#inside said language. and then it got me thinking about this

[steddieas-shegoes]

he likes you, you idiot

for @steddiemicrofic prompt ‘sign’

rated t | 507 words | cw: mild language, implied sexual content | tags: friends with benefits, friends to lovers, idiots in love, platonic Stobin, good friends Nancy and Jonathan trying to talk Steve into not being dumb, and max is here

💟💟💟💟💟💟💟💟💟💟💟💟

“What do you mean you don’t know if he likes you?” Nancy smacks his arm. “He had your dick in his mouth!”

“And in his ass,” Jonathan adds from the couch, flipping through a magazine that Steve can’t see the cover of. “Which I think is a better qualifier.”

“Those aren’t signs that he likes me. Those are just signs he likes getting fucked!” Steve throws his arms up and sinks down in the chair. “You guys aren’t helping.”

“I told you they’d say the same thing I did,” Robin says from the floor. “He likes you. These are signs.”

“Why would you think these aren’t signs?” Nancy asks as she settles on the arm of the chair, patting Steve’s head. “Is this because of the concussions?”

Robin snorts. Steve glares at her. She looks out the window to avoid his gaze.

“Because people hook up all the time without having feelings for someone,” Steve explains. “I’ve hooked up with tons of people and don’t even remember their names!”

“People might, but Eddie doesn’t.”

Steve turns to look at Max in the doorway to the living room. He didn’t even know she was here. She stays with him when her mom’s being…her mom.

“You shouldn’t be in this conversation.”

“Steve, I’m 18. I’ve had sex.”

“Shut up!” Steve covers his ears. “You don’t even know what sex is.”

“Anyway,” Max crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. “Eddie’s been in love with you for, like, years. He’s been lying about going out with other people so you wouldn’t know you’re the only person he’s fucked.”

Steve moves his hands into his lap. The room is silent. Max leaves, halting any chance Steve may have had to ask questions.

“You guys saw her too, right?” Jonathan asks, magazine on his chest and eyes wide.

“Yes, Jon.” Nancy stands up and stands in front of Steve. “Do you think you should call Eddie? See if he’d be interested in talking about things?”

“Talking about what things?”

Steve jumps up at Eddie’s voice. He’s standing awkwardly at the front door, letting himself in like he always does, no idea what he’s walking in on.

“Eddie! You’re here!”

“I’m…yep. I’m here. At the exact time I said I’d be. You okay?” He’s looking around the room, but finally settles on Steve. “You look like you just got caught doing drugs by Hop.”

“Nope! No drugs!” Steve laughs awkwardly.

Eddie raises a brow and walks further inside, closing the door behind him. He checks the coffee table, sniffs at Jonathan, then stops right in front of Steve.

“What are you up to?”

Steve bites his lip. Nancy smacks his shoulder and mouths ‘ask him.’

“Do you wanna go to dinner? Sometime? With me?” Steve clears his throat and looks down at his feet as he asks.

“It took you long enough,” Eddie laughs. His hands grasp Steve’s tight, a vice grip that makes him feel tingly. “Gave you every sign I could think of.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Eddie kisses him. “I like you.”

[khuzena]

The Perfect Notation

𐙚 PAIRING: Phainon/gn!Reader

𐙚 SUMMARY: In a modern AU, a reserved, math-obsessed student (you) prepares for the prestigious Nationals math competition, slowly forming a quiet, unexpected bond with the ever-cheerful yet enigmatic Phainon. And while your world revolves around formulas and precision, Phainon watches you from the sidelines—curious, drawn in, and gradually learning to understand you through the language of numbers. As the competition nears, tension builds. You begin to ease your strict routines, letting Phainon into your life, unaware of how much he’s learning—not just math, but you.

𐙚 C.W: Depression, Academic pressure, Kinda happy ending, Angst

𐙚 A/N: Hi!! I'm so fucked. I crammed this so bad................. I onl wrote this as an offering for Phainon. Idk man. Goodluck to me. WE WILL ALL GET PHAINON AD HIS LC!!!!!!!!!! MANIFEST MANIFEST!!!

𐙚 W.C: 8.5k

Anaxa didn’t even glance up from the monitor when he announced it.

“Top rank. Regional champion. You,” he said, sharp and almost lazy. “Congratulations. Nationals is in two weeks. Don’t embarrass us.”

There was a scattered beat of applause from the others—half-hearted, short-lived. Not because they didn’t respect you. They did. But you’d won too many times already. You didn’t smile. You never did. Just gave a small nod and turned your eyes back to the problem set you’d brought with you, already thinking ahead. Everyone else looked relieved that it wasn’t them expected to carry the weight of Nationals.

Phainon clapped a little longer than everyone else, even if he did it mostly out of instinct. Maybe also to see if you’d look up. You didn’t. You just adjusted the mechanical pencil between your fingers and started writing. No celebration. No smugness. Just a clean transition from victory to preparation, like your mind had already sprinted two weeks ahead without you.

He waited until the others filtered out of the room before sliding into the seat next to yours. Your notes were out, as usual—lined graph paper, faint sketches of triangle spirals in the corners, a few barely readable side equations that looked like your personal shorthand. You were midway through a set of recursive relations, flipping your pencil over and shading tiny regions of an imaginary shape you hadn’t finished sketching.

"You’re incredible, you know that?" he said, keeping his voice soft. Friendly. That usual tone that never quite gave away how hard his heart hit the inside of his ribs when you were this close.

You didn’t glance over. Just mumbled, “There’s still nationals.”

“That’s not a denial.”

You pressed the side of your pencil against your temple. “I didn’t study to impress people.”

“Good,” he said. “Because then I’d be very, very out of my league.”

That got him a brief exhale—almost a laugh, maybe. He smiled quietly to himself. It was always like this with you. No dramatic sparks, no confessions in the hallway, no big rom com moments. Just subtle shifts. Only barely there smiles. There's this slight change in your voice when you explained something and thought he was actually paying attention

He was. He really was.

"You’re still doing number theory this week?" he asked, nodding to your notes.

“Number theory, and complex optimization. The nationals committee has a history of using constraint based problems in the first round. And… including linear programming with edge cases. I’m trying to account for unusual variables.”

“You make that sound fun.”

“It is.”

There was something gentle in the way you said it, even if your tone didn’t change much. He liked hearing you talk about math more than he liked math itself—maybe that was the problem. You were fluent in this language. You thought in it, breathed it. And he didn’t. He was still stuck in the shallow end, watching you swim through vectors and primes like it was nothing. In his eyes, you were something else entirely.

But he was trying. You didn’t know that. Maybe it was better that way.

Later that night, in his room, he stared at the scanned copy of one of your old solution sets. You’d let it slip into his notes by accident. Maybe on purpose. He didn’t know. The paper had your name scribbled in the corner in small block letters, and the answer space had margins filled with diagrams no professor would ever require: loops within loops, a staircase of ratios descending inwards. Not just working out the solution—mapping it emotionally, too.

There was something about the way you thought that felt like art. You once solved an entire probability challenge backward just to demonstrate a flaw in its framing. He didn’t even understand the flaw. But he remembered how calm your voice was as you explained it to the class, as if you weren’t constantly carrying the pressure of being everyone’s expectation.

He wasn’t sure when it happened. When the fascination turned into something heavier. When your quiet concentration became something he’d seek out in every room. When your silence started feeling warmer than most people’s words.

Phainon didn’t tell Mydei about it. Not really. But Mydei knew something, of course—he always did. Once, when they were walking back from the library together, Phainon had grumbled something about being “math fucked” and “losing brain cells over logic gates.” Mydei had just looked at him, unreadable, then muttered, “You don’t like math. You like them.”

Phainon hadn’t denied it. Just kicked a pebble on the sidewalk and said, “What’s the difference if I’m learning for the right reason?”

Right now, the right reason was sprawled in the library’s farthest corner, buried under mock test printouts and three different pens. You were tracing something across the page—he couldn’t tell what from this angle. He hesitated by the doorway before walking over.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice light.

You didn’t startle. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Says who?”

“You’re not even in the nationals roster.”

“I’m studying vicariously,” he offered, flashing a grin.

You gave a small sigh, but didn’t ask him to leave.

He sat across from you, watching as you marked a value in red. Constraint minimization, he realized—probably some kind of modified simplex method. You liked visual cues, always highlighted in different shades. Red was for discardable outcomes. Blue for fixed values. Green for hypotheses. He’d memorized the palette without trying.

“You know you don’t have to do this,” you murmured, still focused on your work.

“Do what?”

“Follow me around. Pretend this is your thing.”

He hesitated. The grin faded a little.

“I’m not pretending,” he said finally.

You stopped writing. Not looked at him yet, but still.

“I don’t care about the numbers the way you do,” he admitted. “But I care about why they matter to you. And... that’s worth trying to understand.”

That got your attention. You looked up slowly, not angry, not even surprised. Just quiet. Tired, maybe. Tired of people trying to get something from you. Tired of always being the brain, the standard, the benchmark to beat.

He wished he could explain it better. That he wasn’t trying to win anything. He wasn’t chasing your answers. He just wanted to be near the questions that made you come alive.

“...I used to think people only noticed me when I solved things fast,” you said, almost too low to hear. “Like I didn’t matter outside of that.”

“You do.”

You blinked at him.

“I notice you even when you’re not solving anything,” he added, a little softer.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, pen still between your fingers, like you weren’t sure how to factor this variable in. Like you hadn’t expected honesty to be part of the equation.

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t have to. You just turned back to your notes and pushed a blank page toward him. Handed him a pen.

“Try this one,” you said. “I’ll walk you through it.”

And you did. Quietly. Carefully. Like you actually wanted him to stay.

He didn’t solve it perfectly. Not even close. But you didn’t correct him harshly. You just crossed out one step, rewrote it, and said, “Closer.”

Closer. He could live with that

Twelve days before the competition, you stopped staying for lunch.

Phainon noticed it gradually—first the empty seat, then the unfinished water bottle left behind, then the absence of your voice during roll call. You were always quiet, but you were never gone. Now, you disappeared between periods, emerging only for tests and drills, vanishing again like a scheduled ghost.

He caught sight of you once in the third-floor study room. You were sitting with your hoodie drawn halfway over your head, glasses fogged slightly, hair pushed back in a way that looked unintentional. There were seven books stacked beside you, two calculators, three different notebooks open to wildly different problems. Your eyes didn’t even blink between lines. You were writing in loops, as if time itself bent into circles around your wrist.

He stood by the door for maybe thirty seconds before turning away. He hadn’t meant to interrupt. Hadn’t meant to hover. But you were so deep into it—into your world of vectors and bounds and proofs with ugly constants—that he didn’t dare step inside.

That evening, Mydei said, “They’re going to burn out.”

Phainon looked up from the practice sheet he’d half-filled with mistakes. He hadn’t realized Mydei was paying attention. Then again, Mydei always paid attention to things no one else bothered to watch.

“I know,” Phainon muttered. “I just don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything.”

“You’re not,” Mydei said, and went back to his own book.

Still, he couldn’t shake the image of you hunched over the desk, barely moving except to flip pages or change pens. It was the kind of focus that was a little frightening. Not because it was obsessive, but because it was clearly the only thing keeping you anchored. You didn’t trust the world, not entirely. But you trusted a good equation.

The next day, he brought a small coffee to the study room and left it by the door. Nothing fancy. Just the kind you always ordered—plain, warm, no sugar. He didn’t write his name on it. You probably knew it was from him, but if you didn’t, that was okay too. He left it anyway.

You didn’t acknowledge it when you passed him in the hallway two hours later, but you also didn’t throw it away.

That counted.

By the tenth day, you looked like you were made out of pencil lead and fraying patience. Your eyes were slightly red from staying up too long. You had a cough. Your posture had changed—slouched inward, like your spine had curled into itself to conserve energy. When you walked past the windows, you didn’t even glance up at the light. Your hands were always busy, twitching slightly when you solved problems mid-step, mouthing integers like incantations.

Phainon watched you from across the room during study hall. He wasn’t subtle, but you weren’t paying attention. He always saw when you were working through something—something with matrices, maybe, or Lagrangian optimization. You crossed out two full lines, rewrote them, circled a variable twice, then pressed the heel of your palm into your eyes like the numbers were starting to hum behind them.

It was as if he wanted to say something. Not something dramatic. Not some big motivational monologue. Just—you can breathe, you know. You don’t have to prove it all the time. But even that felt like too much.

Instead, he passed by your table on his way out and dropped a small eraser beside your book. You always borrowed one. Always forgot it. This one had a tiny sun drawn on it with a blue pen. You didn’t say anything, but you moved it closer to your notes and kept using it.

The next few days, he kept studying on his own. He didn’t bother pretending he liked it anymore—he’d moved past that phase. He liked understanding parts of it. Not the math itself, maybe, but the logic. The way you treated problems like puzzles, always finding the most efficient path from question to solution. He kept a folder now, filled with problems you’d solved in front of him. Sometimes he redid them with your steps beside his, trying to see where his mind wandered and yours didn’t.

He also started noticing your habits. You tapped your pencil three times before starting a proof. You wrote every square root without simplifying, unless explicitly told. You skipped the final boxed answer until you double-checked the sign of every constant. When you got stuck, you tilted your head to the left—not right, never right—and frowned as if disappointment were just part of the process.

He wondered if you even knew how many systems you carried in your head at once. How many variables you managed, even outside math. You rarely spoke unless asked. You never sought help. You moved through school like someone who knew how fragile time was and didn’t want to waste a second pretending to be someone else.

Eight days left. Phainon joined your review session by accident—or maybe it wasn’t an accident, but he pretended it was. Anaxa raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, which was either mercy or mild curiosity. You were already there, surrounded by open binders and highlighted theorems.

He asked one question. You corrected him quietly, barely glancing up. But then you passed him a page with an easier version of the same problem. No comment. Just... passed it to him like it wasn’t a big deal.

He kept that page.

Six days before the nationals, it rained. He found you sitting near the vending machine, hair damp, hoodie too thin for the wind. You had a small bag of crackers beside you and your notebook flipped open to a new page. This time, no spirals. Just equations. Dense ones. Partial differentials and strange notation. The kind that hurt his head if he looked too long.

“You’re going to get sick,” he said, handing you a dry napkin.

You took it. “Didn’t bring an umbrella.”

“You okay?”

“I have to finish the integration methods tonight. That’s the only thing I keep slipping on.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You didn’t answer, but your jaw tightened slightly. The crackers stayed untouched. Your hand shook a little when you wrote something—he couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or from exhaustion.

“Can I sit?”

You shrugged.

He didn’t say anything after that. Just sat with you while the rain hit the windows and the world outside got blurred into noise. You solved two problems. He solved one and a half, badly. But you didn’t mock him. You just corrected a sign with your red pen, circled a line, and nodded.

“Closer,” you said.

He felt warmer after that.

Not because of the math. Not because of the rain.

You sneezed. Quiet, quivk, like you were trying not to draw attention to it. Your pencil paused mid equation, fingers curling tighter around it. Then another sneeze followed, this time a little sharper, less contained. You didn’t say anything, but your shoulders tensed slightly, and your hand brushed under your nose before you kept writing like nothing happened.

Phainon watched you from the corner of his eye. You didn’t look sick, not exactly, but you were definitely running warm. Your hoodie was bunched at the sleeves, collar loose, and there was a slight pink flush at the tips of your ears that hadn’t been there yesterday. It wasn’t dramatic—just off. And that was enough.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, voice light.

“I’m fine,” you said, and that would’ve been the end of it, if you hadn’t swayed a little when you leaned back to check your notes. Just a blink’s worth of hesitation. Your hand moved to steady your balance, fingers briefly flattening against the desk before you continued writing like nothing had happened.

“You’ve sneezed three times,” he added. “Statistically, that’s a pattern.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t argue. Another sniffle. You finally lowered your pencil and pinched the bridge of your nose like it was starting to hurt.

“I don’t have time to get sick,” you mumbled.

Phainon leaned his chin into his hand. “Pretty sure your immune system doesn’t care about your schedule.”

He saw it—the falter. The hesitation in your lips before you pressed them together. You were tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that caffeine doesn’t touch and focus can’t compensate for. Your notebook was filled with clean solutions, but the eraser marks had gotten more chaotic lately. Your last proof had a correction line that ran through four variables like a frustrated scrawl.

You looked like you were trying to hold the world together by sheer force of will. Phainon had no idea how you hadn’t collapsed already.

“Let’s go out,” he said suddenly.

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Come on. Just for a bit. Stretch your legs, walk, grab a snack. There’s a convenience store two blocks down.”

“I have to review,” you said automatically, already glancing back at your notes.

“You’ve been reviewing for seven straight hours.”

“Exactly.”

Phainon tilted his head. “You’re burning out. Your handwriting looks drunk. You just sneezed into your own shoulder. I am—scientifically—concerned.”

You stared at him. Not offended, not irritated—just confused, like you didn’t understand what he was trying to get out of this. And maybe you didn’t. Most people left you alone. Phainon hadn’t.

You rubbed your eye with the heel of your palm. “I’m not in the mood to hang out.”

“It’s not hanging out. It’s tactical energy recovery.”

You raised a brow.

“I’ll buy you a snack,” he offered. “Any one.”

That made you pause. Not because of the snack, probably. Maybe because it sounded easy. Normal. Like something someone who wasn’t constantly calculating would say.

“I’m not changing out of this,” you said, gesturing to your hoodie.

“Didn’t ask you to.”

You stared at him another few seconds. Then, finally, with a long, quiet sigh, you capped your pen and closed the notebook. You stood without a word. Phainon followed.

The wind had gotten colder since earlier. You pulled your sleeves down and kept your hands in your pocket, head ducked slightly. Your steps weren’t fast, but they were steady. Still, your shoulders moved a bit more than usual, like you were trying not to shiver.

“Your nose is pink,” he said gently.

“So is yours,” you shot back.

That made him laugh, surprised. “Wow. You do have a bite.”

You sniffled again. Didn’t reply. But you didn’t walk away either.

The convenience store’s lights buzzed softly when you stepped in. It smelled like microwaved curry and floor wax, comfortingly familiar. You wandered first, gravitating toward the drinks aisle with a slow shuffle, while Phainon trailed behind, hands in his coat pockets.

“You like those jelly cups, right?” he asked, nodding toward the bottom shelf.

You didn’t answer right away, just crouched slightly and picked one up. Held it in your hand like you were deciding whether it was worth it.

“Get two,” he said. “You can pretend I earned it.”

You looked at him then. Really looked at him. Your eyes were dull from the fatigue, but there was something flickering just under the surface—confusion, maybe, or something softer. He wasn’t sure.

“I feel kind of hot,” you muttered, half to yourself.

“You’ve probably got a mild fever,” he said. “Here.”

He stepped closer. Not too close, just enough to reach out, hand slow and open. You flinched, barely, but didn’t move away. His palm touched your forehead, fingers brushing against your temple. He expected to feel awkward. He didn’t. Just warm. Human.

You were, indeed, running warm.

He let the contact linger for a second longer, then lowered his hand.

You looked off to the side. “I should be reviewing.”

“You can review tomorrow.”

You shook your head, but it was weak. Your fingers squeezed the jelly cup just slightly.

He walked toward the checkout. You didn’t stop him.

He paid for both snacks, plus a bottle of ion water, and handed them to you outside. You took them, slowly. The sky had gone from pale blue to soft orange—late afternoon bleeding into early dusk. Your breath fogged a little when you exhaled.

“Just one night,” he said. “Don’t solve anything tonight. Don’t even open a notebook. Just... recharge.”

You looked down at the bottle in your hand. Read the label. Then, with no ceremony, you opened it and took a long drink.

“You act like you’re not smart,” you said.

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“You figure me out fast,” you added, quieter. “That’s not easy.”

He smiled. Not widely. Just enough. “I study you more than math.”

You exhaled through your nose, a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. But the tension in your shoulders loosened slightly. You walked beside him all the way back without pulling away, even when your sleeve brushed against his.

He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t ruin it.

You didn’t either.

That night, when you got back to the study room, you didn’t open your notebook. You just sat there, hood over your head, sipping your drink slowly. Phainon leaned back in his chair and let the quiet settle.

One night off.

The table’s surface was warm from the overhead light. Your arm pressed against it as you leaned forward, eyes locked on the scratchpad. The problem had three variables and an error margin no greater than ±0.05. So this was the kind of equation meant to eat hours: a balance model with variable-bound inequalities.

(your messy notes)

 x₁ + 0.6x₂ + 1.4x₃ = 42,  where 8 ≤ x₁ ≤ 14,  x₂ ≤ 2x₁,  x₃ ≥ x₂ – 3.

You’d written that down ten minutes ago and hadn’t spoken since.

Phainon shifted beside you, eyeing the margin of your notebook. There were no doodles this time. No arrows or metaphors or messy little tangents. Just the problem. Just you.

You’d stopped talking much three days ago. You still showed up, still reviewed, still scribbled on his printouts without asking. But your answers came slower. Less confident. Less sharp.

He didn't say anything about it. Not yet.

You pressed your palm to your forehead and muttered something under your breath. The pencil in your right hand twitched.

“You want to test boundary values?” he asked.

You didn’t look up. “What’s the point? It’s unstable no matter where x₁ lands.”

“It stabilizes at x₁ = 10,” he said. “If x₂ = 18 and x₃ = 15, the equation balances at—”

You were already writing it.

 10 + 0.6(18) + 1.4(15)  = 10 + 10.8 + 21.0  = 41.8

He saw your jaw twitch.

“Too low,” you muttered. “It needs 42 exactly.”

“Try rounding x₂ up to 20.”

You scribbled again.

 x₁ = 10, x₂ = 20, x₃ = 17  → 10 + 12 + 23.8 = 45.8

“Too high.”

You exhaled sharply and sat back. The chair creaked beneath you.

Phainon didn’t speak for a moment. He watched you crack your knuckles, flex your neck to the side. You were tired again—he could tell. Not the kind of tired that could be fixed with a snack or a nap. The kind that settled under the skin. The kind that had you burning out in silence.

He looked back at the numbers. “Hm… Try interpolating? Let’s find x₂ that fits given x₁ fixed at 11, I think.”

You hesitated.

He nudged the pencil toward you. You didn’t take it.

“What’s the point if I’m just guessing?” you muttered.

He sat straighter.

“Hey,” he said, more level now. “You don’t guess. That’s not what you do.”

“I used to not guess,” you said. “Now I’m just throwing numbers until it fits. That’s not solving, that’s flailing.”

You didn’t raise your voice, but it was the most emotion you’d shown all week. And it settled between you like heat.

Phainon tilted his head, frowning faintly. “You’re still solving. You just don’t trust yourself when it’s slower.”

“I don’t have time to be slow.”

That silence again. The kind that dared someone to argue.

He didn’t. Not directly.

Instead, he pulled the notebook toward himself and began testing values. Small, controlled substitutions. Not to prove you wrong—but to try what you wouldn’t let yourself do. Try without crumbling.

 x₁ = 11  x₂ = 17  x₃ = 14  11 + 0.6(17) + 1.4(14) =  11 + 10.2 + 19.6 = 40.8

Closer.

“Try x₂ = 18,” you muttered suddenly.

He adjusted.

 x₂ = 18 → 0.6(18) = 10.8  x₃ = 15 → 1.4(15) = 21.0  Sum = 11 + 10.8 + 21.0 = 42.8

“Over,” you said. “Lower x₃ to 14.5.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re allowing floats now?”

“It never said integers only.”

Phainon adjusted again, writing as you dictated.

 x₃ = 14.5 → 1.4(14.5) = 20.3  11 + 10.8 + 20.3 = 42.1

“Almost.”

You took the pencil from him. This time, your hand didn’t shake.

 x₃ = 14.2 → 1.4(14.2) = 19.88  Sum = 11 + 10.8 + 19.88 = 41.68

“No,” you whispered. “Too low again.”

He watched the way your brows furrowed. Not in frustration—but focus. Like the real you was re-emerging, inch by inch, from a long, silent retreat.

You scribbled one more:

 x₃ = 14.4 → 1.4(14.4) = 20.16  Total = 11 + 10.8 + 20.16 = 41.96

Phainon leaned closer. “That’s within the error margin.”

“±0.05,” you echoed, eyes narrowing. “That’s close enough.”

The tension in your jaw didn’t release. Not right away. You just kept staring at the page, calculating again. Double-checking. Reducing. Making sure you weren’t wrong.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “That was a good solve.”

You exhaled, still not smiling. But your grip on the pencil eased.

Phainon didn’t push the moment further. He didn’t say anything reassuring. He just leaned back in his chair and looked at you—not expectantly, not with pity. Just... looked.

He’d watched you shift like this for days. From sharp precision to burning out. From holding yourself too tightly to finally slipping. Not in a way that made you fragile—just quieter. And he hadn’t realized, until now, how carefully he’d started tracking it. The rise and fall of your moods. The way your sleeves drooped past your wrists when you hadn’t slept. The way your eyes moved faster when your confidence returned.

He hadn’t meant to notice so much.

But he had.

And now, with the answer in front of you and your hands stilled, he didn’t know how to look away.

You finally broke the silence. “I haven’t studied properly in days.”

He nodded once. “I know.”

You stared at the solution again.

“You going to tell me I’m screwing up?” you asked.

He thought about it. Then: “No. You already know when you are.”

You looked at him. And for once, didn’t look away.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t kind, either. It just was.

Eventually, you stood. Packed your things slowly. Left the notebook open on the table. Phainon didn’t move, didn’t speak. He waited.

As you reached the door, you paused.

Then you left.

And he watched the half-solved page for a long time after, hand twitching once over the final line of the equation you’d both earned.

The day before nationals, you were staring at problem seventeen.

The question wasn't hard. Just dense. It was a nested inequality, no diagrams, three lines of conditions, and you’d already seen the structure before—maybe two sets ago, maybe last year’s regional finals. But your hands weren’t moving.

Your eyes dragged across the page. Back. Then again.

Nothing stuck.

Not the phrasing, not the shape of the functions, not even the constants. Every time you tried to scan it, it broke apart into noise—like reading with cotton in your ears. Like thinking through static.

The solution was probably two steps. Three, at most.

You couldn’t even start.

Someone knocked.

You didn’t look.

The knock came again—softer this time, a kind of hesitation behind it. Then the door clicked, and you heard it open anyway.

You didn’t have to turn around.

“Don’t,” you said, not even loud.

There was a pause.

“I’m just—”

“I said don’t.”

A beat.

Then footsteps.

Not retreating.

He stepped into the room anyway. Phainon, silent. Probably still in that same hoodie he wore when he didn’t want to draw attention. You didn’t turn your head. You just stared harder at the paper, as if concentration could be forced by spite.

“What do you want?” you asked flatly.

He didn’t answer.

The silence stretched too long. You hated it.

“You think showing up is helpful right now?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your pencil scratched a line across the page, but it was aimless. More like a heartbeat line than math. You flipped to the next page.

Blank. Just grid lines.

You tapped the pencil three times, then pressed it to the paper again. No questions. No prompt. You just drew a symbol. Something meaningless. A circle with a line through it.

Your jaw locked.

“Go home, Phainon.”

Still nothing.

“You think being here does something? That it makes me feel less like I'm falling apart?” You laughed, hollow. “If you’re waiting for some last-minute wisdom to come out of this, don’t bother.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what?”

Nothing.

He just stood there, behind your shoulder.

You grabbed your binder and closed it, too fast. The snap echoed.

“Look, I don’t want to talk. I don’t want eye contact. I don’t want you sitting there acting like your presence is comforting. It isn’t.”

“I know.”

Your throat tightened.

“You think I didn’t notice?” you said, still not looking. “How everything slowed down the past two weeks? How I stopped keeping up with my logs, stopped doing three sets a day, stopped treating this like it mattered?”

“That wasn’t—”

“I let myself breathe, and now I can’t focus. I’m sitting here and I can’t even move past a two-line problem. Nationals is in the morning, and all I want is silence.”

Your voice was low. Sharper than you intended. But honest.

And you meant it.

Phainon shifted. A quiet inhale. Then nothing.

For a second, you thought he might say something. Some vague, clipped version of comfort dressed up as logic. Something he could pass off as neutral.

But he didn’t.

Because you’d made it clear you wouldn’t hear it.

You stood, moved to the far side of the room, pulled open your bag with fingers that wouldn’t stop twitching. You took out another mock set. Unopened. Pages pristine.

You didn’t sit. Just held it like it would matter.

Phainon hadn’t left yet.

You said, with your back turned, “I’ll delete your messages if you send any tonight.”

Silence.

And finally—finally—you heard him step back.

Then the door clicked shut behind him.

No goodbyes. No dramatics.

Just quiet.

Too quiet.

You didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. There wasn’t time for that. You sat down and opened the mock test like nothing happened. Like you weren’t seconds from snapping. Like tomorrow wasn’t the only thing waiting for you, bare-fanged and watching.

The first question blurred. You blinked. Read it again.

Then started solving.

Because that’s all you had left.

The bus ride was too quiet.

You’d brought your binder. Everyone did. Open sets, annotated diagrams, clipped formula guides taped to the back of laminated ID cards. You used to do the same. You used to flip pages just to feel sharp, to stay in rhythm. But today you just held it in your lap. Your thumb brushed the edge of the cover, but you didn’t open it.

Someone laughed two rows down. Probably a teammate. The coach said something about breathing and pacing yourself and trusting what you already know.

You didn’t hear most of it. Your ears buzzed. Your head was full, but not of numbers.

You blinked and the venue arrived. High ceiling, clean rows of chairs, dry ass ac that immediately made your eyes sting red. In the room, they had labeled placards on the desks and printed IDs with barcodes. Everything looked exactly like it had last year.

You were in the front row this time.

Not that it mattered much.

You sat, hands on your lap, knees stiff. Your legs wouldn’t stop bouncing. Your pen was already uncapped. You kept uncapping it, then recapping it again. Five times. Six. You didn’t notice until someone tapped your desk to hand you the test envelope.

You said “thank you” without making eye contact.

Then it started.

Booklet flipped. Timer started. You read question one.

And felt nothing.

It was combinatorics—one of your favorite categories. The kind of problem you used to eat for warm-up. The first half was trivial: inclusion-exclusion, pigeonhole principle, standard case count. But your brain tripped on the wording.

You read the same paragraph twice.

Then a third time.

The logic was familiar. The numbers weren’t. You tried sketching something, but your pencil felt heavy. The lead snapped halfway through your first diagram. You paused to sharpen it, fingers tight, breathing shallow.

You looked at the clock.

You’d spent nine minutes on the first item.

You flipped to number two. Then three.

Then back again.

The room was silent—pages turning, pens scribbling, the occasional cough.

Your pen hovered above the paper. You wrote half a line of working for problem one. Then scratched it out.

It wasn’t even wrong.

You just couldn’t focus.

Your stomach churned.

By the time you finished the first page, it had been twenty minutes. Your hand hurt. You weren’t writing fluidly anymore. You weren’t even calculating. Just stumbling between guesses and second-guessing every instinct you used to trust.

Problem four was geometry.

It was clean. Symmetrical. The kind of shape you’d usually smirk at.

Now it made your head throb.

Midway through the proof construction, you forgot why you were solving it. You blinked and realized you'd written a congruence that didn’t apply. Your triangle labeling was inconsistent. You had to rewrite half the setup.

Thirty-five minutes gone.

Only two questions answered—poorly.

You wiped your palms against your pants. They were damp. You hadn’t noticed.

You looked around.

Everyone else was working. Focused. Calm.

You stared back down at your paper and told yourself to just breathe.

One step.

You just had to think.

Just had to trust your training.

Just had to—

Your vision blurred for half a second. Not from tears. From sheer cognitive fatigue.

You closed your eyes.

This isn’t me.

That voice sounded distant. Like it belonged to a version of you that hadn’t already spiraled.

You used to feel alive during competitions. You used to get high off the logic. Used to finish before the timer. You’d lean back and double-check the whole thing just for fun. You used to walk out of the room with a grin.

Now you couldn’t even lift your head.

You wanted to quit.

Not the competition—just the moment. Just stop existing here. Just vanish from the desk and leave the half-scratched paper behind. You wanted to crawl out of your own body and sleep for a week.

You looked back at the clock.

Fifty-eight minutes left.

You hadn't solved more than two problems.

Your hands shook.

You flipped to the next page anyway. You didn’t want to—your body just moved on instinct. A functional equation. Weird domain restriction. You could see what it wanted you to do. Transform. Isolate. But the working wouldn’t come.

You wrote a line. Crossed it out.

Wrote a second. Scratched over it.

You felt your chest tighten.

This is a joke.

You stared at the ceiling, not blinking, not breathing. Then you looked down and forced yourself to pick up the pen again.

It didn’t matter how slow.

You weren’t going to leave it blank.

Even if everything felt like it was slipping sideways, even if you knew—knew—you’d fumble this set, you couldn’t walk out knowing you hadn’t tried.

So you solved.

Not well.

Not fast.

And then, the announcement came four hours later.

They posted the results on the auditorium wall, in clean rows under the school banners. It took less than a minute for the cluster of students to gather. Someone whooped when they saw their name. Another dropped to the floor in disbelief, grinning at their teammates

You didn’t move.

You stood farther off, half in the shadow of the hallway, arms crossed too tightly across your chest.

You already knew.

The one with the modular constraint and inverse evaluation. The one that was practically made for you. You'd caught the structure immediately—cyclic groups, reduced residues, classic residue pairing. It was clean. Direct. Elegant.

You’d known before they even collected your paper.

You knew the second you circled back to problem nine.

But you hadn’t notated your base step.

You skipped it.

You proved the process but didn’t state the root value.

No mark.

You lost five points for that.

Five points.

You walked up to the sheet anyway. Just to see it.

The margin between first and second place?

Five.

Your name was there. Clear as day.

National rank: 2nd Place Total: 91 / 100

People were already murmuring. A few were surprised. A few weren’t. Some were still talking about how you "looked out of it" during the morning set, how you’d "sat still for too long" during the first page.

First place had 96.

Third had 89.

You didn’t respond.

You’d never placed second before.

You read the number again.

Ninety-one.

Not once.

Not since the beginning.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even crying.

You just stood there, tired. Your legs ached. Your hands felt like they weren’t fully yours.

You heard someone approach behind you. The footsteps were familiar. Lighter than Mydei’s. Too careful to be Anaxa. You didn’t turn.

Phainon stopped beside you.

He didn’t say anything.

You didn’t either.

For a moment, the results just... existed between you.

It should’ve been perfect.

That one line.

That one symbol.

That one stupid omission.

The logic was right. The reasoning was solid. It was the kind of solution they’d print in post-competition reviews. But it was incomplete. Technically correct, formally flawed. The judges hadn’t been harsh. Just consistent.

You exhaled, slow.

“You already knew?” Phainon asked, voice low.

You nodded.

“I left it blank.”

“You didn’t leave it blank.”

“I left it unanchored.”

Silence.

You didn’t want consolation. Not even from him.

Because this wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a failure.

It was worse.

It was that knife’s edge between greatness and flaw. The kind of mistake you can’t even be mad at. Just live with. Just swallow. Just remember when you look at your own name in second place next year and wonder how much tighter your grip has to be.

Someone asked to take a photo with the medalists.

You didn’t move.

Your hand twitched slightly when your name was called, but you stayed behind until the crowd thinned.

Phainon stayed with you.

Still silent.

It wasn’t a terrible ending.

You still placed.

You still qualified.

But when you finally walked outside—medal in your pocket, sweat dried cold on your back—the world felt too loud. The cars too sharp. The sunlight too white.

You’d done almost everything right.

Except the part that counted.

You didn’t wait for the team photo.

You stepped down from the auditorium steps, medal still boxed in your pocket, shoes hitting the concrete too hard. The sun was brutal. The wind made the sweat on your neck feel sticky. You crossed the street with no destination—just motion. Just away.

Someone called your name. You didn’t turn.

You heard the footsteps speeding up behind you. Rubber soles scraping pavement.

“Wait—” Phainon’s voice, breath catching.

You didn’t.

You kept walking until your throat started burning from how tight it was clenched. Until your fists were hot from how hard you were holding onto nothing.

He caught up anyway.

Of course he did.

“Can you—can you just stop for a second?”

You did.

But not for him.

You stopped because your legs were shaking.

You spun around.

“What.”

His mouth opened. Then closed.

You didn’t wait.

“No, really. What do you want, Phainon?” you snapped. “To say it’s okay? That I still did great? That I should be proud of second place?”

His expression shifted. “I wasn’t going to—”

“Because I don’t want to hear it.”

You stepped closer.

“I don’t want your version of understanding. I don’t want your... your weird quiet ‘I’m here’ look like that does anything for me. You know what I want?”

He didn’t move. Just stared.

“I want to go back two hours and slap myself for being so goddamn stupid.”

Your hands were shaking. “I missed one notation. One. You know how easy that base statement is? It’s mechanical. It’s an instinct. And I missed it because I was so fucking fogged I forgot how to write.”

Phainon said nothing.

You hated that.

You hated that he still wouldn’t argue.

“You knew,” you accused, voice low. “You saw me falling apart this week and you said nothing.”

“I tried—”

“You watched me. You followed me. You sat in that room and you knew I wasn’t in the right state, and you still didn’t stop me from spiraling.”

“I wasn’t going to control you.”

“Maybe you should have!”

It echoed off the buildings.

You took a shaky breath, but your lungs wouldn’t fill right. You swore your heart was in your throat.

“I don’t lose,” you whispered. “I don’t.”

Phainon’s brows knit. “It’s one mistake.”

“To you.”

“Not just to me.”

“Well, I’m not you!” you snapped, voice cracking.

Pedestrians crossed the street behind you. None of them looked your way.

“Do you know what they’ll say?” you asked bitterly. “That I choked. That I got distracted. That I got lazy. That the math kid finally cracked because they stopped grinding and started... I don’t know. Socializing.”

Phainon flinched. Barely.

Your breath caught.

And then, softer: “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You stepped back, blinking hard, jaw locked.

“I was supposed to win. Cleanly. Not because I’m gifted, not because I’m smart—because I fucking worked for it.”

Phainon’s voice came quiet.

“You still did.”

“Don’t,” you warned.

You weren’t ready to hear anything from him. Not validation. Not warmth. Not that irritating, careful silence he kept bringing like it was supposed to help.

You didn’t want him to understand.

You wanted him gone.

So you said the one thing you knew would stick:

“I can’t stand being around you right now.”

He froze.

You didn’t take it back.

You turned.

You walked.

And this time, he didn’t follow.

It had been a week. Maybe longer.

You didn’t care. You didn’t count anymore. The calendar with Nationals circled in red was still on the wall, but you hadn’t looked at it since the results. You kept the lights dim. Didn’t open the window. Didn’t answer your messages. You couldn’t. Every ping made your skin crawl. The medal was still in its case, unopened. Your fingers had touched it once, briefly, by accident when reaching for a pen, and your body recoiled like it was hot iron.

You didn’t deserve to hold it.

You sat hunched over your desk again, notebook open to the same damned problem—the same sequence from that day. That warm-up with Phainon. The one you couldn’t solve cleanly. The one you laughed about, once.

You hated that memory now.

You ran through it again.

You hated how close you’d been.

You hated that it showed up again. You hated that you froze. You hated that you had been the one to say “it needs 42 exactly” out loud—and still blanked.

 x₁ = 11, x₂ = 18, x₃ = 14.4  11 + 10.8 + 20.16 = 41.96

Almost.

You wanted to punch something.

But you didn’t. You just kept tapping the lead of your pencil to the desk. Over and over. Like that would make the numbers change. Like if you rewrote them enough, your score would shift backwards in time and undo the second place.

Your door creaked.

You didn’t look.

You already knew who it was. He kept doing this now—once a day, maybe twice. Quiet steps, paper bag rustling, some drink left on the corner of your desk. He didn’t say anything. You liked that. No words meant you didn’t have to scream.

But this time was different.

Phainon didn’t leave.

He sat beside you.

Not at a distance. Not lingering behind you. He sat—right there—on the edge of the desk like he belonged, like you weren’t halfway to a breakdown, like he wasn’t the last person you wanted to see right now.

You didn’t tell him to go.

You just snapped.

“I fucking had it.”

Your voice cracked on the first word. You didn’t care.

“I solved this. Two weeks ago. I said the answer out loud. I knew the spread. I knew the constraint.”

He didn’t speak.

“I said 42. I said it needs 42 exactly. I even adjusted the values with you. We got 41.96 and laughed because we were close, remember?”

You stared at the paper.

“You know what I got in Nationals?” You didn’t wait. “A time warning. I blanked. I hyperfocused. I optimized the wrong case, and then—then I panicked, Phainon. I panicked.”

Your throat clenched.

“I missed five points. Five points I could’ve solved in my sleep.”

The pencil snapped in your hand.

You stared at the broken lead, then the paper, then your own shaky fingers.

“I don’t get second place. I don’t choke. I don’t choke. I was the kind of person who didn’t choke. Who wrote the neatest notation. Who finished with five minutes to spare. Who got asked to coach others, because I was always sharp, always clean.”

You bit your lip.

“And I blew it. Over one question I’d already seen.”

The silence pressed against your ears.

“I ruined it.”

Still no reply. Just breathing. Just presence.

Your fingers curled, trying to keep steady.

“I hate this. I hate being this person. The person who peaked early. The person who was promising and then lost.”

Your voice dropped.

“I hate that it’s me.”

You felt your chest cave in a little—like air was too much to take in.

“And I can’t stop going over it. I can’t stop. My brain won’t shut up. I wake up thinking of equations. I stare at the ceiling and count backwards. I solve this problem again and again and it never changes.”

You let the pencil fall.

“I lost. I lost. And I can’t even scream because I don’t want anyone to hear how broken I sound.”

The tears came hot. You didn’t wipe them.

You closed your eyes. “I don’t know who I am if I’m not winning anymore.”

Then—

Warmth.

Not words. Not footsteps. Just arms around your shoulders, sudden and too human, too solid.

Phainon pulled you in.

No announcement. No breathy confession. No stupid I’m here for you monologue.

Just a silent, firm hug like the air had decided you’d had enough and finally let you collapse.

Your fists clenched weakly against his sleeves.

You wanted to scream again.

You didn’t.

You just stayed there, held in a silence you didn’t know how to break, shoulders trembling, breath stuttering, eyes blurry, voice too small when it came again:

“…I’m still solving it.”

And he said nothing.

Just held you tighter.

You stared at it for so long you forgot to breathe.

You’d seen the variables before. The shape of the function, the weighted coefficients, the margins for error. You’d memorized every possible spread that week before Nationals. Burned it into your skull, dreamed of the numbers like they were prophecy. You knew the bounds. You knew the behavior. You knew what was optimal.

And yet you’d missed it.

Your finger hovered over the line again:

 x₁ = 10.3, x₂ = 18.6, x₃ = 14.7  10.3 + 11.16 + 20.58 = 42.04

Exactly what you needed. Balanced. Minimal error. Clean notation.

You swallowed.

This was what it looked like when someone else solved your problem.

Not the kind of problem written in a book.

The kind of problem that defined your life.

You didn’t say anything at first. What was there to say?

That he used your notation?

That he probably went through your old scratch paper?

That he even wrote like you now—left margin wide, decimals aligned, iterations clearly marked?

That the one thing you hadn’t gotten right, the one thing that shattered your momentum and your pride and everything you thought made you worth something—he solved it in your language?

You pressed your palm to your face.

The tears didn’t come this time. Just heat. The kind that made your eyes sting and your ears burn.

You weren’t angry at him.

You were angry that it still mattered this much.

He said nothing.

You finally spoke.

“…You used my margin system.”

A pause.

Then, low and hoarse: “It made the most sense.”

Your hand trembled as it dropped to the desk.

“I gave up on this.” You stared at the page like it was some kind of curse. “And you didn’t.”

“I didn’t have to perform in front of a panel,” he said.

You bit your lip.

“I still blanked. Even though I knew the spread. Even though I had this. I still choked.”

Silence.

“I don’t choke,” you muttered again, voice smaller.

Phainon didn’t argue. He just sat beside you, fingers loosely laced in his lap, expression unreadable.

You hated how quiet he was being.

You hated that he wasn't trying to fix you.

You hated how real it made everything feel.

“I thought I could… I don’t know. Rebuild it,” you muttered, eyes flicking across the page again. “Like if I solved this, just this one… if I got it cleanly, then maybe I could forgive myself.”

He glanced down.

“I didn’t solve it for that,” he said quietly. “I just… kept seeing you staring at it.”

You laughed under your breath. Not amused. Not even bitter. Just tired.

“It’s so stupid.”

“It’s not.”

Your voice cracked. “It is. It’s one number. A decimal shift. And it’s been clawing at me like—like the loss means I’m less. Like if I didn’t get it, I don’t deserve anything I had before.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Everyone says I’m gifted. That I was made for this. That I was ‘born for precision.’ But what kind of genius blanks on a number they said out loud two weeks before the exam?”

He turned his head, just slightly.

“You.”

You froze.

Phainon’s voice didn’t waver. “You did. You blanked. You panicked. You lost.”

You didn’t move.

He continued, gently:

“And you’re still you.”

That pierced deeper than any sympathy would’ve.

Because it wasn’t comfort.

It was truth.

You looked at him for the first time.

He didn’t look triumphant.

He looked exhausted.

Like he’d carried the weight of that number for days—not because it was hard, but because you were.

Because watching you disappear into yourself was worse than not knowing the answer.

You didn’t realize how tight your grip had gotten until the edge of the paper started to crumple in your hand.

You set it down.

“I still lost,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

The tears stung again.

“I hate that I care so much.”

He didn’t respond this time. Just leaned back slightly, letting the air between you return. Not out of cruelty. Just space. Like he knew you needed it.

You glanced down at the scratch again.

There it was. Your ghost of a victory. Written in handwriting that wasn’t yours. Solved by someone who wasn’t onstage. Who wasn’t panicking. Who hadn’t been trained for this the way you had.

“I was supposed to be better,” you muttered. “Than them. Than this.”

Phainon tilted his head. “Than me?”

You looked away.

“No,” you admitted. “Than myself.”

The words fell flat, bare, real.

You stared at the final boxed answer. The clean, round 42.04.

“That’s the score I needed.”

“It is,” he said softly.

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to gather something like breath.

Your chest still felt tight.

But not crushed.

You weren’t okay. Not even close. But your hands had stopped shaking.

And for the first time in over a week, you weren’t reciting the question in your head. You weren’t counting factors on your fingers. You weren’t spiraling through iterations.

You were just sitting. Still. Quiet.

Beside someone who had gotten there, when you couldn’t.

Beside someone who didn’t offer forgiveness, because they knew you weren’t asking for it.

Phainon shifted, about to speak—

—but didn’t.

You reached forward.

Picked up the paper.

Folded it once.

Then tucked it into the corner of your notebook like a scar.

A reminder.

A truth.

The perfect notation you forgot, and someone else remembered.

a/N: BEFORE YALL COME AT ME YES THIS IS LINEAR WEIGHTED OPTIMIZATION. THE IDEA AROSE WHEN I REMEMBEERED THE GUY I LIKED AND I WANTED TO LEARN MATH BS HE MADE IT SOUND FUN:((. This ENTIRE formula was something I did wayyy back. Idek remember the process but when I dug my old notes, I saw my tiny comments step by step. If the math is wrong.......... feel free to tell me. pls bro I based this off an old scratch paper GIVE ME A BREAK. WE ARE ALL GETTTING PHAINON. I'm so sorry if this was rushed dawgggggggggggggg

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ��� 

[formulafanfics13]

Hello! I’m impressed by how fast you write and how beautiful it always is! Can I please request one with Carlos where the reader meets his parents ? And she’s maybe a bit nervous about meeting them and her Spanish? Thank you !

Only Mine - CS55 🔥✨

Masterlist

Summary: After nearly a year of dating Carlos Sainz, you finally meet his iconic Spanish parents. Nervous about your imperfect Spanish and desperate to make a good impression, you arrive at their family estate in Madrid and are quickly pulled into their warm, elegant world. Despite your fears, the evening goes beautifully — Carlos translates when needed, his parents respond with kindness and humour, and by the end, you’re laughing, connecting, and even praised by his mother for making Carlos truly happy again. That night, Carlos rewards your bravery in the most intimate, romantic way — in perfect Spanish.

Warnings: i am not spanish, i dont know spanish, google translate is awful. heavy emotional intimacy, language anxiety (mild), family dynamics, soft romantic sexual reward implied at the end (not explicit), domesticity, slow burn comfort, vulnerability, high-pressure social situation with wholesome resolution.

You’d been putting it off. Not because you didn’t want to meet them. Of course you did. They were his parents, royalty in their own right, legends in Spain, the kind of people whose names got whispered in hotel lobbies and waved at by entire paddocks. You’d seen them on TV before you ever kissed Carlos. You knew what this meant.

And yet. The idea of actually meeting them made you want to throw up in your handbag.

Because you weren’t Spanish. And your Spanish? Not great. Passable, sure. Pretty decent when you were a few drinks deep. But meeting the parents of a man you were in love with, a man you’d been dating for nearly a year, a man who had started dropping phrases like "when we move in" and "our kids one day" that was a whole different level of pressure.

You told Carlos as much the night before. Curled up in his Madrid apartment, fresh out of the shower, hoodie way too big, you were scrolling Instagram while he dried your hair with his hands.

“What if I mess up?” you said softly, eyes fixed on your feed.

Carlos didn’t stop. Just kept gently rubbing your scalp with the towel, like it was the most natural thing in the world to have his hands on you. “Mess up what?”

“My Spanish. Or just… I don’t know. I don’t want them to think I’m not serious. Or that I don’t care enough to learn.”

Carlos set the towel down and moved in front of you, crouched between your knees. His hair was messy. His hoodie hung off one shoulder. He looked like a daydream. “They’ll love you,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow. “You can’t guarantee that.”

“I can.” He reached up. Brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. “Because they love me. And I love you. That’s all they need to know.”

You bit your lip. “What if I freeze?”

“I’ll translate.”

“What if I say something wrong?”

“They’ll think it’s cute.”

You sighed. “Carlos.”

He smiled. “Mi amor.”

His parents’ house was exactly what you expected. Big. Elegant. Warm. The kind of place that smelled like lemon trees and polished floors. A family estate with perfectly manicured hedges and a driveway that could host a GP if you added barriers.

Carlos’ mother greeted you first. She was radiant. Strong features, warm eyes, perfect posture. She kissed both cheeks, said something fast and sweet in Spanish that made Carlos smile, then pulled you inside like you already belonged.

His father appeared next, tall and serious and carrying the quiet energy of a man who’d built empires behind the wheel. He shook your hand, kissed your cheek, then turned to Carlos with something teasing that made them both laugh.

You caught maybe every third word. Something about being early. Or not being dressed. Or maybe racing dressed? You weren’t sure.

Carlos leaned over. Whispered in your ear. “He said he wore that same outfit when he met his in-laws.”

You grinned.

His mum led you to the living room. You complimented her earrings in Spanish, “Me gusta mucho sus… uh, aretes?”,and her whole face lit up like you’d recited a poem. She waved off your nerves immediately, answering slower, softer, smiling the entire time. Carlos’ dad joined in with gentler Spanish, even throwing in a few words of English.

And before you knew it? You were laughing over coffee.

Carlos translated when you needed help. But you barely needed it. They asked about your family. Your career. Your travels. You complimented the tiles in the hallway and managed a whole sentence about the garden without fucking it up. His mother touched your hand halfway through dinner and told you, in soft, slow Spanish:

“Mi hijo no ha sido tan feliz en años.” My son hasn’t been this happy in years.

You blinked hard. Swallowed the lump in your throat. Later, Carlos walked you through the vineyard behind the house, hand tucked into yours, cheeks still flushed from the wine.

“Well?” he asked softly.

You sighed, smiling. “I think I passed.”

“You did more than pass.” He stopped walking. Pulled you in close. “You charmed them.”

“You helped.”

“No,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “They saw you. Just like I did.”

You buried your face in his chest. “Still nervous about your aunt’s birthday next month.”

Carlos chuckled. “Don’t worry. We’ll practice. I’ll quiz you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll reward you every time you get it right.”

You looked up at him. “Reward me how?”

He smirked. “I’ll show you when we get back to the house.”

And he did. In perfect Spanish.

[dizziedupthewriter]

silver springs

dean winchester x reader

~

summary: reader finds out about dean’s deal.

warnings: uhhhh kinda angsty? lil bit a language -not edited or proofread 💀

~

‘honey you gotta eat something, please’

‘m not hungry. maybe later.’

you sighed. both you and dean had just suffered a terrible loss. sammy was gone. neither of you knew what to do next.

bobby had gone off to check up on his lead after dean had flipped out on him. you stood in the doorframe from afar.

“you thirsty at all?”

silence.

“alright well, im gunna run out real quick and grab some things yeah?”

“mhmn.”

you walked over to where dean sat at bobby’s table and kissed his cheek.

.

you took the keys out of your pocket and opened bobby’s front door, he was still not home but you noticed the impala in a different spot than it was when you left.

“hey hun? i brought you pie?”

you walked around the corner and saw him sitting up and talking with sam.

“hey de- I-“

shocked was an understatement. sammy, who was just dead for three days, is now sat up in conversation. immediately you knew what dean had done, but you kept your composure.

“hi sam, how you feeling?”

“okay. just a little out of it” sam nodded.

“would you excuse us for a sec? dean i just need help lifting the crap in the trunk please.” you lied straight through your teeth, but you didn’t care. you were furious.

dean nodded and stepped away with you outside. he followed you out near the back shed where you knew sam would not hear. then you started.

“what the HELL. did you do?”

“baby listen i-“

“no! i’m not listening to you! are you fucking kidding me? how long. how long did you bargain for?”

dean went silent.

his green eyes went glossy, unsure of how to explain it to you.

“i had to. im sorry.”

“dean, listen i get it. losing sam like that was the worst experience either of us have had. But why. Why did you do it?”

“He’s my brother, ‘m supposed to protect him. Always. No matter what.”

You understood his need to protect and play the hero card, hell youve done it too. yet the rage you felt towards him was nothing like youve felt before. why would he do this? sacrifice himself for his brother? not realizing that also meant sacrificing his relationship with the one closest to him. did all those ‘i love yous’ mean nothing? all the bickering and the occasional make up make out in the backseat of the impala? you were at a loss.

“i cant believe you.”

“what?” he said with grit.

“youre fucking ridiculous.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“what about us, dean? did you think about that before you sold yourself off?”

“I-“

“you didnt!” you cut him off. “If you had, I wouldn’t be out here going off on you!”

he just stared. if it was anyone else yelling at him he’d yell back, but you? never. he knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of a argument like this and he wouldnt dare put you through that. he knew what he did had its flaws. he quietly spoke up.

“i got a year left.”

“a year? just one?”

he nodded. eyes never leaving yours.

“i dont even know what to say. a year? jesus.” you took a shaky step backwards. looking around for something, anything to help. your nerves were catching up.

dean took a step forward towards you, he put his arms out and rested his hands on your shoulders.

“i’ll be okay” he said. you shook your head and bit your lip.

“i wont.” a tear rolled down your cheek. you shrugged out of his grip and walked away.

he waited for a second then returned to the house. he stood on the front porch and watched as you drove away, knowing that you just needed time to think. he ran a hand over his face and through his hair then went back inside. all he could do now was wait.

~

a/n: woah guys first fic on the blog. ik its ass but i try 😔

dean winchester ily

[forsaken-headcanons]

Bird anon here!! Hi uhm. In celebration of me seeing the robin nestlings more often recently I want to throw more headcanons here. And not just ANY headcanons. No no no. (I open up my Google Docs and look through them before finding the one I need and squinting at it.) Pigeon Taph headcanons? Pigeon Taph. (Would this count as an AU?? I'm not sure.) Anyways. Prepare.

• OKAY SO you know about messenger pigeons, right. And a part of why they were often used was because they could memorize stuff quickly if given the opportunity. YEAH. So Taph is actually extremely good with memorizing directions and new areas. If not actively being chased, he tends to make a map in his head about the different areas that he's in and takes note of different landmarks in order to memorize the area. If someone needs to guide a fellow survivor away from whoever is chasing them, if Taph is nearby, he'll be one of the more likely survivors to do so.

• Taph does not like being alone. He'll be willing to if it's for his safety (I personally headcanon that as robloxians got more violent towards demolitionists and going outside became more dangerous, Taph sort of like. Isolated himself and stayed inside. Unless he absolutely had to go outside), but once forsakened, Taph often can be lurking in the presence of other survivors, especially ones that he trusts. When he enters a round, he also tends to stick with whoever he spawns with, or he'll flock over to the first person he finds (no pun intended).

• On the topic of this, sometimes after particularly rough rounds, since pigeons will flock together for safety in numbers, Taph will try to round up as many survivors as possible.

• Pigeons can be curious, and Taph is no exception. If something is of interest, he'll often go investigate it. Albeit, when forsakened, he tries to take another survivor with him to investigate stuff so that if something goes wrong, death isn't guaranteed. If the thing of interest is something another survivor is doing, Taph will walk over and observe. He won't announce his presence, but if he is noticed, Taph is willing to sign to the survivor that he's watching (if they know sign language. I actually have a list of different survivors who I believe known sign language and how well they know it. I'll submit that eventually!!)

• The other survivors refer to the areas where Taph sets up his tripwires and subspace tripmines as "nests". This is inspired by the fact that on the wiki, some people actually call these areas "nests". At the very least, they did the last time I checked.

• Sometimes, Taph will like. Tilt his head or puff the feathers on his wings in order to communicate. He'll also flap said wings. The force used and the context survivors can pick up on let them know if the flapping is a good thing or a bad thing. If he's angry, he also might nod his head up-and-down extremely quickly (which some pigeons will do!! Mainly when they feel defensive, especially over their territory or their nest). When angry, he might also stomp a foot alongside another trait of defensiveness or anger.

• Before being forsakened, Taph would sometimes laze around in the sun if he had free time. Nothing too much, honestly. It feels nice. He'd do this with other robloxians if he could, but if nobody was available, he'd do it alone. It's one of the things from his life pre-forsaken that he misses, honestly.

• I already talked a little bit about this one before (see previous post), but Taph can often be found in elevated areas. He'll often be in the rafters or trying to climb up a tree inbetween rounds. In maps that he can have a slight height advantage, he'll usually take said height advantage unless it's too risky and his health gets put at extreme risk. I'd like to think that for survivors that he'd be close to, he'd also be willing to help them into some of his favorite areas of the rafters or into some of his favorite trees, and just. Sit with them. Even if not having a conversation.

Thanks for attending!! Get pigeon Taph'ed. Heh. Anyways have a nice day, birds are neat. Birds are super cool. Bird anon out (for now).

Pigeon Taph,,, I love birds and I love Taph therefore I absolutely love all of these. I need to hold them in my hands and pat their head omg. I'm gonna be yoinking some of these

YOU get pigeon Taph'ed /silly

[douceurrrr]

GREEN LIGHT

JOSHUA PEARCE X BLACK!READER !

cw: slow burn, sexual tension, teasing/flirting, alcohol mention, smut (oral f receiving, protected sex, praise kink, slight power dynamics), dom!joshua, light language

sum: As an FIA official, you’re paid to regulate. To control. To keep the chaos of the grid contained. But nothing could prepare you for the storm that is Joshua Pearce — fast, arrogant, dangerously charming. He’s everything you swore to stay away from. So why do you find yourself on the back of his bike, riding into the night like you’ve already said yes?

The first time you saw Joshua Pearce, he was half-dressed, pissed off, and already arguing with your boss.

You had just stepped onto the paddock in Bahrain, fresh badge clipped to your hip, first official assignment as an FIA steward.

The air smelled like rubber and adrenaline. Men barked into radios. Cameras flashed. And there he was — broad shoulders, buzzed fade, arms streaked with sweat and tattoos. Dark fireproofs pulled halfway down, lean hips exposed like he didn’t know better.

Or didn’t care.

“Let me guess,” he said, turning toward you with a grin like a siren. “You’re the one they sent to tame me.”

You didn’t flinch. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was assigned to the whole grid.”

He licked his lips like he’d found a challenge. “Good. ’Cause I play better with an audience.”

⸻

That was six races ago.

Since then, he’d been a problem you couldn’t shake.

Fast on the track, faster with his mouth. Flirting with the line — track limits, media obligations, you.

He was relentless.

It started small — jokes at press briefings, lingering touches as he handed over his telemetry reports, standing just a little too close when you reviewed penalties.

Then came the whispers.

“Why does Pearce get away with everything?”

“He’s always smiling at her.”

“They’ve got history or something?”

You shut it down. Every time. Professionally. Carefully.

And yet—

Every time he looked at you, it felt like a red flag flapping in the wind.

⸻

Barcelona.

Saturday.

P1.

Again.

Joshua was back in the hospitality suite, surrounded by champagne and PR girls, soaking in the spotlight like it fed him.

You leaned against the wall with your arms crossed, scanning the guest list, ignoring how he kept glancing over.

He approached with a glass in one hand and that same damn smile in the other.

“You didn’t clap.”

“I’m not paid to clap.”

“Shame,” he said, sipping slow. “You could’ve at least smiled.”

You stared up at him, deadpan. “Break another rule and I’ll smile while I write you up.”

He stepped closer. “Might be worth it.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to walk away — but he grabbed your hand.

It was light. Casual. But electric.

“Come with me tonight.”

You froze. “To do what?”

He grinned. “Let go. For once.”

⸻

1:12 A.M.

Barcelona hills.

The motorbike purred beneath you as Joshua pulled off the winding road and killed the engine. You sat frozen, the heat of the ride still pulsing between your thighs.

You slid off, tugging off the helmet with shaky hands. “I should go.”

He turned to you. Moonlight kissed the sharp lines of his face.

“Go if you want,” he said softly. “But I’ll still be thinking about you.”

You held his gaze. Something unspoken passed between you — all the arguments, the tension, the electricity.

You crossed your arms. “This is a mistake.”

He stepped forward. “Probably.”

“You’ll get in trouble. I’ll get fired.”

“I know.”

Your breath hitched.

And then he said it, low and rough:

“Say no, and I’ll back off. Say yes…”

His hand brushed yours.

“…and I’ll spend all night proving I’ve been right about you.”

“What’s that?”

He leaned in. “That you’re dying to break a rule too.”

⸻

You didn’t say yes.

But you followed him inside anyway.

The villa was sleek, open, quiet. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Shadows and stone.

He set down his keys. Waited.

You hovered in the doorway like it might bite you.

He took a step forward. “Scared?”

“No.”

He smirked. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not trying to be another driver who fucks and forgets.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“I’ve been watching you,” he said simply. “Since Jeddah. The way you walk the track in the mornings. The way you handle yourself when they doubt you.”

He paused.

“And the way you look at me when you think I’m not looking.”

You laughed once, dry. “You think I look at you like I want you?”

“No,” he said, stepping close. “I know you do. Just like I know how hard it’s been for you not to give in.”

He was right.

And that scared you more than anything.

⸻

You kissed him first.

Grabbing his collar, pulling him in.

It was teeth and tongue and every ounce of frustration you’d swallowed since Bahrain.

He groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your hips like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“I knew you’d taste like this,” he muttered, trailing kisses down your throat.

You gasped. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

He lifted you — strong, effortless — and walked you backward down the hall, pressing kisses to your collarbone, your chest, anywhere he could reach.

The bedroom was dark and cool. The windows open. The sea beyond.

He laid you out on the bed like a prayer.

Then he dropped to his knees.

⸻

“Can I?” he asked, fingers sliding up your thighs.

You nodded, already breathless.

He tugged your pants down, slow, reverent, like he wanted to savor every second.

“Fuck,” he whispered, spreading your legs. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You arched as his mouth found your center — hot, wet, unrelenting.

He licked like he meant it, tongue teasing circles, lips sucking slow.

When he slipped two fingers inside, your hips jerked.

“That’s it,” he said, voice thick. “Let go for me.”

And you did.

Hard.

⸻

He kissed up your body, mouthing at your stomach, your breasts, until he reached your lips again.

You tugged at his waistband. “Now.”

He pulled a condom from the nightstand — fast, practiced, respectful.

Then he slid inside.

You both moaned.

He filled you perfectly — deep, thick, smooth strokes that made your toes curl.

“You’re everything,” he muttered against your ear. “Everything I’ve been needing.”

You wrapped your legs around him, nails in his back, meeting every thrust.

The air was thick with heat, sweat, skin.

And when you came again, he followed — groaning your name like a man set free.

⸻

You lay tangled together, his arm over your waist, your leg draped over his.

The room smelled like sex and salt and something soft.

“You still awake?” he asked.

“Barely.”

He kissed your shoulder. “You’re staying in Monaco, right?”

You blinked. “I… yeah. That’s my next assignment.”

He smiled. “Good.”

You turned to look at him. “Why?”

He gave you a look.

“The grid’s not done with me yet,” he said. “And neither are you.”

[hsslilly-blog]

being primarily an artist (as in “someone who draws”) these days is pretty funny to me but also very strange once i give it some thought. i’ve defined myself as a writer for 1/3 of my life and it was my biggest dream to be a published author (and i am!). i wanted to major in languages and that was my plan up until the second to last month of senior year of high school lol. and then once i finished my books i stopped writing. i felt like i had written everything i wanted to write. super weird after a decade of investing in a project!!

and then seeing myself as someone who draws and not as someone who writes is still new to me. not that they are mutually exclusive, i just mean it as my defining characteristic. i’ve drawn all my life but it was never my number one Thing. you guys should see my art from three years ago omg. i still like writing and i do it very unpretentiously here and there, but it’s not something i think about very often. and that’s weird!! it used to be my everything and now it’s just another thing!!!!

[cent-scratchnsniff]

here together

[rubber-glovs]

Oooohhh the urge to yap about my ocs and the world they live in......

[cyberverse--reblogger]

Size chart for (some) Cyberverse characters!

(Note: The size and conversions into feet will be done below, typed out for convenience.)

So I was scrolling around on Seibertron's discussion threads about cyberverse (somebody was trying to bring some political figures in the conversation and I was so confused) to try and ignore my real-life responsibilities and I stumbled upon this post!

It's a (probably) official size chart for certain characters from cyberverse! I posted another version of the screenshot below. Also, here is the original video from where the size chart came from, and it is also in a playlist, including other videos about this cyberverse magazine.

Note: I suggest you click on the picture or open it in a new tab, as tumblr murdered the quality pretty badly. I also suggest you all to watch the video, because my computer is kinda crappy, and idk if taking a screenshot murdered the quality.

HEIGHT AND CONVERSION INTO IMPERIAL SYSTEM:

This is by the order from left to right, top to bottom. Please note that this isn't exact, as I'm just trying my best with eyeballing the heights, and I'm using google conversion to change this in the imperial system, and I'm also rounding the numbers to only two decimal places. Also, the poses they're doing are really weird (seriously, what are you doing, Acid Storm?), but I'm assuming that wherever their heads end is how tall whoever put this chart together wanted them to be, and they didn't have access to any official art that had everyone standing straight.

By the way, please don't chew me a new butt if I'm off by around 0.10 meters or something. I'm trying my best here, and I don't really want to break out the rulers and grid and do math to find their exact height. I'm just doing this for fun :]

AUTOBOTS/TOP ROW: Bumblebee: 4.75 meters, equivalent to 15.58 feet. Optimus Prime: 5.75 meters, equivalent to 18.86 feet. Windblade: 4.75 meters, equivalent to 15.58 feet. Grimlock: 6 meters, equivalent to 19.69 feet (nice). Hot Rod: 5.25 meters, equivalent to 17.22 feet. Wheeljack: 5.50 meters, equivalent to 18.04 feet. Blurr: 5.50 meters, equivalent to 18.04 feet. Ratchet: 5.65 meters, equivalent to 18.54 feet.

DECEPTICONS/BOTTOM ROW: Megatron: 6.25 meters, equivalent to 20.50 feet. Starscream: 5.10 meters, equivalent to 16.73 feet. Shockwave: 5.75 meters, equivalent to 18.86 feet. Thundercracker: 4.65 meters, equivalent to 15.26 feet. Shadow Striker: 5.65 meters, equivalent to 18.54 feet. Acid Storm: 4.65 meters, equivalent to 15.26 feet. Soundwave: 5.65 meters, equivalent to 18.54 feet. Slipstream: 4.65 meters, equivalent to 15.26 feet.

Below the cut is some stuff that I found interesting, like the average of heights, orders from shortest to tallest, surprises I had, and other thoughts. Take a look!

AVERAGE HEIGHTS OF AUTOBOTS: 5.39 meters, equivalent to 17.69 feet (nice).

AVERAGE HEIGHTS OF DECEPTICONS: 5.29 meters, equivalent to 17.37 feet.

AVERAGE HEIGHTS OF BOTS WITH LAND-BASED ALT-MODES (there were 11 of them in total; 7 Autobots, 4 Decepticons): 5.61 meters, equivalent to 18.40 feet.

AVERAGE HEIGHTS OF BOTS WITH AERIAL-BASED ALT-MODES (there were 5 of them in total; 1 Autobot, 4 Decepticons): 4.76 meters, equivalent to 15.62 feet.

-----

Height re-order; Tallest to shortest, all bots: 1. Megatron (6.25 m // 20.50 ft) 2. Grimlock (6 m // 19.69 ft) 3. Optimus Prime and Shockwave (Both 5.75 m // 18.86 ft) 4. Ratchet, Shadow Striker, and Soundwave (All 5.65 m // 18.54 ft) 5. Blurr and Wheeljack (Both 5.50 m // 18.04 ft) 6. Hot Rod (5.25 m // 17.22 ft) 7. Starscream (5.10 m // 16.73 ft) 8. Bumblebee and Windblade (Both 4.75 m // 15.58 ft) 9. Acid Storm, Slipstream, and Thundercracker (All 4.65 m // 15.26 ft)

Height re-order; Tallest to shortest, Autobots only: 1. Grimlock (6 m // 19.69 ft) 2. Optimus Prime (5.75 m // 18.54 ft) 3. Ratchet (5.65 m // 18.54 ft) 4. Blurr and Wheeljack (Both 5.50 m // 18.04 ft) 5. Hot Rod (5.25 m // 17.22 ft) 6. Bumblebee and Windblade (Both 4.75 m // 15.58 ft)

Height re-order; Tallest to shortest, Decepticons only: 1. Megatron (6.25 m // 20.50 ft) 2. Shockwave (5.75 m // 18.86 ft) 3. Shadow Striker, and Soundwave (Both 5.65 m // 18.54 ft) 4. Starscream (5.10 m // 16.73 ft) 5. Acid Storm, Slipstream, and Thundercracker (All 4.65 m // 15.26 ft)

-----

This whole list was pretty interesting, although I do feel like the animators weren't all that faithful to this (heck, I don't think they had this, and were just told general guidelines to follow to make each character a certain height.) Also, I'd have thought the seekers (and Windblade) would have been taller than most of the other bots that have land-based alt-modes, like Bumblebee or Hot Rod. I guess not in this continuity.

Considering that the other bots that are the same height as Shadow Striker or taller are either SUVs, tanks, large trucks, dinosaurs, etc, while Shadow Striker is just a sports car is pretty interesting.

I also like to imagine that the only reason why Starscream is taller than the other seekers listed is because he made some sort of mod (maybe something that has to do to his rockets at his heel/foot?)

It's too bad that there doesn't seem to be anything with the rest of the s1 characters (Because I swear there were more Autobots first shown in background scenes during season one, but I could be wrong), and it really is too bad that we don't have anything for the season 2, 3, and the movie specials.

Still, I hope you all found this post as interesting as I did!

[robinismywifesworld]

Ms. Manager (No Dating Rule!)

Saja boys x Female! Reader

Summary: Other men really need to stop hitting on you or they're gonna lose their minds.

Warning: Saja boys, possessive! saja boys, jealousy, yandere behaviour, oblivious! reader, dumb! reader, crybaby? reader, death (not reader or the saja boys), grammatical errors probably and incorrect spellings, english is not my first language, probably more.

Author's note: The first part reached over 3,000+ notes in just two days (I don't know if that's a good thing or not) but thank you nonetheless! This happens before the first part. This is not proofread lol

Part 1

Coming into the Korean pop music business as a group's manager wasn't exactly what you planned that would happen to you, it wasn't the job you dreamed of but it paid rent and the boys you were looking after weren't that bad, they were extremely clingy and a tad over protective for someone they appointed as their manager for 6 months. It was unexpected but the 5 boys seemed nice enough that immediately made you accept their offer as their manager, their looks were just bonuses.

Apparently, being their manager also requires you to bring them food (Baby said so) and while they offered to come with you, you disagreed because you didn't want to disrupt their dance practice. They gave you their money, of course.

So that's why you were currently in the supermarket, pushing the trolley as you tried to remember what it was that the boys liked to eat. It seemed only Baby loved the hot sauce after getting a free taste on one of the few times they came with you to the shops.

"You can buy what you want with the money too, pretty." they said before you walked off, handing you a butt load of money that wouldn't be able to fit in your wallet.

And that's what you did, throwing your favourite food after food inside the trolley with a giddy smile before stopping to think what your boys liked.

A tap on the shoulder interrupted you from your thoughts making you turn around to see an admittedly handsome man who seemed about your age, ginger hair, brown eyes and fair skin. He's a foreigner, that much was obvious. You blink in surprise and confusion, "Uh, hello? something wrong, sir?" You asked, voice laced with its usual softness and trying to speak in english.

The male cleared his throat, "Uh.." he was momentarily distracted by your looks and cute voice. "Uhm, ye-yes... I-" He cleared his throat again.

You raised an eyebrow, 'Is he alright?' you thought.

"I think you're really pretty and... I was wondering if you'd like to go on a date with me..." He finally says, cheeks tinted pink. British.

Your eyes widened, feeling your own cheeks heat up at his words and accent. This is the first time in years since someone had asked you out, someone this handsome and has a british accent! That's practically the sexiest accent in the world, at least that's what your friend said to you.

"Oh! My name is Brandon, I'm not from here and I just... I thought you very pretty and I'm rambling.." He stammered out, face reddening even more. "I don't know, I just- I wanted to try and have a friend... it doesn't have to be a date-date, just a friendl-"

You don't have an understanding of the whole english language but you definitely got the gist of that.

You interrupted him with a kind smile, "I accept!" You exclaim, trying to hide your excitement.

Brandon smiled back, "h-here... my number, call me? I mean w-we can meet tomorrow for that date.." He said as he handed me a piece of paper with his number that he wrote before walking towards me.

You gave him a nod and a small wave as he walked away with a skip.

You opened the door to the boy's dance rehearsal, carrying three bags of food (the two bags were for you). The boys stopped their practice and immediately went to fight each other on who could help you, practically pushing each other away before Abby grabbed the bags from your hand with a charming smile, "I'll handle them for you, pretty." He said as the rest scoffed.

"Thank you!" I smiled, "So how's practice going?"

Jinu sighs at the question, moving to stand beside you. You could practically smell him with how sweaty he is, no- you could smell all of their musky smell. "It's fine," He huffs, trying to cover up the fact that it was not doing well at all with how much the rest of the guys stressed him out a lot.

"I did tell you I could hire a dance instructor for you guys," I hum, trying to ignore their scent.

Baby rolls his eyes, "Don't. I don't want other people in here." He mutters. I don't want you talking to anybody else, especially if it's a guy.

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it," Romance reassures as he took the place on the other side of you. "Just watch us and look all beautiful for us... okay, Ms. Manager?" he adds with a flirty smile, placing a hand on your shoulder.

Mystery nods his head at what the heart shape haired male said.

I pout, "I just want to be useful, I am your manager after all..."

Abby chuckles, "you are useful, pretty girl. You're taking care of us right now, buying us all these food. You've been a good girl for us." He praised as Jinu hums in agreement.

Your cheeks heated up, they always seem to like mentioning everyday that you've been a good girl and it never stops to make your heart skip a beat.

Such a good girl, you like touching my muscles, don't you?

Thank you, pretty girl. I'm so proud of my good girl.

Don't stop doing that, it feels good... that's right, good girl.

The next day came by and you were giddy, all excited that the others couldn't help but notice it when you came by for another day of dance rehearsals.

Abby moved to flex his muscles, intentionally growing closer to you as the thin shirt made his abs more prominent. "What's got you all excited?" He questioned with a raised eyebrow as he looked down at your form.

"Well yesterday... a guy asked me out!" You exclaimed, "He was sooo handsome and he has this british accent that it just made my heart melt!" You place a hand on your chest for good measure.

The others stopped whatever it is they were doing to look at you, an unreadable expression plastered on their faces before Jinu gave you a small smile which was obviously fake but you didn't notice, practically buzzing with excitement.

"Is that so? I'm happy for you!" He says as he gave you a pat on the shoulder.

"We're actually going at this restaurant in town tonight and I'm gonna be wearing the prettiest dress," You giggle as Mystery grits his teeth in annoyance, trying to stop himself from barking angrily at whoever's taking you out.

They can't believe you had the nerve to just go on dates with some nobody, you were their manager so that practically means you're theirs. So that pretty dress you own is reserved for their eyes only. Who cares if that guy has an accent? They know they're much better than whatever nobody you found on the streets.

The day rolls by, the Saja boys couldn't focus on whatever dance routine they had to do because they have one goal in mind;

getting rid of the bastard who had the audacity to steal their pretty girl.

It was easy trying to find the guy you were going on a date with because you told them his description and where you were meeting, oblivious to their plans. They know you wouldn't accuse them of doing something because you were dumb like that and they love it.

Jinu was dressed as a waiter that they ganged up on to steal his clothes and his soul while the rest waited outside in a dark alleyway. You were still at your apartment, getting all dolled up for this ugly nobody who could never compare to their majestic beauty.

How did you ever find this piece of shit handsome?

The raven haired male plastered on a fake smile as he approached Brandon who looked nervous and sweaty, Jinu was glad he came here extra early. "Hello, sir. I just wanted to inform you that a pretty, young lady is waiting for you outside." he said in perfect english as the ginger male looked up at him in surprise before nodding his head to stand up, following after him.

Brandon looked confused as he was led to a dark and secluded place, he looks around. "Uh, where-" he turns to face Jinu and lets out a gasp, seeing 5 pairs of glowing eyes- yellow embers with orange slits that are razor-thin- glaring down at him from the shadows.

The brit lets out a nervous chuckle, stepping back. "I-is this a joke, mate? It's not really funny..." He mutters before his back felt the dirty and cold stone wall.

"You really thought you could take her... from me? from us?" one of them growls as they moved closer to him.

"Don't bother screaming for help, no one's here but us." another whispers tauntingly before they all simultaneously pounced at the male who let out a scream with other people none the wiser.

"I- I got stood up..." You whimper, having just gone to the restaurant and waited for hours for the guy but he never game. "I waited for him but he didn't come..."

You were in their house, practically dashing over to them in tears. They bit back the smile as you melted into a puddle in Jinu's arms who coo-ed and rubbed your back gently as you cried.

"A-and I was all dressed up too... h-he's such a jerk!" You sobbed, hiding your pretty face in his chest.

"It's gonna be okay, [Your name]" Abby moves towards you, fingers moving to take your chin, tilting your head to look at him so that they could see your pretty face even with the make up running down due to your tears.

Romance gave you a smile, "Besides, you've got us. You don't need some other guy to go on a date with, we're here for you." He said softly. "Oh look, you're ruining your make up now... but don't worry, you're still the prettiest girl in the world."

Mystery nods, "And... being on some date with a nobody would only deter you from your job as our manager... who's gonna take care of us now if you're gonna go off going on a date.." he mumbled, trying to act all upset.

You sniffle, "y-you're right... I- I'm suppose to be your manager... you guys are my priority." you mumbled as you wipe your tears away but the crying never stopped.

They all smirked, unknown to you. That's right. They are your priority and no one else.

"So you better not be getting into some dates again," Baby reprimands with an annoyed huff.

Because you're ours, pretty girl.

[maskedbyghost]

What’s better than a jealous, possessive Simon? Nothing. Get ready for all the drama and dirty you didn’t even know you needed. cw: jealousy, possessiveness, explicit language, rough sex, dirty talk... MDNI

You didn’t mean anything by it.

Really, you didn’t. Just a harmless laugh at some half-assed joke from one of the new guys on base. He was nervous, awkward, trying to find his footing among a team full of people who didn’t blink twice before throwing themselves into the line of fire.

So you were being nice. You smiled. You touched his arm when he said something funny. You laughed—not even your real laugh, just the polite one. The one that lets people think they’re charming even when they’re not.

But Ghost saw it.

He was halfway across the room, but he saw the way you leaned in, the way your lips curved, the way you let your hand rest on that guy’s forearm just a second too long. His jaw clenched, his arms crossed.

You saw it out of the corner of your eye and figured he was just being his usual silent, broody self. But the look he gave you? That wasn’t just disapproval. That was something else...

You forgot about it after a while. Finished the briefing and headed back to your room. You got halfway through pulling your shirt off when there was a knock—no, a thud—at your door.

You barely had time to register it before the door swung open.

He didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t ask. He just stepped in, shut the door behind him, and locked it.

“Something you need, Lieutenant?” you asked, arching a brow, still standing in your half-unbuttoned pants.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, jaw tight behind the mask, chest rising with slow, controlled breaths. Then he walked toward you, calm and quiet, like he had all the time in the world.

You blinked. “Ghost—”

His gloved hand came up, grabbed your chin—not rough, but firm enough to shut you up.

“You like makin’ other men laugh?” he said low, his voice rough and close.

You swallowed. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No?” He tilted your face toward his. “Could’ve fooled me. Thought I was watchin’ my girl giggle like some fuckin’ schoolgirl over a guy who couldn’t make you come even if you spelled it out for him.”

You snorted nervously, trying to keep it light. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

He leaned in until his mask brushed your cheek. “Next time you flirt,” he growled, “I’ll put a leash on you.”

Your breath caught, and that’s all it took.

He grabbed the waistband of your pants and yanked them down in one smooth motion, spinning you around and pressing you up against the wall. His hand was at the back of your neck, pushing you forward until your cheek was flat against the cold surface.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the sound got caught in your throat when you felt him behind you—already hard, already pressing into you through his gear.

“Ghost—”

“Simon,” he corrected. “You’re gonna say my name when I fuck the brat out of you.”

His hand slid between your legs, rough gloves against bare skin, and you gasped when he touched you—no teasing, no buildup, just dirty, possessive fingers sliding right through your slick, like he’d expected it.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he murmured, voice darker now, lower. “Drippin’ for me while you’re out there laughin’ at other men’s bullshit. You think they could make you feel like this? Think he’d know what to do with a needy little thing like you?”

You whined when he pressed harder, after yanking off his gloves and sliding two fingers inside, curling them deep, rubbing against that spot that made your knees weak.

“Answer me.”

“N-no, he wouldn’t,” you breathed out, already shaking.

“That’s right.” He pulled back just long enough to undo his belt, shove his pants down, and drag your hips back against him. “You’re mine. Been mine. Just forgot for a second. S’right—I’ll remind you.”

You moaned when he pushed in, when his cock stretched you open without warning, just thick, hard, possessive pressure that made you arch your back and grab at the wall for something to hold on to.

He groaned behind you, one hand fisting in your hair, the other wrapped tight around your throat. “Fuckin’ tight,” he muttered. “Can feel how wet you are—fuck, bet you were thinkin’ about me when he made you laugh. Bet you were hopin’ I’d get like this. Mean. Messy. Jealous.”

You couldn’t say anything, couldn’t breathe past the way he was fucking into you, deep and rough, hips slamming into yours with every thrust like he wanted to fuck the memory of that other guy right out of your body.

“Let me catch you lookin’ at someone else again,” he said, teeth at your shoulder, biting down hard enough to bruise. “I’ll make sure they know who you belong to. I’ll fuck you in front of him if I have to. Let him watch you come on my cock while you scream my fuckin’ name.”

“Simon—fuck—”

“Yeah, that’s it. Say it again.”

“Simon—please—”

“Please what?” he snarled, snapping his hips harder, angrier, dragging every inch of him out slow before slamming back in like he needed to ruin you.

“Please don’t stop,” you gasped, fingers scrambling at the wall, legs shaking.

“Wasn’t planning on it. Not until you learn your fuckin’ lesson.”

He reached around, rubbed your clit in tight, messy circles, just enough to send you spiraling. You came with a cry, body locking up, trembling around him, and he didn’t stop—not even when your legs gave out. He held you up, kept fucking into you with punishing pace, chasing his own release like he had something to prove.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groaned, voice ragged now. “I’ll fuck you so full you’ll be leaking for hours—so every step you take reminds you who fucked you stupid.”

You whined, barely able to keep upright, and with one last thrust he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, filthy growl, his hips jerking against you as he emptied inside.

He didn’t pull out. He just stayed there, chest heaving, hands still on your hips, like he couldn’t let go.

After a long pause, he leaned in and said, right against your ear:

“Do it again, and I’ll make sure the whole base hears what you sound like when you’re mine.”

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

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

[meenaxskz]

when the bed gave up on life (hyung line)

ot8 reactions | bf!skz x reader au genre: crack | light smut warnings: language | suggestive content a/n : (testing new posts layout, it will probably change again idk) i always try to not write cliché gym rat changbin... but it has jokes potential so yeah lol. ✧ hyung line | maknae line

bang chan

“C’mere” Chan growls flipping you onto your stomach. You gasp, already dizzy “Holy shit-okay-aggressive!” “I said I’d make you feel it” he grunts, pressing into you, “so shut up and-” CRRREAK. SNAP. Silence. You’re on the floor. The mattress is sideways. A piece of the frame bounced. Chan’s still inside you “…Did the bed just die?” you whisper, stunned. He’s frozen. Still holding your hips. “I-I think I just alpha’d the IKEA out of it.” You collapse face first into the blanket, wheezing. Chan pulls out gently like he’s scared touching you will trigger another collapse. “I’m so sorry,” he says, horrified. “Are you hurt??” You look up with tears in your eyes...from laughing “You fucked us into poverty” He starts pacing. Still naked “I JUST WANTED TO MAKE YOU SEE STARS” “You did! But the bed saw heaven!” --- Five minutes later, you’re both wrapped in the blanket on the floor, drinking water and staring at the broken frame like it’s a crime scene. Chan sighs. “That was expensive.” You snort. “tell me about it” He looks at you, grins. “You still wanna finish?” You raise a brow. “On what the rug?” He shrugs. “Bet it won’t break.”

lee know

You’re clinging to the headboard. He’s behind you, low growling, full feral mode, hips snapping. “Don’t even try to run” he pants. “You wanted this.” You gasp “Min- the bed’s creaking-” He grips your hips tighter. “So are you. Guess which one I care about more.” CRRREEAAAK. SNAP. THUD. You drop. Flat on the mattress, now tilted at a cursed 45 degrees. Minho flops on top of you like a sweaty, breathless. Silence. “…Did we just fall?” You’re wheezing into the sheet. “THE BED BROKE YOU PSYCHO.” He slowly lifts himself off you, glancing around checking the crime scene. Then calmly : “…It was probably loose before we started.” You sit up, wild-eyed. “I literally heard you say ‘I wanna break you tonight.’” “I meant emotionally. That bed just had bad build quality.” “...Minho, one of the legs is across the room.” He shrugs. “That’s not my fault. That’s gravity. And weak screws.” You glare at him, tangled in sheets and shame. He wipes sweat off his chest with a smug little annoying smirk. “You’re welcome by the way.” “For WHAT?!?” “For the experience. You’re glowing.” "Oh my god" --- Later, you lie together on the mattress, which is on the floor now, panting and sore. You mutter “we need a new bed.” He hums, already falling asleep “...and it better be able to handle me”

changbin

It starts innocent enough... LIES. Sweat is dripping, you’re moaning, he’s muttering things like “You’re so tight,” “I love this angle” and “This is why I do leg day" (??) The bed is screaming. You clutch the headboard “It’s creaking-” “I’M CREAKING TOO BABY STAY FOCUSED—” CREEAAACKK. SNAP. BOOM. The bed dies. You both collapse mid-thrust like the mattress got drop-kicked by karma. You gasp. “WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!” Changbin is hovering above you, wide-eyed, hair sticking up like he got electrocuted “…Did I break the bed?” You stare. “Are you asking me while you’re still inside me?!” He slowly pulls out, rolls to the side, and looks around at the hurricane damage. One bed leg is completely gone. A bolt rolled under the dresser. He exhales. “That’s kinda hot though.” You blink. “You BROKE our BED Binnie!” “I told you I was strong” You smack his arm. “This isn’t CrossFit! This was my peaceful coochie session!” He giggles. --- He grabs his phone. “Wait. Wait. I need a pic. I gotta show the guys.” “DON’T YOU DARE” He grins. “I’m putting ‘broke the bed during sex’ on my gym progress tracker.”

hyunjin

You’re on top, breathless, hair sticking to your forehead, hands planted on his chest. Hyunjin’s gripping your thighs, eyes rolling back as you ride him. “Fuck-yes...just like that, baby...” CREAAKK. SNAP. THE WHOLE RIGHT SIDE DROPS. You scream as the mattress collapses, pitching sideways. Hyunjin yelps, legs flailing as you both go crashing down mid-thrust. A full thud echoes across the room. Silence. Then his voice : “…WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!” You’re tangled in blankets, still half on top of him. “DID YOU JUST ASK ME LIKE I PLANNED THAT?!” He stares at you with wide, scandalized eyes. “YOU WERE ON TOP THIS IS YOUR FAULT.” You sit up, offended. “I was riding you into heaven and the bed flopped.” He throws a hand up dramatically. “EXACTLY I WAS LITERALLY JUST LYING THERE BEING SEXY AND SUPPORTIVE.” You glare “supportive?? You kept yelling FASTER like I was a fucking engine!” He rolls off the broken half of the bed and flops onto the floor like a naked fish “The bed wasn’t ready for that kind of passion. I wasn’t ready. My ass hit the wood slats” You cover your face. “I think I bruised my knee.” --- 10 minutes later, Hyunjin is sprawled across the mattress on the floor “we need a new bed. And... knees.” You open one eye “You still came though.” He chucks a pillow at you.

⤷ main m.list ❟

DISCLAIMER : This blog and all related content (fics, fake texts, headcanons, imagines, etc.) are entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. I do not know Stray Kids personally, nor do I claim any of this reflects their real personalities, actions, or relationships. All characters and their personalities—including Meena King—are original creations.Please enjoy responsibly and remember : real people = real boundaries.

[girlinterupptedsblog]

Rafe hates condoms

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, Rafe being a whiny brat, slight breeding kink, dirty talk, mild choking, praise/degradation, established relationship, toxic tendencies, possessiveness, explicit language.

Summary: If there’s one thing Rafe Cameron hates more than anything, it’s condoms. He doesn’t just dislike them—he despises them. The thought of something being between you two, even a thin layer of latex, makes his blood boil. But on the nights when you know you’re fertile, you insist—just to be safe.

Rafe was already worked up, eyes dark, hands rough as he dragged them down your body. His shirt was long gone, his jeans undone, your legs spread open on the bed where he had been kissing and touching you for what felt like forever. He was desperate—aching to be inside you.

But then you said it.

"Condom."

And just like that, he was pouting, pulling back like you’d just ruined his whole night. His brows furrowed, lips twitching in frustration.

“Are you serious?” His voice was laced with irritation, but beneath it, there was something else—pure, undiluted disappointment.

You sighed, already knowing this was coming. “Rafe, it’s just for tonight. Just in case.”

He flopped onto his back beside you, dragging a hand down his face like this was some unbearable punishment. “I don’t even wanna fuck anymore,” he muttered dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re such a baby.”

“I don’t care.” He turned his head toward you, lips set in a stubborn line. “I hate them. Hate them. Why do you wanna put something between us?” His voice was softer now, more genuine, like the thought truly upset him.

“You know why.”

“I’d pull out,” he argued, but even he knew that was a weak excuse. You’d had this conversation before. Rafe didn’t pull out. Rafe buried himself deep inside you every time, groaning about how you were meant to take him. And honestly? You weren’t strong enough to stop him when he got like that.

“That’s not a risk I’m taking.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling onto his side to face you. His fingers found your hip, tracing slow, lazy circles. “You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t trust us.”

That made him smirk—because you were right. The second he was inside you, all sense of logic went out the window.

“I hate this,” he mumbled, nuzzling into your neck like a sulking child. “It’s not the same. I wanna feel you.”

“You still will.”

“No, I won’t.” His teeth grazed your jaw. “I need to feel you, baby. Need to be inside you, just like this.” His hand slipped between your thighs, fingertips teasing your soaked folds. “You want this too, don’t you?”

You did. God, you did.

But you stayed firm. “Condom, Rafe.”

His jaw clenched. He was fighting himself, torn between his desperate need to be inside you and his absolute hatred for anything separating him from you.

Then he sat up, running a hand through his hair with an exasperated groan. “Fine. Whatever. Give it to me.”

You reached for the nightstand, grabbing the small silver packet. But before you could hand it to him, he snatched it from your fingers and tossed it across the room.

“Rafe—”

“Oops.” His smirk was downright devious. “Guess we can’t use it now.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You think I don’t have more?”

“I think,” he murmured, rolling back over you, pinning your wrists above your head, “you don’t really want me to.”

Your breath hitched as he ground against you, his cock heavy and hard against your thigh.

“Tell me to stop,” he challenged, lips brushing against yours. “Tell me to put one on.”

You swallowed thickly, pulse racing. You should. You needed to.

But then he rolled his hips again, pressing against your entrance, teasing you, taunting you—

And all logic disappeared.

“Fuck it,” you whispered.

His grin was victorious. “That’s my girl.”

Then he was pushing inside, bare and deep, groaning at the feeling of you wrapped around him with nothing in between.

[cumironi]

BLESSED BY THY CLEAVAGE, AMENNN ᵎᵎ

feat. geto suguru, shoko ieiri

sum. “daddy got them for me yesterday.” you said. and daddy you mean is geto suguru and shoko is your friend. and friendship so fucked up you let her sit on your face while geto got his dick inside you. it is the power of your tit$? maybe..

wn. non-sorcerer au, college setting, geto is a mess, reader is shameless, tits are a weapon, pu$$y-drunk geto, shoko is hot and mean, worship-level oral (reader receiving), face-sitting, titfucking, deepthroating implied, unprotected vaginal $ex, internal ejaculation, cumplay (leaking, smearing), overstimulation, reader squirts (multiple times), finger $ucking, nipple play, cum on tits, aftercare / caretaking, slowburn smut, power dynamics (passive reader / active partners), possessive geto, bratty reader, filthy dirty talk, praise kink, mild degradation, shoko joining mid-act, threesome dynamic (ffm), oral fixation, reader is overstimmed and praised for it, physical restraint (holding reader down), swearing / explicit language.

a/n. let’s be real, i think both of them like girls with big tits.

geto’s apartment was the kind of place that looked cleaner in the dark. it was one of those college-boy hovels that had clearly been nice once, or maybe it was just expensive, which was not the same thing. the lights were warm but shitty, one too-yellow bulb flickering like it owed rent. outside, the sky was a bruised sort of purple, summer clinging to the air like spit, like the whole world had been licked and left to ferment. a sliding balcony door was cracked open to let in the sticky summer air, but mostly just let in moths and city noise. there were half-empty mugs on the table, a bong under the couch.

when you get there, the door was already unlocked because geto thought locks were fascist, or maybe he just liked tempting fate. either way, it creaked open with the familiar little ghost-sigh of a hinge that hadn’t been oiled since second year. the first thing you saw wasn’t geto.

it was shoko, half-draped across the floor like roadkill, holding a lit cigarette above her face while she let ash fall dangerously close to her bare stomach, and she had one boot up on the coffee table. the tank top she wore was black and paper-thin, no bra, naturally, her shorts undone like she'd given up halfway through peeing. she tilted her head toward you like an owl on ketamine.

“about time,” she said without looking at you, exhaling a lazy spiral of smoke that drifted straight toward the ceiling fan. “was starting to think you choked on your own tits walking here. and what the fuck are those.”

the loud clack of your boots on the hardwood echoing like you were making a goddamn entrance. which, to be fair—you were. your tank top wasn’t even that low-cut. okay. it kind of was. maybe a little slinky. maybe a little too tight, the kind of tight that rode up when you breathed, and you had to tug it down with a crooked hand and pretend not to notice. your skirt wasn’t helping either—barely longer than a wide belt, paired with boots too heavy for the season, but fuck it, you looked hot. like dumb hot. like, failed-a-midterm-and-still-smirking hot.

“shoko,” you said, stepping into the thick warm air of geto’s living room, “is that any way to greet a friend? and they’re boots,” you said, posing just enough to make them creak a little. leather, knee-high, chunky heel. dangerous. like if a stripper got possessed by a demon and still made rent.

“friend?” she snorted. “you show up to suguru’s place dressed like that and call it friendship?”

“maybe i just like the ambiance.” you dropped your bag by the floor next to the bong. “and talk about your boots,” shoko said, dragging smoke into her lungs like it owed her something, eyeing the expensive material. “what are they doing in my eyes.”

you didn’t even take them off. you walked around like you owned the fucking place, clomp clomp, tits bouncing with the rhythm of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing and didn't care if she gave someone a cardiac episode. you stood over shoko like you were presenting a thesis. “daddy got them for me yesterday.”

she stared up at you. blinked. blinked again.

“…you’re gonna have to specify which daddy.”

“the one who’s not your sugar daddy yet,” you grinned, toeing at her thigh gently with your boot like you were about to step on her for fun. “suguru.”

“jesus christ.” shoko rolled away from your leg, smoke curling behind her. “suguru! your bimbo just tracked hell into your apartment!”

“they’re not shoes,” you shouted toward the kitchen. “they’re boots! it’s different!”

geto’s voice filtered through the apartment, hoarse and half-laughing. “they’re still from outside, babe.”

you turned to the kitchen archway with your hands on your hips, tits practically launching a coup from your neckline. “they’re not dirty! they’re special! they match my tits!”

a pause.

then, “…what the fuck does that mean,” shoko said, sitting up.

“they’re both dangerous,” you declared, and then promptly posed like you were in a perfume ad designed by perverts. you even did the little bounce. the one that made your chest jiggle in that perfect, slow-motion, anime-opening kind of way. “anyway, this place smells like feet and bad decisions.”

“you forgot dick,” came geto’s voice from the kitchen. he was shirtless. not like he was trying to be sexy about it—just wore those threadbare gray sweats, low on his hips like they had a personal vendetta against dignity. hair half-tied, face flushed from leaning over a rice cooker. “and curry. i reheated the one we got last week. it’s probably fine.” and he turn back to the kitchen.

“probably?” you echoed, walking with your boots across the carpet that had definitely seen better years. you passed shoko, who gave you a long side-eye, then a longer front-eye when your boobs jiggled as you bent to pick up a pillow off the floor.

your tank top was obscene in a very “this was never meant to be outerwear” way, and your mini skirt had no business doing the bare minimum. not that anyone was complaining. not really.

“jesus,” she muttered, flicking ash into an old instant ramen cup. “how the fuck did your tits get so big? those weren’t like that last semester.”

“i worked out.”

“with what, gravity?” she made a circling gesture toward your chest. “you bench-pressing planets?”

you flopped onto the couch behind her, letting your arms fall over the backrest like you were trying to get arrested for indecency. “they just... grew. maybe i hit second puberty.”

shoko reached over and tugged at your tank top like she was checking a label. “second puberty’s a myth. you’re lying. you either got implants or a demon’s blessing. spill it.”

“you wanna feel them?” you offered sweetly, voice honeyed and shameless.

“i always want to feel them. that’s not the point.”

from the kitchen, geto said, “do i need to be here for this? or can i just watch?”

“shut the fuck up,” shoko called, “you’re already shirtless, pervert.”

“you’re in my apartment,” he called back, emerging with three mismatched bowls of steaming curry, one chopstick set already missing. he dropped the bowls on the coffee table and gestured vaguely to the mess. “eat before i change my mind.”

shoko didn’t move. she was still staring at your chest with the intensity of a scientist trying to understand a new species. “okay but seriously,” she said, “you used to have, like, regular tits. now they’re... menace tits.”

“menace tits?” you repeated, grinning.

“like if you leaned forward too fast someone might get a concussion.”

geto sat on the floor, too tall and too casual, already scooping curry into his mouth like he hadn’t slept in two days. you follow to sit beside him. “they are kind of violent. like, threatening. in a good way.”

you pointed your spoon at him. “you’re just mad they didn’t happen to you.”

“i’d kill to have tits like that,” he said around a mouthful. “i’d start a cult.”

“you did start a cult,” shoko said, mouth twitching.

“not for tits, though. that was ideological.”

“sure,” you said, “ideologically horny.”

geto shrugged like you’d just handed him a compliment, licking curry from his thumb before he reached over to grab a napkin—and grazed your thigh with the back of his fingers like it was an accident. it wasn’t.

you pretended not to notice. shoko absolutely noticed.

“you two gonna fuck right here or should i go smoke on the balcony?”

“please,” you said, already giggling, “you’d just press your face to the glass like a cat.”

“damn right i would,” she said, dragging her cigarette to the filter. “free porn and curry? i’m not moving.”

and somehow, that was the real vibe of geto’s apartment: filthy, sweaty, comfortable. you’d never been somewhere more disgusting that still made you feel like curling up and letting the night rot slowly around you. the air was hot, the curry was too spicy, shoko was drunk off her second beer and already making plans to fight god, and geto kept looking at you like he knew exactly how that tank top was going to end up by midnight.

and he wasn’t wrong.

geto finished his curry with the kind of single-minded focus you’d expect from a man who’d been fasting for enlightenment but gave up when he smelled something fried. he licked his thumb again, sucked a speck of rice off his knuckle, and looked up at you through his lashes like he knew. like he always knew. like he was in on some joke your thighs were telling in a language only perverts spoke.

“you still haven’t taken those boots off,” he said, voice slow and syrupy, the kind that soaked into your spine.

“and i won’t,” you said primly, crossing your legs just to watch his eyes track the motion like a dog waiting for a treat. “they’re part of the outfit. they’re a lifestyle choice.”

“they’re a threat,” shoko muttered, setting her empty bowl on the floor and lighting another cigarette with the dying embers of the last one. “to national security. to mental health.”

“you’re just mad they don’t match your tits,” you replied sweetly, leaning back into the couch cushions and pulling your tank top up in a useless attempt at modesty that just made everything worse. “they couldn’t,” shoko said. “your tits are... chaotic evil.”

“they’re misunderstood,” you argued, grabbing your beer again. “they just have ambition.”

“they have range,” geto added, finishing the last of his beer. “you could balance a wine glass on them or smother someone to death. versatility.”

you raised the can in salute. “exactly.”

shoko stood, suddenly, like the couch had become spiritually uninhabitable. “i’m going to smoke something illegal on the balcony before i get emotionally invested in whatever’s about to happen here.”

“too late,” you called as she slid the glass door open with a screech and stepped out into the heavy night.

then it was just you and geto. the apartment hummed around you—dim, hot, cluttered. the fridge buzzed like it had trauma. the clock ticked unevenly. somewhere in the building, a dog barked once and then gave up. and geto... well.

he shifted closer. not much. just enough that his knees brushed yours, and his hand landed lightly on your bare thigh. not high. not low. just... there. a placeholder. a punctuation mark between all the things you hadn’t said out loud yet. “you know,” he said, thumb stroking a lazy arc across your skin, “i keep thinking about what you said earlier.”

you blinked, faux-innocent. “i said a lot of things.”

“the part about your tits matching the boots.” he looked so serious, and that made it worse. “i didn’t get it at first. but now... now i see it.”

“do you?”

“yeah.” his voice dropped lower, like it was dragging itself across velvet. “they’re both dangerous. built for worship. you don’t walk into a room with those things—you arrive.”

you let your head fall back, laughing—breathless and soft, because of course he was turning your bullshit into poetry. you could feel the heat of him next to you, his palm heavier now, fingers edging higher with that slow, reverent menace he was famous for. “what are you doing, suguru,” you asked, tipping your head toward him.

“just appreciating a gift from god,” he said.

“you’re not even religious.”

“i am now.”

you snorted. “oh, please.”

he looked at you. really looked at you. eyes dark and steady, like they were made to stare, made to drink in slow details—the glisten of sweat at your collarbone, the delicate strain of fabric over full curves, the way you were smiling like you hadn’t already decided how this night was going to end.

then his voice dropped even lower. almost a whisper. almost holy.

“can i touch them?”

you raised your eyebrows. smirked. leaned in close enough for your breath to touch his jaw.

“which one—boots or tits?”

his smile split like a secret, soft and wide and so full of bad ideas it made your thighs twitch. “both,” he said, already sliding his palm higher. outside, shoko lit something that smelled like it should be illegal in three prefectures and muttered, “god damn it,” to the city below.

and inside, geto’s hands found reverence.

geto’s hand not moving fast. just pressing—heat through skin, weight through muscle—like he was waiting for permission he already knew he had. and maybe he did. maybe you were both just playing the long game because drawing it out was part of the sick pleasure, like edging a conversation until the whole room ached from the subtext.

the air was heavy. smelled like smoke and leftover curry and something warmer, muskier. something you. sweat and perfume and laundry detergent from your tank top. geto inhaled like it was the first real breath he’d taken in hours. like it was better than any spell he’d ever learned.

you were watching him watch you, and it was stupid. it was so stupid, the way he looked at you like your tits were preaching. like your whole chest had something to say, and he was ready to listen. eyes locked, lips parted, and that thumb of his drifting higher now, tracing the hem of your skirt like he was testing gravity.

you didn’t stop him.

“you’re being weird about this,” you murmured, voice sticky with amusement. low and lazy, like you’d just woken up in a stranger’s bed and decided to stay. “i’m being respectful,” he said, immediately. “these are divine objects. you don’t just rush in.”

“you’ve seen me naked before.”

“yeah,” he said, dragging his gaze up your body. “but not like this.”

you cocked your head. “what’s different?”

he didn’t answer immediately. just slipped his hand under your skirt, high on your thigh now, palm curved like he wanted to hold all of you there, in that handful of skin. “you know what’s different,” he said finally, soft and dark and smiling. “you’re dangerous now.”

you snorted. “i’ve always been dangerous.”

“yeah. but now it’s weaponized.”

you leaned back into the couch, legs spread enough to make it a problem, your boots still on like a crime scene waiting to happen. “you gonna make an offering to the tit gods or what?”

“i said respectful,” he repeated, but he was already moving. already shifting his weight, one knee between your thighs on the couch cushion, the heat of him crawling up your body like ivy in a horror movie—slow, creeping, inevitable.

his hands, finally, found your waist. slid up. thumbs brushing the underside of your tits where the fabric clung indecently tight. he didn’t grope. not yet. he held, like they might break. like they might bite. “jesus christ,” he breathed, reverent and stupid and hungry. “they really are bigger.”

“i told you,” you said, pleased with yourself. “second puberty.”

he made a noise in the back of his throat. it might’ve been a laugh. might’ve been a death rattle. “i can’t believe i get to live in the same timeline as these.”

“you’re welcome,” you said sweetly, and arched just enough that they pressed against his hands more firmly—soft, heavy, straining through the thin, sweat-damp tank top.

his breath hitched.

“you gonna cry?” you asked, almost teasing, but there was something soft in it too. “need a minute?”

he shook his head slowly. “nah. just... giving thanks.”

and then he leaned in.

not to kiss your mouth. not yet. no. he dipped lower—lower—mouth brushing your chest like it was sacred ground. lips parting, breath hot through the fabric, and then a kiss, gentle and obscene, right between your tits. not biting. not even licking. just pressing his mouth there, full and warm, as if he could pour something of himself into the space and let it stay.

“okay,” you whispered, voice shaking just enough to feel real. “now you’re being weird.”

“can’t help it,” he mumbled into your skin. “they’re majestic. it’s like looking into the sun. if the sun had cleavage.”

“do you want me to take the top off or are you planning on praying through cotton all night?”

he looked up, eyes dazed and adoring and wrecked.

“i think i want to die between them,” he said.

and you believed him.

he didn’t look away when you pulled the straps down.

you hadn’t even said anything, hadn’t made it a moment—no dramatic glance, no cheeky little tease. just lifted your hands with lazy grace and tugged both straps of your tank top off your shoulders, letting them slip down your arms like they didn’t matter. the neckline fell low—too low—and then lower still until the thin fabric couldn’t hold on anymore. your tits spilled free like they were tired of waiting, heavy and flushed, nipples drawn tight from the heat, the sweat, the way geto was breathing.

his mouth parted like it was automatic. like he needed more oxygen just to process them.

“holy shit,” he muttered, voice dropped into that ruined octave of someone who’d just witnessed the divine and was trying not to weep about it. “okay. okay, i get it now.”

you hummed like you were bored, even as you shifted your hips slightly, thighs parting wider, the skirt barely clinging to your dignity. “get what?”

he didn’t answer. just leaned forward again—lower this time—and pressed his face into your cleavage like he was returning home after war. both hands came up, cupping, lifting, reverent but not shy anymore. his thumbs circled your nipples, brushing them soft at first, then with a little more pressure, watching them stiffen under his touch like they were shy at first but warming to the attention. his mouth followed, lips parting, tongue flicking once against your sternum before he just let his whole face sink between them.

you laughed. a breathy, stunned thing, disbelieving. “you okay down there?”

a muffled, “no,” came from his mouth, buried in the valley of your chest.

you tilted your head back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. the heat of his breath, the scratch of his stubble, the weight of his body leaning into yours—all of it made your skin feel too tight, too present, like you’d been reduced to sensation and tits and the ache between your thighs.

and then—

the sliding door screeched open again.

“oh my fucking god,” came shoko’s voice, flat and annoyed and high as sin. “i was gone for five minutes.”

you cracked one eye open. “welcome back.”

she was standing there, one hip cocked, a half-finished joint between her fingers and the most unimpressed expression you’d ever seen on a human face. “suguru, are you motorboating our friend’s tits?”

he didn’t move. just gave a muffled, “mm-hmm,” from the plush safety of your chest. “you’re so fucking weird,” she muttered, stepping back inside. the glass door clicked shut behind her. “both of you. all of you.”

“don’t act like you weren’t thinking about it,” you said, breath hitching as geto’s hands slid up to cup the full weight of your breasts, squeezing experimentally. “thinking about it and walking in on it are two very different emotional experiences,” she said, dropping onto the arm of the couch again, her usual throne. “and i don’t remember giving consent to a live sex show.”

“we’re not even fucking yet,” you said, voice going soft around the edges as geto’s tongue finally found your nipple, slow and obscene. “it’s just—appreciation.” shoko exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “you’re treating her like a museum exhibit,” she muttered. “a slutty one.”

“interactive,” you corrected, arching just a little when geto sucked harder. “like the science center.”

geto finally lifted his face, lips slick, eyes unfocused. “shoko. give us a minute.”

“give you a minute?” she echoed. “you’ve been face-deep in titties for the last ten. what’s left?”

“spiritual awakening,” he said without hesitation.

shoko rubbed her eyes like the conversation itself was giving her wrinkles. “i’m too high for this. also not high enough.”

“you’re free to join in,” you offered sweetly, not really expecting anything, just basking in the ridiculousness of it all—legs spread, tank top around your ribs, one of jujutsu tech’s finest licking your tits like he was trying to memorize them with his soul, and shoko sitting five feet away like this was normal.

she blinked at you.

paused.

then said, “no, i’m emotionally married to apathy. but thanks for the invite.”

and then, because she couldn’t help herself, her gaze dropped. lingered. for a second too long. at your chest, at geto’s tongue flicking your nipple again just to make you squirm. her eyes narrowed, calculating. critical. “okay,” she finally said. “i’m sorry, but they really are too big. it’s not natural. you need to get them registered.”

“they’re emotional support tits,” you breathed, barely able to speak through the pleasure curling up your spine.

“they’re a threat to public health,” she shot back. geto just groaned, nuzzling back between them like he could disappear there, like there was nowhere else in the world worth being. and honestly? maybe there wasn’t. geto had your tits in his mouth like they were the last goddamn miracle on earth.

and he was so slow about it. he wasn’t even sucking anymore. just licking—flat-tongued, reverent strokes like he was trying to commit the taste to memory. one hand held you steady, splayed wide across your ribs. the other was still tucked under your skirt, palm heavy on the outside of your thigh, fingers twitching now and then like he was thinking about moving them up, and then deciding not to—yet.

your head was tipped back against the couch, mouth slack, one boot heel digging into the cushion like you needed leverage against the slow drag of his tongue. you weren’t making a sound. not a moan, not a whimper. just breathing. open. ruined.

and to the left—there she was.

shoko. leaning against the far arm of the couch, still in her half-buttoned shorts, one leg folded under her, the other kicked out wide with a casualness that didn’t match the way her eyes were pinned to your chest. the joint in her hand had gone out. ash clung to it. she hadn’t moved to relight it. “you’re both disgusting,” she said finally, voice dry, eyes not leaving your tits.

“takes one to know one,” you murmured, without looking at her.

she scoffed. shifted her weight to near you. her shoe knocked against the side of your thigh, not gently. “and what, i’m just supposed to sit here while he acts like he’s breastfeeding?”

geto didn’t even lift his head. just muttered, “she taste better than milk.”

shoko made a noise like she was going to throw up, but her fingers were already toying with the hem of your skirt, just to the side of geto’s hand. you didn’t stop her. didn’t even flinch. your whole body was heavy and humming, caught in that low, thick pulse of being watched.

and fuck. it was hot.

because shoko didn’t move fast. she didn’t push. she didn’t grope. she touched you like a scientist dissecting a problem she wasn’t sure she wanted to solve. her knuckles grazed your thigh. then her nails. light, precise, tracing the edge of where your skirt had rucked up. you could feel the bite of her rings against your skin, cool and sharp and utterly deliberate.

“you’re just letting this happen,” she said, not even trying to sound surprised anymore.

“you’re doing it,” you breathed, finally turning your head toward her. “you joined in.”

she raised an eyebrow. “and?”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t, really—not with geto sucking one nipple deep into his mouth, tongue circling, slow and obscene. your hips jerked once, involuntary. shoko’s hand slid higher in response, palm settling flat against the bare skin of your inner thigh, her thumb just brushing the crease.

there was a pause.

a long, thick silence, broken only by your breath catching and the faint, wet sound of geto’s mouth. “you want her to beg?” shoko asked, voice low now. lower than you’d ever heard it. geto’s mouth popped off your chest, lips wet and kiss-drunk. he looked up, blinking slow, his hands still warm on your ribs.

“she doesn’t have to,” he said.

and then, to your utter ruin, he added—

“she’s already praying.”

shoko looked at him like she was about to punch him in the face. or kiss him. or both.

“you are so full of shit.”

but her hand stayed where it was. her thumb slid closer. you could feel the heat building between your thighs, throbbing in your chest, crawling up your spine. you wanted to say something snarky, something flippant, but all that came out was a shaky exhale and a noise that wasn’t quite a moan.

geto leaned over, resting his head between your tits again like he belonged there. one of his hands found your waist and squeezed, grounding you.

and shoko, that bitch, just watched.

watched your mouth go slack. watched your chest rise and fall with each breath. watched the place between your legs ache for attention. and then she smiled—sharp and slow and awful.

“i want to see what you do when he fucks your tits.”

you blinked at her.

“i want to see,” she repeated, voice soft now. almost curious. “what that looks like.” geto made a low sound against your chest. something dark. pleased. possessive. “you can watch,” he said, shifting, finally moving back—his lips leaving your skin, his hand slipping down to your skirt. “but only if you’re good.”

“define good,” shoko said, eyes hooded, fingers still resting between your thighs like a threat.

you swallowed.

and spread your legs a little wider.

geto shifted back with the kind of gravity that only belonged to people about to be adored.

he slid off the couch cushions and settled on the edge of the couch like a god descending to be fed — legs wide, jaw loose, hair slipping from the mess of his tie like it wanted to watch you too. there was something careless about it, the way he sprawled there, cock still hidden behind the slouch of gray sweats that clung low and soft and damp at the waistband. his bare chest gleamed faintly under the shitty yellow light, marked by heat and your mouth, a smear of your lip balm still ghosting the edge of one pec.

“here?” you asked, already slipping off the couch with your knees hitting the shitty carpet in one dull, obedient thud. it was hot. stupidly so. your thighs still trembled from where shoko had touched you, still open just a little too wide as you knelt between his legs like the position itself was enough.

“right there,” geto said, voice low and thin like it was being dragged out of his lungs. “fuck, baby, look at you—just right there.”

you looked up through your lashes, tits still bare and high and flushed, your top bunched under them like it had surrendered hours ago. he hadn’t even pulled himself out yet, and the heat between your thighs was already stupid, embarrassing. shoko made a quiet little noise — not a word, just a breath, the sound of someone watching and refusing to blink.

then she moved.

she didn’t say anything. just slinked off the arm of the couch and dropped beside geto like it was her seat all along, one bare thigh brushing his, the lit joint still smoldering between her fingers. she didn’t look at him. she looked at you — on your knees, eyes bright, breathing hard — and for once, she didn’t say anything shitty. no joke. no sarcasm. just… watched.

“you gonna be good for me?” geto murmured, voice wrecked now, sweet and fucked and soft, dragging one hand through your hair while the other braced against his thigh. “you gonna make me lose my mind down there?”

you smiled with teeth. “only if you ask nice.”

he laughed — a short, broken thing — and leaned his head back against the couch.

“please, baby,” he said. “come make this cock feel like a blessing.”

you didn’t rush.

your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweats, thumbs tucked in slow like you were pulling apart the final seal on something dangerous, something volatile. the moment the elastic gave, his cock spilled out like it couldn’t wait — tall, heavy, flushed an angry dark pink at the tip and thick in that rude way that felt like a punchline. veiny, twitching, needy — and absolutely aware of the way your mouth parted.

shoko whistled low under her breath. “jesus christ, suguru.”

“don’t act like you haven’t seen it,” he said, breathless.

“not like this.”

you dragged your eyes back up his body. his abs were fluttering. his jaw was clenched. your hand wrapped around the base, and he groaned — full chest, full throat, like the touch alone was too much after being teased between your tits for so long. your thumb circled the head, slick already leaking at the tip like he’d been waiting for this the whole fucking night.

“look at that,” you murmured, voice low and thick. “he’s already crying for me.”

“he’s sensitive,” geto breathed, hand still tangled in your hair. “needs to be treated right.”

“don’t worry, baby,” you said, leaning forward now — mouth open, tongue just barely flicking the swollen head. “i’ll take real good care of him.”

you licked the tip. slow.

not a suck — not yet — just the soft lap of your tongue over the bead of precome, circling, savoring, letting it smear across your lips like gloss. he gasped above you, thighs twitching, and shoko’s breath hitched beside him.

you looked up. caught his eyes.

then pressed your tits together — full and warm and heavy — and lowered them onto his cock like a curtain falling on a final act.

he exhaled like he’d been holding it all night.

his cock fit too well between them, the weight of it obscene, the head nudging up near your collarbone while the rest disappeared into the soft press of your chest. you gave a slow little squeeze, letting your cleavage swallow him, letting that thick shaft pulse against your skin while you kissed the tip, sweet and patient.

“you see this, shoko?” geto’s voice was wrecked now. one hand cradled the back of your head, the other gripping the couch cushion beside him. “fuckin’—she’s spoiling me.” shoko didn’t answer immediately. you could feel her looking — the heat of it, the scrutiny, the way her silence felt like approval.

“i’m jealous,” she said finally, voice quieter than it should’ve been.

you grinned against geto’s cock. “you can help.”

she didn’t move. not yet. just exhaled and watched, breath held like prayer.

you rocked your shoulders slightly, dragging his cock through the cleft of your tits, slow and steady, the friction just enough to make him curse. each pass painted your skin with precome, messy and sweet, and when you leaned forward to take the head into your mouth again — just a kiss, just a taste — geto moaned like he was already halfway to heaven.

“f-fuck, baby,” he gasped, hips twitching. “you’re perfect. you were made for this. look at you — down there, all soft and fucking beautiful — you’re gonna kill me.”

you let the tip pop free of your lips, smiling up at him like it wasn’t already insane how hard he was shaking. “i’m just getting started, daddy.”

shoko made a low sound beside him.

and your hands pressed your tits tighter, welcoming him deeper into the heat.

shoko had been silent for too long.

not like her. she usually filled the room with snark when things got too heated — cracked a dirty joke, rolled her eyes, insulted you just to keep the tension manageable. but now? now she was watching — watching the way your tits cradled geto’s cock, how the thick shaft dragged slow through the valley of your chest, slick and twitching and pink at the tip. watching your shoulders flex, your fingers sink deeper into your own skin to press them tighter together, to make the pressure unbearable.

geto was falling apart.

you could hear it — in the little gasps, the way his voice kept cracking when he tried to speak. the praises fell in fragments now, choked off between moans, soft-spoken worship turning sloppy. “fuck, baby… so warm, so fucking soft, can’t—can’t think—”

you had your mouth open, waiting for the head of his cock to peek up again, and when it did, you licked it. just a tease, tongue swirling around the ridge like it was a spell. he shuddered violently, thighs flexing under your knees, one hand gripping your hair like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

and then shoko moved.

she didn’t ask.

she just leaned in, slow and quiet and deliberate, the way she always did when she made up her mind about something she shouldn’t want. her hair fell over one shoulder, long and messy and smelling like smoke, and her face came level with yours — so close your cheek brushed hers. her eyes flicked down. locked on the head of geto’s cock as it swelled thick and flushed, smeared with your spit, slick with arousal.

and then she opened her mouth.

you paused. just for a second. lips parted. breath caught.

and watched her take the tip in.

geto made a sound that wasn’t a word — just a broken, animal fuck dragged out from the base of his spine. his head slammed back against the wall behind the couch, one hand fisting in the cushion, the other still clinging to your hair like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

“holy shit, shoko—what the—fuck, are you—fuck—”

but she didn’t speak.

she just closed her lips around the head of his cock — your tits still wrapped around the shaft, still moving — and sucked. hard.

you felt it. all of it. the heat of her mouth at your chest, the way her tongue flicked against the slit, the obscene, wet sound of her lips wrapped tight around the crown while your tits moved in tandem, gliding up and down the shaft like a prayer answered in motion. your hands pressed together tighter, pushing the flesh in just enough to squeeze him more, just enough to feel the way he pulsed and twitched with every pass.

“oh my god,” you whispered, watching her work — the elegance of it, the intent. “you’re so fucking good at that.” shoko didn’t reply — just looked at you out the corner of her eye, cheeks hollowed around the tip of his cock, eyes gleaming with something far too smug.

geto was gone.

“please—please don’t stop—fuck, you’re both gonna kill me—shit, just like that, don’t stop—”

you didn’t.

you kept your rhythm, slow and steady and mean, sliding your tits up and down as shoko suckled the head of his cock like she was feeding on it. her tongue flicked, circled, coaxed more precome to spill across your skin, wet and messy and obscene. you could feel it dripping now, collecting in the curve of your cleavage, sliding down your sternum. you pressed them tighter, kissed his base, licked the skin where your chest met his body.

his hands were everywhere — on your head, in shoko’s hair, clawing at the couch, grabbing nothing. his whole body trembled with tension, hips rocking up now despite himself, fucking into your tits and into her mouth in short, desperate little jerks.

“fuck, i’m—i’m gonna—i can’t—” his breath was breaking apart, fingers clenching, voice nearly gone. “gonna cum, fuck, fuck, i’m—”

you squeezed. shoko sucked harder.

and he broke.

he cried out — high and wild and helpless — and came between your tits and into her mouth, cock pulsing hard against your skin as he jerked forward, hips twitching, thighs tightening under your hands. his whole body bowed forward, gave in, as ropes of hot come spilled over your breasts and into shoko’s mouth, messy and loud and filthy.

shoko pulled back with a long, wet slurp, licking her lips like she’d just tasted something rare. she looked at you — and then at him — and smirked.

“you boys never know how to shut up when it counts.”

you were still holding your tits around him, come dripping between them, breath coming fast.

geto was a wreck.

slumped back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, chest heaving, hair sticking to his face. he looked like he’d seen god and survived — barely. “holy fuck,” he whispered, hoarse and raw. “i’m in love with both of you.” you glanced at shoko. she rolled her eyes. “you’ll still be in love after we make you do it again.” you smiled. and licked your lips clean.

geto was still catching his breath.

he looked like sin and salvation rolled into a single man-shaped pile of regret, sprawled on the edge of the couch like his spine had given out. one hand was limp in your hair, the other sliding down shoko’s thigh like he forgot what limbs were for. his cock twitched weakly between your tits, still glossy, still twitching like it hadn’t accepted it was finished yet.

and then, very calmly, shoko stuck her tongue out.

held it there. eyes half-lidded, amused.

and let a thick, glistening bead of geto’s come drip off the tip — slow, heavy, obscene — until it landed with a wet little pat against the top of your breast.

you blinked up at her.

she looked like she was tasting irony.

you didn’t move. just raised an eyebrow, still cradling his softening cock between your breasts like it was a religious relic. “seriously?”

“waste not, want not,” she said, shrugging. and then she leaned in.

her mouth met yours with no warning, no lead-in, no tenderness — just heat, the sharp edge of her teeth against your lower lip, her tongue slick and tasting like smoke and the faintest aftershock of geto. you groaned into her mouth, and she kissed you like she wanted to shut you up, hands sliding around your waist, one rising boldly to your chest.

geto groaned. a helpless, ruined sound. “that’s so hot.”

“shut up,” shoko muttered against your lips, not meaning it, not stopping.

her palm dragged upward, slow and obscene, smearing the mess across your breasts — his mess, still warm and slippery — until it streaked across your sternum, your nipples, slicked your skin in some holy combination of filth and fondness.

you gasped against her mouth, and she grinned.

“look at this,” she said, sitting back to admire her work. her fingers gripped both tits, lifted them, gave a squeeze that made you gasp again. “fucking disgusting. you look like a crime scene.”

“thank you?” you said, trying not to laugh.

but then she added — with her chin resting in her hand and her eyes full of smugness so rich it was practically spilling over —

“you look like someone just tried to baptize you with his cock.”

and you snorted. violently. choked on your own breath, bent double with a laugh so loud it startled even you. geto, still too weak to speak, wheezed out something that might’ve been “holy shit” and covered his face with one hand.

“shoko,” you gasped, clutching at your ribs, “you’re a demon.”

“a sexy one,” she said, licking her thumb clean with deliberate slowness.

geto, blinking slowly from his position of post-nut devastation, peeked between his fingers. “if i die right now, i want my tombstone to say ‘death by tit and tongue.’”

you dragged a pillow off the couch and threw it at him. he caught it with his chest, groaned, and collapsed backward like it had been a mortal wound. “okay. round two in… twenty minutes.” shoko lit another cigarette, perched back on the armrest like nothing had happened. “that’s generous.” you laid back against the carpet, chest bare, skin glistening, heart still racing.

filthy. loved. ridiculous.

somewhere in the corner of the room, a moth slammed itself into the glass door and bounced off. “this place needs to be burned down,” shoko said. you sighed. “but it’s kind of… home.” she looked down at you, chest marked with sweat and spit and a stupid amount of affection.

“…yeah. unfortunately.”

twenty minutes didn’t pass.

maybe ten. twelve if you were being generous. it wasn’t like anyone was counting.

you were still half-sprawled on the floor, your body sticky with evidence, one leg cocked up against the couch while shoko rested a heel on your thigh like she was claiming territory. geto had relocated to the floor, slouched against the couch frame beside you with his sweatpants pulled up only halfway, looking more like a mythological burnout than a man.

nobody was saying anything. not yet. the air was full of post-orgasm haze — too hot, too heavy, the kind of silence that buzzed just under the skin.

then geto shifted.

just enough that his thigh brushed yours, and your eyes dropped automatically to where the waistband of his sweats was tugged halfway down, revealing the start of a cock that had no business twitching again already.

you didn’t say anything. you just tilted your head.

he caught the look and grinned.

“what?” he said, voice low and wrecked. “she kissed you, your tits are still covered in my come, and i’m not supposed to get hard again?” you rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped traitorously, heat climbing again with that lazy, stupid inevitability. your thighs pressed together. your voice came out drier than intended. “you sure you’ve got another one in you?”

“baby,” he said, dragging his palm down the flat of your stomach, “i haven’t even started yet.”

shoko snorted from the armrest. “someone’s cocky.”

“someone’s confident,” he corrected, already crawling forward on his knees, palms bracketing your hips like he’d never stopped touching you. you lay back willingly this time, arching under the weight of his hands, your whole body humming with anticipation, the ache between your legs reigniting like it never left. you expected him to go for your mouth, your tits, your thighs—

but instead he leaned in close. lower.

and breathed against your navel.

his hands slid under your thighs, pushing your legs up, open, spread and vulnerable, and then— “wait,” shoko said lazily, “before you ruin her again—” geto paused, blinking up from between your legs like he was being interrupted mid-prayer. shoko leaned forward, flicking your nipple with the tip of her joint. “are we switching this time? because if i don’t get some of this, i swear to god—”

you let out a breathy laugh, half-moan. “you want top billing?”

“we co-lead now,” she said, and flicked the nipple again for emphasis.

geto didn’t protest. just pulled back and looked at her, then at you.

“fine,” he said, and leaned over to kiss you, really kiss you this time — deep and full and tasting like your own breath, like smoke and salt and the ghost of your earlier laugh. “but I get to fuck her with your tits again when we’re done.”

“babe,” you whispered against his lips, “we can do that in the morning.”

“or in the shower,” shoko added, already crawling over your legs, straddling your thigh like she didn’t care that the floor was still sticky. “or while you’re eating breakfast. multitask.” you opened your mouth to say something smart, something stupid— but her mouth found your throat, and the words turned to noise.

geto leaned back to watch — one hand still stroking your thigh, the other fisting gently in his sweatpants as his cock swelled again, so hard so fast it almost looked painful. “fuck,” he muttered, “this is gonna be worse than the first time.”

“worse?” shoko said, licking a stripe up your neck.

“worse,” he said, voice gravel and heat and promise. “like… begging level.”

you groaned.

“good,” she said, cupping your tits again, smearing the leftover mess with a grin so sharp it could gut. “i like when she beg.” shoko's mouth on your neck was sharp, almost mean — no build-up, no tender teasing. she didn’t kiss you like a lover. she kissed like she meant it, like she had something to prove. her teeth caught your pulse just to feel it jump beneath them, and her tongue followed, hot and rough, tasting the salt of your skin like it was hers to devour.

and fuck — maybe it was.

you were pinned under her hips, her thigh between yours, the weight of her pressing down just enough to make your back arch and your breath catch. her hands were already on your chest again — still slick, still marked from earlier — squeezing your tits like she wanted to see if the memory of geto’s cum was still warm on your skin. it was. the smear of it caught her fingertips, and she laughed, dark and quiet and thrilled.

“you’re a fucking mess,” she said, dragging her thumb across one nipple, watching it pebble under her touch. “and you love it.” you whined something that might have been a yes, but your voice cracked too hard in the middle.

geto was still kneeling off to the side, half-forgotten in the haze, but his gaze never left you. his cock was heavy in his hand again, long fingers stroking slowly from base to tip, his other palm flat against the floor like he needed to ground himself or he’d float. his eyes followed shoko’s tongue — the way she licked across the top of your chest like she was tasting the aftermath, chasing the flavor of earlier sins.

“i’d say i’m jealous,” he murmured, voice rough and thick, “but watching this? might be better.” shoko didn’t even look at him. she just leaned down and bit your tit — not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to make you jolt. “stay still,” she said, mouth full, voice sticky with mischief. “i’m not done feeding yet.”

your legs twitched. your fingers dug into the carpet. and still — you stayed.

because you wanted to. because her voice in your ear was pure fucking command, and her mouth on your chest was making your pussy throb in a slow, devastating pulse. she moved lower — lazy, sliding her body down yours like she was melting over you — and kissed the underside of your breast, then your ribs, then your stomach, each press of her lips hotter than the last.

you looked down just in time to see her part your thighs.

and grin.

“ohh,” she breathed, like a dirty secret. “you’re dripping.”

your hips bucked.

“i haven’t even touched you yet,” she murmured, dragging one finger up the slick mess between your legs, slow and easy, spreading you open with the kind of casual confidence that made your spine bend. “this is all from getting your tits licked? that’s so fucking cute.”

geto groaned, a real one — helpless, reverent. “don’t tease her too much.”

“she likes it,” shoko said, then turned her head just enough to make eye contact with you. “don’t you, baby?”

you nodded. too fast. too breathless.

“use your words,” she said, slipping one finger in. just the tip.

“yes,” you gasped, voice cracking. “yes, i like it — please, shoko—”

she rewarded you by sliding in deeper.

slowly.

her finger curled inside you just right, and her mouth returned to your tits, tongue wet and unhurried, licking the slick remnants of earlier off your chest like she wanted to clean you with her mouth. geto’s hand was working faster now, his breath coming in shuddering waves, his eyes locked on where shoko’s fingers disappeared into your cunt, where your thighs trembled against the floor.

and still, no one rushed.

because this was worship. this was slow destruction. this was filth as intimacy. shoko added another finger, kissed the tip of your nipple like an apology, then leaned back to watch your face while she curled her hand — hard and sudden, precise.

you cried out.

“fuck,” geto whispered, like it was being wrung out of him. “she’s so—fuck, shoko—don’t stop, don’t—please—”

“shh,” she said, not looking at him. “you’ll get your turn.”

and then, to you, “you ready to come, sweet thing?”

you didn’t speak. couldn’t. just nodded, body slick and arched and soaked in need, begging in every line of your skin. shoko’s smile turned vicious. “good.”

and her mouth went down.

shoko’s mouth met your cunt like she knew it — like this was muscle memory, like she’d dreamed it before and memorized the weight of your thighs and the shape of your hunger without ever admitting it out loud. her tongue slid against you slow, too slow, a hot wet stripe that made your hips jump off the floor and your hands fist in the tangled couch blanket beside you.

you moaned — long, drawn-out, cracked open like prayer — and she didn’t pause. just grinned against you, then did it again.

“holy fuck,” you gasped.

geto had gotten to his knees. his hand still on his cock, lazily stroking, and his other hand drifted to your breast, thumb brushing your nipple with that same devastating softness he'd started with. the contrast of her tongue between your legs and his hand on your chest was maddening — soft and hard, sharp and slow, together like they were building you up to collapse.

“you taste like you’ve been waiting for this all day,” shoko muttered between licks, her voice muffled but smug. “she has,” geto murmured, leaning down to kiss your jaw. “kept those legs closed through a whole dinner and half a blunt.”

you groaned helplessly. “i’m gonna fucking die.”

“not yet,” shoko said, and sucked.

your back arched, thighs twitching against her cheeks. her tongue flicked, circled, teased your clit like it was a secret she was trying to coax out, and her fingers never stopped — two of them buried inside you again, curling with every slow drag of her mouth, pushing up into you with devastating rhythm.

geto kissed your neck. your shoulder. his cock nudged your hip now, slick and pulsing and ready, but he wasn’t rushing it. he watched you come apart under shoko’s mouth, eyes hungry, reverent, overwhelmed. “she looks so fucking pretty like this,” he whispered, brushing your sweat-stuck hair from your face. “you gonna come for her, baby?”

you nodded, whined, bit your lip until it stung.

“use your words,” shoko growled against your cunt, and the vibration made you twitch.

“yes, yes, please, shoko—don’t stop—”

she didn’t.

she doubled down.

mouth moving faster, tongue flicking harder, fingers fucking up into you with that sharp, perfect curl, over and over, and geto’s hand rolled your nipple just right, pinching it gently as he whispered filth against your ear, “you’re gonna soak her fingers, aren’t you?”

“gonna scream for us?”

“go on, baby — make a mess. be loud. let her taste all of it.”

and god, you did.

your orgasm slammed through you without warning — sudden and hot and full-body, hips bucking into shoko’s mouth, hands scrabbling at the floor, voice breaking into a cry that filled the whole disgusting, beautiful apartment.

shoko moaned when she felt you clench.

kept licking.

kept fucking you through it like she wanted everything, and you gave it, gasping and twitching and almost sobbing with how good it was. geto was breathing harder now, his cock wet at the tip, hand jerking faster. “shit,” he said, “fuck, i’m gonna—fuck—” and when shoko pulled her mouth from your cunt, she turned to him, hand still fucking you lazily — and said, “then come on her tits again. she misses it.”

and geto broke.

he leaned over you, panting, cock sliding between your sticky breasts with practiced ease. you pressed them together for him, still dazed from the orgasm, still shaking — and watched his face collapse as he thrust twice, once more, and spilled everything all over your chest with a strangled groan.

heat. wet. everywhere again.

you laughed — half-crazed, half-gone. shoko just wiped your brow with the back of her hand, like she’d done something generous. “you’re welcome,” she said, casual as ever, smearing the mess across your tits again. geto dropped beside you, spent and grinning like a man reborn.

you, somewhere between them, a ruined shrine in boots and sweat.

you could still taste her on your lips. or maybe it was your own orgasm, lingering bitter-sweet under your tongue. either way, the air was hot again — hotter, somehow — and your body wasn’t yours anymore. it was theirs. sore, open, glowing. you were slick in all the places that mattered and some that didn’t. your chest gleamed with geto’s second confession, still drying sticky under the curve of your tits.

and still — you wanted.

shoko sat next to you, her breathing steady but deep. her hair stuck to her neck in damp strands, lips wet, her face unreadable in that dangerous way. she was flushed — not just from exertion, but from wanting. she hadn’t come yet. neither had geto, this round. and that heat, that tension, was everywhere. it clung to the room, thick as sweat on skin.

you pulled your hand down from your breast and dragged a finger through the mess. held it up for her to see. “you look like you still need something.”

shoko didn’t answer. not with words. she just stood.

she pulled her shorts down slow, like a dare, one inch at a time, revealing black cotton underwear soaked through with wet and the bold indifference of someone who knew exactly what she wanted. she didn’t make it sexy. she made it inevitable. “i haven’t come,” she said, stepping out of them. “and you have a mouth.”

geto groaned. “fuck.”

you smiled. wide. wrecked.

and then, slow, still lying back on the floor, one leg bent, body open and welcoming — you looked up at her and said, “then sit on my face.”

the words hit the air like a punch.

shoko blinked once. her mouth twitched. and then — she grinned.

“don’t mind if i do.”

geto was already moving — kneeling between your thighs now, hands on your knees, spreading you open with that same reverent touch he’d used all night. but there was something hungrier in it now. something deeper. he was still hard, thick and flushed and dripping against his stomach, his cock slapped up against your pussy with a wet sound that made both of you twitch.

“fuck,” you muttered, looking up at him. “you’re still hard?”

he leaned over you, hands framing your hips, voice dark and too calm.

“i told you,” he said. “i haven’t started yet.”

and then shoko straddled your face.

no warning. no hesitation. her knees hit the floor on either side of your head and her cunt hovered inches above your mouth — glistening, soaked, swollen from teasing and denial and her own fucked-up sense of control. you reached up, bracing your hands on her thighs, and pulled her down.

you licked her first.

your tongue dragged up the full length of her pussy, from her entrance to her clit, slow and hungry, and her whole body shivered above you. “jesus—fuck,” she gasped, one hand flying to your hair, gripping hard. “okay. okay. yeah, like that—”

geto groaned like he was going to come just watching.

he lined his cock up with your entrance, dragging the head through your folds, teasing the opening — already so open, so slick from earlier, that you twitched beneath him the second he touched you.

and then he started to push in.

slow. so slow.

his cock stretched you with aching, unrelenting pressure, inch by inch, and your moan was lost against shoko’s cunt, muffled and vibrating into her as she gripped your hair tighter and rolled her hips into your mouth.

“holy shit,” she gasped, voice going thin. “she’s good at this.”

geto gritted his teeth, sinking deeper, breath ragged.

“she’s good at everything,” he muttered, hips pressing forward until he was fully buried. “fuck, you’re so tight, baby—still? after all that? fuck.”

you moaned again — helpless, overwhelmed — as shoko began grinding down on your mouth and geto began to thrust, slow and deliberate, hips rolling into you with the full weight of his desire. every drag of his cock sent sparks through your spine, pressure building again already — your clit brushing his base, your thighs trembling open wider.

shoko was shaking above you, panting, one hand braced on the wall, the other tangled in your hair as your tongue circled her clit and your lips sucked, steady, intent.

“fuck—fuck, she’s gonna make me come like this,” shoko gasped, hips rocking harder now. “god, you—you're filthy. so fucking good—yes—just like that—don’t stop—”

geto was still watching.

watching your mouth get used like a toy. watching your tits bounce with every thrust. watching you give everything and ask for nothing but more.

his thrusts picked up — still slow, still deep, but harder, more claiming now. his hands held your hips in place, fingers digging into your skin, dragging you down onto his cock with every snap of his hips. “you’re gonna make her come,” he whispered to shoko, voice dark with pride. “and she’s gonna take me like a good fucking girl while she does it.”

you moaned — a wet, desperate sound lost in shoko’s cunt — and your hands tightened on her thighs, holding her down, eating her out like your life depended on it, tongue moving faster now, deeper, swirling, flicking.

she cried out.

and her whole body tensed.

“fuck—i’m—don’t stop—fuck, i’m coming—”

her orgasm hit like a slap — sharp, sudden, full-body — and she gasped, legs trembling, hips frozen as your tongue dragged her through it, still licking, still devouring. she came hard, grinding helplessly into your mouth, and when she finally started to breathe again, she collapsed forward, catching herself on the couch, hair falling around your face like a curtain.

“holy shit,” she breathed. “she just ate my soul.”

geto groaned above you — hips stuttering.

“fuck,” he panted. “don’t say that, i’m—i’m so fucking close—”

but he didn’t let go yet. you were still wrapped around him, shaking, wet, ruined under both of them. and he wasn’t finished. you didn’t stop.

shoko’s orgasm pulsed against your mouth, her thighs trembling around your head, her hips jerking slightly as sensitivity spiked in all the places she could no longer guard — and you kept sucking. kept your lips wrapped around her clit, kept your tongue moving in tight, precise circles like you had something to prove.

because you did.

you wanted to ruin her. you wanted to see what she looked like when she couldn’t stay sharp — when her sarcasm melted, when her voice cracked, when her body begged in place of her mouth.

and you were close.

she gasped above you, breath caught in her throat, one hand clawing blindly at the couch cushion behind her while the other braced on geto’s shoulder, fingers digging into the meat of him just to stay up. her legs twitched around your head, threatening to clamp down, but your arms were already locked around her thighs, pulling her down, keeping her there, refusing to let go.

“fuck—fuck—baby—” she choked out, hips trying to escape the pull of your mouth, “she won’t stop—suguru—fuck—”

geto was still between your legs, his cock sliding in and out of your cunt with a rhythm that was deliberate and slow, every thrust sinking deep, stroking that soft, unbearable place that made your toes curl. his hands gripped your hips, thumbs digging into the flesh just above your pelvis, keeping you anchored while he watched the way you devoured shoko like it was instinct.

his voice came in a rasp. “she’s fucking addicted to you.”

shoko didn’t answer. couldn’t. her head dropped forward, her forehead brushing geto’s chest, and you felt the moment it broke her again — the whimper, the involuntary twitch, the choked sound that slipped from her lips when she tried to say stop and it came out as please instead.

and then, shaking, she leaned down.

not away. down.

her spine curved forward, folding over you, one hand catching herself on your chest, fingers brushing the slick mess of geto’s come from before. her head rested briefly against his stomach, sweat-slick hair tangling against his abs, and then—

then her mouth opened.

and she licked his cock.

he groaned, deep and shocked, his hips faltering as her tongue dragged across the base where it disappeared inside you. you moaned against her cunt, thighs clenching around his waist, body arching from the floor at the double heat of them — him inside, her on top, and now both of them touching.

shoko’s mouth was slow. exploratory. she kissed the base of his cock where it slid into your pussy, wet and obscene, then flicked her tongue lower, just beneath the ridge. your cunt clenched in response, fluttering tight around him, and geto’s hands flew to her hair before he could stop himself.

“fuck, shoko—”

he gripped the back of her head, not pulling, just holding, tangled in the mess of her hair like he needed something to hang onto. she looked up at him from under her lashes, still licking, then reached between your legs with her free hand and dragged her fingers straight through the slick mess between your folds — your wetness, his come, her spit — and pressed her thumb hard to your clit.

you screamed into her cunt, back bowing off the floor.

she gasped. “fuck—she’s twitching—”

“don’t stop,” geto said, voice hoarse. “don’t you fucking dare.”

and she didn’t.

her mouth dipped lower, licking your clit from time to time with little, almost tender kisses between her filthy worship of geto’s cock. her thumb circled faster now, rubbing your clit in rhythm with the thrust of his hips, in rhythm with the shake of her own thighs as she stayed on your face, even as her cunt trembled with aftershocks. your arms were still locked around her legs, holding her there, and now your fingers slid down to grip her ass, pulling her tighter, closer, mouth still sucking, still devouring.

you could barely breathe. you didn’t need to.

this was oxygen. this was saturation.

geto was panting now, close to the edge but holding himself back by some shred of control, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your chest, hips rolling in slow, grinding circles as he watched shoko lick where he entered you, rub your clit while you moaned into her pussy like a prayer on repeat.

“you feel her?” he whispered, teeth clenched. “feel how fucking tight she gets when you do that?”

shoko didn’t answer.

she just licked again.

and your body shook.

geto wasn’t thrusting anymore.

he was grinding.

his cock still inside you, deep and hot and so fucking full, but his hips rolled instead of slammed, his pace thick and deliberate — like he was sculpting your pleasure with his body, building it slow so you could feel every inch of what he gave. every pass of his cock dragged over something in you that made your spine curl and your thighs twitch, and the weight of him, the heat of him, the tension just below breaking — it was fucking suffocating in the best way.

you could hear him breathing. every exhale a prayer. every inhale like he was tasting you through the air itself. “you hear yourself, baby?” he murmured, voice barely stable, grinding deeper. “you hear how fucking wet you sound? how messy you are? jesus fucking christ…”

and you could. it was obscene — the wet, slick noise every time he moved inside you, the soft suction of his cock parting your walls, the way your cunt fluttered around him as shoko rubbed your clit and kissed the slick joining of your bodies like she was blessing it.

your mouth was still on her — your tongue still buried between her folds, licking her through the afterglow, drawing out every little tremor her body gave you in return. she twitched every time you circled her clit, hips rolling gently, almost helplessly, but she didn’t move away.

she gave it to you.

shoko’s thighs framed your face, sticky and flushed, and your arms stayed locked around them, holding her down — not just because you needed her, but because she let you. and now, her mouth was moving again — slow, lips parting in gasps, her cheek pressed to geto’s stomach, her forehead against the slick lines of his abs, mouthing the base of his cock where it stretched your pussy wide.

and her voice — her voice was finally wrecked.

“she’s—fuck—she’s still licking me,” she gasped, shuddering as your tongue slipped against her clit again. “i can’t—suguru, she’s not stopping, she’s fucking—”

“don’t make her stop,” geto growled, one hand tightening in shoko’s hair. “fuck, she’s so good like this. let her eat you like you deserve it.”

you moaned into her, a broken, feral sound, your mouth slick with her, your whole body pulsing with heat — and she felt it, the way your moan buzzed into her cunt, and she trembled. her grip on your breast tightened, and she let out this raw, real sound that barely resembled a laugh.

“she’s—god, i think she likes being used like this,” she panted, pressing her fingers harder against your clit now, fast little circles that made your hips buck against geto’s cock. “fuck, baby, you’re dripping—like, pouring, you’re—how are you still so wet—”

geto leaned in then, voice a low rasp at her ear.

“because she wants it.”

his words landed like lightning.

“she wants to be filled again,” he hissed, driving his hips in deeper with that same agonizing slowness. “wants you on her face. wants my cock in her pussy. wants us to take her apart, shoko. over and over.”

“fuck,” shoko breathed, hand jerking slightly between your legs now, thumb catching your clit just right.

and you screamed into her.

not because you came — not yet. but because it was so close now, it was right fucking there — and every word they said, every stroke, every flick of tongue and hand and cock just stacked it higher, made it worse, better, everything. you pulled your mouth away just long enough to choke out, voice slurred and ruined beneath her:

“don’t stop—don’t stop, please—please, i’m—i’m almost there, fuck—”

“we’ve got you,” geto said, kissing your thigh, mouth tender against your shaking skin. “we’re right here, baby. gonna make you feel everything.” shoko was panting again, her hand messy now, dragging through the slick between your folds, smearing it over your clit and back down again, her mouth soft and wet at the base of geto’s cock.

“she’s twitching,” shoko whispered. “suguru—fuck—she’s gonna come.”

“not yet,” he growled, fucking in just a little harder now — still slow, but firm, deep enough to make you see stars, deep enough to make your breath leave you in bursts. you sobbed beneath them, your legs shaking, your pussy gripping him with every slow thrust. “you can take it, baby,” he said, voice molten with praise. “so fucking good for us — mouth open, cunt open, just taking everything.”

you whimpered. body thrumming.

and still — still you hadn’t come. not yet. but the edge was right there. and they weren’t letting you fall. not yet. they were going to hold you at the edge until it was deserved. your entire body was shaking.

legs trembling uncontrollably, arms still locked around shoko’s thighs, mouth open against her cunt, lips wet and swollen, tongue still lapping despite the way your moans kept breaking the rhythm — and above you, they kept going.

shoko’s fingers moved faster now, circling your clit with relentless accuracy, each pass dragging sparks through your nerves like they were wired directly into your spine. she had her whole weight settled against your face, her voice cracking now, no longer smug, just wrecked — gasping your name, cursing under her breath, begging you to keep going even as she ground against your mouth with uneven, desperate rolls of her hips.

“fuck—fuck—baby—your tongue, oh my god—”

and geto — geto was a problem. a sin. a punishment and a reward.

his cock was still deep inside you, every slow, thick thrust making you feel like you were being split in the sweetest, most unbearable way. and he hadn’t lost his rhythm. he never did. his hips snapped forward at just the right angle to drag across everything you needed, his fingers holding your hips open, tilted up just so he could fuck into the deepest part of you.

and he knew.

he could feel it.

the way your cunt clung to him tighter with each pass, the way your thighs twitched, how your breath kept coming in those high, gasping sobs, how you couldn’t even form a word anymore — just sounds. raw, honest, helpless.

“baby,” he panted, sweat dripping down his throat, his hair stuck to his face, voice gone thin, “you’re—fuck, you’re right there, aren’t you? can feel you fucking clenching—so tight, shit, just a little more—shoko, don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

shoko moaned. “i’m not—I’m not—she’s so fucking wet, suguru—she’s gushing already—”

“do it, baby,” geto said, thrusting harder now, deeper. “fucking come for us. let it go. let it all out—”

you choked. a soundless scream.

your whole body snapped.

and then — it hit.

your orgasm tore through you like an earthquake — sudden, violent, all-consuming — your back arching off the floor, mouth pulling away from shoko’s cunt with a desperate sob as your body convulsed between them. your legs kicked out, your arms went rigid, and your cunt squeezed around geto’s cock so tight it knocked a guttural moan from his throat.

“fuckfuckfuck—she’s coming—!”

and then—

you squirted.

it burst out of you in a hot, wet gush — sudden and unstoppable, spraying across his cock, down your thighs, splashing against his stomach and pooling under your ass. your whole body jerked with it, hips lifting, stuttering, grinding helplessly as you cried out — loud, high-pitched, fucking ruined.

“oh my god—” shoko gasped, yanking her hand away as wetness drenched her wrist before she move from your face. “she—she fucking squirted—suguru, she—”

geto groaned so loud it echoed. “fuck, that’s it, that’s it, baby—good girl, holy shit, look at that, look at how messy you are—so fucking beautiful—”

your chest heaved, your mouth hung open, hands shaking as you tried to ground yourself — but you couldn’t. your body kept twitching, little aftershocks ripping through your core, pussy still fluttering around geto’s cock, thighs still wet and spread, and the air smelled like heat and sex and you.

shoko leaned over you again, kissed your mouth, slow and messy and open, and whispered against your lips, “that was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

geto was still inside you, still holding you open, voice shaking.

“you okay?” he asked softly, forehead brushing yours. “you with us?”

you nodded — barely. barely.

your voice was wrecked. but your smile was satisfied.

“…fuck.”

and from the look in their eyes, they weren’t done yet.

not even close.

your lungs were still catching up.

your legs had lost the concept of tension.

your mouth was parted, your whole body twitching in these soft, unsteady ripples of after, and yet —

they weren’t letting you go.

shoko had moved behind you like smoke curling under a door, slow and smooth and suddenly there, her bare skin hot against your back, her breath brushing your neck. and before you could fully realize it, her hands were on you — one on your chest, cupping a tit like it belonged to her, the other sliding down your stomach with unhurried purpose.

and geto… he was still inside you.

he hadn’t pulled out, hadn’t stopped moving. his cock was still seated deep in your soaked, fluttering cunt, his hips rolling in lazy, dragging circles that made you clench involuntarily every time he bottomed out — like your body couldn’t decide if it was overstimulated or starving for more. he was warm, panting, his hands bracing on either side of your hips, fingers flexing against your skin like he was grounding himself just to stay in.

“look at you,” he said hoarsely, voice all grit and honey and awe. “still dripping.”

and it was true — your inner thighs were glossy, slick with the aftermath of your last orgasm, the floor beneath you tacky with it, and yet the drag of his cock only made it worse — made it better. you felt too open. too full. and when shoko’s fingers brushed your clit again, featherlight and precise, your whole body twitched forward like someone had pressed a button.

“s-sensitive—” you gasped, barely audible, body jerking instinctively.

“i know,” she said into your neck, kissing just behind your ear. “but that’s the best time, isn’t it?”

you whined — high-pitched and fucked-out — as her fingers dipped lower, sliding through your folds like they were testing the temperature of a pool she already planned to dive into. she circled your clit, slow and measured, drawing soft, spiraling patterns that sent lightning through your belly.

“you’re still so wet,” she murmured, voice low and amused. “so soft. open. fuck, you feel like something blooming.”

geto groaned behind you, voice wrecked. “she’s perfect.”

and then — like it was choreographed — they moved together.

geto’s hips began to thrust with more intention, more pressure, the thick drag of him stroking deeper now, less teasing, more claiming, his cock hitting that spot inside you with brutal accuracy. and shoko’s hand on your pussy didn’t let up — her fingers sliding lower, pressing inside you with his cock, feeling how he moved within you while she curled her touch just right to grind your clit from below.

you cried out — an honest, desperate sound — your body pulled taut again in an instant.

“you’re gonna give us one more,” geto whispered, leaning forward so his forehead met yours. “you’ve got it in you, baby. just one more. come on — let it go for us.”

shoko moaned against your neck, her mouth open, her breath hot as her hand on your tit squeezed harder. “let us see it, baby. let us feel you come again. make a fucking mess.”

and god.

you did.

you shattered.

the pressure coiled so fast it almost hurt — a surge of heat and friction and wet crashing through your body like a wave, and then you came again, harder this time, your cunt seizing around geto’s cock, your hips jerking forward against shoko’s hand as another rush of liquid burst from you — gushing — spraying down over geto’s thighs, soaking your own, a high, keening moan escaping your throat as you lost control completely.

geto’s hands flew to your hips, holding you down as he groaned, voice breaking, and thrust once — twice — and then came inside you, deep, spilling himself with a sound that bordered on worship. his cock twitched inside your soaked, fluttering pussy as your squirt ran down both of you, his come mixing with yours, messy and thick and perfect.

shoko’s arms tightened around your waist, anchoring you, and her mouth kissed your temple, your shoulder, your jaw — little grounding points as your body kept shaking.

“there she is,” she whispered. “look at that. fuck, look at what you gave us.”

geto’s forehead was pressed to your collarbone now, breath hot and uneven, and he was still buried in you, his cock softening slowly in the slick warmth of your cunt.

you didn’t speak.

you couldn’t.

but you smiled.

and you let them hold you there — fucked-out, soaked, trembling — with their hands on your skin and your breath still coming in ragged gasps.

and for now, that was enough.

you didn’t even know you could come like that again.

your whole body was already trembling — pulled taut between geto’s cock driving into you so deep, dragging through your soaked cunt with that thick, deliberate rhythm, and shoko’s fingers slipping tight over your clit, her palm warm against your pussy, her mouth still pressing hot little kisses to your neck like she was winding you back up just to tear you open again.

and you were already wrecked — thighs shaking, breath stuttering, jaw slack — every nerve fried and buzzing, the echo of your last orgasm still burning between your legs like a brand. but they didn’t stop. they wouldn’t stop. not with the way geto’s voice had gone soft and fucked and mean, whispering right against your cheek, hips rolling slow, dragging moans out of you with every push.

“you’re gonna do it again,” he breathed, panting now. “you’re close, baby, i can feel it—she’s twitching, shoko, fuck, she’s already so tight—”

“come on, sweet thing,” shoko murmured behind you, her hand dragging up your stomach to palm your tit again, squeezing like she needed something to ground her. “just one more. let us have it. be good.”

you whimpered — a ragged, high sound — and your legs kicked out a little from the floor, your thighs starting to tremble uncontrollably again.

“fuck,” you gasped, eyes squeezing shut. “fuck, i can’t—i can’t—i’m gonna—”

“yes,” geto growled, fingers digging into your hips. “do it. let it go, baby—let it go for us—”

and then it hit.

your body snapped forward — back arching hard, mouth falling open in a scream you couldn’t hold back — and your cunt clamped down around his cock so tight it felt like you were trying to keep him inside forever. your whole body shuddered, and then —

it spilled out of you.

a burst — no, a flood — soaking everything.

you squirted so hard it splashed audibly against geto’s thighs, sprayed down both your legs, a rush of hot, wet release pulsing out of you in waves, soaking the floor, your thighs, him. it didn’t stop — your body kept pulsing, clenching, jerking — another gush pouring out, and another, until your skin was wet, slick with it, and your voice cracked in a gasping sob.

“oh my god—fuck—i’m squirting, i can’t—i can’t—fuck, fuck—”

“fuck yes,” geto moaned, frantic now, his rhythm faltering, eyes locked on the way you fell apart around him, the way your slick poured down over his cock, milking him, drenching him. “you’re so good, so fucking perfect, oh my god—fuck, i’m—”

and then he snapped too.

his hips slammed deep one last time, hands gripping your waist so tight it left finger-shaped bruises, and he came with a broken, breathless groan — hips twitching, cock pulsing deep inside you, hot ropes of come spilling into your still-spasming cunt, mixing with your slick in a messy, thick flood that made your legs jerk again.

“fuckfuckfuck—i’m coming, baby, i’m coming—so deep, you’re taking it all—jesus fuck, you’re so tight—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

your body was still twitching.

you couldn’t breathe right. your arms had gone weak. your cunt was still pulsing around him, squeezing like you wanted to wring out every last drop of him, and your chest was heaving, your mouth open, spit on your lips, thighs spread and wet and still leaking.

your orgasm hadn’t even ended when he started to come undone.

he was still inside you, deep, buried, the warmth of your pussy wrapped tight around his cock, spasming with each violent aftershock of your release. you’d soaked him — he was dripping, thighs slick from the flood of your squirt, skin sticking to yours as your body jerked and twitched beneath him, helpless and holy and fucking perfect.

and geto was gone.

he was gripping your hips like he didn’t know what else to hold, knuckles white, arms shaking, trying so hard to keep his rhythm — but he couldn’t. he couldn’t stop watching the way you fell apart, the way you cried out, the way your cunt pulled at him like it was begging for every drop he had.

“fuck, baby—fuck—fuuuck,” he gasped, voice climbing a full octave. “you’re—you’re milking me—you’re gonna make me fucking explode—”

shoko was still behind you, one arm around your waist, her hand splayed low across your stomach to hold you in place. she was panting too — from the effort of keeping you upright, from watching the way he broke over you.

geto slammed in deep once — a shuddering, desperate thrust — and froze, his whole body locking up like it couldn’t handle the weight of what was coming.

“oh my god—fuck, i’m—i’m gonna cum—i’m cumming—fuck, fuck, baby—”

and then he did.

his mouth fell open and he cried out — loud, high, helpless — like the sound had been ripped from somewhere inside his chest. his cock throbbed hard inside you, thick pulses that you could feel against your walls, and his come spilled into you in long, hot spurts — so much, too much, filling you until it started to leak out around his cock, dripping down onto the floor already slick with your mess.

“take it—fuck, take it, baby—look at you—taking all of it, holy shit, i can’t—i can’t—oh my god—”

he was moaning through it, voice cracking, hips twitching with each contraction, his head dropping to your shoulder like he’d just run out of strength. every little movement pulled another whimper from him, another twitch of his cock, like your body was still squeezing more from him, not letting go.

you were barely breathing. limp. fucked-out. but god, you could feel it — the way he gave in to you completely, the way his voice broke, the way his body collapsed against yours like you were home.

and in the silence that followed — your heart pounding, his breath shaky against your throat — shoko whispered into your ear, breathless and hoarse: “you broke him.”

and geto, still shaking, still deep inside you, laughed a little. a broken, stunned sound.

“yeah,” he said, voice wrecked. “she did.”

the room was quiet now.

not silent — not completely. the hum of the old AC unit sputtering through the vents, the buzz of the city bleeding in from the balcony, the occasional drip of something onto the floor — maybe sweat, maybe come, maybe just time catching up.

you weren’t moving.

you couldn’t.

your legs were still spread, your body trembling in slow, confused pulses. your cunt was soaked — full of him, leaking from the stretch of geto’s cock still softening inside you, and the mess was a problem that no one seemed interested in solving. you could feel it sliding down your ass, thick and warm, pooling on the floor beneath you, mixing with what you’d already given. and above it all — the heat of shoko’s body, still wrapped around you, her breath damp against the shell of your ear, her hand lazily stroking your stomach like she was grounding you back to earth, one slow touch at a time.

geto hadn’t moved either.

he was slumped against your front, cock still inside, head resting between your breasts, mouth open, breath dragging in long, exhausted pulls like he didn’t know how to recover yet. his hands were on your hips, thumbs absently drawing slow circles into the meat of your skin, like he was still feeling you come — or trying to convince himself it had actually happened.

none of you said anything. not for a while.

and then shoko sighed.

“...we're gonna need to mop.”

you laughed. or tried to. it came out more like a wheeze.

“fuck off,” you mumbled, voice hoarse. “your fault.”

“you’re the one who squirted like a busted pipe,” she muttered, but there was no bite to it. just warmth. she kissed your temple. “you’re also the one who let me sit on your face like it owed me money. so maybe we call it even.”

geto made a soft noise against your chest. something between a laugh and a whimper.

“i think i died,” he murmured.

you tilted your head to glance down at him. his eyes were closed. his hair was stuck to his face. he looked wrecked. gorgeous. “you didn’t die,” you said, softly, fingers brushing through the strands at the back of his head. “you just got fucked like you deserved it.”

he groaned. didn’t even argue.

shoko snorted. “you look like a priest after a very bad exorcism.”

“shoko,” he said, muffled against your skin, “please shut the fuck up.”

you smiled. you couldn’t help it.

and even though your body ached, even though your thighs were sore and your mouth was raw and every part of you was coated in sweat and spit and come — you felt good. warm. surrounded. held. you shifted a little, enough to make geto groan and finally, finally slide out of you with a wet, obscene sound that made you all flinch and laugh at the same time.

“jesus christ,” he mumbled, sitting back on his heels, staring down at your cunt like he’d just watched something sacred happen. “look at you.”

shoko reached around and smacked his chest.

“stop being weird about it,” she said. “we already ruined her. no need to narrate it.”

he held up his hands, mock-surrender. “sorry, sorry. it’s just… beautiful.”

“gross,” she said. “also accurate.”

you exhaled, finally sitting up, wincing as everything shifted inside you, dripping out with gravity. shoko helped, her arms still around your waist, keeping you upright even as your muscles protested. your skin stuck to hers. geto leaned in and kissed your shoulder, then your chest, then your stomach — each one slow, sweet, like thanks. like apology. like devotion.

no one rushed.

no one cleaned up.

you sat there together, sticky and stupid and smiling, soaked in everything you’d done.

“so,” shoko said finally, yawning. “we ordering food, or…?”

you were on the couch now.

well — in the couch, really. sunk so deep into the threadbare cushions that your spine was probably imprinted on the frame. your legs were folded weirdly under you, thighs still sticky, hair still damp with sweat. your body felt like it had been used as a chew toy by god and then left to ferment.

but you were warm. and clothed. sort of.

geto’s shirt — the long, oversized black one that smelled like laundry detergent and weed and boy — hung off you like a flag of victory. nothing underneath. nipples occasionally ghosting against the cotton. thighs on full display. but it didn’t matter. you were fed. or about to be.

the pizza box was open on the coffee table, steam still rising from melted cheese and garlic butter crusts. one slice in your hand. three bites in. you chewed slowly, like every fiber of your soul depended on this exact triangle of bread and grease.

across the room, shoko was on all fours in her sleep shorts and an old tank top, holding a damp towel and grumbling audibly as she wiped the floor near the couch legs. the puddle she was crouched over definitely hadn’t come from spilled water.

geto — completely naked, still glowing like a house spirit who just got laid by a god — was on his knees nearby, using one of his bath towels to blot a dark patch that probably counted as a biological hazard. “shoko,” you said sweetly, mouth full, gesturing toward the corner of the room with your slice. “you missed a spot. right over by the speaker. there’s like… a whole-ass trail.”

her head snapped toward you.

you didn’t even flinch. just took another bite.

“are you kidding me?” she barked, sitting back on her heels and letting the towel fall to the floor with an exaggerated flop. “you’re just sitting there like a little royalty gremlin in his shirt while we mop up the trail of fucking devastation you made?”

you nodded, chewed. swallowed. “mm-hmm.”

“bitch.” she dragged a hand down her face. “you’re the one who squirted like a popped soda can.”

“well,” you said, licking grease off your thumb, “i’m too weak to clean.”

“too weak?”

“i’m sensitive.” you patted your own thigh gently. “my pussy’s still trembling. it’s tragic, really.”

“tragedy would be if i smothered you with this pizza box.”

“shoko,” came geto’s voice, soft and half-laughing from the floor. “let her be.”

he didn’t even look up from where he was scrubbing a mysterious corner with one hand and balancing a slice of pizza in the other. he looked unfairly serene. still naked. still glowing. like post-nut enlightenment had lifted him to a higher plane and now he was just… chill.

“she made the mess,” shoko snapped. “she should clean it.”

“you helped make the mess,” he said calmly, biting his slice. “and i don’t see you complaining when you were riding her face.”

shoko froze. looked back at you. then at him.

“okay,” she said after a beat. “valid.”

you gave her a smug little grin, then groaned and curled sideways on the couch, tucking your legs up and pulling geto’s shirt tighter around your thighs. they“plus, if i try to get up right now, i’ll probably fall over. i’ve got post-orgasm jelly spine. you want me to faint in the puddle?”

“god, you’re insufferable,” she muttered, going back to wiping with a vengeance. “geto, this is your fault.”

“i’m not complaining,” he said, still on his knees, wiping slow, humming under his breath like a man who’d just emptied every ounce of himself into someone he loved. “this was the best kind of crime scene.”

“disgusting,” she said.

“you’re welcome,” you offered from your seat.

shoko wiped aggressively at the corner spot you pointed out, muttering something about bodily fluids and the price of friendship.

geto laughed, low and warm.

you took another bite.

and for a long, sticky moment, everything in that fucked-up apartment was perfect.

[junojoel]

Cake and Candles

Joel Miller x fem!Reader

Summary: Joel never forgets your birthday.

Warnings: fluff, reader is implied younger than joel through one piece of dialogue, Joel's love language being acts of service/gift giving, reader had a mom, dad and little brother

ITS MY BIRTHDAYYYY!!!! ellie birthday episode and my birthday being in the same week was too much fate for me not to write this.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

It had rained the night before, which meant the alleys smelled worse than usual — sour and metallic, like the city was rotting from the inside out. The puddles on the concrete looked more like oil than water and the sky hung low and mean.

The drop was supposed to be quick. A supply run from an abandoned ration depot near the North Wall to a safehouse two zones over. Painkillers, batteries, something with an industrial chemical label that Joel warned you not to breathe near.

You were three hours in, already soaked through, and the mood had turned to shit.

Joel barely said a word the whole time. Tess did most of the talking, leading the three of you through narrow side streets and broken corridors like she’d lived in the bones of this place for decades. You kept your eyes up, finger close to the trigger. Your boots were too loud, your nerves too exposed.

“Two more blocks,” Tess muttered, crouched beside a rusted-out vending machine. “Then we sit tight.”

You nodded, Joel only grunted.

And you told yourself not to think about it. About what day it was. About what it used to mean.

But you did. Of course you did.

The thought kept coming back like a compulsion: If things were normal, I'd be home right now.

Your mom would’ve been waking you up early — warm kitchen light, the smell of sugar and cinnamon, her telling you not to peek while she decorated. Your little brother would’ve made some half-glued card with stick figures and misspelled words, and your dad would’ve tried to act cool while holding out whatever he'd managed to barter for that year. Cheap jewellery. A book. A cassette tape. Whatever felt like something.

Now the idea of cake and candles made your stomach hurt.

But still. You remembered. You kept track.

You weren’t even sure why anymore.

Tess glanced over her shoulder as you cleared the alley and stepped into the shadow of a half-collapsed parking garage.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, voice low.

You tried to shrug it off. “Just tired.”

But her eyes narrowed, suspicious in that way she got when she knew you were lying but didn’t feel like calling you on it yet.

“Alright,” she said slowly. “But don’t lose your edge. We’re not safe yet.”

Joel gave you a sidelong glance, like he’d caught the lie too.

The handoff went fine. Quick, quiet, almost clean. You met the contact in an old laundromat with half the ceiling caved in. Joel stood near the back, one hand resting casually on his pistol, eyes cold and distant.

You did your job. Took the crate. Loaded the bags. Moved through the checkpoint tunnels without drawing attention.

You didn’t say a word the whole way back.

By nightfall, you were holed up in the safehouse near the old subway tracks. It wasn’t much — one small room, a gas lamp, sleeping bags, and a metal table with one leg shorter than the others. But the door locked, and now that was enough.

Tess peeled off her jacket, wrung out the rainwater, and looked between you and Joel like she was trying to decide which of you would implode first.

“Alright,” she said, grabbing her pack. “I’ve got another deal to check on. You two hold down the fort. Try not to brood each other to death.”

Before she left, she paused in the doorway and shot you a look. Her voice softened.

“You doing okay?”

You hesitated.

You could lie. But something about the way she looked at you — not pitying, not prying, just… knowing — made your throat go tight.

“It’s just a day,” you said finally.

Tess nodded slowly, her gaze flicking briefly to Joel. “Yeah. That’s what we all tell ourselves.”

Then she was gone.

You sat on the edge of the sleeping bag, staring at your hands.

Joel was already at the table, stripping and cleaning his gun with mechanical precision. Every movement deliberate. Detached.

You listened to the sound of metal clicking, cloth brushing steel.

Finally, he spoke.

“You gonna tell me what the hell’s eatin’ at you, or am I supposed to guess?”

Your jaw clenched. “It’s nothing.”

He snorted. “You’ve said less than ten words all day. Even Tess noticed. And she’s usually too busy talking to hear herself breathe.”

You huffed, reluctant, but the words were already pushing forward.

“It’s stupid.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just waited.

You looked down at your hands again.

“It’s my birthday.”

That made him pause. He set the cloth down slowly and looked up. Something flickered in his expression, gone too fast to catch.

You laughed, but it was hollow. “I know. Dumb thing to care about now. I just— I always used to. My family made a big deal out of it. Even when we didn’t have anything. And now… I don’t know. I guess part of me keeps expecting someone to remember. Even though they can’t.”

Joel’s mouth twitched. Not quite a frown. Not quite anything. He looked away. “Birthdays don’t mean much anymore.”

“I know. That’s what I keep telling myself.”

You stood, pacing now, energy suddenly too restless to hold.

“But it’s like… this twisted kind of hope, right? You spend all year just trying to survive, and then one day rolls around and you remember you used to feel important. Used to feel seen. And now it’s just another reminder that you’re alone.”

Joel’s jaw worked.

You didn’t see him move at first — just the rustle of his coat, the sound of the door unlatching.

You turned. “Where are you going?”

He didn’t answer. Just pulled on his jacket and stepped outside.

You sat in the dark, listening to the wind rattle the window boards. The minutes stretched. You tried not to think about him. Tried not to wonder if he’d come back, or if maybe you’d said too much, crossed a line he didn’t want crossed.

Then the door creaked open and Joel stepped back in, face cold, holding something wrapped in a rag. You blinked as he walked past you, set it down on the table, and unwrapped it slowly.

A dented metal can.

You stepped closer.

Peaches.

The label was torn, but you could still make out the picture — bright orange slices swimming in syrup. It looked like something out of a dream.

You stared.

Joel didn’t meet your eyes.

“Found it near the East checkpoint. Took it off some jackass who was trying to trade it for antibiotics. Almost got himself shot.”

You swallowed hard.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said. “It’s a one-time thing.”

You sat slowly.

He cracked the can open with his knife. The scent hit instantly — sweet and sharp, syrupy and thick. It brought tears to your eyes before you could stop them.

Joel handed you a spoon.

“Happy birthday,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

You looked up. “Thank you.”

You didn’t talk much after that. Just sat and shared the can between you, passing the spoon back and forth in silence. It was too sweet, too sticky, but it tasted like something close to memory.

You should’ve left it there—quiet and safe, something unspoken you could both pretend didn’t matter tomorrow.

But the sugar and the warmth of it, the bitter nostalgia curling behind your ribs, made your guard slip. You stared down at the last peach in the can, barely more than syrup and pulp now, and said it before you could stop yourself.

“Do you remember yours?”

Joel didn’t look up. “My what?”

“Your birthday.”

He stilled. Spoon halfway to the can, hand clenched just a little too tight.

“You don’t have to answer,” you added quickly. “I just— I don’t know. You did this for me. Made me feel like I mattered today. Thought maybe that meant birthdays meant something to you, too.”

Joel exhaled through his nose. The sound was flat. Dry. Almost a laugh, but not.

“They don’t.”

You looked at him carefully. “But they used to?”

He stared ahead like he wasn’t really seeing the room. His fingers drummed once against the table, then stopped.

“Long time ago,” he said. “When things were… different.”

“Family?”

His jaw tightened. You regretted asking, wanted to take it back.

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. The lines at the corners of his eyes looked deeper in the lamplight, carved in by time and grief and things he’d never said out loud.

“Had a daughter,” he said finally. Voice low, rough-edged. “She used to make me pancakes. Every year. Even when she burned ‘em.”

Your breath caught.

Joel didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on some point far away, like the past was something he could still see if he squinted hard enough.

“After… everything,” he said, “I stopped keeping track. Seemed easier that way.”

You were quiet for a long time.

Then he said it. Quiet. Flat. Like something he’d rehearsed in his head a thousand times but never let pass his lips.

“September 26th.”

You felt the air shift. The weight of it settle between you.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Joel didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry.”

He just gave a small shake of his head, like he didn’t know what to do with your sympathy. Like he didn’t think he deserved it.

“I was at work,” he said, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “Didn't mean to be that late. My daughter wanted to bake something, asked me to bring a cake home. She was real excited. Kept asking me to stay home that night.”

You didn’t breathe.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, then let it drop.

“Anyway. It was that night."

You nodded, throat tight.

Joel reached out and pushed the last piece of peach toward you with the spoon.

You took it.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For this.”

“Won’t make a habit of it,” he muttered.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

You woke before the sun, the cold biting at your nose through the cracked window. The room was dark, quiet — just the soft hum of wind threading through boarded slats. Another day. Another job. You told yourself it was just that.

You sat up slowly, pulling your jacket closer, and tried not to think about the date. But of course you did. The date. It nestled in your jaw like a bad tooth, aching every time your mind circled back.

It was your birthday.

You hadn't told anyone. Not this year. Not after how last year had gone, with Joel’s voice going flat when you asked about his own birthday, the air going still when he’d muttered September 26th, and your stomach flipping when you realised why that date mattered. You hadn’t meant to open a wound — you’d just wanted to share something.

So this year, you didn’t bring it up. You told yourself it was fine. That birthdays didn’t mean anything anymore.

Still, you hoped — foolishly, silently — that someone might remember. That Joel might remember.

“Pack light. We’re headin’ to Bill’s.”

You glanced up from where you were tightening the strap on your boot, heart giving a soft lurch. “Supply run?”

He gave a noncommittal grunt — not exactly a yes, but not a no either — and turned back into the hallway without another word. Typical.

You exhaled slowly. Today of all days. You couldn’t decide if it was a relief that he didn’t remember or if it stung more because you’d spent the last few days nervously rehearsing whether or not to bring it up. Your birthday had crept up again like it always did now — not with excitement, but with that same sharp pang of twisted anticipation that you couldn’t fully shake.

The truck ride was long and uneventful. Joel didn’t say much beyond the occasional grunt when a pothole jostled the tires or a flick of his hand to indicate a change in route. The countryside passed in blur — dead trees, skeletal remains of billboards, rusted-out signs and roads that had long since stopped leading anywhere. He’d said they needed extras. Ammo from Bill, spare wires, maybe some of Frank’s dried herbs.

You kept your face turned toward the window and tried not to count how many birthdays you’d had since the world ended. It didn’t matter.

Bill and Frank’s compound came into view as the sun was dipping into its late-afternoon golden hour, the light casting long shadows across the fence line and orchard. The gate creaked open automatically — someone had been watching. Of course they had.

Bill met you at the entrance like he always did: with a gun over his shoulder and a permanent scowl on his face.

Joel nodded at him. “Need to pick up some things.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bill muttered, but his eyes flicked to you briefly. Something unreadable passed across his face.

Frank, ever the gracious one, stepped out onto the porch and beamed at the sight of you. “Oh, good! You made it.”

You were still pulling your pack off your shoulders when you noticed something strange: the smell. Not just smoke or stew — something sweet. Spiced.

“What's that smell?” you asked.

Frank smiled wider. “Dinner. You’re just in time.”

Joel clapped a hand on your back — that rare kind of Joel-touch that said move along without words — and steered you toward the house.

You turned to him, brow furrowed. “I thought we were here for supplies?”

He didn’t answer. Just opened the front door and motioned you inside.

And then… you saw it.

The table was already set. Not with mismatched tin and rusted forks like you were used to, but with real plates and silverware. Frank had pulled out linens — actual cloth napkins, even candles in old mason jars. There were roasted vegetables, a stew simmering, warm bread, and at the centre of the table — a cake. Small, imperfect, decorated with little wildflowers and what looked like foraged berries.

It took a moment to register. You stared, heart pounding in your ears.

Tess was already inside, leaning back in one of the chairs with a glass of wine, smirking.

Joel brushed past you with a low, almost dismissive grunt. “Figured we’d eat while we’re here. Been a while.”

You stood there frozen for a second too long. You didn’t know what to say. The warmth in your chest warred with the confusion, and just behind it, that flicker of shame — for hoping. For thinking it might mean something.

“Frank,” you said slowly. “What… is this?”

He beamed. “A proper meal. For a proper occasion.”

“What occasion?”

Frank glanced at Joel, then at Tess. Neither of them said anything. Tess just raised her glass.

And you knew.

You swallowed hard. Your throat felt suddenly tight. “Tess,” you said quietly, “Did you—?”

But she cut you off. “You hungry or not?”

The meal passed in a haze of laughter. Frank filled everyone’s glasses with the wine he’d been saving for a “special occasion,” and even Bill joined in with a dry story about nearly electrocuting himself fixing the generator.

You smiled and laughed where appropriate, but your mind kept wandering — back to the cake, to Joel’s deflection, to Tess’s knowing glances.

You still thought Tess had orchestrated it. It was the kind of thing she’d do, drag Joel into playing along.

It wasn’t until later, after the plates had been cleared and Frank had started a record in the other room, something jazzy and low, that you found yourself alone with Tess in the hallway. The candlelight from the kitchen cast her in soft gold, and she was sipping from a chipped cup, arms crossed, watching you with that same half-lidded look she always had when she knew something you didn’t.

“So,” she said. “Nice night.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It is. Sorry I'm just overwhelmed— Thank you, honestly.”

“You think I planned all this, don’t you?” she asked.

You blinked. “Didn’t you?”

She scoffed lightly and shook her head. “Hell no. I just helped Frank make dinner.”

Your stomach dipped.

She tilted her head, her voice quiet now. “This was all Joel. Every bit. He’s the one who remembered,” she said. “He’s the one who asked Frank to make the cake. Told Bill to keep his mouth shut. Hell, he even insisted we make it look casual so you wouldn’t freak out.”

Your heart stopped.

“He said he didn’t wanna make a thing out of it,” Tess added, “But he’s been planning this for weeks.”

You were quiet for a long beat.

“But… he didn’t say anything,” you said, the words a whisper.

Tess’s smile turned a little sad. “He’s not good at saying things, but he remembers.”

Later that night, when the others had drifted off and the music had faded into the background hum of insects and wind in the orchard, you found Joel on the porch. He was leaning against the railing, watching the dark. You stepped beside him, your heart thudding hard enough to drown out the world.

He didn’t look at you when you approached. Just spoke low.

“You enjoy dinner?”

You nodded. “It was perfect.”

A pause.

“You remembered,” you said.

He didn’t look at you. “Wasn’t hard.”

You hesitated, searching for the right words. “I didn’t want to make it weird again, like last year.”

His voice was low. “Wasn’t your fault.”

You turned to him. “Thank you.”

You reached for his hand. You didn’t expect him to take it — but he did.

And then you leaned in.

The kiss was soft, slow, uncertain — but it wasn’t one-sided. Joel met you there, warm and still, his hand brushing lightly against your back like he’d been waiting, too.

When you pulled back, he kept his eyes on yours.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

This time, the words didn’t hurt.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

It rained for three days straight.

The kind of cold, spitting drizzle that soaked through your coat no matter how tightly you cinched it, that made your boots squelch with every step. The wind howled through broken barns and trees stripped bare, and every shelter you found smelled like old rot and abandonment.

You trudged through it with your shoulders hunched and your hood pulled low, your boots squelching with each step. Every now and then, Ellie would grumble something under her breath, mostly complaints about the cold, or how the rain made her hair look like a wet mop, or how she was going to die of trench foot.

Joel, as always, didn’t say much. He just led.

You were somewhere in rural Pennsylvania, miles from anything even remotely familiar. The landscape blurred — trees, collapsed fences, skeletal houses too picked over to be worth stopping for. You’d passed a rusted water tower around midday and Joel had muttered that there was a town not far off.

No one said it, but you were all tired. Supplies were low. Joel had slept in fits, always with one hand on his rifle, and you could see the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen by the hour.

Your back ached. Your ribs still twinged from a bad fall two weeks back. You could feel the day’s date sitting heavy on your tongue.

You weren’t sure if he’d forgotten this time. Or if he remembered, and just decided this year, there wasn’t room for sentiment. It was stupid to care. It always was. Especially now. Anyway, it wasn’t like you could blame him. You hadn’t seen anything resembling a candle in months.

Still, it sat in your chest, heavy and hollow and echoing.

You didn’t say anything about it. Not this year. Not with Ellie around, and Joel already stretched taut with exhaustion and responsibility. You hadn't said anything last year either, but back then it had been different — the ghost of a good night with Bill and Frank, a flicker of something soft in Joel’s eyes, a secret truth Tess had given you like a gift.

This year you felt like a burden for even remembering.

By late afternoon, you reached the outskirts of the town Joel had mentioned.

It was nothing more than a collection of crumbling buildings, storefronts with glass long shattered, faded signs swinging in the breeze. A gas station sat caved in at the edge of town. A church steeple leaned crooked over a few blocks like a snapped spine.

Joel’s eyes swept the horizon. “We’ll hole up here tonight. Find shelter, stay outta the open.”

You nodded, too tired to argue. Ellie sighed and muttered something about praying for a haunted mansion.

What you got was a busted-up diner with broken windows, a torn-up vinyl booth, and a kitchen that smelled like grease and mildew. But it was dry, and it had a back room with a door that locked. That was enough.

Joel checked the place with his usual precision — every room, every corner, even the roof. You stood in the center of the kitchen, dripping water, hands shaking with cold, watching the ghosts of an old world flicker in your memory.

You remembered diners.

Birthday pancakes. The sound of your mom singing off-key while stirring coffee. The way candles flickered when the waitress brought out cake with sparklers on top.

You shook your head. That was gone.

You shrugged off your pack and sat on an overturned crate while Ellie stretched out on a dusty counter, flipping through one of the comics she’d scavenged.

Joel stood by the window, arms crossed, scanning the street.

Ellie rolled out her sleeping bag and plopped down onto it with a theatrical groan. “So glamorous. When do the spa treatments start?”

You laughed, sitting beside her and rubbing warmth into your frozen fingers. Joel didn’t smile, but his eyes flicked to you for a half-second.

Then, abruptly, he muttered, “I’m gonna check for propane. Maybe see if there’s any storage behind the hardware store. Stay in here. Lock the door behind me.”

You perked up. “I can come.”

He shook his head. “No. Stay here. Get warm. Lock the door behind me.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “You already said that.”

Joel shot her a look and was out the door before either of you could respond.

The rain slowed around dusk. The wind picked up, scraping against the glass and groaning in the walls. He was gone longer than you expected.

The minutes crawled. You tried to help Ellie pass time with a round of card games using a half-destroyed deck she found in a laundromat weeks ago. Her jokes got weaker. Her eyes drooped. Eventually, she curled into her bag, comic book in hand, and let sleep claim her.

But the silence in the room settled heavy. And with every passing minute, you grew more convinced Joel had forgotten.

The funny thing was, you weren’t even angry. You didn’t expect anything — not really. What could anyone do? You were in the middle of nowhere with a teenager, a man whose burdens you could feel like a shadow following him, and enough food for maybe two more meals if you stretched it.

But it still hurt — that tiny, stupid ache under your ribs.

You told yourself you were being childish. That birthdays didn’t matter anymore. That survival was the only thing worth counting.

But then the door creaked open, and Joel stepped inside, soaked from the knees down, his coat dripping. He was carrying something wrapped in a tarp and a small dented tin. He didn’t speak right away. Just crossed the room, dropped the bundle near the fire, and lowered himself with a quiet grunt.

Ellie stirred but didn’t wake. The fire crackled. Joel adjusted the tarp and looked over at you with that same unreadable expression he always wore.

Then he pushed the tin toward you across the floor.

You looked down. “What’s this?”

He didn’t answer. Just gave a nod — go on.

You opened it slowly. Inside, nestled in worn paper, was a chocolate bar. Slightly melted, slightly warped, but real.

You blinked at it.

You blinked at it.

“I—what?” You looked up at him, heart stuttering. “Joel…”

“Found it in an old vending machine. Back by the rail yard.” He cleared his throat. “Still sealed. Figured it might be okay.”

“Joel… I haven’t had chocolate in—”

“I know.”

You stared at him, dumbstruck. Then he reached for the tarp and unwrapped it with deliberate care.

A book. Its spine was cracked but intact, the cover a faded storm-blue cloth with the title in gold: Wuthering Heights.

You gasped. Your hand went to your chest.

“Are you serious?”

He nodded, glancing down. “You told me once. That your mom used to read it to you. I saw it a few weeks ago in some house. Had to double back. Took a while to get to it.”

“You… you went back for this?”

He rubbed his thumb across his knuckles. “I wanted to get you somethin’. I know it don’t fix anything. But…”

His voice trailed off.

You stared down at the book and the chocolate, your throat thick with emotion.

Joel shifted again. Looked at you, then quickly away.

“I know you didn’t wanna bring it up,” he said, voice low, “and maybe you thought I forgot.”

You felt your chest cave inward.

“I don’t know what this day means to you now. But I know it ain’t right that someone your age has to spend it freezing in some busted-up diner with nothin’. You should’ve had… more.”

“I had this,” you whispered. “This is more.”

He gave a dry, almost-bitter smile. “Maybe I just… I’m glad you’re still here. That we’re still here.”

Silence.

Then, hesitantly, like it hurt to say: “I look out for you. You know that, right?”

You nodded slowly, heart in your throat. “I know.”

“And it ain’t just… ‘cause of Tess. Or the job.”

Your eyes lifted to his. The firelight flickered across his face, deepening every line of sorrow carved there.

Your hand moved to his — fingers wrapping over his, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to say anything else. I know what you mean.”

He swallowed, jaw tight.

You shifted closer and leaned in. Your lips brushed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. A test. A promise. When he didn’t pull away, you kissed him softly — long, tender, and steady.

His hand came to rest on your back, warm and protective, holding you there for just a moment longer.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads rested together.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

You smiled, tears glistening. “It is now.”

Later, after the fire burned low and the storm outside quieted, you curled beside him on your sleeping bag, the book tucked between you, the warmth of his body pressed into yours.

And for the first time in a long time, you fell asleep not with a rifle in your hands — but with his arm around you, your head tucked beneath his chin, the steady thrum of his heart keeping time with yours.

You didn't even care about the jokes Ellie would make.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

You knew what day it was.

You didn’t need to mark it on a calendar. It lived in your chest like something raw and coiled, like a bruise you’d pressed your thumb into just to see if it still hurt.

Even in the early years after the world ended, you'd tried to mark the day — a scavenged piece of candy, a lucky pair of socks from a trading post. Something. A way to remember who you were, who you used to be, before the world fell apart and took your family with it.

And then you'd met Joel. And Tess. And Ellie. And for the first time in years, someone had remembered. Joel had remembered.

Although, Joel had said nothing last night. He’d eaten dinner with you like he always did and kissed your forehead on the porch before heading to his own cabin across the way. No words. Just warmth, familiarity.

You didn’t know what that kiss meant anymore. If he kissed you because he loved you, or because it had become habit — part of the quiet routine you’d built together.

Routine had settled into your bones. You worked supply runs twice a week. Helped repair fencing. On Sundays, you took guard shifts with Maria. You had a room in one of the old lodges — warm blankets, real soap, even a bookshelf that you slowly filled with whatever Joel found for you.

You and Joel hadn’t put a name on what you were.

You’d shared nights. Touched hands in quiet kitchens. Kissed, softly, like it might break something inside you both. But life moved differently now — slower, more careful. Sometimes he looked at you like he wanted to say something and couldn’t. Sometimes, you did the same.

It was two weeks before your birthday when you first noticed Joel acting strange. He was quieter than usual — and for Joel, that was saying something. He didn’t meet your eyes as often. His hands lingered on tools longer than needed when you passed them over. He volunteered to help with fence repairs even though Tommy had told him to rest his knee.

And then he did the one thing that gave it away: he started asking questions.

“What kinda food d’you miss the most?” he’d asked one night, seemingly out of nowhere, while you washed dishes in the lodge kitchen.

You shrugged. “Pasta, probably. Like… real pasta. With too much cheese.”

He grunted. “Noted.”

Two days later, he wandered into the rec center where Ellie and a few others were playing cards, and asked what kind of music you liked.

She later told you — with a devilish grin — that he pretended it was about planning a patrol route and needed to know how to boost your morale. Ellie lived to embarrass him now.

But you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t bring up the date.

Last year on the road had meant more than you could put into words — the chocolate, the book, the warmth of his body beside yours. And the year before that, Bill and Frank’s. But this time felt… heavier. Safer, sure, but somehow harder.

Because now you were stable. And that meant facing things you used to avoid — feelings, fears, memories that hadn’t knocked for years.

You let the covers fall off your shoulders and sat up slowly, stretching the stiffness from your arms. You dressed in silence, pulled on your boots and stepped outside.

It was still early. The sky was the color of ash, the town wrapped in the hush of morning. Smoke curled from chimneys in slow spirals. Your breath fogged in the air as you crossed the quiet streets, your boots crunching softly beneath you. A few neighbors nodded as you passed. One of the children in the community handed you a tiny knitted bracelet without a word and ran off. You stared at it for a second before tucking it into your pocket.

You slipped into the warmth of the dining hall, nodding to a few early risers. Maria stood behind the serving counter, already ladling out bowls of oatmeal and pouring coffee.

She spotted you and smiled. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you said with a shrug. “Habit.”

Her smile widened just slightly, as if she knew something you didn’t. “Big plans today?”

You blinked. “Uh… no. Just patrol, I think.”

“Mm. Right.” She slid a mug of coffee toward you.

You sat at the corner table, your usual spot, and picked at your breakfast. The oatmeal was warm, sweetened with something, but you barely tasted it.

Then the door opened, and there he was.

Heavy boots. That worn flannel you liked. His hair still damp, his jaw clenched in that familiar Joel way. He walked over to you, slow and purposeful.

“Morning,” he said, voice low.

“Morning,” you returned, wary.

He looked around, then leaned down a little. “Got a job. Maria wants us to check the old supply cabin. South side of the river.”

You furrowed your brow. “That hasn’t been used in months.”

He gave you a blank look. “Still gotta check it.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “On foot?”

“Nah, horses. Not far. But we gotta leave now.”

You stared at him, heartbeat skipping.

“Is this about today?”

His brow furrowed. “What d’you mean?”

“Nothing.” You stood slowly, collecting your tray. “Let me get my gear.”

He nodded, mouth pressed in a firm line. But his eyes lingered on you as you turned away.

It was just the two of you on horseback. The trees lining the trail were coated in snow, branches low and heavy. Joel rode ahead a few paces, occasionally glancing over his shoulder.

It felt normal, and that made it worse. You didn’t know if you were mad at him for pretending today didn’t matter — or mad at yourself for still hoping he’d remember.

But then Joel turned off the main trail.

You frowned. “Joel? This isn’t toward the storage cabin.”

He didn’t look back. “Shortcut.”

“Uh-huh.”

You followed him another five minutes until the trees thinned out and you saw it — a small cabin tucked between two birch trees. Smoke rose from the chimney.

You halted your horse. “Joel, what is this?”

He dismounted. “C’mon.”

You followed, suspicious.

Inside, the cabin was warm. The table was set and steam rose from a pot in the center. The scent of tomato, herbs, something rich and warm hit your nose.

He walked in behind you, rubbing his hands together. “Figured if I tried to do this in Jackson, or if I told you, you'd find some excuse not to come.”

You swallowed hard. “You cooked?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Kinda. Got help from Maria. Ellie made fun of me the whole time.”

He stepped closer, slower now. “I know we don’t always say things the right way. I don’t. But you’re…” He looked down, jaw working. “You’re important to me. And this day’s important. Not ‘cause of cake or candles or whatever. But because you made it. You’re here.”

“Joel…”

He finally met your eyes. “I’m glad you’re here. Still.”

You took a shaky breath. “You remembered my book last year. The chocolate.”

His voice was low. “That wasn’t enough. Wanted to do somethin’. For you.”

“I told you I didn’t need anything.”

“I know. That’s why it matters.”

You blinked back sudden tears.

He stepped closer, voice softer now. “I remember everything about you.”

He took a deep breath, as if deciding something. You looked at him, eyes wet.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small box — old, metal, a little rusted. You opened it carefully. Inside was a ring. Simple, silver, with a faint scratch on the band. It was beautiful.

“It’s not for anythin’ fancy,” he said quickly. “Just… wanted you to have somethin’."

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I love you,” he said, low, like he’d been holding it in for years. “And I’m not good at this. But I want more. With you. Here. However you want it.”

You stepped forward and kissed him, fiercely, your hands curling into his jacket. He held you like he was afraid you’d disappear, his mouth slow and reverent on yours. You wrapped your arms around his waist. He stilled — just for a second — before his arms came up and folded around you.

You stood like that in the cabin’s quiet warmth, holding on.

“I don’t need big things,” you whispered into his chest. “Just this. Just you.”

He didn’t respond right away. But his grip tightened. His lips brushed your hair.

“Then you got me,” he said. “Today. Tomorrow. Long as I’ve got breath.”

Later, after dinner, after laughter and a glass of something Joel had insisted was aged but clearly wasn’t, you sat beside the fire with a blanket draped across both your legs. He rested his hand on your thigh.

And when the fire burned low, and your eyelids drooped, you leaned into his shoulder and let yourself fall asleep there — warm, safe, remembered.