welcome to write this!#maybe I will eventually once I crawl victorious from the mountain of my 10+ wips #either way I’m a strong believer in the 2 or more cakes principle #would love different peoples takes on this #UGH BUT JUST IMAGINE… Edwin being scared to date & try new things #reading over and over how Charles is scared too how he’s faking being brave most of the time.#keeping the letter over his heart for courage #(I do think Edwin should date people for a while because like. he’s hot! he never got to be a teenager!#let him kiss cute boys for a bit! realize there’s nothing wrong with him! become more confident! more centered!#maybe it makes Charles a little crazy! proud and possessive and confused horny!)#they have time! :) & sometimes you need to go on your solo journey so u can then become more freakishly codependent with your #work bestie husband ride or die twin flame in the future. yk

800 notes · View notes

gguk-n · 18 days ago

Note

This might sound cliche but gosh how i love cliche romance. 👉🏽👈🏽.

- fake marriage ???

lando a f1 racer with a fucked up public image known as a playboy the only thing which can reedem him , as suggested by the pr team is a fake marriage proving all the playboy allegations false because he been in a long term relationship in private and now getting married to his long time “girlfriend”

meanwhile the reader, who was working in monaco university as a professor ( you can choose any job it’s just my goal so i think of it alot ) on a working visa was in a problem when her working visa was denied renewal due to some technical issues.

So when lando find reader in the cafe he suggest a fake marriage ? And they fall in love in the process

I understand if you dont want to do it. Pretty cliche and like not very fresh idea not everyone like it.

But i would love even if you do a small falling in love part where their fake marriage is about to and they realise they can’t stay away from each other ???

Now I'm a sap for cliche.👀👀 I hope I'm able to do justice to the cliche and not make it cringe🫣🫣.

This had me thinking for hours and I realised that the story would probably be fun to write!!🥹🥹

I've decided on some things regarding the request and I might tweak it sorry the reader is a teaching assistant while pursuing her masters. The story might not entirely be fake marriage but more fake dating since Lando probably doesn't have a Monaco citizenship because I used to watch a lot of 90 day fiance.

A+ in Pretend Love

Chapter 1- The Proposal

Chapter 2- The Rules Of Pretending

Chapter 3- Caught in the Act

-THE END-

586 notes · View notes

justaz · 5 months ago

Text

fake dating!arthur panicking after being cornered by a princess/noblewomen and saying that merlin is his husband bc he was the first person he thought of bc he doesn’t want to court or marry this woman, he wants to marry merlin. so now the two of them have to keep up this charade while visiting/being visited. arthur dressing merlin in fine clothing and crowning him for feasts just as merlin has always crowned him but now they sit side by side at the table instead of him sitting and merlin standing a few feet away. arthur and merlin holding hands and linking arms and trying not to seem to eager to finally have an excuse to hang off the other. everyone getting tipsy enough on wine and relaxing from Queens and Kings to people that happen to be royalty and speaking freely, them asking merlin and arthur how they fell in love bc wtf the king of camelot married a fucking servant??? a peasant??? and merlin (lightweight, finally had access to alcohol all evening instead of standing sober for an hour) engages easily enough and tells the story of how they met and then when he first started to catch feelings which is entirely truthful but arthur is convinced he’s making it up for their ruse so he decides to match his energy and tell his side of things of when he first caught feelings which is again entirely truthful but merlin is convinced its for their ruse.

anyways arthur watches as merlin loosens up and lights up the room with his smile and eyes and his joyful energy and he’s captivating everyone in the room as they hang onto every letter his lips spell out and he starts to imagine it’s all genuine, that he truly is married to merlin and this was a feast to celebrate them and their union. merlin speaks of how their courtship, engagement, and marriage was rather sudden (his eyes glitter mischievously when he looks over at arthur as he says this and arthur can’t help but share a conspiratorial grin at his sly comment) and how he feels like a fish on land or like everyone else knows the dance, when to step, where to step, how to step yet he didn’t even know there’d be music playing, he talks of how he feels out of place and one of the royals is like “do you regret your marriage then?” and merlin is slow to answer but not because he’s unsure but just bc he’s thinking over a reality in which he does marry arthur and how he would feel in that position.

he finally answers and is like “i mean to say, everything is different and challenging, yes, but he’s been with me every step of the way. he’s been my rock and,” he turns his head to stare at his king, “he makes it all worth it.” and arthur looses his breath. he reminds himself its an act over and over again but his heart can’t help from pounding against his ribcage in an attempt to escape into merlin’s soft hands. merlin’s lips aren’t moving but he can hear his voice say something softly but his brain is too foggy to comprehend what he’s saying. arthur just about manages a shaky smile and nod and then merlin is reaching up toward his face and crowding in and then he’s kissing (kissing) arthur in front of everyone and arthur can’t pay any attention to that when merlin’s lips are pressed against his. just as he presses back, merlin pulls away and turns to smile at the other royals and the feast continues but arthur is barely aware of that bc he can’t pull his eyes away from merlin’s glowing profile as he continues his conversation with the rest of the royals

anyways merlins knowledge of royal duties is from watching arthur work through it and helping where he can so when they ask him what it was like jumping from a servant to a royal he has a great answer of it not being easier or harder but just that he faces a different set of challenges and that there are pros and cons to both lives and it just gives all these royals another perspective on how they rule and arthur is just sitting there giving him heart eyes bc merlin is literally acting like a royal and its just fueling his fantasy of being married to merlin and having him as his king. before their ruse, he considered the possibility often as a late night fantasy, but now that he’s seen a glimpse of what merlin would be like at his side, he can’t help but need it like he needs air

#bbc merlin #merlin emrys #arthur pendragon #merthur #fake dating #fake marriage #teehee #fanfiction #fanfic #fic ideas #prompts #need it need it need it like oxygen #PLEASE #drop recs #im on my knees #BEGGING YALL #pls drop recs #king arthur #king merlin

880 notes · View notes

frost-queen · 8 months ago

Text

It comes with perks (Reader x Jake 'Hangman' Seresin)

Requested by: anon Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia, @alex--awesome--22, @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly @denkisclown, @wildieflower, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @justanothercoco, @subjecta13-thefangirl, @m-rae23, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @swampthing07, @melsunshine, @panhoeofmanyfandoms, @venomsvl, @the-uncoordinated-house-cat, @rosecentury, @imagines-by-her, @evilcr0ne, @vviolynn

Summary: When you need someone to be your fake boyfriend to get you out of a situation with your ex, Hangman is the closest guy you find. What needed to be a one time thing, turned out into a long term act of fake dating. Certainly now that your dad Iceman is involved in as well. Slowly the lines of fake dating fade as Hangman becomes obessed with you, a ray of sunshine. When your ex tries to get back in your life, Jake becomes protective, finally ending those unclear lines of fake dating.

Phoenix and you entered Penny’s bar when your phone suddenly rang. Taking it out, the nametag on it made your eyes widen. You touched Phoenix on her shoulder, letting her know you needed a moment. She simply smiled, heading further into the bar to the booth were Bob, Coyote and Fanboy already were. The phone kept buzzing as you weren’t sure what to do. Panicking a bit as to say. You knew not picking up, would do nothing as he would just keep calling you.

Answering was even terrible, as you knew he’d say anything to get you to yield. Like a collective caller, kept he calling you. Looking around frantically, you spotted the first person at Penny’s bar. You rushed over to the bar, pulling Hangman back by his shoulder. – “Emergency, you’re my boyfriend.” – you breathed out, holding the phone out to him. Hangman smiled cocky. – “Well, well. If you were desperate for a kiss, you’d just had to ask Y/n.” – Hangman replied all smug to your annoyance.

“No. No! You’re not actually my boyfriend.” – you informed him hastily. Hangman furrowed his brows, frowning. – “Make up your mind girl.” – he let out confused to what was happening. You moved your phone higher up for him to notice. – “I need you to be my boyfriend and make him stop calling me!” – you called out almost frantically at how slow he was catching up.

“Right.” – He simply said, setting a beer down and taking your phone in his hand. He answered the phone, giving you a cheeky eyebrow wiggle. Hangman didn’t even listen to what the other person was saying on the phone. – “Listen bud, stop calling my girlfriend.” – he spoke through. He heard an immediate response. – “Uhm her boyfriend.” – Hangman answered, showing you a goofy look at how obvious it was who he was talking to.

The man kept blabbing in his ear as Hangman had little interest in keeping him on the phone. – “Stop calling us, bye.” – he spoke in such a manufactured voice, he could work in sales and be dealing with a terrible customer but still upholding his work voice. Hangman hung up, giving you the phone back. – “Thank you!” – you let out relieved, bending a bit through your knees out of gratitude. – “So what do I get in return?” – Hangman asked.

“This beer?” – you suggested, placing your hand on the counter by it. Hangman tsked his tongue. – “Already paid for it sunshine.” – he said with a chuckle. – “Fine.” – you breathed out. – “I’ll clean your locker.” – you took out another suggestion as Hangman thought. – “How about wash my clothes?” – he responded. – “Deal.” – you agreed it was just that. Hangman shook hands with you to seal the deal.

He picked up his beer, throwing his arm over your shoulder. – “Who was the dude anyways?” – he asked, leading you to the others. – “My ex.” – you sighed out. Hangman looked half in shock at you. – “I didn’t know you dated someone.” – he called out as you had to shush his loud voice. – “It was like 6 months ago.” – you informed him.

“And he’s still calling you?” – Hangman blurted out as you hummed with a nod as response. – “I can’t shake him off.” – you sighed out nearing the booth with your friends. – “Well good thing your boyfriend saved the day.” – Hangman winked with a ridiculous smile. – “Not my boyfriend.” – you reminded him before sitting down.

Back in the locker room, you were washing Hangman’s attire. Washing them by hand as he called them delicate and needed to be handled with care. – “Uhm what are you doing?” – Phoenix asked seeing you in the locker room as she had walked by. – “Are those Hangman’s clothing?” – she pointed out when you had pulled it up to see if it was clean enough, revealing his nametag. – “Phoenix!” – you called out startled, splashing some water as your arms lowered immediately. – “Why are you washing his clothes?” – she wanted to know. – “I owe it to him.” – you responded, scrubbing his pilot gear.

“You dared to bet with Hangman. Bold.” – she answered impressed. – “It’s not that.” – you told her with a soft sigh. – “He did something for me, so I have to return the favour.” – you explained. – “Right.” – Phoenix widened her eyes briefly in delight. – “If your dad could see you know.” – she chuckled a bit. – “He’d flip that you fell so low.” You grunted soft. – “Good thing my dad.” – you emphasized. – “Can’t see me.” – you replied bitsy. – “Ohh cold touch.” – Phoenix teased touching her own shoulder. You scooped up some water, splashing it at her to wipe that smile off her face.

Phoenix screamed, dodging away when the water came her way. Half laughing, you teasing her with another scoop as she already darted away. When you were finished up with Hangman’s uniforms, you hung them neatly to dry. You came out of the lockers, making your way out of the hangar when you got pulled aside by Rooster. He pushed you firm up against the wall. – “Are you dating Hangman?” – called out at the brink of losing his mind. – “What?” – you responded confused.

“Are you dating him?” – Rooster wanted to know with a stern look. – “What, no, no…” – you replied waving your hands across. Rooster exhaled deep moving his fingers through his hair. – “Who told you this?” – you asked curious. – “Hangman has been bragging to everyone he’s dating you.” – Rooster let you know. Your eyes widened with shock.

You pushed Rooster a bit back, to make some room for you to leave. You needed to find Hangman and you needed to find him now. Jogging out of the hangar into the open. You saw a group of people near the F16’s going over to them. The closer you got, the clearer you saw Hangman amongst them.

“Hangman!” – you shouted drawing his attention. – “Looks like my girlfriend needs me.” – he said to Fanboy and Coyote all smug. Coyote rolled with his eyes as Fanboy shook his head. Hangman turned round to you, welcoming you with a warm smile. – “Yes my love.” – he said as you grabbed him firmly by the arm, dragging him away from the others. – “So eager.” – Hangman whispered to his friends with a chuckle. You came to a stop, letting harshly go of him.

“What are you doing?” – you called out giving him a little shove. – “Au.” – Jake mouthed pretending to be hurt from your shove. – “Jake!” – you called out wanting an answer out of him. – “What?” – he replied loud, making himself taller. – “Why are you telling everyone we are dating?” – you freaked out. Jake scoffed loud, turning his head away. – “Are we not?” – he answered cocky, wanting to slip his arm over your shoulder. It made you puff annoyed, crossing your arms.

“Oh come on Y/n, don’t be such a baby about it.” – Jake said taking you by the elbow, wanting you to uncross your arms. – “It’s a joke, sunshine.” – he kept tugging at your arm, trying to be smooth and cool at the same time. – “Sunshine!” – you suddenly heard loud, making you straighten your back. Hangman’s back straightened as well. Cyclone appeared coming to you. – “Iceman wants to speak to you.” – he said firmly, making your shoulders slouch. Jake was snickering quietly at you with a little point. – “He asked for both of you!” – Cyclone made clear, making Jake’s smile drop.

You tugged on his elbow, pulling him with you. Following Cyclone inside and up the stairs to Iceman’s desk. Cyclone knocked on the door, before popping his head inside. – “They are present.” – he said to Iceman. Cyclone stepped aside, expression flat as he allowed you to walk in. – “Tell me, am I hanging?” – Jake whispered to Cyclone wanting to know his outcome. Cyclone ignored him, giving him an extra shove into the room. – “Dad!” – you said with mixed expectations, opening your arms to a hug.

Iceman got up from behind his desk, coming to hug you. – “How is my little girl?” – he asked. – “Flying and thriving.” – you told him, making him form a smile on his lips. His gaze then shifted to Jake, who swallowed nervously. Iceman got all serious. He went to sit again, gesturing for you to sit as well. Jake and you sat down, unsure what to expect. – “So you are the one dating my daughter.” – Iceman spoke. – “Dad no…” – you blurted out, waving your hands across.

Iceman observed Hangman closely as it made him move uncomfortable in the chair. – “How’s his flying?” – he asked. – “Superb… sir.” – Jake replied loudly, humbling himself immediately. Iceman glanced your way. You could only smile sheepishly at him. – “I’m a bit saddened you didn’t tell me Y/n.” – Iceman began. – “But he looks decent enough. As long as he doesn’t hurt you… or else…” – Iceman gave Hangman his death stare.

Jake swallowed again. – “Dad we’re not…” – you began wanting to explain as Jake grabbed your hand out of the blue. – “No, no sunshine, it’s okay. He knows now.” – Jake spoke upholding the image of dating. You stared confused at him, why he would even want to go on with his stupid joke. – “Jake, this is my dad.” – you said between clenched teeth to him. Making it clear that he didn’t need to mess around. – “I’m so happy for you Y/n.” – Iceman said cheery.

“The man’s happy Y/n, let him be.” – Jake said to guilt trip you. You sighed soft letting yourself fall back in the chair. Jake got up. – “Well it was nice of you to call us in, sir.” – Jake said, nudging you to get up as well. Your dad chuckled happily at his manners as you could only roll your eyes. Jake extended his hand out to Iceman. Iceman took it to shake. – “I’m not one for favours, but if you ever need one for my daughter.” – he whispered to Jake with a wink.

Jake breathed out a laugh of surprise, glancing your way. Just to rub his it more in your face. – “Now we must really go.” – Hangman spoke tapping your elbow, to get you to follow. – “Give her a kiss.” – Iceman replied. Jake’s expression dropped. – “S’cuse me?” – he blurted out. – “Give her a kiss.” – he repeated gesturing at you.

Jake looked sheepishly at you, chuckling nervously. – “Sir truly…” – Jake began wanting to talk his way out of it. – “I want to see just how much you care for my daughter.” – Iceman persisted. Hangman took your hand, pulling you closer to give a kiss on the cheek. – “Give her a real kiss!” – Iceman shouted out of good sports. Jake sighed loud with a soft drop of his gaze. You raised your eyebrow at him, curious to see what he would do. He took you by the elbow, pulling you even closer.

“Just a quick one.” – he whispered to you. – “One second.” – you responded. Hangman held his finger up to his lips, looking all smug. He lowered his finger, giving you a quick nod before he’d kiss you. Your lips touched for a split second, pulling away quick. Iceman shook his head with disappointment. – “We have to go dad!” – you called out, opening the door. Dragging Jake with you out of his office. Downstairs, you let go of Jake.

“Your joke just escalated Hangman. Now my dad knows!” – you called out panicking. – “Hey you asked me to be your boyfriend.” – Jake replied loud. – “For like a few seconds.” – you shouted back. – “You asked for this Y/n.” - Jake answered loud taking off. – “Where are you going?” – you called out to him. Jake turned around, pulling his shoulders up. It made you groan loud.

Phoenix and you were stretching before exercise. – “Boyfriend coming over.” – she pointed out, turning her torso, holding her arm by her elbow. You looked up seeing Hangman come over with the other boys. It made you look at her with a certain glance. Phoenix stopped, walking off when Hangman came near. She joined the others behind him. – “You know for a sunshine, you frown a lot.” – he pointed out, touching your forehead.

You slapped his hand away. He grabbed you by the shoulders, moving his head closer to you. – “Smile, your dad is going to watch.” – he whispered making you widen your eyes. Jake moved aside from you, throwing his arm over you as he led you to the others. Maverick, Cyclone and Iceman neared. You all followed Maverick to the beach for a match of rugby. A good team exercise Maverick would call it. Cyclone and Iceman sat down, watching the pathetic play of rugby.

Hangman and you were on opposite teams. Fanboy had the ball, throwing it at Coyote. Hangman jumped in front of him, catching the football before his eyes. He then ran with it to your side, throwing his hard on the ground. He called it out in victory, pointing towards Iceman. Iceman clapped for Hangman’s score. He then looked all smug at you. Phoenix nudged you as you rolled your eyes at him. Trying not to find it sweet. Rooster caught the ball wanting to throw it at you. You caught it, wanting to run when you got picked up from the ground.

Hangman had picked you up, making you squeal loud out of surprise. Your feet hit the ground again, as he kept his arms around you. – “Try getting out of this now, sunshine.” – he breathed out. You wriggled in his grip for freedom. When you weren’t getting any, you tried running. Hangman laughed loud, squeezing his arms tighter around you. – “Where are you going sunshine?” – he laughed out. You tried so hard not to laugh as well, not to enjoy it too, but you failed.

You stopped trying to run, laughing loud. You tossed the football over to Bob. You showed him your empty hands, showing him his attempt to stop you failed. Hangman picked you up in response, making you squeal again. He then pressed a kiss on your cheek so quick, he barely caught himself doing it. You turned round in his embrace, staring a bit at him. Jake stared back at you.

Swallowing, he let go of you, scratching his neck sheepishly. You looked blissful away. The two of you hesitantly got back into the game, questioning whether you were actually starting to like each other or that it was the drive of fake dating for a while now.

After practise, you were all exhausted. Having been playing till the sun had set. Worn out, you all decided to grab a few drinks at Penny’s bar. You went up to her bar as Jake followed. Almost instinctively. You held four fingers up to Penny, ordering beer. Jake leaned with his elbows on the counter, throwing you a smug smile. Your phone vibrated in your pocket. Confused, you pulled it out holding it to the front. Jake’s eye fell on the caller, taking the phone from your hand before you could react.

He picked up, turning around to lean against the counter with his back. – “What do you want?” – he said bothered. Your ex didn’t even have to finish his sentence when Jake spoke again. – “Listen asshole, if you call her one more time. I’ll make sure you’ll never see daylight again. You won’t see me coming. I’ll fly above your house, aiming for your pathetic bedroom and you’ll be burned to crisps in a matter of seconds.” – Jake threatened making you stare in shock at him.

“She doesn’t want you cause I’m her boyfriend. She’s mine and let me tell you ass, I don’t like sharing.” – Jake said over the phone. – “This was your last call or you’re dead!” – he angrily hung up the phone. – “Thank… thank you…” – you said astonished by how hot that was. Jake tugged your phone in his pocket.

Penny arrived with the drinks as he took them, motioning with his head for you to follow. You slid into a booth with him as the others were waiting. Hangman threw an arm over your shoulder, pushing you closer to him. It made you feel like squealing. The lines of pretend and real blurring away. Jake caught you staring at him, melting as he saw you smile like the sun back at him. He moved his head closer to you, wanting to kiss you in that moment, but caught himself just in time.

He shifted his head to the side, kissing your cheek instead. It didn’t feel satisfying, but he wouldn’t dare himself to kiss you out of the blue with everyone around. Your friends were so used to the two of you dating, they hardly had any eye for it. Not clear it was all an act, started from a joke. After an hour or two, checked Jake his watch. – “I’m taking Y/n home.” – he said removing his arm from you. He got out of the booth, taking you with him.

You said goodbye to the others. Jake grabbed your hand, walking out of Penny’s bar with you. Outside he was still holding your hand as it made you snicker soft. – “No one’s watching Hangman.” – you told him. Hangman looked at you with eyes full of affection. – “I know.” – he responded, pausing you. – “Are we still faking it?” – he asked catching you by surprise. Unsure, you pulled your shoulders up. That seemed to answer Hangman enough as he cupped your cheeks, kissing your lips.

The kiss was long, anticipating the moment till he could finally kiss you. His tender kiss moved to longing and desperation as his hands grabbed you tightly. You kissed him back, fully surrendering under his spell. The lines of fake dating having been shattered long ago.

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

Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!

1K notes · View notes

marvelwitchergilmore · 1 month ago

Text

Something's Changed

Summary: Logan Howlett x Fe!Reader -> Something changed when you and Logan kissed. Did it change for the better?

Disclaimer: Fluff, angst, kissing, steam/illusions to sex, best friends to lovers vibes. Mentions of cheating (not reader or Logan -- a client of reader as reader is mentioned to be a PI). First kiss = fake dating...sorta. Some swearing. Not Proof Read.

Something changed when you kissed Logan. Or, maybe it was when he kissed you. Either way, something had changed.

Only, neither of you wanted to admit it.

“Hey, is everything okay between you and Logan? Usually you’re joined at the hip but I…I haven’t seen you both together for a while.” Jean asked as she spotted you in the kitchen as she poured herself some coffee.

“Yeah, everything’s fine. Why?” You popped another grape into your mouth, praying she’d drop her question.

Jean looked you over. You could only thank your mutation that you could block her ability to read your mind.

“Are you sure?”

To Jean, you looked a little dazed as you nodded your head and walked towards the door. “Yep. Everything’s perfect.”

Everything’s perfect.

Everything’s perfect?

Everything was perfect.

Until you kissed.

Turning down the hallway, you made your way towards your classroom but not before stalling at the door. From down the hall, Logan had turned the corner, looking up from the open History Essay books in his arms.

Jean watched from the kitchen door as you and Logan stopped in your tracks and had a broken connection of a conversation before sheepishly escaping into your assigned classrooms.

Something had been different between you both for three weeks. One morning, like every morning, she had watched you and Logan at the breakfast table. Eating. Talking. Laughing.

When Logan had first come to the school, the first time Jean had ever seen Logan laugh – truly laugh – was with you.

Ever since, until three weeks ago, you had been inseparable.

So what had happened?

It was the next day when a second person questioned you about what had happened, but since she didn’t get the answers she wanted, she turned to interrogate the only other person who could give her an actual answer.

“Okay, what happened?”

Logan looked up from his marking to see Rogue plant herself in the chair opposite his desk.

“Shouldn’t you be studying?”

Rogue smiled. “I graduated last year, remember?”

“Then don’t you have college to deal with?”

She shook her head. “Not until next week. All assignments are in. I’m as free as a bird.”

“Then go and…peck at someone else. I’ve got work to do.”

Rogue nodded with a smile, kicking her feet up onto the corner of Logan’s desk. “I could always help.”

Stopping his marking, his pen hovering above the page, Logan finally looked up at Rogue and found her looking…too happy at him.

“What do you want?”

Rogue waited for a moment, wondering if he actually wanted to know. But she knew him. The quicker he got through her question, the quicker he could be left alone.

“I want to know what happened. Between you and Y/n.”

Logan’s face dropped and he turned back to his work. “Nothing happened.”

“I’d beg to differ.”

“You’d beg to differ?”

Rogue shrugged. “My Professors are English. But, yes. I’d beg to differ. You two were inseparable. So what happened? You’ve been sulking around here for weeks.”

“I don’t sulk.”

“You sulk.”

“And nothing happened.” Logan repeated. “Why not go and ask her?”

“I already did. She told me to come here.”

Logan looked back up. “She did?”

Rogue couldn’t hide her smirk. God, he was so smitten with you.

“Not in so many words.”

“In how many words exactly?”

Rogue shrugged. “It’s besides the point. Something has happened and I want to know what.”

Logan sighed. “Nothing happened. But I am busy so…” Logan waved his hand at her for her to leave, but she only sat up in her chair and leaned in.

“Did you tell her?”

“Tell her what?” Logan asked, without looking up.

“That you love her.”

That got his attention.

“It’s okay.” Rogue assured him. “Everyone knows. Well, mostly everyone. The students know, and the Professor-”

“I’m not in love with her.”

Rogue sighed. Was he really going to be in denial?

“Logan,” Rogue began. “You look at her like she hung the moon. You spend practically every waking minute with her, and some sleeping. Yes, I was the one to cover you both up with a blanket. You’re welcome. You know her like the back of your hand. Better yet, you know each other better than anyone knows either of you. I know you get up early every morning to make her coffee-”

“Okay, okay, okay. Those things might be true. But that doesn’t mean I’m in love with her.”

“Then why did you kiss her?”

Logan practically stood to attention. “She told you that?”

Logan watched as Rogue remained seated and smiled up at him. “No. But you just did.”

She was a little minx.

“Look, truth be told. I don’t know what happened. But now that I know that you both kissed…”

Logan swallowed thickly and steadied himself on his desk. “We did-We didn’t kiss.”

Rogue smiled as she stood. “Sure. But, Logan. If I were you, I’d talk to her. And once you’ve done that, talk to me. I want to know all the details.”

Rogue left with just a smile and no other words. Meanwhile, Logan felt like he’d been put into a boxing ring, was sent to the floor, poured into a broken washing machine and yanked between two sharp pegs on a frayed washing line.

He sat himself down.

If you weren’t going to be the death of him, Rogue definitely was.

In your room, you lay on your bed, a pillow against your chest. Ever since classes ended, you had been in your room, hugging your pillow, staring at the ceiling, replaying the thing that changed you and Logan seemingly for good.

You’d been tasked with following a suspect. It wasn’t anything too elaborate. Except, half way through your day, you had found you had a tail of your own. Logan. Apparently he’d been following you around the city in case something would have happened and you needed back up.

“What if you get caught?”

“Logan,” you sighed. “I’ve been a PI for over a decade. I think I know what I’m doing.”

“Still, I’m coming with you.”

“Logan, he’s suspected of cheating. His wife needs evidence if she’s going to divorce him. It’s not like I’m following the head of a mob or something.”

Logan shrugged. “He could be the head of a mob.”

You didn’t look impressed. “He’s an accountant from Minnesota.”

“Still could be the head of a mob.”

He wasn’t going to leave.

“Nope.”

You didn’t even ask, but he answered anyway.

“Fine. You can stay, just…don’t go all Wolverine on me.”

Logan followed you. “You say that as if it happens all the time.”

“Logan, a guy asked me out at the grocery last week and you punctured a bag of rice.”

Logan’s eyebrows furrowed at the reminder, all the while his hand came to the bottom of your back as he helped you through the busy street. “He was getting too close for comfort. And who asks someone out in the grocery store anyway! He didn’t even know you!”

You and Logan followed your maybe-head-of-a-mob accountant from Minnesota around all day. And until then it had been mostly coffee runs, business meetings in tall buildings with high offices and quick lunches at the cafe on the corner of the street.

Until he decided to take a detour. A text from your client let you know he had told her he had a business meeting run over late, so he’d miss dinner.

“Doesn’t look like he’s in a business meeting.”

So, you and Logan followed.

Except, once you had both gotten out of your car, there was nowhere in particular either of you could hide. The street was a small town street, quiet enough to alert everyone that someone new was in town.

And with Logan being…well, Logan. It meant a lot of eyes were on both of you. Two strangers in a small town, who seemed to be taking the exact same walking turns as the man, who a few seemed to recognise, in front of you.

It was only as you and Logan slowed your paces that you realised he had taken hold of your hand.

“Stay close to me.”

You did as he said. The more you both looked like a couple, maybe the less stares you’d get as you walked down the street towards-

“Come here.”

Logan pulled you in close to him as you both disappeared into the darkness of a small alleyway.

“Logan, what are you-”

“Shush.”

He seemed to be focusing on something. His hearing.

“What is it?”

After a few moments, he finally told you. “Phone call. He’s meeting up with a woman called Sandra.”

“Sandra’s his co-worker.”

A little more following and you and Logan came to a stop by a motel.

“Well, this doesn’t look like the place to have an affair at all.”

As you stood on the corner, hidden behind the sharp edges of a brick wall, you snapped a few shots of him leaving his car, meeting Sandra by the door, sharing a kiss and- shit. He was turning back.

“Oh, shit.”

You had moved down the street to get some clearer shots. Only, now his car was practically parallel to where you and Logan were standing.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

“What do we do?”

Logan might have been able to run fast enough to get back to the main street, but you couldn’t. And it would have looked too suspicious to be moving that fast away from an already suspicious meeting.

He was getting closer.

Apart from the buzzing of the lights close by, you could hear his dress shoes against the gravel getting closer and closer.

You looked up at Logan. “Kiss me.”

“What?”

“Kiss me.”

Logan seemed frozen in place.

The shoes were getting closer.

With slight panic, you let out a small groan followed by a quick, “I’m sorry.” Placing your hand at the back of his head, you pulled him down to kiss him. And, for a moment, he was rigid. Stuck on the spot. Frozen in time.

It didn’t have to be a good kiss. The darkness you both were in covered you enough so that, just sharing a crappy kiss with your best friend saved both of your asses from the guy who was fast approaching.

Except it wasn’t crappy.

Not after that split second moment.

Because you found Logan kissing you back.

He shocked you at first, but then…you wanted more. You didn’t want him to stop. His hands pushing through your loose hair, his body coming closer to yours, his arm around your waist, your own hand in his hair, down his neck, your desperation for breath.

Neither of you had noticed the man stall on the gravel when he saw you both. Quickly, he made his way to his car to take out the box of condoms from the glove compartment before locking his car and hurrying his way back towards his motel room.

And somehow in that space of time, you and Logan had stopped. Both of your chests begging for breath, his hands still like fire against your skin. The kind you never wanted to put out.

“I…” your voice shook. “I think that worked.”

“I think it worked, too.”

You heard yourself apologise to him, for kissing him. It might have just been the best kiss of your life, and you heard yourself apologise to him. Then everything came back into focus. You had just shared the best kiss of your life with Logan. Your best friend. Your partner. Your person.

“I think I’ve got enough evidence. We…we should…”

Logan stepped away from you and you heard your inner voice yell for him to step back into you.

“We should go.” Logan finished your sentence.

Nodding, you led the way back to the car.

The journey back was…silent. No talking. No laughing. Nothing but the awkward readjustment of seating every now and again and silence.

And nothing had been the same since.

One kiss and suddenly you were…no longer Y/n and Logan. You were Y/n. And Logan.

Opening your eyes, you turned your head and looked outside. You must have been daydreaming for so long, you fell asleep. The moon was out, hanging bright in the sky, surrounded by a blanket of stars that no doubt were being tracked by the small astrological society that had been set up in the school.

Turning to look at your desk, you found the time.

Just a little before midnight.

You had missed dinner. And as if on cue, your stomach growled.

So, after changing into your pyjamas and pulling your hair back, you slipped your feet into the warmest socks you could find and made your way downstairs and towards the kitchen. Everywhere was dark, save for the kitchen light which remained on.

“Hello?” You called out. ‘Lights out’ had been called out hours ago. No student should be up this late.

“Please don’t yell.”

Walking a little further into the kitchen, you found Bobby sitting at a small table with a bowl of cereal, the milk and box still by him.

With a tired smile, you shook your head and reached for a bowl in the top cupboard.

“You’re not a student here anymore, Bobby. You can’t get in trouble for staying up this late.”

Bobby chuckled a little. “I know. Sometimes it just feels…like I never left.”

Joining him, you poured some cereal into your own bowl, followed by the milk. Once you’d placed the milk back in the fridge, you reached into the draw to grab a spoon and sat down across from him.

“Still plenty of change around here.”

“Like you and Logan?”

You hadn’t even taken your first bite.

Bobby held back a laugh. “Sorry. Rogue told me something happened. Did something happen?”

Sighing, you pulled your legs under the table and pushed the cereal deeper into the milk.

“One of my professor’s told me sometimes it’s better to say it out loud so it doesn’t feel so big. No one else is awake. And you know Rogue will only keep pestering you.”

Your eyes narrowed a little looking at Bobby. “Did she-”

Quickly, he shook his head. “No. Not at all. You just…you look like you need to talk to someone.”

It was true. You did need to talk to someone.

“Usually I’d talk to Logan,” you admitted.

“But you had a fight?”

You shook your head, chewing your food before swallowing. “No. The complete opposite…sorta.”

“Then what happened?”

You hesitated for a moment. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone?”

Bobby nodded. “Patient-Doctor confidentiality.”

You smiled a little at that. He wasn’t a doctor yet but the fact he still treated the situation as such was a good sign. Especially considering Rogue could get a lot of information out of him, or anyone for that matter.

“Well, we…we kissed.”

You waited for Bobby’s reaction. But it never came, until…

“Finally.” He turned back to eating as if nothing had been said.

“Finally?” You asked.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “We’ve all been waiting for you and Logan to finally do something for years.”

“Bobby!”

“What? Oh, come on. You two are practically soulmates. You spend every waking hour together, and some sleeping. I know Rogue has caught you both asleep on the sofa together a couple of times because she never shuts up about it. You only really trust each other. And, with that, you both won the couple’s round last game night and neither of you were playing.”

That was true.

You and Logan, being the single ones out of the adults, had sat out of the round but whilst sat by the desk under the window, you both stated aloud what the other person would have chosen whilst some of the couples struggled with finding an answer.

Logan kept score on a piece of paper, but Rogue had been keeping her own’ later declaring that night that yourself and Logan had won.

Shaking your head to bring yourself back to the present, you looked at Bobby. “Look, we kissed and…we haven’t spoken since.”

“Was it a good kiss?”

You made a face at Bobby but he just shrugged, so with a roll of your eyes you turned back to your cereal. “Yes. No. Maybe? Yes, yes. Okay. Yes, it was a good kiss.”

“And would you like to kiss him again?”

“Are you even allowed to ask these questions?”

Bobby smiled, taking another bite of his cereal. “That’s not a no.”

You pointed your spoon at him. “If you tell anyone this, I’ll kill you.”

“Okay, but when Rogue finds out I knew first, there might be a line.”

The next couple of minutes were spent in silence as you both ate until Bobby was close to finishing and crossed his arms. “Do you love him?”

You almost dropped your spoon as you looked up. “What?”

“Do. You, Love, Him?”

Your conscious and subconscious both screamed “YES” but your mouth didn’t move.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Bobby sat back. “It’s got everything to do with it. Clearly, you want to kiss him again. And, even more clearly, you’re in love with him so-”

“Now, wait a minute.”

“It’s got everything to do with it. You and Logan have been around each other for so long, you don’t know where else to go in fear of something changing. But, you should know – things have already changed.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Oh, I know you know it.” Bobby finished off his cereal. “But I think you need to accept it. Even if you’re scared of something changing, you should talk to him. Things have already changed and they could go back to how they were before, but I have a feeling they might just change for the better. You should let yourself believe that; that it’s changed for the better.”

Changed for the better.

Changed for the better?

Those four words echoed over and over in your head as you sat in the kitchen alone, as you washed your dishes, as you walked around the school, as you walked upstairs and into your bathroom and as you laid down in bed and fell asleep.

Logan was your best friend. You never wanted to lose him, under any circumstances. But if the last four weeks had been anything to go by, things definitely hadn’t changed for the better.

Another two weeks went by and you had somehow seen less of Logan in those two weeks than you had done in the four weeks beforehand.

Until you were assigned a new classroom. A joint lesson was going to be taught. Who your fellow teacher was going to be, you didn’t know. Until they walked in through the door, stalled at the entrance, found just over two dozen pairs of eyes watching him and made his way to the desk to your right at the front of the classroom.

“Hi.”

Neither you or Logan had ever been this awkward.

“I didn’t know it was you I was…partnered with.” Logan blurted out.

“Xavier probably picked this last semester.” You replied.

Then you just looked at each other. This was the longest conversation you’d both held for six weeks.

“Here are the books you wanted.” The student you had sent out to the supply closet came fumbling back in through the doors carrying a high stack of exercise books. Rushing over, you took them from their arms.

“Thank you.”

Handing half to Logan, you started handing them out and the lesson began.

At first it was a little more than awkward but once things got settled, everything…started going back to normal.

Almost.

You and Logan were communicating with each other, and helping your students. But for a split second, every time you looked at him, you felt your mind wander back to the kiss and you felt a need to be near to him, close to him. But then the last six weeks crashed through your mind. No talking, no laughing, no late nights marking work and inevitably falling asleep.

No friendship. No relationship. No partnership.

Nothing.

Then your gut seemed to punch itself and your heart as you turned and looked at some other corner of the classroom.

Yet, once class was over, you found yourself and Logan talking. It felt unsteady, but at least it was something. Then he asked if you’d want to mark the essays written with him.

“Twice the people, half the work? Plus, we don’t have to run and find each other to check over the work later on.”

He made a reasonable request.

“Okay. But we’re getting food first. I’m starving.”

“I’ll make you grilled cheese. Scott did the cooking last night. You didn’t miss much.”

You groaned. “Not that bean casserole savoury thing again.”

“There’s leftovers in the fridge if you want them.”

With a grimace look, you shook your head. “No, no. Grilled cheese, grilled cheese, grilled cheese. Please.”

Logan laughed.

“If I have to even smell that unholy casserole again, I think I might actually puke. Who even allowed him back on the rota for cooking?”

Logan met you by the door. “Apparently he was getting suspicious over why he hadn’t cooked for so long.”

You followed Logan towards the kitchen. “I’ll tell him why. Because that dish is god-awful. It tastes crap, it’s got a weird texture. You spend more time trying to decipher what beans he’s used than you do actually eating the thing. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it.”

Logan chuckled as you both entered the kitchen. “Then sit down and I’ll make you grilled cheese.”

“Thank you.”

As you started marking the first few books, Logan got to work making your dinner and before long he was sitting beside you, handing you your plate and he placed his own to the side before swiping some books from your pile.

For the most part, you both sat in silence eating your grilled cheeses, marking essays and deciphering between student’s handwriting.

Before either of you knew it, the night was drawing in and you found yourself half sleeping at the kitchen table.

“Come on,” Logan finally announced. “We can finish these tomorrow.”

After shutting his own books, he shut yours. Then, standing, he pulled out your chair and took your hand despite how much you protested you weren’t tired.

“That’s the fifth yawn in three minutes. Come with me, I’ll walk you up.”

And he did.

Both of you carrying your books in your arms up the stairs, Logan walked you to your door.

“I’m sorry.” Logan blurted out.

Slightly taken aback, you looked up. “Sorry about what-”

“I’m sorry if I took it too far…that night. And I’m sorry it’s been weird between us ever since. You were just trying to-”

“Logan, I kissed you.” You told him. “I should be the one that’s sorry. I didn’t give you any warning and I shouldn’t have even asked you to begin with. You’re my best friend, Logan. If I knew it would cause this,” you gestured between the pair of you. “Then I wouldn’t have done it. I care about you, Logan. A lot more than I care about getting caught by a cheating husband who’s soon-to-be-ex-wife hired me.”

After a moment, Logan let out a small laugh.

With an exasperated sigh, you finally found the courage to let his features become clear when you looked at him. “Can we just go back? To how they were before, at least? Before the awkwardness and the silence and the…everything. I miss you, Logan.”

With a light smile, Logan nodded. “I’ve missed you, too.”

It was like a weight off your chest. He was back. You and Logan were back.

Putting down your pile of books on the floor, Logan was quick to do the same before your arms wrapped around him. With his arms around you, for the first time in weeks, you felt home again.

His body heat warmed you in a way no blanket or hoodie ever could. The scent of him and his aftershave comforted you in now way your favourite candle could on a rainy day with nothing to do other than relax. The sound of his voice was more like music to your ears than any of your favourite songs were. The pressure from beneath his grip on both you and your heart made you feel more alive than anything else had ever done.

Logan was your home. Your true home.

Feeling your feet back on the ground once more, you let your arms slide down the length of Logan’s shoulders and arms, all the while you felt his own hands trace around your back until they found a safe space between your hips and waist.

With your heads still so close together, you could hear Logan’s breathing getting louder. Or maybe that was your own? When did he- it. When did it get so hot?

Kiss me, your heart told you. Kiss him, your gut said.

“L…Logan…”

Feeling his nose brush yours for an instant, Logan tried his best to control himself. He’d only just gotten you back. You might be the love of his life, but he didn’t want that to be the reason he lost you again.

“We shouldn’t do this.” He eventually forced out of himself.

But then you countered with a demand even he couldn’t refuse.

“Kiss me.”

Looking him in the eyes, you said it again.

“Kiss me-”

You didn’t get to finish your sentence because his hands were holding your face, kissing you as if it was his last moment on earth.

Walking you backwards a little until your back hit the wall of the small angle between your bedroom door and the hallway, you felt your heel kick over the pile of books on the floor, sending them falling from their neat stack to a heap on the floor.

Somehow everything you had imagined about being kissed by Logan again failed to meet the expectation of the real thing. Logan fit you. And you fitted him.

Despite your history, his lips against yours didn’t feel foreign or awkward or terrible at all. In fact, it was almost familiar. As if you’d been kissed by him your entire life. As if you’d kissed him in a past life. As if this would be the first of many.

Of course, it felt new and slightly surprising. But there was a comfort in being kissed by him. In having his hands be the one to touch your body in places it hadn’t before. In having your space be crowded by him and him alone.

Pushing against him a little, he allowed you leeway to do so. Your hand fumbled until you found your door handle and pushed it open. From behind him, Logan kicked it shut before he felt his back against it. But not for long.

Lifting you up and hearing a small squeal come from the back of your throat, Logan felt your legs around his hips as your back came against the door. Pressing into you, Logan smirked a little as he took your hands in his own, pinning them beside your head as he began to leave small love bites across your jaw and down your neck.

Slowly, he trailed his hands down your arms before they secured themselves under you to hold you up as he left another mark by your collar bone before you pulled his head back up so he could kiss you properly once again.

“Tell me where.”

“The bed. Now.”

With a slight laugh, Logan carried you over to the bed and dropped you by the edge. Scanning up his body and you smiled before pulling him in by the hem of his t-shirt until he was almost laying on top of you before you helped remove his shirt.

A few hours later, you both lay in each other's arms, talking and laughing together.

“We need to move the books.”

Logan pulled you back into bed, almost pinning you down with his body. “The books will be fine.”

“What if the students find them? What if someone thinks we’re in here together.”

“We are in here together.”

You scoffed a little as you tried to get up again, but to no avail. “You know what I mean.”

“Sweetheart, the books will still be there in a couple of hours. And no students come up onto this floor anyway.”

“Clearly you’ve never met Rogue.”

Logan laughed at that. “Fine, you can move the books.”

Quickly kissing him, you thanked him and escaped from his grasp. Rolling onto his back and placing an arm behind his head, Logan watched you tie a robe around your body before slowly opening up the door and bringing in the stack of books and placing them in the plastic box behind the door and snapping the lid shut.

You also locked the door behind you. Something you and Logan had forgotten to do the first two times around.

Not hiding the fact he was checking you out, Logan smiled as you walked over to him and repositioned himself to pull you across his lap. Sitting up, Logan looked at you in a way nobody had ever looked at you before.

Like you hung the moon and the stars.

Little did you know, you had the exact same expression on your face as you looked at him.

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Logan.”

Logan laughed a little, seeing the blush creep up on your face. “I mean it. You’re beautiful. Not only,” he kissed your lips. “Here. But also,” he pressed a kiss above your heart. “Here, too.”

Then he looked back into your eyes.

“I’m in love with you.”

A little shocked at first, your hands slid to the back of his neck and you studied his face for a moment. The expression never changed. His heartbeat was steady, even if a little faster than usual.

Then he watched as you stopped studying him and broke into a smile. “You’re in love with me?”

“I think I have been for a long time. I’m sorry it took so long for me to admit it-”

“I’m in love with you, too.”

Logan’s head tilted slightly as he smiled. “You are?”

You nodded and hummed a happy response. “I am.”

With a smile, Logan kissed you again, this time pushing himself to his knees and you towards your back. Smiling into the kiss, your hand linked behind his neck as you said his name in playful warning.

“What are you doing?” You almost laughed, looking at him as you got comfortable underneath him.

Still smiling at you, Logan’s hand trailed down your thigh that was hooked at his hip whilst his own lips came down to meet yours.

“Making up for lost time.”

Kissing you, your own hands roamed his body as one hand trailed across your skin and the other slowly unravelled the loose knot from around your middle, letting the light robe fall from your skin.

Something had definitely changed when you kissed Logan Howlett. But they had definitely changed for the better.

609 notes · View notes

dnf-fic-recs · 2 years ago

Note

for the anon that was asking about the detective fic (w/ protective dream) it may be 'Love Me Mercilessly' by damselle- but thats only reallllly protective at the end, it starts as enemies to lovers (and warning: it is explicit)

we got a lot of responses to the detectives ask!

Love Me Mercilessly by damselle

Dream sighs deeply and then emits a chuckle, taking in George’s body, which lay limp and bound on the floor. Maybe if he was a better person, he’d cut the ropes binding his body. He’d be the bigger man and ask if he’s okay. He’d soothe the humiliation of failing a solo mission and be a good partner. He’d be mature. He’d be professional.

But, alas, he’s neither of those things. So instead, he smirks like an asshole and watches as George’s body twitches helplessly on the ground as if trying to wriggle out.

“Well, well, well,” Dream says with a beat. “All tied up, are we?”

Or, Dream and George are the best cyber-detectives in their precinct with a strong hatred for each other– and even stronger sexual tension.

The Crimson Vineyard by SummerFlingsAndThings (QueenBoudicatheGreat)

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mr.-" Karl glanced down at the papers in front of him, "-Norton. I pronounce you husbands. You may now kiss."

Dream whipped his head around to look down at George with a wicked grin. "Well, you heard the man, Georgie. Pucker up."

George rolled his eyes and shoved Dream's face away with pink cheeks and a fond smile before turning back to Karl. "Alright, so what's our story here?"

☆●☆●☆●☆●☆

Private Investigators Dream and George's most recent case is something that should be easy. Go undercover in a small town to find a couple of missing teenagers. Something that should be over and done within a week. The hardest part should be acting the part of newlyweds while continuing to ignore the very real feelings between them.

But as time passes with no sign of Tommy or Tubbo anywhere, they start to realize that things aren't as they seem. Something is growing in Waco, Florida with Bad Halo at the center of it all. Something that will put all of Dream and George's skills -- and their relationship -- to the test.

as for praise and worship by squigly

“I should thank you,” George says, pulling him closer by the neck, “Because I get to have you?”

“A lot of people aren’t that fucking lucky,” Dream says, voice tight, heartbeat beating thickly against George’s fingers. “And trust me—” he wrangles himself out of George’s grip, “—once I figure out how to stay away from you, you’re never going to hear from me again.”

George is a detective working for Scotland Yard investigating a string of art thefts linked to grisly murders. Dream is a gambler who knows more than he lets on. They can't stay away from each other, even when they should.

No Time to Die by stargazedpickup

“it was the fact that you yourself left me, Detective, you were being a selfish bastard and left me to fend for myself”.

dnf detective au where an assignment goes wrong and george chooses to save himself instead of taking dream with him

the first move by Anonymous for icanexplain

Agents Dream and 404 have been working together for more than seven years. They’ve gone through undercover missions and basic desk work, been caught in gunfights and car chases- you name it, they’ve done it. What they have not done, however, is admit their feelings for one another. Even though their go-to cover story is a happily married couple, neither of them have made the first move. But when a mission goes terribly wrong, they’re going to need each other more than ever if they want to make it out alive.

#anonymous #ask #anonymous fic recs #dreamnotfound fic #dreamnotfound fanfic #dreamnotfound fic rec #dreamnotfound fic recs #dreamnotfound #dnf fic #dnf fanfic #dnf fic recs #dnf fic rec #dnf #fake dating fics #detective fics #secret agent fics

44 notes · View notes

courfee · 2 months ago

Text

it's been exactly a year since the last chapter of Operation Walburga's Arbitrary No Kissing Ever Rule and I still miss it. This scene is probably one of my favourite things I've ever written and I've wanted to draw it for forever, so now seemed like an appropriate time

#jegulus #jegulus fanart #marauders fanart #regulus black #james potter #james x regulus #marauders #regulus black fanart #james potter fanart #starchaser #sunseeker #regulus x james #marauders era #jegulus fanfiction #fic: operation wanker #hp #mine #my art #ngl this drawing specifically made me realise why i prefer writing over drawing #i think too much in concepts to be able to capture a scene in a way that i want #you cant draw the same thing from several perspectives at once if you dont wanna go for cubism #(tho honestly cubism fanart sounds like a concept i could get behind mmmmm)#anyway i stayed up far too fucking long to finish this in time for today (and by too long i mean until 8am too long)#because originally i had planned to start posting ritardando as my anniversary celebration. yk more fake dating and all that...#but alas i scrapped the whole thing so drawing happened instead #not 100% satisified with how this turned out cause i dont know how perspectives work. or people. or backgrounds outside. you get the idea #i really very much like the second one tho i think its very pretty

786 notes · View notes

louisferrignojr · 3 months ago

Text

buck & tommy's grindr profiles from my fake dating au // psd

now on ao3 :-)

words: 10k rating: M

#bucktommy #911 abc #i just realised i fucked up their ages. oh well.#im not opening photoshop again #what's our (911verse) motto? time isn't real #mine #fake dating au #girls will do anything but write the fic

551 notes · View notes

celestie0 · 4 months ago

Text

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch3. domestic encounters

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, n have been taking care of your sick mom ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, mild love triangle(s), gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 3/x (probably 10)

ᰔ word count. 14.1k (i like this number)

a/n. hello hellooo my ihm bb's :'') so good to see you all again. so this is actually the first half of an original 26k word chapter 3 that i had written lmfaooo i genuinely entertained the idea of posting a 26k word chapter but like gat damn. idk i thought it would be too much. so there is this first part which is 14k and then the next chapter will be 12k! anywho, this chapter was fun to write, there's still a lot of set-up tho hahah. ihm has been really fun to write for me cuz it's kinda chaotic but chill at the same time lol :0 i really hope you enjoy!! see ya at the bottom!!

nav. ch1 :: ch2 :: ch3 :: ch4 :: ch5 (pending)

“Soooo…..ready to consummate the marriage?”

You turn fast on your heel, so fast that Gojo almost trips over his own Welcome mat at his doorstep in an attempt to not accidentally topple over you, which you’re sure by the sheer size he has on you would’ve killed you or at the very least paralyzed you from the neck down, so it’s a good thing his hands fly out of his pockets then brace himself on the wood paneling above the door.

“Wha–” you stutter, “what?!”

He stands up straight before leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms, the sleeve fabric of his suit stretching across thick muscle but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking. “The marriage technically isn’t valid unless we consummate it.”

You roll your eyes and dig your finger into your heel to take it off and then do the same with your other, relishing in the freedom of your feet from the shackles of constrictive feminine clothing articles, although you’re a solid two and a half inches shorter again. “I would rather make love to one of those inflatable balloon salesmen at car dealerships that flail and flap around in the wind than let you touch me for the purpose of sex.”

“Fuck that’s harsh,” he laughs, like he’s genuinely impressed by the comeback this time, “so a dead bedroom then, huh?”

“Can’t be dead if it was never alive in the first place,” you mumble as you tread into his house and toss the documents envelope you had been holding onto the coffee table. You hear Gojo make his way across the hardwood floor behind you paired with the metal clanking of keys as he throws them into the paper mache bowl on the foyer table.

“By the way,” you hear him say, and you turn your torso slightly to side eye him only to see that he’s casually taking his suit jacket off with a flip of it backwards, “who was that guy in the courtroom that was glaring daggers into my soul?”

Your eyes widen briefly. And then you sigh. “My ex.”

He pulls the jacket off behind him by the sleeves and tosses it onto the loveseat. “Huhhh. You used to date a cop? You don’t seem like the type.”

“What?” you say as you face him fully. He’s loosening his tie now with a tug. “Why not?”

“You’re kinda…delinquent. Figured a cop would like a more ‘docile’ woman,” he says.

“You sound creepy as fuck,” you say, grimacing a little as you narrow your eyes at him.

He sighs before tossing his tie off to the side as well. “I don’t agree with it. I’m just getting into their headspace. Everyone knows how cops are. Y’know, controlling.”

“Choso is different,” you immediately spat back at him, before your head can even run the words through a filter, and you realize it came off as defensive. Your cheeks warm, because now it looks like you’re not over your ex. And you want to be. Why were you still protecting Choso’s dignity?

Gojo blinks at you, a little surprised before he swallows slowly and he holds his hands up in front of him in surrender. “Alright. I believe you.”

You turn away from him and worry your bottom lip between your teeth, feeling awkward before you scratch your elbow and then turn back to face him again. “Well. If you run into him around town,” you say, “can you try to make him feel emasculated and jealous? He did me dirty.”

Gojo runs a hand through his hair. “Uhhh. How?”

“I dunno,” you shrug, “brag about how great our sex life is or something.”

“But we have a sexless marriage.”

“Oh, yes, speaking of this sexless marriage,” you start, jutting your hip out to the side as you cross your arms sternly, “there are some ground rules that need to be set between you and I.” You point between the two of you.

“Ground rules?” he mimics after you as he undoes the top couple buttons of his white dress shirt, “like what?”

You hold a finger up. “Like no touching.” You hold another finger up. “Obviously, no sex.” You hold another finger up. “No sneaking into my room in the middle of the night.” You hold another finger up. “No peeping in on me while I’m showering.” You hold another finger up. “No ogling me around the hou–”

“These rules sound incredibly one-sided,” he snorts.

“Yeah, well, don’t break them, you creep.”

“And if I catch you ogling me around the house?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. “Such a thing will not happen.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” he sarcastically affirms, and he approaches you which makes you flinch a little but you realize he’s just walking past you towards the living room.

“Y–” you stutter, “you heard me, right? Once I start living here, you have to adhere to these rules.”

He waves his hand in the air dismissively with his back facing you. “Yes ma’am.”

Your eye twitches slightly, and you storm towards him only to watch him slump down onto his couch, knees spread wide as he leans forward with a small grunt to grab the remote off the coffee table before settling back again. He lays an arm up and stretched across the backrest of the couch before he turns the TV on and scrolls through news channels.

You make your way in front of him, obstructing the view of the TV, and he leans off to the side to try to catch a glimpse at the screen but you reposition your body so that he still can’t see it. His eyes slowly move to you and he has an irritated look on his face.

“I’m tryna watch CNN,” he says.

“Punishment,” you say, “for breaking any of these rules will be severe.”

He raises an eyebrow, interested all of a sudden as he tosses the remote back onto the coffee table and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “Oh? What’s the punishment?”

Honestly, you don’t know. You just want to threaten him to keep him in line. Forget the fact that he’s the one doing you the favor here with this marital arrangement, and yet you’re threatening him. But it has to be done. “You don’t want to find out,” you say, trying to sound as eerie as possible.

“Not knowing what it is makes me want to find out,” he tells you, his knee swaying side to side like a dog wagging its tail.

You briefly glance down, and for fucks sake why is all of his clothing so perfectly fit and stretched taut whenever he does anything? You try not to eye the shape of his thighs as the black fabric stretches while he’s seated.

You clench your fists at your side, worry your bottom lip under your front teeth, furrow your brow and blink rapidly from not being able to come up with something to say, and Gojo seems to read this as worry before he laughs a little.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “I’m not gonna break any of your silly rules, despite how tempting it might sound to me.”

“I don’t believe you,” you mutter as you walk around the couch towards the kitchen, feeling thirsty all of a sudden.

“Seriously. I won’t. You’re not my type,” he says from behind you on the couch, with a tone that tells you he’s trying to sound reassuring but it really just pisses you off even more, “I don’t really go after women with daddy issues.”

“Wha–” you gasp, offended, and you spin on your heel to glare at the back of his head. “Who the fuck said I have daddy issues?!?!”

“No one has to say it, I can feel it,” he says as he continues to clicks through channels.

You pick an avocado up out of the pile of fruits from the bowl at the center of the island, holding it over your shoulder to charge up as much kinetic energy as possible so you can chuck it at him hard enough to knock him unconscious, and it’s like he senses the malice radiating off of your body because he looks over his shoulder at you.

“What’s that in your hand?” he asks.

“A grenade,” you say, “that I’m gonna launch at you.”

“Oh, thank god,” he exhales in relief, “I almost thought it was an avocado for a second.”

You deadpan stare at him. “I don't find you funny.”

“I think I’m pretty funny,” he says mindlessly, like he’s just arguing with you for the sake of arguing.

“No. I have never once laughed at a single thing you’ve ever said. Only grimaced with disgust,” you say.

He sighs. “Look at us. We’ve barely been married for an hour and we’re already fighting.”

You abandon your empty glass on the counter, shuffling around the corner towards the front entrance of the house because you can feel the headache from your pure annoyance starting to creep up on you. You sense Gojo’s eyes on you from the couch as you shove your feet back into the uncomfortableness of your heels.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Back to my house,” you grumble, wobbling a little when you take a step towards the door and place your hand on the handle.

“When are you gonna move in?” he asks suddenly.

You freeze in your tracks at his question. You’ve never heard the question before, because you’ve never had the chance to live anywhere that wasn’t your childhood home next door. So the question is jarring at best, and threatens to make you cry a little at worst.

“Once I get my mom into hospice,” you say, quiet enough to where it’s possible he might not have even been able to hear it over the sound of presidential election updates. And then you make your way out of his house.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

It’s a beautiful sunny spring morning, clouds trailing by across the sky offering momentary relief from the heat reaching the pavement, and you’ve got a good marching band walk going on as you stroll down the sidewalk of your neighborhood for your morning walk. Well, that phrase implies that you go on morning walks often. You really don’t, you very rarely have the time or energy. But today you decided it was time to turn your life around (your running shoes will see you same time next month).

You hear some commotion off at the right side of the street, and when you lift your head up a little to clear the obstructed view of your sun visor, you see a couple of cops standing on a lawn, chatting up your elderly women neighbors with their laughter bolstering in the air. One of the cops turns around, making eye contact with you, and— of fucking course, it’s Choso.

“Oh, fuck me,” you mutter under your breath and try to walk faster down the sidewalk in Korean ahjumma style.

“Hey! y/n! Wait!” you hear him call out and he jogs across the street to catch up with you.

You continue to military march down pavement. “What do you want, Choso? Why are you stalking me?”

He runs up in front of you to stop you in your tracks. You frown at him and cross your arms across your chest. “I’m not stalking you,” he says, “I got a call about a stray dog out here.”

“Oh. Wonderful. So glad to know our officers are keeping us safe from cute street dogs,” you say, tone dripping with sarcasm.

“The dog had rabies. It bit an old man. Had to put it down,” he deadpans.

“O-Oh,” you stutter, cheeks flushing, “well, then, leave? Your job here is done.”

“I just—” he starts, “I want to—” He sighs, looking flustered like he’s trying to gain some sort of courage. And you’re almost entirely certain he didn’t need to garner this much courage to face a rabid dog than he seems to be needing for you. “I, uh, I want to meet your husband.”

“W-What??” you exasperate.

“To say congrats,” he says, but through gritted teeth.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah fucking right. You just wanna abuse your po-po powers to arrest him then throw him into jail then kill him to leave me widowed so that I’ll get back together with you and make a fool out of myself all over again.”

“Your capacity for catastrophization never fails to amaze me,” he says.

You’re pretty sure your therapist said something similar to you last week, too.

“Ahhh!! y/n!!” you hear a familiar feminine voice call from down the street, and both you and Choso turn your heads toward the source of the sound.

Amaya, your neighbor, who is roughly thirty-weeks pregnant at the moment and therefore waddling down the street to get to you, is waving her arms in the air as her husband as well as another one of your neighbors follows after her. She finally reaches you and takes your hands into hers. “I haven’t seen you in forever!! How’s your mom doing?”

“She’s doing well…just getting by,” you say awkwardly, as Choso’s cop partner also approaches this little group that’s forming here, along with the elderly neighbors that he had been talking to.

“Doctors taking good care of her?” Amaya’s husband, Ren, asks you with a twisted expression on his face and arms tightly crossed over his chest like he was gonna beat the doctors up if they weren’t.

“Yes…” you say, “although, I think I’ll be transferring her care to Kaiser.” Oh. Fuck. You should’ve kept that to yourself. Big mouth.

You can feel Choso’s eyes on you as he watches this interaction between you and your neighbors.

“Oh! That’s interesting,” Amaya says, and as her hands soothe over yours, she feels the bump of the ring on your left hand. She glances down. “H-Huh??? Is this a wedding ring?!”

Choso crosses his arms and tucks his hands under his armpits in your periphery.

“Y…yeeeeesss…” you say awkwardly.

“You’ve finally married?” your elderly neighbors chirp out at the same time.

You shoot them a dirty look over the word finally. “Yes.” Please drop the subject, please drop the subject.

But Amaya has always been the gossipy nosy neighbor. “To who??”

Choso snaps his face to you, intently studying your body language. You take a deep breath.

“I-I didn’t tell you?? I married Satoru!!” you chirp, as if it was a normal thing.

“Ehhh?!” you hear multiple of your neighbors’ voices call out.

“You married Satoru??? But you hate him!!” Amaya blurts out, her voice loud and echoing down the street of the neighborhood.

“I—” you stammer, ducking your head a little to hide behind your visor, “um, oh, y’know…those feelings just…snuck up on me!”

“Awwww good for youuu,” Amaya coos, and one of your elderly neighbors comes up to you with a cheeky smile to then rubs your arm approvingly, “he’s sooooo handsome, you’re so lucky!!”

Ren lets out a hmph over his wife’s flattery of another man, and you roll your eyes, wanting to put Gojo in his place even in the face of just your neighbors, but then you remember that a loving wife wouldn’t say something like his personality makes him an ugly rat.

“But when did this happen?” Choso’s partner speaks up, his voice accusatory. Choso hits his partner’s chest vest with the back of his hand, as if to say cut it out.

You feel pissed off at that.

“Oh yeahhh, you and Choso only recently broke up!” Amaya says, pointing between the two of you.

You purse your lips together from the anxiety of this entire conversation. “Three weeks ago. Choso and I broke up three weeks ago,” you say, not even sure why you’re disclosing your personal matters to this group of congregated people, but the peer pressure was damning, and you’re pretty sure silence on this subject in front of your neighbors would only make Choso more suspicious, “and—” you had to get your story straight, “well…within those three weeks, Satoru and I just…got to know each other.”

“Eh?” Ren speaks up. “But he was out of town for two weeks. He only came back a week and a half ago.”

You blink at him.

“Ohhh yes, yes, that’s right, honey,” Amaya agrees with a slow nod in remembrance as she pats her husband's chest, “those chocolates he brought us were from London, right?”

Choso tilts his head at you, giving you a glare with the intent of having you crack under this pressure, because you’ve just been caught in a cold hard lie. More importantly, how the fuck did you not notice that Satoru had been gone for TWO WEEKS??? He was your next door neighbor. You’ve seriously been so damn out of it these days. Also, why the fuck didn’t he get you chocolates from London?!?!?! The fucking snake.

“A marriage within three weeks is a little odd, no?” Choso’s partner speaks up, but with less of a casual conversation tone and more of a I sense something illegal going on here tone.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Choso sighs, taking a step to stand in front of you. “Let’s all get on with our days. She doesn’t have to share any information she doesn’t want to.”

You blink in surprise at Choso’s words, of which all your neighbors acknowledge albeit slightly reluctantly as they wave goodbye to you and start dispersing back to their homes. Choso’s partner gets some notice through his radio, and he pulls it from the velcro of his chest to speak into it before heading back to their cop car with a slight jog. Once everyone is gone and it’s just you and Choso again, he turns around to face you. His arms are still crossed at his chest while he wears a very skeptical and almost reprimanding look on his face.

“What are you up to, y/n?” he immediately asks you, and you feel goosebumps tickle your skin even in the heat. “I really hope it’s not something fishy. Or illegal.”

You swallow hard. You know the U.S. federal codes in the law for marital & insurance fraud like the back of your hand, since you read through them hundreds of times before deciding if your arrangement with Gojo would be worth it. 8 U.S.C. 1033 and 18 U.S.C. 371 provide for a penalty of up to ten years in prison for insurance fraud. And under that statute, you can also be fined up to $250,000. The best case scenario is that you just have to divorce Gojo, and forfeit your chances of ever recovering from your crippling debt. And while it’s hard to prove marital fraud, Choso had reason for a personal vendetta against you, and he has the resources to launch an investigation.

“Why would I do something illegal??” you ask, as if to convince him that the possibility was absurd.

He takes a step closer to you, and your breathing picks up. “People do illegal things all the time,” he says, “for the thrill, out of curiosity,” another step closer, “the most common reason that I’ve seen?” He’s so close to you now that you catch the familiar scent of his skin. “Desperation.”

You catch a small gasp of air from his imposition in your personal space, and finally, your weak legs manage to take you a step back.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about here,” you say with a shaky voice.

He raises an eyebrow at you. And then he sighs. “Stay out of trouble.”

Your eye twitches at him, annoyance resurging but you have to bite your tongue for self preservation. Gojo’s words about cops liking more docile women ring in your ears for a brief moment, and you have to physically shake your head to get his voice out of it.

His partner yells for him from his car, something about a call they got for a robbery downtown, and Choso spares you a warning look before he turns on his heel and jogs back to the car. The sound of police sirens mimic the panic in your beating heart as you watch them speed off down the street and out of sight.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

You pull into your neighborhood at the early hours of the morning, skin feeling dry and eyes feeling heavy with exhaustion as you yank your hospital badge clip off your scrub top to toss onto the passenger seat along with your stethoscope, releasing it from your neck like pulling a noose loose.

Before your shift last night, you had to take your mom to the hospital because she was have shortness of breath, and her oxygen saturation was low on her pulse oximeter. She’s stable now, it was just yet another flare up of her COPD, but given her other risk factors, the hospitalist admitted her to monitor her overnight and through to the evening today if all goes well. Which meant that you could have the house to yourself for once. It might sound selfish to say, because shouldn’t the more dominant feeling be I hope my mom will be okay, but the reality was that there’s only so much of that worry you can have at a time. It doesn’t mean you’re not thinking of her literally every second of the day. It just means you’re human.

The weirdest thing about working the night shift is seeing everyone else’s days start while yours is just ending. There’s a bit of satisfaction with it. Like imagining laughing at their faces ha ha! You have to go to work now at seven in the morning, meanwhile I get to sleep! as if working the night shift doesn’t lead to substantially higher rates of cardiovascular disease and other chronic illness, as well as an early death. So who really got the last laugh? Day shift workers. Literally.

It wasn’t something you did because you liked working the night shift. You do it because you get paid a 20% differential for it. And you need all the money you can get right now.

Your brain seems to be working more than usual if you’re able to think about all these things after a shift. Swiftly pulling into the driveway of your home, around the hull of Gojo’s obnoxious boat in the driveway, you get out of your car with your purse hanging from your shoulder and just before you shut the door, you see one of your elderly neighbors waving at you from across the street. You’re pretty sure her name is Margaret, but you’re awful with names. You do remember that she was in the posse of neighbors that were flocking you yesterday and asking you pushy questions about your marriage in the presence of Choso. And your body stiffens a little.

She tilts her head at you as you stand in your driveway, and you awkwardly glance over at Gojo’s house.

“Oops!” you chirp from across the street, “always forget to pull into the Hubby’s driveway instead! Silly me!!”

You grab your emergency overnight stay bag from the back of your car and hurry over to Gojo’s house, knocking on the door incessantly and ringing the bell so as to not arouse any more suspicion from your neighbors about why two married people aren’t living together. “Forgot my keys!! Hahahhahaha,” you exclaim while your pounding on the door intensifies. You’re sure you're just being paranoid, because why would sweet old lady Margaret (Janice? Patricia?) snitch on you? But you’ve been paranoid all your life. It’s one of your fatal flaws.

The door opens suddenly, right as you were about to pound harshly once again, and you stop the motion in time to not sock Gojo in the abdomen with your fist. He blinks down at you, his face a little puffy from sleep, his hair shooting out in all different directions, and he scratches at his chest through the thin cotton of his shirt, one he clearly threw on last minute before opening the door considering the fact that he put it on backwards. And inside-out.

“Huh? y/n?” he mumbles, his voice deep and kind of raspy with sleep, “what are you doing here?”

“Just let me in,” you hiss at him, glancing over your shoulder to your elderly neighbor's lawn for a second, and then duck under his arm that was holding the door open to get inside the house.

You turn around to see him shrug his shoulders and slowly close the door, clearly too tired to deal with the bullshit this early in the AM, and he turns around to face you before leaning back onto the surface. His eyes close, like he’s trying to preserve the sleepy feeling for when he gets back into bed.

“Can I help you?” he says. His head falls back with a small thump to rest on the door.

“I’m going to sleep here for the night. Er, for the day,” you say. “I will move in starting today.”

“Okay,” he easily agrees.

You blink at him. “Um. Show me to my room.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as he heads for the stairs with the shuffle of his slippers across the hardwood floor. You note that he is very easily malleable and overall smooth brained when he’s sleepy. You try to ignore the fact that you find it kinda cute.

You follow him up the stairs and he leads you across the loft into a hallway studded with a couple of doors. He opens one of them for you, his head drifting a little like he’s about to fall back asleep. “Here you go,” he says while gesturing inside the bedroom and rubbing his eye with a weakly closed fist, “guest bedroom. Uh, there’s another one near the master too that’s a bit bigger, but this one has a lock on the door. So that I don’t sneak into your room in the middle of the night.”

“Thanks,” you accept and head inside. You set your emergency overnight stay bag on the bed and then turn around to face the door to find Gojo still standing in the frame. He has his hands pushed into the pockets of his pajama pants as he squints at you.

You feel…a little…nervous? Shy? Who the fuck were you to be shy in front of Gojo? You really don’t give a damn what he thinks about you, since a lion does not concern itself with the opinions of a sheep (you’ve been doing reruns of Game of Thrones this past week), but starting today, you’ll be in his territory, and this whole situation is so domestic that you feel vulnerable in front of him. Like the sheep somehow managed to splay the lion open this time, and now the real you is on display for him. You’re suddenly self conscious of the unruly state of your hair and the stains of IV fluid on your black scrubs and the fact that the allegedly flake-proof mascara you put on at the beginning of your shift has long since flaked all over your cheeks.

“Um. Can you leave?” you say in a small voice.

“Huh?” he responds, like he himself forgot that he was still standing there. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” He lets out a very long exhale. “Make yourself at home.” And then, still facing you, he walks off to the side veeeeeeery slowly until he’s out of sight.

You walk up to the doorframe and peak your head around to the left to see him still standing there.

“Satoru. Stop treating me like I’m some animal at the zoo. Leave.”

“It’s just so weird seeing you in my house like thi—”

You slam the door on him, your breathing finally slowing down again as your palms lay flat on painted white wood. You move your hand down to the handle, thumb and forefinger lingering on the lock as you look at it for a moment, but ultimately decide against locking it.

The room has a bathroom attached to it which is nice. The bed is a queen size, fitted with light blue and eggshell white sheets, tucked neatly spare for one corner of the bed where the duvet is flipped over. To the left of the bed is a nightstand and to the right is a dresser that looks very new. You take a glance at your reflection in the mirror sitting above it, and let out a small gasp at your less than flattering appearance.

A five minute shower does you wonders, and you pat yourself dry with a towel that matches the shower curtain. You find one of your floor-length vintage nightgowns, with the long frilly sleeves, after rustling through your overnight stay bag, along with a toothbrush and some moisturizer.

As you brush your teeth, you pace around the room. There’s a little staggered rack near the window that is lined with plants and the blinds are angled perfectly for sunlight to get through to them. You poke your finger to one of the plant’s soil and notice that it’s damp. Been watered recently. Gojo is a plant guy? He really doesn’t seem the type. Well, actually, he’s pretty vain about his avocado tree. But houseplants were a different story. A whole different trope of person.

After getting ready for bed, you slip into the sheets and lay stiff despite the comfortable mattress as you stare up at the ceiling with the duvet tucked under your arms. It’s bright in the room. Back home, you have blackout curtains, which help you sleep because it blocks out the morning light. Here, you don’t have that. You don’t have your melatonin either. But you do have the exhaustion in your veins, making you blink slowly and slowly until the water in your eyes feels as thick as oil. You’re so tired to the point that you can’t even sleep.

You force your eyes to close anyway. You’ll pretend you’re a queen in a palace, here in a foreign land she has recently conquered under her empire. A daydream that you find doesn’t really help you drift off to sleep. But counting sheep never fails you.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

You awake in the afternoon with a headache that pounds at your head like the FBI is trying to infiltrate your own mind. And all you can hear now is the FBI OPEN UP!!! meme as you groan and rub at your temples with one hand while leaning over the bed to pet at the nightstand for your go-to bottle of Tylenol just to–

Pet around at nothing.

“Mm?” you mumble, opening your eyes cautiously before harsh light makes you close them again. But even behind the protection of your eyelids, you’re still very keen on the brightness that finds you in this room. Finally, you’re able to blink the sleepiness away and adjust to the light, and when the blur of your vision subsides, you realize that you’re in a bed that is most definitely not your own. And then you remember.

You spent your first night (well, technically morning and early afternoon), at Gojo’s house.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, balled up fist rubbing at your eyes ferociously as you sit groggy from the sleep that enveloped you so performatively after your shift last night. You can’t even remember coming to his house, which is concerning, since that could mean you forgot to do a lot of other things when coming home. Like changing your clothes, and scrubbing your make-up off. But it seems like habit and routine has saved you, since you glance down and see yourself in one of your nightgowns and your skin doesn’t feel dry.

A loud thud! noise from directly beneath you startles you, jolting some of the sleepiness out of you, and you finally feel inclined to head out the door.

You make it across the loft and to the top of the staircase so you can peer over the railing to the downstairs floor. But from the top, you can’t see anything except for the entry area and the family room, but you assume the sounds you hear are coming from the kitchen, because it sounds like the closing of a fridge and ceramic on marble paired with footsteps on hardwood. Lifting the hem of your nightgown up so you don’t trip over it, you creep down the stairs, diligent in avoiding the 2nd and 7th step (you’ve since learned that they creak a little), and make steady progress in getting to the bottom of the stairwell to then stealthily peak your head around the rail and peer into the kitchen. You only have a view of one side, the long counter strip with the stove and the fridge, but you freeze when you’re met with the sight of a man standing there shirtless pouring orange juice into a coffee mug.

You’re temporarily shocked, your fight of flight immediately kicking in as you clutch the imaginary pearls around your neck in fear…but then…you slowly…find yourself starting to stare. This man’s back is huge, massive really…with tense and defined muscles, expansive smooth lines with ridges that meet bone. His shoulders are broad, rounding down into strong arms that are split with veins. And your eyes trail the way his waist narrows down to his hips, of which gray sweatpants very loosely hang from. Honestly, if the door in the movie Titanic was as large as this man’s back, then maybe Rose AND Jack could have fit on it and survived. (a/n. basically picture this)

And in the middle of your drooling, you realize. That this man. Is. Gojo.

Which should be a relief to you, because if it wasn’t Gojo, and there was just some random man in the house, then you’d have to start looking for a weapon of sorts. But instead you just continue to watch him silently without coming out of your hiding. Shirtless in his own kitchen (a crime, really) as he pours OJ into a black mug (who the fuck drinks juice from a coffee mug). He suddenly turns around to face the island and a small gasp leaves your lips before you duck your head behind the rail to hide yourself from his line of sight, and when you realize you’re in the clear, you slowly peak your head back out.

The sight of his chest and torso nearly knocks you breathless, because why is his skin so smooth…and taut across the defined muscles of his abs, glistening with a sheen you can only guess is a salty layer of sweat. His fringe is damp, sticking to his forehead and the sides of his face, a droplet of sweat rolling down from his temple towards his chin but he uses his bare shoulder to wipe the sweat off before it can get that far. He brings the mug of OJ to his lips and tips it back with a swallow, the thick muscles of his neck rippling and rolling with the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, a singular droplet of orange juice escaping from the corner of his lips, trailing down the vein on his neck and into the territory of his chest. Okay. You were being creepy as fuck right now. He can’t find out that you’re staring at him like this, you’d literally move to a different country if he ever caught you. And yet, for some reason, you just can’t stop either.

He pulls the mug from his mouth, letting out a large exhale since he literally just gulped it all down in one go. He places his palms flat on the table, slightly distant from one another, as he takes in the sight of his counter, while you take in the sight of the way his biceps bulge and the veins on his thick forearms tense. He looks like he’s contemplating something. And then he shrugs his shoulders slightly before grabbing the carton next to him and chugging straight from it, like whatever he poured himself wasn’t enough to quench the thirst for citrus juice he seems to have after–you can only assume–the workout he just had.

There’s a deep noise that’s muffled in his throat in the second before he pulls the carton away from his mouth and his eyes glance at something on the floor. You can’t see what it is, but you can see the marvelous shape of his ass through his sweatpants– I mean, you can see him furrow his brow a little and then he’s suddenly crouched down on the floor, ducked behind the island and out of sight, before he mutters something that you think sounds like damn fridge…

You stand on your tiptoes on the last step, trying to peer over the obstructing view of the counter, but you trip over the hem of your nightgown, losing balance and–

–fall straight onto the hardwood in front of you, on all fours.

“Ah,” you exclaim blandly, and in your periphery, see Gojo suddenly stand up straight from his crouched position.

“y/n?” he calls out from the kitchen, his tone surprised.

“Sorry!” you chirp as you feel embarrassment creeping up on your cheeks, “just, uh, fell down the stairs!”

“What?!?” he exclaims in a panic, and you forgot that most people would panic if someone said that to them. He rushes over to you and gets down on one of his knees to peer at your face, his hand shooting out to grab your upper arm with little delicacy out of concern, and his eyes roam all across you to assess for injuries. “Are you okay??”

“Just!” you chirp as you yank your arm out of his hold, “Peachy!” You’re not able to make eye contact with him as he remains kneeled next to you, but you can’t find yourself able to move either. So you just relish in the ridiculous feeling of being on all fours in your vintage grandma nightgown in front of your shirtless and, breaking news: very hot, fake husband. God you can smell the musk and sweat from him when he’s this close, and it’s sexy. You have to be careful to not just straight up mount him on the floor right now. Much to your aroused dismay.

“Um,” you squeak out, “can you put a shirt on.”

“Huh?” he looks down at himself, like he forgot he’s half naked. “Oh. Yeah.” He stands up. “Sorry, I’m not really used to having someone in the house anymore,” he says, and his use of the word anymore isn’t lost on you.

He heads over to the coat closet, pulling a gray sweatshirt that’s a shade darker than his sweatpants off of a coat hanger and then pulling it on over his head. He pulls the hood off, and now his hair looks damp with sweat and sexily ruffled up. And he’s also in a comfy-looking sweatshirt. That was way hotter than being shirtless, for fucks sake. You wonder if he’d reconsider being shirtless again. He’s kneeling down beside you once more, and yes you are still on all fours just staring down at the hardwood floor like an animal paralyzed with fear.

“Have some decency, please. Especially since I am to start living here from today onwards. I would appreciate modesty around the house,” you say as a tactic of self preservation. “Take note of my attire–appropriately covering all skin.”

“Are you gonna stand up?” he asks you.

“No. I shan't.”

“What? Why not? And why are you talking like that?”

“It appears I am frozen.”

“Are your knees okay?”

“I believe so.”

He sighs and gets up from his knelt position, then suddenly comes up behind you, bending over to wrap his arms around your waist tightly before picking you up with the same ease in which someone would pick up a plastic lawn chair. You gasp, still retaining your four-legged creature formation, until he shakes it out of you and then sets you back down onto your feet.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he says with a sigh as he heads back towards the kitchen, and he’s back to crouching down somewhere behind the counter.

You shuffle your feet over to the kitchen and peer over the kitchen island to see that he’s examining the floor in front of the fridge.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He scratches at his eyebrow. “The fridge is leaking again.”

“Oh.”

He clicks something on both sides of the fridge's feet and then grips the corners of its body, pulling it out from the wall with a small grunt leaving his lips. Even with the baggy sweatshirt, you can see the curves of the muscles in his arms as he works.

You place your elbows on the island and hold your face in your hands as you watch him. “How are you gonna fix it?”

He’s dabbing at the wet hardwood with a very worn out rag to get it dry. “I just have to shut the water valve off for a bit.”

“How do you do that?”

He points over his shoulder with his thumb, and you trace the line of it to the cabinet under the sink.

“Really? You’re gonna get under the sink?”

He dusts his hands off and tosses the rug off to the side. “Uh-huh.”

“Are you sure you can fix it?”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“How long has this been an issue?”

His gaze flicks to yours briefly before he stands up. “About a week.”

“Don’t you think you should just call someone?”

“What?” He turns to face you and crosses his arms across his chest while raising an eyebrow at you, like you’ve just deeply offended him. “Why the fuck would I call someone for a job I could do myself?”

You tilt your head at him, trying to hide the smirk that threatens to tug at your lips. “Well you said it’s been a whole week.”

“Yeah, I’ve–...I’ve just been busy. So I haven’t had a chance to really take a look at it.”

“Ohhhh okay okay,” you say in a teasingly skeptic tone, poking your tongue to your cheek as it’s getting progressively harder to hide your grin.

“What?” he says to you, impatiently.

“Nothinggg,” you purr, and you watch him with a cheeky look on your face as he glares at you before he disappears off towards the garage.

He comes back with a tool box and you spend some time poking around in it curiously as he grabs a couple of tools before crouching down in front of the sink.

For some reason, you feel shy watching him. Maybe it’s because when he’s laying on his back, the top twenty-percent of him ducked underneath the sink, and he’s working his hands on some pipes that you can’t see, his sweatshirt rides up a little and you can see the very lower part of his torso. And then when he yanks particularly hard on something, it rides up more and you can see his abs tensing and relaxing with almost every breath he takes and every move he makes. You’re just grateful he can’t see you, and the urge to clench your thighs together is almost stronger than your brain’s disposition to convince yourself that he’s not attractive just because you think he’s annoying most of the time.

“y/n,” he calls out to you from under the sink, and you jump a little. He tilts his head a little so he can make eye contact with you from under. “Can you hand me those slip-joint pliers?”

“I have no idea what that is or where to even begin to know what that is.”

“The pliers that have the serrated edges,” he tries.

“Huh?”

“.........shark with sharp teeth.”

“Oh! Yes. Yes, of course,” you grab them and then shuffle over to him before crouching down, balancing on your toes, “here you go.”

“Thanks,” he says in a flat tone, slowly taking them from you.

“You’re welcome!” you chirp. You feel very useful.

His head disappears back to deep underneath the sink again to work on stuff again. Even though this whole thing is probably just his masculine ego wanting to fix things around the house by himself rather than just call a person that is literally paid to fix these sorts of things, you have to admit that you’re not complaining for getting to watch him do something handy.

“I’ve just– gotta–” he grunts a little and you hear the creaking of pipes, “tighten this up a bit–” he lets out another gruff noise, his voice strained with effort, and you’re ashamed to say it sounds hot. “Alright!” He pulls himself out from under the sink and stands up back onto his feet with a bounce in his step as he dusts his hands off. “Fixed. For now.”

The fridge starts making a strange whirring noise. You raise an eyebrow at him. He quickly reaches behind it and clicks some button before the eerie whirring stops.

“Okay. Now it’s fixed.”

You give him a very skeptic look. “Sure, Jan.”

“Don’t sure jan me. Trust. It won’t leak anymore.”

“Whatever you say,” you respond before heading back up the stairs to freshen up.

By the time you go back downstairs, Gojo is nowhere to be found, and you take the opportunity to sit on his couch in the living room to then peruse which streaming services he has on his TV. It isn’t until about ten minutes later that you hear someone coming down the stairs, because he makes no effort to avoid the creaky steps.

You put your elbow up on the couch backrest and twist your torso to look at him. He’s wearing pajama pants and an unmatching black short sleeve cotton T-shirt that’s loose around his torso but tight at the arms. He’s ruffling his hair up with a hand towel, attempting to get it dry from the shower he clearly just took. As he makes his way towards the living room, you catch a waft of the clean soapy aqua fragrance of shampoo lingering in his hair. He stops about four feet behind the couch.

You glance down at his feet. “Why the fuck are you, as a grown ass man, wearing bunny slippers inside the house?”

He opens one eye to glance down at his slippers as he continues to tousle his hair dry, “oh, Juno got them for me for Christmas last year. She wanted me to wear them ‘all the time or else uncle toru’s feet will burn off from the floor lava.”

A small smile makes its way onto your face.

Juno is Gojo’s five-year-old niece, and from the interactions you’ve seen between them, and from the way My Little Pony was the first thing that popped up when you turned the TV on, you know that Gojo absolutely adores her and vice versa. You’ve met her a couple times, even babysat her once in an emergency, and she’s a cute and bright little kid that you certainly have way more fondness for than her obnoxiously annoying uncle who is also now your fake husband. Wait, does that mean that Juno is your niece now, too?

Gojo lets out a sigh before hanging the towel over his shoulder, his hair apparently adequately dry enough for him now. He looks younger when his hair is messy and a little damp, falling over his forehead flatter than usual. It’s kinda boyish and dare-you-say charming.

He looks down at his slippers again with a pleasant reminiscent look on his face before placing his hands on his hips like he’s a baseball dad of three. “Y’know, when I was growing up–”

“Ah yes. During the Great Depression.”

He gives you an annoyed look. “Quit it. When I was a kid–”

“Back in the 1800s.”

“Aren’t you pushing thirty?” he asks you.

“Aren’t you in need of some new dentures?” you ask him.

“Fuckin’ rude,” he mumbles as he walks towards the foyer table to rip open some of the mail that was scattered across it.

“What happened when you were a kid?” you ask.

“Forget it,” he says, tucking some of his bills back into envelopes.

“What!! I wanna know,” you say.

“Yeah well I don’t want to tell you anymore,” he responds.

As you two fully grown adults continue bickering like toddlers for the better part of two minutes, your phone is ringing upstairs unbeknownst to you.

“Wait. Shut up,” Gojo cuts off your next insult as he snaps his head up-right suddenly.

“What?! Did you just tell me to shut u–”

“Shhhhhh,” he hushes you, turning his ear towards the stairs with a concentrated expression on his face.

You silence yourself, and then you hear the ringing coming from upstairs.

“Fuck,” you mumble as you scramble off the couch and jog to the bottom of the staircase, Gojo’s eyes on you the entire time as you run up the steps back to your room.

You hear your phone ringing on the bed somewhere but you can’t find it so you rummage through the sheets before finally spotting it, swiping on the call and bringing it to your ear without even checking the caller ID.

“Hello?” you say.

“Oh! y/n, hi there. It’s Dr. Johnson calling. I was prepared to leave you a voicemail,” he says.

“I’m here,” you say hastily, holding your phone to your ear with both hands as you feel your entire body tense up.

You never knew what to expect with any sort of phone calls these days, especially when you’re at work or when your mom isn’t home, because a phone call could be something as simple as approving a refill on some of her medication, to something much worse than that. Something much more final than that.

“It’s not an emergency,” Dr. Johnson says on the other line, like he can sense your fear and anxiety through the phone, “just wanted to reach out to let you know that I spoke with the hospitalist who admitted your mother to the hospital and she’s doing better now. They’ll likely discharge her by the end of the day.”

You slowly let out the breath you were holding. “Oh, that’s wonderful. I know she needs to come in for chemo tomorrow, so it’s perfect timing.”

“Yes, we’ll see her tomorrow.”

“Uh, Dr. Johnson, I do want to let you know…I’ll be admitting my mom for hospice in a couple of days,” you tell him. You wince a little, because you know it’s probably something that you should’ve discussed with him prior to all of this. “It’s…likely that you won’t have to continue her care anymore, since she’s been approved for Kaiser insurance, I’ll be transferring her care to Kaiser physicians.”

There’s a moment of silence on the other line, the briefest moment of hesitation from a self-assured doctor who always had something to say right away. “Really? That’s–...wow. I can’t say I won’t be extremely sad to not see her anymore.”

“I know…” you say, worrying your bottom lip through your teeth, feeling a sudden wave of guilt overtake your senses, “you’ve been following her progress ever since her diagnosis, even got her into remission…it’s just a little complicated with some insurance stuff and some bills as well. If I could have things my way, I would continue care with you and your team.”

Even though you can’t see it, you can tell he’s nodding on the other line. “I understand, y/n. I know that there’s more to healthcare in this country than just…receiving care. But I don’t have to explain those things to you, since you’re a nurse. Do what’s best for you and your family. Give me the details for the hospice, and I’ll have my MAs send over your mother’s chart.”

“Thank you, Dr. Johnson,” you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. “Really. For everything.”

“You’re most welcome.”

“Oh–” you stutter, in fear he might hang up right as you remembered to ask him something.

“Yes?”

“I know I’ll see you tomorrow so we can discuss it then too, but I was just wondering if the scans were back from my mom’s brain MRI she had done? I know they usually take three weeks to come back but just wanted to check.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “I had a feeling you’d follow up about that. No, there are no scans that have come back. I’ll let you know right away when they do.”

“Okay…” you say.

“I know you’re worried about a possible glioma,” he speaks up, “but let’s just try to stay positive until we see the scans, okay?”

“Yes. Sounds good. Thank you, doctor.”

“Alright. I will see you and your mom tomorrow.”

“Yes. Bye,” you say and hear his word of farewell too before hanging up.

You stare down at the screen of your phone, taking in slow deep breaths to calm down your nerves. You just wanted these scans to come back already so that you could feel at peace knowing that your mom’s worsening neurological condition is due to her Alzheimer’s and not a tumor in her brain. The average survival length of a person with a brain tumor is low, and even worse if it’s a glioblastoma, ranging at around 12-18 months. You can buy her a few years at least with the stage of cancer progression she’s at right now, even with the possibility of remission, but if it becomes severely advanced disease then–

You gasp softly and cover your mouth with your hand, unable to even fathom the thought without feeling a feverish chill run down your entire body. Now's not the time to spiral. Deep breaths. One, two, three. Now is the time to stay positive. Just like Dr. Johnson said.

Putting one step ahead of the other, you leave the room, cross the loft and slowly make your way down the stairs and stop at the very last step when you see Gojo rushing across the foyer with his dress shoes on, wearing a dark blue suit, save for the tie, and he looks like he’s pressed for time.

“Are you going somewhere?” you ask from the last step, your hand curled around the rail still.

“Hey, uh, yeah,” he scrambles, grabbing his keys from the paper mache bowl on the foyer table and then pats at his pockets for his wallet only to notice it’s absent. “Fuck.” He disappears somewhere into the house in a hurry and then returns with his wallet in his hand before shoving it in his pocket with the jingle of his keys too. “I had to push a couple house viewings from this afternoon up, so I need to leave.” He finally turns to face you and exhales slowly to regain his breath. “Small favor?”

“What’s up,” you say.

He rubs the back of his neck a little guiltily. “Well, Sana called a few minutes ago asking if I could watch Juno since she had to pick her up early from school, and I said sure, but I have to leave now, so–”

“I can watch her,” you say.

He claps his hands together in prayer form and holds them up to his face, “I owe you one.”

“Mhmmmmm,” you hum, watching as he resumes his haste to leave the house. And just before he heads out the door, you say— “Collar.”

“Huh?” He turns around to face you. “Oh.” He takes a second to flatten the collar of his shirt. “Thanks.” And then he’s out the door.

You sigh, relishing in the emptiness of the house. Maybe you should raid his pantry, or play porn on the TV super loud so all the neighbors think he’s a creep. But perhaps that is not appropriate, given that his sister will be bringing his niece over very soon.

You quickly head over to your house to change into something more appropriate than your nightgown, just some blue jeans that honestly make you look like a soccer mom, and then a T-shirt. You walk back to Gojo’s house and only get about five minutes to peruse his pantry when the doorbell rings.

When you open the door, you’re met face-to-face with Gojo’s sister, Sana. How would you describe Sana? Well, first of all, she’s beautiful, with all the same features as Gojo except in female form. Striking round blue eyes, silky white hair that shimmers silver underneath sunlight (you would describe Gojo less poetically than this, though). Her hair is pin straight, falling down just past her shoulders. She’s sweet, or at least has been the couple of times that you’ve met her, but she can also be a little serious and strict. The type to not really laugh at the dinner table if you make a pointed joke about the current political state of the country, but maybe it’s because she didn’t even understand the joke to begin with. Either way, she’s very different from the annoying and irritating temperament of her older brother, and how their mother managed to give birth to such two different kids is beyond you.

“Hey,” you greet her at the door with a small smile.

“Hi, y/n,” she returns with a polite smile of her own. She’s holding onto Juno’s scrawny shoulders as the kid stands in front of her, barely to the height of her mother’s hips. Juno was toying with the light pink baseball cap on her head, her hair pulled through the opening in the back and tied up into a ponytail. “I’m so sorry to bother you with her.”

“Oh! No, not a bother at all, I love getting to see her,” you say as you crouch down to get at eye level with her. “Hi Juno!”

Juno has curly white hair rather than the pin straight that her mother possessed, a feature that more closely resembles her father’s hair, along with her hazel eyes. You’ve only met Sana’s husband, Jun, once before. From what you know, he’s some type of businessman, and the first thing you noticed about him was that he was the same height as Sana. But his wife was blessed with supermodel height and was probably taller than most men, so it wasn’t surprising. Jun was hearty, almost suspiciously kind, laughed boisterously loud, and in the small amount of time you met him, it was easy to see that Sana very rarely humored his ill-mannered and awkwardly-placed jokes, but they seemed very in love with each other regardless. Apparently he and Gojo go golfing every other weekend. Information that you seem to know despite any desire to know it.

Juno hugs her water bottle to her chest, shy as she makes eye contact with you. “Hi, auntie y/n.”

“I loooooove your baseball cap! It’s so cute, where did you get it?” you ask her.

She blinks off to the side timidly, her fluffy white lashes fluttering over her bright eyes. “Um. Uncle Toru.”

“Ohhh I see, I see! It suits you.”

Sana nudges her a little with her knee. “What do we say, Juno?”

“Thank you, auntie y/n,” she immediately squeaks out in reflex.

Your eyes catch a glimpse of the white bandage wrapped over her tiny arm and your brow furrows before reaching out to gently hold it. Juno winces a little from the sensation. You stand up straight.

“What happened to her arm?” you ask Sana.

Sana sighs as she tucks some of her hair behind her ear. “She fell on the playground at school today. It’s a pretty large scrape and it’s been hurting her a lot.”

“Did you disinfect it?”

“Oh…I just–...washed it with some water. The school nurse wasn’t there today so I just had to pick her up early.”

“Mm, I see,” you say, “I can take a look at it. I have some neosporin in my purse.”

She lets out a relieved sigh, like she was secretly hoping you would make the offer. “Thank you. Really.” She gently pushes on her daughter’s shoulder. “C’mon Juno. Go inside and set your homework up on the table.”

Juno cranes her neck up to look at her mom. “Mommy, can I have a snack first? Pop-tart!”

“If your uncle has them in the pantry, then sure,” Sana says, and immediately upon hearing those words, Juno rushes inside the house with giggles filling the air. “But only one!!” Sana yells out to her in a strict tone, and you watch with amusement as Juno skips off before returning your attention back to Sana.

“Sooo…” she starts, a small hint of hesitation playing on her usually prim face, “I suppose we’re sisters now. Sisters-in-law.”

Your eyes widen and your shoulders stiffen. It was at least a good thing that Gojo told his family already that you two are married, because it seems that most of his extended family live here in this town. At least, you know that his sister’s family and his parents live here. Better to be heard from him directly than to run into you randomly living at his house all of a sudden when they drop by. You’re sure his family has questions about this extremely sudden marriage to say the least. You’re not sure how much they’ll try to pry, but you hope it’s not much, because you’ve never really been a great actress. “Yes. Yes, we are.”

“Mm,” she hums pleasantly at you, nodding slowly and peering off into the house beyond your shoulder, “say…I’m, um, just a little…surprised by how sudden this all is.”

“Hmm?”

“With you and my brother,” she says straightforwardly. “Obviously, you must know he’s been married before, but it’s…a little odd, it feels like just yesterday when he told us he was…getting a divorce. And now he’s married again.” She trails off when she has some sobering thought that flashes through her head. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m blabbering about this. I’m just–...I’m just thinking out loud. It must be a sore topic.”

“Oh, no, no, not at all. No worries,” you say with an awkward laugh, “I’ve, um, come to terms with it?” You try your best to come up with a believable response.

“That’s good,” she says while she runs soothing circles with her thumb over the skin at her elbow, “well, some love moves faster than others.” She displays a well-meaning smile on her face. “I’m really happy for you two.”

For some reason, your heart warms. Like when the lines of reality and imagination blur, and so you’re left here with a truly comforting feeling. Only it’s fleeting and temporary, like escapism. “Thank you,” you say softly. And after a moment, “by the way, I’m really sorry for…Satoru and I not having a proper wedding. We just wanted something simple.”

She lets out a small scoff. “Oh, gosh, don’t apologize for that. I’m sick of weddings. I was so glad I didn’t have to peruse yet another wedding registry this year. There are only so many toaster ovens I can buy.”

You’re a little surprised by the humor from her, but the two of you let out small laughs in unison at the doorstep.

Sana glances at her watch. “I have to get going. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

You nod. “Sure. Thanks.”

You close the door slowly, watching her briefly through the stained glass window as she heads towards her car and gets inside before promptly driving off.

There’s the sound of ruffling heard and then the sound of things falling off a shelf towards the kitchen. You turn on your heel and head in the direction. “Junooo,” you call out, “where are youuuu?”

“In here!” she chirps from the pantry room. You turn the light on to see her standing in the center with a couple boxes of cereal fallen around her. She’s holding an empty box in her hand. “The pop-tart box is empty,” she says with a pout and sulk of her shoulders as she makes the most :(( face you’ve ever seen a child make.

“Oh no,” you say, grabbing the box from her and inspecting the inside, “your devious uncle must’ve eaten them all in a manic episode.”

“What is a manic mean?” she asks you as she looks up, rubbing her ankle with her other foot.

“Oh, it’s like…crazy? He went crazy?”

She giggles at the thought.

“If you’re hungry, I can make you something,” you offer.

She shyly nods her head but her grin fully rounds her cheeks before she darts off towards the kitchen.

You find her standing near the kitchen island, trying to get up onto one of the bar stools but to no avail. You come up behind her to pick her up then set her down on the seat, adjusting it so it’s a little higher.

“What do you want me to make?” you ask her as you come around to the other side of the island and set your elbows up on the cold marble, leaning over to place your chin in your palm.

“Um…” she brings her index finger up to her bottom lip in thought, “pancakes? Can I have blubbery pancakes?”

“Huh?”

“Um…” she starts again, “last time, when I eated them at your house. Um, when I ated them at your house,” she tries to correct herself, “I really liked them.”

“Oh!” you perch up from your bent over position, “I remember! The blueberry pancakes. Aww, Juno, you remember that? How sweet.”

She becomes a little bashful and glances down at the her lap.

“Okayyy,” you say, placing your hands on your waist as you look around at the kitchen, “well I’ll have to see what ingredients I’m working with here, but hopefully I can make them for you.” You tilt your head at her before pointing a finger. “Have you ever seen the show Chopped?”

She sits up straight with excitement. “Yes yes! Me and mommy love it.”

“Good. Let’s pretend I’m working with a mystery basket here,” you say, and then you turn around to open Gojo’s fridge.

You can learn a lot about a person based on what the inside of their fridge looks like. You’re surprised to find the inside of his looks…sparkly? That was the only way you knew how to describe it. With clean shelves that reflect the bright lighting off the plastic, plastic that looks as mirror sheen as glass. As your eyes take in the contents inside, you notice he has some leftover thai food at the front, most likely leftovers from as recent as last night. One of the produce drawers is filled to the brim while the other is mostly empty, and you notice he separates them by leafy stuff vs. veggies. The leafy stuff is the drawer that’s filled to the brim, and you just know he’s stressed out over how to use all of it up before it starts wilting. Must’ve been on sale, you think to yourself. To the right of the fridge, there are an insane amount of orange juice cartons, and you notice he drinks the same one as you–pulp free with the added vitamins and calcium that’s made for kids. Although maybe he has an excuse for it, since he has a five-year-old niece. There’s a few containers of meal prep stacked up at the back of the fridge that look like some sort of arrangement of quinoa, chicken and Mediterranean vegetables. And then there’s just a bunch of assorted cans of beer throughout the fridge, which you assume are to appease the diverse preferences of his friends whenever he has them over.

You grab a couple of eggs from the egg carton, placing them on the counter along with a stick of butter plus a half-full carton of milk, and peer deep into the fridge past the wall of condiments to eye for any fresh fruit such as berries, but you don’t see any. You try the freezer and are relieved when you see he has some frozen blueberries in there.

“Okay!” you shut the fridge. “Just need to grab a few more things from the pantry room and then I’ll make you your pancakes, okay?”

Juno nods enthusiastically. “Um. Can I get my backpack?”

“Sure.” You pick her up off the bar stool to set her down on the ground and she runs to the coffee table in front of the TV to grab her things as you head to the pantry room.

Flour, sugar, baking powder, all tucked in your elbows as you carry the ingredients back to the kitchen before dropping them onto the counter and picking Juno up to place her on the barstool again. She starts to lay out her glittery pens and pristinely sharpened pencils in front of her as well as a packet of papers.

“I can’t believe they’re giving Kindergarteners homework these days…” you mutter under your breath as you grab a bowl. “Juno, wanna help me crack the eggs?”

“Yes!”

“Let’s go wash our hands then.”

As you mix all your ingredients together and Juno continues to stare at her papers with her face awfully close to them (does she need glasses?), you think to yourself what a nice little life this is. Although you haven’t been able to spend the day at your house like you were hoping you would, since you could finally have it for yourself, it was nice to spend it at Gojo’s. It was something different, something refreshing, something grounding. An escape that you needed.

“Um. Auntie y/n?” Juno calls from behind you as you flip a pancake at the stove.

“Yes sweetheart.”

“How is mommy?”

“Hmm?” you hum. “My mommy?”

“Yes!”

“Oh you are just the sweetest thing. She’s doing okay. She’s just a little sick still.”

“When I’m sick,” Juno speaks up with a childlike enthusiasm in her voice, “my mommy gives me grape soor–...stir–” she struggles with the word, “shrup, ah, syrup! Grape syrup. It makes me better.”

“Ohhh honey, I know,” you coo as you try to match her enthusiasm, placing two little pancakes onto a plate for her. “When you get the sniffles, right?”

“Yes! Maybe your mommy will be better too if I give her some of my grape syoorup?”

You stop in your tracks, staring down at the food you were just plating.

The innocence of a child. It was hard to stay strong in the face of it. When you were younger, you probably would’ve thought that a magical potion would make your mom all better, too.

You turn around to face her. “Well,” you say, clearing your throat a little to fight the knot that you find is twisting it, “I think,” and now you’re blinking away the faint sheer of tears as you press your lips into a thin smile, your soft soft above a whisper, “that that is a wonderful idea.”

Juno gobbles up her blubbery pancakes with the extra maple syrup on them and you watch her take every bite. There was something satisfying about seeing a little kid eat so well. The sight made you feel well-fed on their behalf.

“Alright,” you say with a small grunt as you pick Juno up and set her down onto the ground, then take her hand to lead her over to the carpeted family room. “Let me take a look at this scrape of yours.”

Juno’s hand tugs slightly when you try to pull on it, so you turn around to see that she has stopped in her tracks halfway through the trek to the other room.

“What’s wrong?” you ask her.

“I don’t want you to see it…”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s ugly.”

“Juno,” you tug on her hand a little, “I have to see it so that I can clean it. Otherwise you might get sick. A type of sick that even grape syrup can’t fix.”

She looks up at you with curious eyes, not fearful ones.

“There is sick like that?” she asks you.

“Yes. Now give me your arm.”

Juno follows you to the family room and stands still, the front of her jutting out slightly as she pouts, a display of her remaining disapproval for you taking a look at her scrape. You get down onto your knees and slowly undo the bandages, unwrapping the layers one-by-one before the end falls off and you’re staring at a 4x2cm superficial abrasion on her arm, and when your thumb lightly swipes at the skin underneath it, Juno winces from the pain.

You also notice she has a bruise on her left upper thigh, right below where the hem of her shorts end.

“You…only fell onto your right side, right?” you ask her.

“Mhm,” she nods.

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“How come you have a bruise on your left thigh then?”

Her eyes widen slightly with shock and her head quickly snaps down to look at her thigh. “Um. Um. I don’t know. Um. Um.”

“Juno,” you say, trying to muster up a strict tone, but she refuses to make eye contact with you anymore as she stares at the carpet beneath her. You gently grab a hold of both of her wrists. “Sweetheart. Look at me.” Her eyes slowly lift up to meet yours. “I want to help you, but I can't help you unless you’re honest with me.”

Her big eyes blink at you slowly and her bottom lip quivers slightly.

“How did you really hurt yourself?”

She immediately starts bawling. Full on sobs that echo throughout the room and startle you slightly as the tears freely fall down her cheeks and she struggles to wipe them off with her left arm, but they only drip down her elbow.

“Oh–” you stutter, holding her by her shoulders, “Juno–”

She sniffles. “They–” she hiccups, “they pushed me…they always push me.”

“Who pushed you?? Who always pushes you??”

She sucks in a deep breath as she continues to cry and you struggle to wipe at her tears for her with the pad of your thumb. “The–hic–girls at school. They’re so–hic–...wahhh…they’re so mean.”

“They pushed you on the playground and that’s how you got this scrape and bruise?” you ask her.

She nods as she slowly begins to come down from her outburst, her remnant sniffles and short sharp inhales showing that she was struggling to breath. You run to grab some tissues and then come back, holding them to her nose before she blows into them.

“Oh sweetheart…I’m so sorry,” you say to her.

She suddenly runs into you, hugging you tightly, and you’re momentarily surprised before wrapping an arm around her too and then gently patting at her back.

“How long has this been going on?” you ask her.

“Mm…ever since I–hic–ever since I got on T-ball team…but they couldn’t get on.”

“Oh…” you coo, gently rubbing her back now. You’re not a mom, you’ve got no fucking clue how to navigate this sort of situation. But you can try your best to give some advice. “Juno, you have every right to feel happy and safe at school.” You gently pull her away from the hug so that you can look at her face. “And it’s okay to stand up for yourself and against anyone that is being mean to you. Don’t let them take that power away from you.”

She nods slowly, her lip quivering slightly again.

You sigh slowly before giving her another hug. “And we’ll work out something with your mom too, okay? She can talk to the teachers.”

“No!” Juno shrieks, pulling away from you suddenly. You blink at her. “No. Please don’t tell my mommy.”

“W-Why not??”

“Because–” she stutters, “um…I want to tell her myself. Because I lied, and mommy always says to me to not tell lies. So I have to fix it myself.”

You tilt your head at her, frowning slightly. You’re not exactly sure how much autonomy over such things you should be granting a five-year-old, but you decide to give her the choice. You hold your pinky finger out to her, “you have to promise me you’ll tell her though, okay?”

She nods and wraps her pinky around yours.

After getting her scrape cleaned up and tended to, Juno spends the next hour or so watching My Little Pony on the TV as you clean up the mess you made in the kitchen. And as you’re staring out into the backyard while wiping down the cutting board, the sound of the doorbell ringing makes you jump with a startle and breaks you out of your trance.

You were prepared to open the door to find Sana standing at the entrance, but instead you’re met with the sight of a different woman.

Much older, and with all the same features, it doesn’t really take you long to figure out who she is.

“Ah! There she is!” the woman chirps out. “I’m—”

“Juno’s grandmother,” you finish the statement for her.

“—Satoru’s mother,” she instead says.

You both blink at one another.

“Well,” she chirps, “I’m both!”

Gojo’s mother appears to be a kind woman, and it’s evident that being gorgeous must run in the family. Although she has aged features, they’re still beautiful in a graceful way, where people would take a look at her and think of aging as a privilege and not a curse. Her eyes are somewhat feline, different from the roundness of those you’ve seen in her family, and her hair is a shimmering silver all around with a pretty silk press layered hair style that flatters her frail jaw. She was wearing a French-style button up dress with a rather gaudy belt around her waist, and you catch the scent of her lilac perfume even while she’s standing three feet away.

She puts her hands on her hips and has a forced smile on her face. “My son gets married and he doesn’t even tell me a peep about it, or introduce me to his new wife! I have to come all the way over here myself!” she exclaims, and her tone is like she’s trying to play it off with nonchalance but the stiffness of her features makes it look like she’s losing her mind. “Well,” she clicks her tongue, “he’s always had the penchant for never sharing anything he ever does with me.”

“Ah…I’m so sorry, Mrs. Gojo,” you say to her, unsure why you’re apologizing, but there was this energy to her that made you realize she had a skill for making people feel apologetic in her presence.

“No worries! Not your fault. I’ll deal with him later,” she says, her smile growing to where it almost fully crescents her eyes in a frightening way that almost sends a shiver down your spine, “anywhoooo,” she takes both of your hands into hers, “you’re very beautiful, and you have a very lucky-looking nose!”

“Lucky?”

“Yes, yes. You will bring luck to our family.”

“Thanks?” you say, trying to manage a smile.

She takes a step closer to you. “Tell me, what do your parents do for a living?”

“Oh! Um, well, my mom is retired, but she used to be an art teacher. My dad is in the food business, but uh, I haven’t spoken to him in years ever since my parents got divorced.”

“Ah,” she says curtly, her face blank as if she couldn’t think of a single thing to follow up with after that. She peers past your shoulder. “Where’s the little princess?”

“She’s just inside grabbing her things.” You gently slip your hands out of her hold and turn around to face the inside of the house. “Juno!! Do you need help?”

“No!!” she calls from the kitchen.

“Say, my dear,” Gojo’s mother speaks up, “why don’t you and Satoru come by for dinner this weekend? Jun and Sana apparently have some important news they’d like to share with the family, and I offered that we all hear it together over a meal. This way you can meet your father-in-law too!”

You take a deep breath in, realizing that this fake marriage agreement involves a lot more deceit than you ever thought it would. “Sure. Yes. I’d love that. Let me know if I can bring anything.”

“Wonderful!” she exclaims, just in time for when you feel Juno brush past you towards her grandma, hunching over slightly with her backpack’s weight. Gojo’s mother pulls you in for a hug which entirely startles you and you slowly wrap your arms around her as well. “It’s so lovely to have a daughter-in-law. Oh, I am just so happy to have you in our family.”

She lets go of you but still keeps you close by a delicate hold of your elbows, a gleeful smile on her face as she looks you up and down slowly.

“Bye, auntie y/n!!” Juno squeaks out, hugging your leg, and you pat at the top of her head. Her grandmother finally lets go of you and takes Juno’s tiny hand in her frail one, and you see them off to the car.

By the time you make it back inside the house, you let out a deep slow breath, one that you didn’t know you were holding in, as you lay your weight back on the front door. You feel a pressure in your head from your dwindling social battery and all these tricky encounters.

So, you’re part of a whole other family, now?

That. Is. Frightening.

[end of chapter 3]

a/n. ah!! hope you enjoyed this ihm chapter :’’) sorry if it seemed like a bunch of random scenes lolol i swear it’s all set up for stuff that will happen down the lineee. i just be yappin so the word count ends up kinda high. hope to see you in the next one!! <3 love u all. also it’s my frank ocean anons bday today so i dedicate this chapter to themm 🫶🏼💕 manifesting dilf gojo for u bb for anyone curious about why reader is a bit paranoid w potentially being busted for her fake marriage, i had another reader that was curious about this too so i answered them here if you'd like to check it out :)

➸ take me to chapter four!

note: please do not ask me for updates or when i will next update (read rules)

taglist:

@tremendousbouquetflower @semra4 @noctuaism @gojonegs @reinam00n

@bloopsstuff @bbyxxm @yungbloode @elloredef @spriteshawtyy

@joemama-2 @luniunia @4y3sh4 @ironhottubstranger @lushafterglow

@hermizery @manyno @idiot-juice-enthusiast @fairyflorasworld @teramisuyhin

@mmeerraa @bnha-free-writing @bakuhoethotski @xenop0p @spaghettinewt

@anniegojo @rirk-ke @chiyokoemilia @higurumapet @pickuptruck01

@electrckchild @vi-ola666 @arishaxml @lavender-hvze @starmapz

@sxnkuna @billiondollarworth @fallintothechasm @mavvsmm @alygator77

@ricaliscious @satxoru @oyaoya-bungeegum @hojoslutoru @satowooo

@ifartmangos @andeverden @13-09-01 @lindyloomoo @tvdumarvelhpsimp

note: please let me know in the replies if your taglist preferences change!

taglist is currently closed (consider subscribing to the story on my ao3 for email updates if you’d like! :0)

911 notes · View notes

mrghostrat · 10 months ago

Text

404 ERROR BRAINCELL NOT FOUND

They froze as soon as he pulled back from it, looking dead at each other, close enough that Aziraphale could see his shock-wide eyes through his tinted lenses. “Nggk— yep. You remember how to get back here?” Suddenly breathless, like he must have left his voice all the way over there on Crowley’s cheek, Aziraphale nodded far too quickly and turned to leave the room. [BNF]

#another one i sketched on stream today!! tysm for the requests btw 😍#fake dating fic!!!#falling into character for crowley is just wayyyyy tooo easy #bnf au #gomens #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #rat draws #rat writes #good omens au

3K notes · View notes

luvismenu · 2 months ago

Text

˖ ִֶָ 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐛𝐨𝐲!𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐤 ་༘࿐ m.list / mini mlist

note — fuckboy!jk was originally supposed to have 2 parts, but then i made it 5, and eventually it became a 10-part series. the extras/drabbles might be a bit confusing, but you can read them in any order you like — either start with the extras and mix them with the chapters, or read the series first and then the extras.

┈➤ 01 , 02 , 03 , 04 , 05 , 06 , 07 , 08 , 09 , 10. end

────୨ৎ────

extras/drabbles ♡

── . first meet / texts / - before pt.1

── . first time fucking / texts / - before pt.1

── . jk's pov when you got drunk / a scene from pt.3

── . stfu i miss u / extra, in the future :)

────୨ৎ────

— no series taglist ♡

#jeon jungkook #jungkook smau #jungkook fic #jungkook fic recs #bts social media au #fake dating

472 notes · View notes

a-reader-and-a-writer · 3 months ago

Text

Sweeter Than Revenge Part 1

Fandom: Twisters, Tyler Owens, f!reader, Scott's Sister!reader Summary: When you try to surprise your brother with a visit in the hopes of mending your strained relationship, it does not go as planned. Rudely dismissed by Scott, you decide to get a little revenge. And who better to do it with than the head Tornado Wrangler himself... Word Count: 3509 TW: Family Conflict, Brief Mention of Reader's Clothes/Breasts, Unsucessful Flirting, Language Notes: A massive thank you to @blue-aconite and @green-socks for reading this over for me and for all the constant support! And to @mayhem24-7forever for always answering my late-night panicked messages

Divider created by me (please ask/credit before using)

Series Masterlist

Grabbing your backpack off the seat beside you, you stood and joined the crowd of passengers making their way to the front of the bus. You stopped to let an elderly couple join the line in front of you and used the momentary pause to glance out the window at your destination. A small diner in need of a fresh coat of paint and a good window washing sat off to the left while several rows of gas pumps were lined up on the right. Trucks, vans, campers, and SUVs filled almost every parking spot and spilled into the grassy field around the lot. Some vehicles were ancient, rusted machines that barely looked driveable while others were so fresh and high-tech they could have just been driven off a lot. Those were the vehicles you were looking for.

Stepping off the bus, you headed towards the group of four shiny new vehicles on the other end of the parking lot. On the way, your head was on a constant swivel as you took in everything around you: a middle-aged couple arguing loudly about who forgot to tie down the lawn chairs the last time they stopped, a somewhat familiar-looking man in a cowboy hat unloading a piece of equipment from his huge red truck while another long-haired man filmed him, a woman with dreadlocks fiddling with a remote control only for a large drone to drop out of the sky a moment later and land at her feet, a few children racing towards the diner with their exasperated mother trailing behind yelling at them to watch where they were going.

It was utter chaos and you loved it already.

As you approached the vehicles, you saw the Storm PAR logos printed on the sides and breathed a sigh of relief that after this sixth bus stop, you had finally tracked them down. You still didn’t see who you were looking for, so you walked up to a man with dark curly hair wearing a white button-down Storm PAR shirt who was currently crouched down examining a weird solar panel-looking piece of equipment set up next to one of the vans. As you cleared your throat, he looked up from the machine and blinked, as if he was shocked to see someone standing there despite the crowds of people around him. Glancing around, he asked, “Um…can I help you?”

You guess you shouldn’t be too surprised by his reaction. In your cut-off shorts, boots, and halter top, you looked like you should be hanging out one of the trucks you passed when you first got off the bus, not the polished, company polo shirt-wearing tech heads milling around the Storm PAR vehicles. And you didn’t even want to know what your hair and makeup looked like after four hours on that poorly air-conditioned packed bus.

So, instead of taking offense at this guy’s slightly dismissive tone, you smiled as you adjusted the backpack on your shoulder. “Hi. I’m looking for Scott.”

The man glanced over his shoulder but made no move to stand up. “He’s here but he’s in the middle of some data calculations. Can I help you with something?”

“Not really. I had time off college and he mentioned you guys were having a really active season so I figured why not come out and see all this in action.” The man was still looking at you like he couldn’t understand why you were talking to him and you suddenly realized you hadn’t explained the most important detail. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I guess I should have mentioned, Scotty’s my older brother.”

Instantly, the man’s demeanor shifted and a huge toothy smile spread across his face. “Oh! You should have led with that. Nice to meet you.”

Rising to his feet, he stuck out his hand and you shook it, officially introducing yourself. When he said his name was Javi Rivera and it was your turn for things to click into place. “Javi! You’re Scotty’s business partner, right? He’s told me about you.”

Javi let your hand drop and his eyes shifted towards his equipment once more. “Really? Well, um, you know, I’ve, uh, heard great things about you too.”

You grinned, grabbing onto the straps of your backpack. “Scotty never even mentioned he had a sister, did he?” Javi gave a slight shrug, still not looking directly at you and you laughed. “Yeah, that sounds like him. Never wants to get personal, everything’s about business with him. To be honest, I don’t see or hear from him that much which is just another reason I figured I’d come surprise him when I had the chance. Plus, I read some research Scotty left lying around last time he came home and it was really interesting. I’m excited to be able to see what you guys do firsthand.”

“Well, I’m sure Scotty will be glad to see you. Let me go grab him.”

Javi turned and disappeared into one of the vans. A moment later, he returned with your brother following closely behind. “Javi, I was in the middle of some important calculations. Why did I have to–” Scott stumbled to a stop as he saw you standing there.

Since he was a teenager, Scott had mastered the art of keeping his emotions hidden. He could be fuming mad, joyously happy, or heartbrokenly sad, and in each case keep the same perfect mask on his face. However, you knew his one tell. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep the emotion out of his eyes. And right now, you could practically see flames burning within them.

For the first time, you wondered if coming to see him had been such a good idea. Shifting from one foot to the other, you tried to force a smile as you half-heartedly held out your arms. “Surprise.”

Scott remained rooted to the spot, his only movement the constant forceful chewing of his gum. Javi glanced back and forth between the two of you, the smile slowly draining from his face. Hesitantly, he explained, “She said she was your sister so I figured…”

A cultivated smile spread across Scott’s lips but it didn’t reach his eyes as they continued to burn into yours. “No, it’s all good. I’m just surprised to see her.” Without breaking eye contact, he held his tablet out to Javi who took it from him. “Give me a few minutes to talk to her and then I’ll get back to those numbers.”

Javi started to protest, assuring him there was no rush and he could take his time, but Scott had already closed the distance between you. Grabbing your arm tightly to the point of slight painfulness, he guided you past the rest of the Storm PAR vehicles and into the empty field.

Once you were far enough away that you knew none of his co-workers could hear you, you wrenched your arm from his grasp, snapping, “Get off of me!”

“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled, his mask finally slipping as his nostrils flared and lips curled into a snarl.

“Well, hello to you too!” You examined your arm where he had grabbed you, massaging it gently. “Can’t a girl come visit her big brother?”

“Not when she wasn’t invited or even asked if she could come beforehand! What were you thinking? This isn’t one of your wild party vacations. This is my job!”

“I know that. I wasn’t expecting you to drop everything and take me sightseeing. I just thought I could hang around and watch you guys in action. I’ve read some of the research you left at Christmas and I was hoping maybe I could learn a little more about it.”

Scott shook his head, his hands on his hips. “This is our busiest time of the season. I don’t have time to babysit you.”

“What do you think I am? Eight? I don’t need you to babysit me. I told you, I’m interested in what you do and thought I could just hang around and see how it all works.” You shrugged, “Maybe you could even take me on a chase or two.”

“Hell no. I won’t have you getting scared and causing us to have to turn around in the middle of a storm run. Javi and I have worked too hard to get this company to where it is and I’m not going to let you ruin that because, on a whim, you thought it would be fun to see a storm.” Scott scoffed as he rolled his eyes. “It’s so typical of you to still think that just because you want something or because Mom and Dad will pay for it, everyone else will bend over backward to accommodate you. Well, I don’t have to put up with your bullshit anymore.”

You took several deep breaths and tried to keep your anger in check. This was not at all how you thought this would go, but lashing out right now would only make things worse. So, in a calm, steady voice, you tried to shift approaches. “Scotty, we haven’t spent any real time together since you left for MIT. And back then…I’m not proud of the person I was and I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. But I was a kid who didn’t know any better! I’ve grown up since you left. And this trip isn’t just something I thought would be fun to do ‘on a whim’. I worked hard to save up the money to come here because I wanted to see you and spend time with you—however little time you may be able to work into your schedule. And I promise I won’t get scared or make you stop your chase. If I don’t like it, I’ll suck it up until it’s over then not ask to go again.” Taking a step forward, you gently placed your hand on his arm and gave him a timid smile. “Let me show you who I am now…how much I’ve changed. Please, Scotty.”

But Scott yanked his arm away and took a step back. “I don’t care where you go, but you need to stay away from me and Storm PAR. Now, I have work to do.” He took one last look at you, and, for just a moment, you thought maybe he felt bad for what he said and was reconsidering things. But then, he blew a small bubble with his gum and popped it loudly in your face. You jumped slightly, the sound sharp and startling, before glaring at him. He had been doing that since you were kids and he knew how much you absolutely despised it. Shooting you one last smug smirk, Scott turned and walked off towards the cluster of Storm PAR vehicles.

You turned to look out into the open field, lip quivering, as you fought against the tears that were burning your eyes. Things between you and Scott had been pretty bad when he left for college, but you hadn’t realized he still really thought so poorly of you. The last few holidays or family events he had been forced to come to, things seemed to be getting a little better. You thought that maybe you had reached a turning point in your relationship. But now it was clear you had been very wrong.

Looking back at the diner and overflow of vehicles, you wondered what you should do now. You had no idea when the next bus came by or how to get a ticket home or if there was a motel nearby you could stay in for the night or how you would even get there if there was or what you would do in the morning or—

UGH! The longer you stared at the Storm PAR logo on the side of the van Scott had disappeared into, the less hurt you felt. Instead, the pain began to shift into outrage. How dare Scott treat you like this? You had spent a lot of money and wasted two weeks of your summer vacation to take this trip to see him. You knew it would involve listening to him drone on about numbers and graphs you could barely comprehend for most of the time, but you were willing to smile, nod, and seem interested to show you cared about what he did. But no! He didn’t even give you a chance to explain yourself or prove that you weren’t here to interfere with his work. He had just torn you down before turning his back on you and walking away. That asshole!

The sun was starting to dip lower in the sky and you realized standing here fuming about Scott wasn’t going to help your situation. You could do that once you found a bus schedule or a place to stay for the night. However, as you stormed back through the parking lot, something caught your eye.

When you had come through the first time and passed the familiar-looking man and the long-haired guy with the camera, you had only seen their truck from behind. But now that you were looking at the front, you noticed the distinctive metal logo attached to the front of the truck’s grille: a tornado with horns jutting out the top of the vortex. And you realized why the man in the cowboy hat looked familiar.

Scott might not talk to you very often, but during the instances that he had, you had heard plenty of complaints about Tyler Owens and his group of Tornado Wranglers. Everything they did was the complete opposite of how Storm PAR operated and it drove Scott crazy that while he was out there doing the “real work”, this group of amateur YouTube chasers were the ones getting all the attention and acclaim when all they were really doing was getting in Storm PAR’s way.

And Scott seemed to have another level of hatred for Owens himself.

Out of curiosity, you had looked up the Wranglers’ YouTube channel and found it pretty entertaining. While Scott viewed every aspect of his work with complete seriousness and professionalism, these guys tackled the same work like they were having the time of their lives. They were still informative, explaining to their viewers how tornadoes formed and the types of destruction they can cause, but they would then drive straight into the center of a funnel or take chat requests of crazy things to do in the storm. It honestly seemed like a great way to get people excited about learning about tornadoes while also keeping them entertained. And it seemed like their nearly 850,000 followers would agree. No wonder Scott hated them so much.

Suddenly, you had an idea—the perfect little act of revenge.

Changing directions, you made your way over to Owens’s truck. You could see he was now alone, tinkering with the equipment attached to the bed of his truck. He had traded his white cowboy hat for a faded backward cap and had pushed his sleeves up above his elbows as he worked, his sun-bronzed skin on full display in the dying light.

Though you had only watched a handful of the Tornado Wranglers’ videos, you had a pretty good idea of the kind of man Tyler Owens was and how you could persuade him to help you. After all, these narcissistic, jacked-up truck-driving, overcompensating pretty boys were all the same. The kind who had been fawned and swooned over their entire adult lives just because they flashed a charming smile or a playful wink in the right direction. However, with just a little stroking of their ego or a bat of your eyes, they could become putty in your hands. All you had to do was introduce yourself.

Reaching the side of the truck, you tucked your hands into your back pockets so it thrust your chest forward and, biting your lip, called out coyly, “Hey there, cowboy.”

Owens glanced up, a curious smile curling across his lips as he saw you, his eyes traveling from your head to boot and back up. “Well, hello there.”

Giggling softly as you placed your hand on the side railing, you asked in a sing-songy voice, “You’re Tyler, right? The big...bad…tornado wrangler?” With each word, you walked your fingers across the railing, your eyes locked on his.

He leaned back, wiped his hands on his jeans, and said, “I might be. Depends on who’s asking.” He was still looking at you but his smile had slipped slightly and you realized you might not have grabbed his attention as well as you thought.

Placing both hands on the railing now, you pushed yourself up slightly, your chest pressed together, and you looked up at him from under your lashes. “What if I’m asking?”

Owens stared at you for a long moment, his eyes still examining you thoughtfully, though you were shocked to see they stayed locked on your face and didn’t dip down to your breast like you had expected. Then, finally, he said, “You seem like a nice girl, sweetheart, but I don't think I'm what you're looking for. Good luck though.” He gave you a kind, yet dismissive nod, and went back to whatever he had been working on.

Your jaw dropped, lips moving silently as you tried to figure out what just happened. This kind of thing always worked on guys like him in the past. Show a little skin, stroke their egos a little, and they would be wrapped around your finger in no time. But he hadn’t even given your act more than a passing glance. It was possible you weren’t his type or maybe he was in a committed relationship, but neither of those things had exactly deterred guys in the past.

You turned around—properly dismissed—and were just about to walk away when another thought crossed your mind. What if…what if you had misjudged him? What if he wasn’t the kind of guy you assumed he was? From what you had seen in his videos, he was cocky and overconfident and a huge flirt, but what if that was all for the cameras? During your very brief interaction, he seemed polite and respectful even as you tried to throw yourself at him, something no other guy had ever done in that situation.

Maybe you had gone about this all wrong. Maybe you needed a different approach. A more honest one…

You hurried around the other side of the truck so you were in front of him once more. Dropping all the over-the-top flirtatiousness from your voice, you said, “Okay, I’m sorry. I thought…it doesn’t matter what I thought, but the point is I shouldn’t have done that. I’ve had a really shitty day and approached this situation all wrong.”

Owens didn’t raise his head, but his eyes drifted back in your direction. Feeling like he was offering you a chance, you explained, “Listen, the deal is I came here to surprise my brother with a visit, and as soon as he saw me, he told me he doesn’t want me here and I should fuck off out of his way.”

That got his attention. Looking up, his brow furrowed, Owens asked, “Your brother said that to you?”

You rolled your eyes and hit the heel of your palm against the side of the truck. “Well, not in those exact words but the sentiment was there. The point is, he told me he didn’t care where I went as long as I left him and his team alone. So, I plan on respecting his wishes…and wondered if I could hang out with your team instead.”

“Well–” He leaned back, clearly not interested in your request, but you cut him off before he could turn you down.

“Please! It’ll just be for a day or two. I promise not to get in the way or mess with any of your work. I just know he has a problem with you guys and seeing me with you will drive him insane.”

Putting down the wrench he was holding, Owens shook his head. “Back up…who are we talking about now? Who’s your brother?”

You realized you needed to get better at introducing people into a conversation before jumping right in. “Scott? He works for Storm PAR?” He hesitated so you sighed and turned towards the other group of storm chasers at the other end of the lot. With one hand on your hip, you pointed lazily with the other, “The surly tall one who never takes off his stupid baseball cap?”

Instantly, Owens straightened up and you knew you had piqued his interest. Chuckling, he asked, “Wait, so you’re telling me Mr. Clipboard and Chewing Gum is your brother?” You nodded. “And you want my help messing with him?”

“Yeah, that about sums it up. So, will you do it?”

The cowboy leaned over the side of the truck and gave you a wide grin. “Oh, sweetheart, you’ve come to the right place.”

Part 2 coming 8/19!

Tag list: @green-socks, @mayhem24-7forever, @blue-aconite, @hederasgarden, @writercole,

@ryebecca, @heart-0n-fire, @nerdysuperchick, @ohtobeleah, @slightly-psycho-multifan,

@sunlightmurdock, @xoxabs88xox, @superchatnoir07, @love2write2626, @smoothdogsgirl,

@rebecca0may, @hereiamhereigo, @nerdalicios, @28cnn, @obsessed-fan-alert,

@ddarling-ddearest-ddead, @sehnsuchts-trunken, @taorislover94, @sweetdayme4427, @marisha-3,

@hopeurokays, @lonelysoul50, @bobfloydssunnies, @rebra1863, @mirrorball-6,

@phoenixhalliwell, @mysticalfuncollectorus, @hellkaisersangel, @stoneyggirl2

@how-what-why-huh, @axolotllover225, @holybatflapexpert, @princesssterek, @autumnleaves1991-blog

@cevansbaby-dove, @mrsyixingunicorn10, @fandomprincess1994

#fic #tyler owens #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens x you #tyler owens x scott's sister!reader #f!reader #scott's sister!reader #twisters #twisters 2024 #scott #scott twisters #twisters scott #scott miller #javi rivera #javi twisters #fake dating #angst #family drama tw #language tw

521 notes · View notes