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nanamisbbygirl · 1 day ago

Text

—☆ friends with benefits!

chapter 6. what are we?

paring: geto suguru x reader

genre: college au, drama, smut with plot

summary: a pact of pleasure between friends runs the risk of ruining everything. passionate flames burn the hardest. you and geto care about each other, but what happens when sex gets tangled with friendship?

cw: mentions of getting drunk, angst, toxic-ish dynamics

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Two weeks later

Midterms had finally passed, although you barely survived them, especially with all that had happened. You were under so much pressure, with studying mixed and dealing with the rift between your friends– it seemed as though you were trapped in a state of limbo.

Only pieces of that night survived in your memory from that night when Gojo and Geto got into their fight. The details were hazy in your mind: it was a blur of bruises and hateful curses. You had gone home in a cab, head spinning thinking about the situation you found yourself in. All you knew for sure was that after that night things had gone from bad to awful. No one was speaking to each other– with the expectation of Shoko– and none of you wanted to be the first one to try to bridge the gap. In all honesty, you didn’t think that the silence would go on for as long as it did.

“Alright,” Shoko huffed, pushing her chair away from her desk. She had her phone in hand as she turned to look at you as you closed the book you were reading. “Do you know what the fuck is going on between Satoru and Suguru?”

Her expression narrowed as you felt yourself becoming tense. You didn’t know what the right thing to say was. Come clean? Lie? You could’ve sworn you felt a bead of sweat roll down your forehead, nervous with her body language.

“What do you mean?” You tried playing dumb, but Shoko only rolled her eyes.

“I can tell when you’re lying, y’know?” She paused, “ever since reading week something’s up. I know you know something.”

Pressing your lips together, a rush of memories rolled back into your mind, making you cringe. Shoko had the right to know– any attempts at keeping the drama under wraps was clearly a lost cause.

“They got into a fight.” You said plainly.

“Like, a physical one? Or like a cat fight?” She questioned.

“Um,” they’re fighting over me, actually. I Yoko Onoed our friend group, is what you thought about saying. “A little bit of both.”

“Good grief,” she groaned, “I swear to god boys are so dramatic. Who let them think they’re the emotionally stable ones.”

For a moment, she looked at her phone before asking another, very crucial question: “what the hell was their fight even about? What was worth it to throw their whole friendship aside?”

You were silent again. Gulping, you tried to awkwardly smile. Little did she know. It was ironic. You could picture her reaction if you told her. The ghastly expression on her face, the way her eyes would widen in fear and disbelief. Or would she laugh about it? Think you’re joking at first? It was hard to tell sometimes.

“Sho..” Your voice trailed off, “don’t hate me for what I’m about to say…”

“Oh god,” she huffed. “Don’t tell me you– oh my god! Which one of them did you sleep with?”

Wincing at her harsh words, you realized it was now or never.

“Su.” You finally admit. Shoko let out a loud, obnoxious groan in which you couldn’t tell if her tone was serious or not.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, “please tell me it only happened once. That it was a drunken mistake. Please for the love of god, tell me you used protection.”

“Duh, of course we did.” You briefly ignore her first question. “But it wasn’t just a one time thing...We've been doing the whole friends with benefits shtick. And well, we’re not anymore. I think Satoru had a crush on me too– I don’t know. They were arguing in front of me, hitting each other. I didn’t know what to do, what to say to them.”

“But you don’t like Satoru back. Do you?” You felt your lip trembling. There was a crucial piece of information even you were too ashamed to admit to your best friend.

“No, I don’t. I…” You couldn’t finish your sentence. You thought of Suguru– of all those nights you spent together, and of the night where he tried to mend the gap that had been created between you. You blamed the alcohol for your lack of recollection, remembering only a fraction of what had really happened. The night was filled with gaps, making you unsure about everything that really happened, even the parts of that evening that you didn’t want to accept.

When you hopped into the cab, your body was on autopilot, as if you were chasing a ghost. Your chapped lips parted, speaking an address you would have never thought of going to. Suguru’s house. Your heart raced as the car swerved through the streets, pulling up to the home where it all seemed to have started.

You didn’t even know if he’d be home yet. You had seen him storm off, but you didn’t know where he was going– too cowardly to chase after him in the moment. You felt stupid for even being there, after the way he yelled at you, showing his vicious teeth once again. Yet, there was still that way he looked over at you when Satoru punched him square in the jaw. There was something there, something you could explain to yourself. Something that made your heart crawl up your throat.

Maybe that was why you stood at his door, cringing as your finger lingered over the doorbell. Maybe that’s why when he answered the door, an ice pack pressed to his face, his tired eyes gazed into yours the same way they did at the bar.

“You’re here.” He had said in disbelief. You nodded, slipping past the threshold.

“I figured we weren’t done talking.” His eyes widen, leading you to the kitchen, where he swapped out the ice pack for a different, colder one. Without speaking, you took it from his grasp, placing it where he’d be hit. “This is all my fault.”

“No,” he breathed out. “It’s mine. I shouldn’t have come.”

“Your lip’s cracked, y’know? It’s bleeding bad.” The sight distracted you from what he said.

“Shit, it musta opened up again.” You heard him say as you searched for some kind of napkin to press down on it. When you snapped your head back to look at him, it hadn’t dawned on you just how close you were standing.

Holding it against his lip, you couldn’t stand the uncomfortable quietness. It was blatantly obvious that you both needed to confess something, yet neither one of you wanted to break the silence.

“Does it hurt?” You asked, albeit the question seemed a bit redundant. Of course there would be some discomfort from his injuries, but you didn’t know what else to ask.

Even if it was a stupid question, it elicited a soft chuckle from him, lightening the mood ever so slightly.

“Nothing some alcohol can’t fix.” He removed himself from your touch, looking under the sink for a bottle. He pulled out one that was half full, twisting off the cap, taking a quick swing of it. You wondered at the time if he was doing that to numb the pain, or to build up some confidence.

“Want some?” He questioned, holding the bottle out in front of him. Without thinking, you accepted it from him, titling your head back, taking what was probably a shot's worth.

There was another round of silence, and it was as if the world was about to collapse. You thought back to the past couple of months and compared it to the situation you found yourself in at the moment. Geto drank more. You stood, leaning against the counter observing him.

“You were right.” He said, looking down at his feet. “I was a dickhead.”

You would’ve never thought you would hear him say those words, to admit defeat. It was an apology, in some ways, but you weren’t sure if you could accept it. You took the bottle back, drinking again, hoping it would ease your mind and allow your tongue to speak more freely.

“I know.” You stopped, “you really hurt me.”

“I know.” He repeated. You didn’t realize how small both your voices sounded in the emptiness of his kitchen. Geto stole the bottle back, continuing the game of cat-and-mouse that you seemed to be playing. His lips touched the rim, swirling more alcohol in his mouth. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Then why did you act that way?”

“It’s not that easy to explain.”

“Try.”

“I can’t.”

“Am I really that hard to talk to?” Your tone was half-teasing. For a split second you were still friends, with witty little banter, smiling at one another. But, you quickly remembered where you were, and who was standing in front of you.

“I shouldn’t have slept with you.” Geto explains after taking another drink. You feel your heart stinging, reaching again for the bottle to drink. Now you were the one who needed to suppress pain. You were trying to think of how to reply, but it was clear the black haired boy wasn’t done speaking. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it– fuck, it’s the opposite– I just- I just want to be with you like how it was before.”

You gulped, meeting his eyes for a brief second. “Why can’t we have both?”

“I’m not good for you. I’ve already hurt you so bad. When people get close to me things never end well. Shit, even me ‘n Satoru.” His breath was shaky, “I would rather just be your friend than risk losing you completely. I need you in my life, but it’s not what I deserve.”

Even though you could see his lips moving, it was as if the sound had been muted. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, all you could think about was him. His heart. His body. All of it flashing through your mind, like some fantasy montage. The only sound that was ringing in your ear was the beating of your heart. So maybe it was the alcohol that was blurring your judgement, or maybe it was the close proximity that you were standing in, but the last thing you remember from that night was when you pressed your lips against his.

The next thing you knew, you woke up in his bed, wearing one of his t-shirts, your jeans folded on his chair. Suguru was sleeping next to you. Shirtless. You were pressed against his side, one arm flung over his chest, grazing over his muscles. His hair loosely draped over the pillow, eyes lightly closed. He looked peaceful at first, until you noticed the bruising on his body. You wondered if the one that sat on his neck was from the fight, or if it was something that you had caused.

Your eyes widened, unsure about what had happened. It made your stomach swirl. Your head ached. Did you sleep with him again? What did he tell you last night to get you so vulnerable? Had you forgiven him so quickly? Did he even apologize?

Just like that, you disappeared just as sneakily as you had entered, putting on your clothes without bothering to wake him. You hadn’t spoken to one another since then. You were too scared to confront him again, to ask the tell tale question of: what are we?

“Do you love him?” Shoko’s voice snapped you back into reality. “Suguru, I mean.”

You stared into her eyes, she was so clueless on everything that had happened, how were you supposed to explain how your heart felt? Was it love? Could it even be love? You couldn’t even remember what he said to you that night.

“I’m not sure.” You start, bringing your knees into your chest, eyes getting glassy. “I want to love him, but I don’t know if I can– if I can fall for someone who doesn’t like me back.”

Shoko’s gaze softened, plopping herself down next to you, placing a hand gently on your back, trying to console you. She wasn’t always the best at comforting, but she tried her best.

“How do you know he doesn’t like you? I mean, you’ve been friends for so long and you clearly have sexual chemistry. That’s all a relationship is. You have the foundation for it. Maybe you should talk to him again. Or maybe I can talk to him for you?” She offered.

You closed your eyes, letting out a little sigh. “Have you met Suguru? He doesn’t really wear his heart on his sleeve. Last time we talked… Well let’s just say some words were exchanged.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad.” Shoko insists, “c’mon it’s almost halloweekend, I need my friends back.”

She pouts slightly, poking your arm, “plus, I don’t want to see you sad, especially over Suguru. He’s a sap deep down, he’s just emotionally repressed. I promise, though, it won’t be as bad as you think.”

You take in a deep breath, “I haven’t spoken to him in two weeks. What if he hates me?”

“I doubt it.” Shoko explained, “I was talking to him last week and he was asking about you. In hindsight, I should’ve realized that was odd. But please, he doesn’t hate you. I think he’s just as nervous as you are.”

With a shaky hand, you reach to wipe away a tear that left your eye. You were in between two difficult decisions. On one hand, you were mad at him. Angry at him for playing your heartstrings as if it were an out of tune guitar. But at the same time, you didn’t want to hate him forever. You wanted things to go back to how things were.

“He told me he regretted sleeping with me, though. He said he wanted to go back to being just friends.”

“Jeez, why didn’t you start with that,” Shoko says, half jokingly, judging you softly, “I’m over here spewing shit advice then.”

She goes quiet for a second, remembering the seriousness of the situation. Her teeth graze her bottom lip as she’s stuck in her own thoughts, trying to conjure up some kind of guidance.

“I think he’s scared.” She states. “Scared to let anyone in. Think about it, all the girls he’s hooked up with, it’s like he’s trying to fill some kinda void, y’know. He wants to be close, but it’s like there’s a barrier.”

“Yeah,” you nod, thinking back to what he told you then. If that was true, if that was how Suguru felt, you weren’t sure what the right choice was. Let him in at the chance of getting hurt, or keep him out for good.

“You just have to break the barrier.” She perks up at the idea.

“Easier said than done, though.” You sigh, “besides, it’s going to take more than me and Su making up to fix our group. There’s Satoru too.”

“Don’t worry about Satoru,” Shoko waved her hand. “I’ll deal with him. Just focus on your relationship. Trust me. I think if you actually talk to him everything will sort itself out.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm certain. You trust me, dontcha?” She grins and you nod again. “Good! It’s happening tonight then! Go talk to him right now.”

“What? No! I can’t! Look at how I’m dressed– nonono” you whined as Shoko pulled you off the bed, forcing a sweater over you.

“Yes you are! I won’t let you stay here until you’ve made up.” She smirks, “and don’t worry about what you’re wearing, he’s seen you naked hasn’t he? EW I’m gonna vomit just thinking about it!”

Shoko’s laugh is infectious, and has its effect on you as she pushes you out of your shared dorm room. Before she shut the door she yelled something about protection, making you flustered, thinking about how everyone on your floor probably heard it.

Although, at the slamming sound, you were forced to face the fact that you were walking towards his dorm. Going down the stairs, walking along campus to his building. It seemed more daunting now, the building looking down at you ferociously. Each window was like a different eye, staring down at you like you were a tiny inconvenience. Gulping, you knew Shoko wouldn’t let you back in unless you talked to him.

So there you were, knocking at his door, just like you had done two weeks ago, just like you had done anytime you were wanting to hook up. Obviously this was not the same as all those other times. There was something terrifying about doing it now, something too vulnerable.

When the door swung open, you were met with his chest first, as he wore his typical, loose, black sweater. You let your view trail up to get a good look at his face, taking in the way he wore his hair up, his eyes wide at the fact you were standing in front of him. It was almost as if he’d seen a poltergeist.

Your heart was racing a million miles per hour. You were ready to open your mouth to speak, when something else caught your attention. Or someone else.

In an instant, your heart went from overheating to stopping completely. You were sick to your stomach seeing another girl sitting on his bed, laying on her back, wearing nothing but some skimpy tank top and short shorts. Clearly you were interrupting something.

“Who’s at the door, Su?” She asked, making your blood boil.

Geto didn’t have a chance to respond, being met by a cold slap.

Your palm stung. You slapped him. It was hard to believe that you had done it. He looked back at you, slightly shocked, rubbing against the red spot you left. You knew you hadn’t really hurt him, at least not physically.

Tears whelmed in your eyes, muttering under your breath: “God I’m so stupid.”

You turned to run away, walking as quickly as you could without stumbling over. You heard him shuffling behind you, like he was trying to catch up with you.

“Please, please wait!” His voice was shaky too, lined with regret. “Please it’s-it’s not what it looks like.”

You didn’t get him the chance to explain himself, too busy with running back to your room.

What hurt most was that in that moment, you finally realized how much you loved him. That the thought of him with someone else was enough to send you spiralling. The worst part about it, though, was that he didn’t seem to feel the same way about you in return.

taglist: @bunnygorex @iwas-baby @coffee-and-geto @i2s2m @zeunys @murasakiyams @sukunasbigtiddiewifey @izluvsyou @goonforgeto @multistan-247 @chosoclub @idyllicsam @0tsukie @suckkuna @loverzxi @lilbxtchsyndrome @blombat @ll0rona @astrokenny @izluvsyou @saint-boudica @cutehobii @shadyd3ar @getofanclub @suguruswifett @rryujn @kenmacantakemeaway @keiva1000 @reader2004 @hearts-for-asa @siennadoodles @se-phi-roth @cherryredkissez @whimsicalwriting @chewiebee @sugurunugget @bunbun444 [closed]

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lpmurphy · 2 days ago

Note

I don’t know if you do like one shots but I have this little head cannon of what if Beth went for Robby instead of Jack for whatever reason Abby would be so mad lol but at the same time I think she would recognize he is a good guy who would care for her and her mom hehehe but then she could get a cat

This has been living in my head rent free for DAYS, and I finally got a chance to sit down and get it out today. A few of you have asked to see what Beth and Robby would have looked like, so here you are. Thanks for such a fun prompt! Enjoy! 🫶💕

warnings: MDNI, 18+, light smut, oral giving/receiving, underage drinking

word count: 11,087

Saying Yes

Saying yes was the easy part.

It always had been. Yes didn’t ask for anything. It didn’t come with promises or meaning or any of the heavy things that showed up in the morning. It was light. Effortless. Just a whisper against someone’s mouth, the soft slip into hours where she didn’t have to think; only feel. Where instinct could take over and carry her through, endorphins chasing exhaustion, loneliness, the dull ache of being too much and not enough all at once.

Yes let her disappear for a while.

So, she said it.

Yes to Haggerty’s with a bunch of kids born the year she started high school. Yes to waiting by the bar long after she should’ve left, scanning the crowd for a face she knew wouldn’t be there. Yes to the text that finally came: I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I hope you can understand.

She understood. She learned long ago to stop expecting anything from him.

So she said yes again.

To another shot to burn a little warmth into her chest. Another drink, just for the weight of it in her hand, and the spin in her head that made his absence easier to forgive the second time around. Yes to the bet over the pool table with a guy who laughed like he was also trying to forget someone. They were both chasing ghosts. But he’d pressed in close when she let him adjust her grip, smelled good, and had big, rough hands that wrapped around hers like they had every right to. So she let him.

“Feel what you’re supposed to be doing with your hands?” he murmured against her ear.

She pressed her hips back into him and felt his whole body stutter. “Think I’m getting the idea,” she said sweetly.

He made a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and she liked that a little too much. Which was why, when he said, “Last shot. If I make it, you owe me dinner,” she didn’t blink.

“And if I make it?”

“Whatever you want.”

She tilted her head, smiled up at him, and tugged playfully at his shirt. “Then you have to take me home, big guy.”

His eyebrows shot up. “And do what?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Ladies first.”

The eight ball dropped with a crack, and her hand was down his pants in the backseat of a dark taxi eight minutes later, laughing breathlessly as he tried and failed to keep a straight face. His head tipped back against the seat, knuckles white on her thigh, jaw clenched around the sounds she kept teasing out of him, desperate to keep it quiet, but she was not trying to make it easy for him. He looked at her like she was a fever he didn’t want to break.

They barely made it through her front door before she dropped to her knees in the dark entryway, his belt already undone, her fingers hungry and impatient. His back hit the door with a thud and his breath stuttered when her lips wrapped around him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, hips jerking forward, his voice gone gravel rough. His head fell back against the wood, threading his fingers through her hair. “Oh, I knew I was gonna like you, Baker.”

They didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. The night unraveled in a blur of yeses and skin and heat. Her nails dragging down his back. His mouth on her collarbone, her stomach, her thighs. Yes to the hallway. Yes to the wall. Yes to the floor when they didn’t make it to the bed the first time when they were too drunk and too wrung out to care about anything else but the shape of each other. Or the second time, for that matter.

Just yes after yes. Both of them chasing the same high and pretending it meant less than it did. There were no promises. No questions. No thinking. Just movement. Just heat. Just yes. Yes. Yes.

At some point in all that yes, he stopped. She looked down at him, a moan caught in her throat and chest heaving, and found him looking up at her, something soft about the way he watched her between her thighs. She liked the way he looked at her; like he hadn’t expected to enjoy this as much as he did. Like she was a surprise. And she liked surprising people. It gave her something to hold onto, something that almost felt like control. That bit of control slipped away when he smirked up at her in a way that didn’t feel teasing and pressed his lips to the knee thrown over his shoulder, relinquishing it from her with another pass of his tongue.

That night? That night was easy.

It always stopped being easy in the morning when the bed was empty, and she woke up alone.

Her eyes opened to cool sheets and silence, and something in her chest cinched tight; because that was the part that never stopped hurting, even when she pretended it didn’t. The emptiness. The absence. The reminder that people always left.

And truthfully? That yes never felt as good crawling out of bed as it did when she was already in it, when someone was above her, breathless and warm, saying her name like it was something worth staying for.

She shoved herself upright with a sigh, hair a mess, makeup smudged, mouth dry and tasting like regret and cheap liquor. Last time, she told herself, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. This was the last goddamn time.

She froze mid-step when her foot caught on something soft on her bedroom floor. She kicked it in front of her and looked down at the dark mess of fabric tangled around her foot. A tee shirt. Too big to be hers. Still smelling like last night and cologne and him.

Then came the sound of voices from downstairs, too low to be Abby’s, the cadence too bright. The TV, maybe? A podcast through the kitchen Alexa? The news, or maybe some sort of talk show.

She blinked, heart stumbling over itself, and crouched down to scoop up the shirt. She pulled it over her head, pushed her hair out of her face, and padded downstairs barefoot. When she turned into the kitchen, that stumble turned into a stutter that would have made her order an EKG for anyone else.

He was in her kitchen. Standing at the open fridge in nothing but boxers and his glasses, sipping from her favorite chipped mug like he’d been there a hundred times. The morning light caught in his hair, tossing shadows across the tile floor, some Conan O’Brien podcast oozing from the kitchen speaker. He was humming — humming — like this was just a thing they did now. Like this was something he wanted to do.

She was used to exits. To fumbling with clothes in the dark, to doors that shut quietly before the sun came up, to never having to make awkward small talk about coffee or snoring or the fact that she hadn’t meant for any of this to feel like more.

Michael Robinavich wasn’t supposed to stay.

But he did.

He looked over his shoulder and smiled at her, like she was something he’d been waiting all morning to see.

“Morning,” he said, casual and warm. “Hope you don’t mind. You were out cold and your coffee’s actually decent, so.”

She leaned on the doorframe, crossing her arms. “You raid everyone’s kitchen, or am I just special?”

He turned, grin already creeping in. “Well, you did win the game of pool.”

“I thought you already paid up.”

“Who said I was done?” he said, shutting the fridge with his hip, smirking at her over the rim of his glasses.

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. Dangerously close to smiling. “You always this charming, or is it just the caffeine?”

“It’s the company.” He took another sip, then stepped in close and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her to his chest, and kissed her; warm, unhurried, like they had all the time in the world. Her hands found his waist before she realized they’d moved.

“You hungry?” he murmured against her lips.

“Starving.”

He winked, then turned back toward the cabinets. She hopped up onto the counter, watched him rummage through her cabinets for a pan, crack eggs one-handed like it was nothing.

And that’s when it hit her.

This wasn’t easy anymore.

But maybe… Maybe it still could be.

He stayed through breakfast.

Stayed when the eggs were too salty and the toast burned after they stopped paying attention to the cooking and paid more attention to each other. Stayed when she sat on the counter in his shirt, legs bare and tangled around his waist as he kissed her between sips of coffee and ran his fingers through sleep mussed hair. Stayed when breakfast led back to bed.

The plates never made it to the sink. Her shirt never came off, not at first; just got pushed up around her ribs, bunched in his fists as he kissed her like he hadn’t spent the whole night already learning every sound she made. There was less urgency this time. No rush. No trying to outrun anything. Just his mouth on her skin, her fingers in his hair, a slow, heady rhythm that made the rest of the world feel far, far away.

They dozed off that way, legs tangled under bed sheets that now smelled like his cologne and felt warmer than they had the morning before, fingers tracing lazily along her spine. Afternoon bled in through the blinds before they finally decided to shower. And still, he stayed wrapped up beside her just a little longer. Until she stood in the doorway wrapped in her robe, his fingers brushing damp hair from her cheek.

“I’m gonna go home,” he said, voice low, thumb brushing her cheekbone, “put on clothes that don’t smell like sex and booze, and then I’m coming back.”

She cocked her head. “You’re coming back?”

He grinned. “Unless you’re planning on locking the door behind me?”

She almost laughed. Almost asked what the hell he was doing. Almost stopped him. But she didn’t. She wasn’t sure what surprised her more. She tried not to stiffen. Tried not to brace for the backpedaling. Tried not to show that her skin had already started stitching itself around him in places she hadn’t meant it to, despite the way she told herself never to allow it to.

She nodded, managed a small, neutral smile. “Sure.”

He kissed her again, slow and deliberate. Like punctuation. He didn’t press. Didn’t make a scene. Just smiled back and disappeared down the walk, whistling to himself like he wasn’t knocking the rhythm of her entire emotional life off-kilter.

For the next forty-seven minutes, she convinced herself it didn’t matter if he came back or not. She’d showered again, telling herself that she was shaving her legs out of necessity and using Abby’s perfumed body wash only because it was in her shower. Cleaned. Changed the sheets. Told herself she was tired, and fine, and definitely not staring at the clock.

Then there was a knock. She opened the door, and there he was. In a clean shirt and sweats, hair still a little damp. Bottle of wine in one hand, takeout bag in the other.

Exactly like he said he would.

This time she didn’t hesitate. She stepped aside. Let him walk in. Let him take off his shoes and kiss her hello and set the food down, fill her home with the soft sound of someone settling in. She let herself want. Just a little. And fuck, if that didn’t scare her shitless.

For a while that evening, yes had stopped meaning what it used to. It wasn’t a breathless agreement between kisses. Wasn’t her back arching into someone’s hands. Wasn’t fingers tugging at clothes or bodies pressed together in the dark.

It just meant talking. Conversation, slow and easy. Laughter spilling over half-eaten takeout on her coffee table, unraveling hours without either of them noticing. Yes became a shared language between them for another night with her legs draped across his lap and his voice echoing down the halls.

Yes to a movie they found out they both loved while scrolling through the channels. “You didn’t strike me as an alien movie guy.” “You kidding? Who doesn’t love Close Encounters?”

Yes to pausing it halfway through because a line reminded him of a book he’d read, and she lit up because she’d read it too. “Our English teacher made us read War of the Worlds sophomore year. I’ve read it every fall since.” “Me too!”

Yes to the way he flipped through her vinyl collection and nodded approvingly, running his fingers along worn edges and cracking spines of old jazz and classic rock albums.

“Okay, that’s cool,” he said, lifting a Deep Purple album. “This is a little less cool,” he added, plucking one of her daughter’s Taylor Swift records from the crate.

“She’s seventeen,” she shot back. “And the heart shaped one was very difficult to find, I’ll have you know. I was mom of the year when I finally got my hands on one.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? And what’s your excuse?”

She tried not to smile. Failed miserably, which only pulled one from him. He was handsome when he smiled. “I’m an emotionally complex woman.”

“Obviously.”

They ate. They laughed. They kissed. And then they kept talking.

The afternoon light stretched golden across the floor and melted into dusk, but neither of them moved to turn on a lamp. They just talked; about the years before PTMC, what COVID had taken from them. Not just the jobs, the holidays, the funerals; but the quieter things, too. The versions of themselves that got buried under KN95s and fear and loneliness.

“I stopped writing,” she admitted softly, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt. “I used to all the time; just for a few minutes every day before bed, sometimes more. Really just to get it all out so I could sleep. It made me feel… more like myself. Then suddenly it didn’t matter. Or maybe I didn’t.”

He didn’t try to fix it. Just nodded and pressed his thumb into the sole of her foot, like he understood. Like he’d felt that too.

“I used to be really good at making plans,” he said after a quiet moment. “For my life. For my future. Now I mostly make grocery lists and hope I remember to eat.”

They talked about the parts of themselves they missed. The rituals they abandoned and slowly tried to reinstate. The people they used to be and saw only in the mirror. They talked about fear, and laughter, and the weird comfort of grocery store rotisserie chickens. They talked like there wasn’t a clock ticking, like neither of them were planning what happened next.

When midnight came, she kissed him slow, hands sliding beneath his shirt. Not desperate. Not chasing anything. Just asking.

Stay.

That’s all she said, right there against his lips. Just that, the rise and fall of his chest solid under her hands. He pressed his palm to her back, fingers splayed across her skin as he brought his lips to hers again, his answer soft and immediate.

Yes.

Like it had never been a question.

He continued to stay. And she continued to say yes.

Yes when he’d lean across the nurses’ station mid-shift, smirking like he had a secret, asking, “Drinks after?” like it wasn’t the third time that week. Yes when they’d meet for coffee on their day off and found him at the same table tucked in the back with her cup waiting for her, already knowing how she took it; cream, no sugar, extra hot because she liked how it made her hands feel in the morning. The city was still quiet and they had nowhere to be but across from each other, sipping slowly and trading stories like neither one wanted to blink and miss it. When their fingers bumped across the table, and he curled his around hers, she let him. He didn’t let go.

Yes to meeting him at that little record shop in Greenfield while Abby was off at a sleepover, both of them pretending it wasn’t a date and failing spectacularly when he found her by the grunge crates. Rain clung to his clothes, but heat radiated from him when he murmured, “Hey baby,” and brushed her hair gently out of her eyes before he kissed her right there between Nirvana and Soundgarden.

Yes to falling into his bed, or hers, whenever they ended up standing too close on the wrong side of each other’s front doors, neither quite willing to leave, both silently daring the other to be the one who stayed. Yes to movie nights that turned into mornings. To too many shared blankets and takeout containers. To half-buttoned shirts and sleepy Sunday kisses and a toothbrush he kept in his vanity drawer just for her.

Then there was the evening he walked her to her car after a long shift, the parking lot nearly empty, golden hour clinging to the tops of the cars. His scrubs wrinkled. Her ponytail half undone. He stuffed his hands in his pockets like he wasn’t sure he should ask; like it might shift something they’d been carefully pretending not to name.

“Let me take you out,” he said, quietly but clearly.

She tilted her head and leaned against her car door, looking up at him. “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

“Actually take you out. Somewhere nice. Real tablecloths. Bottle of wine. Wear something other than sweats or scrubs. The whole thing. What do you say?”

She looked at him for a second too long. Could already feel the smile pulling at her mouth. And then, like always, like instinct, like hope; she said yes.

But her yes wasn’t the only one that mattered.

It had never been that simple.

Because she wasn’t just saying yes for herself; she hadn’t been for the last seventeen years. There was someone else who would have to say it too. Someone whose voice had the power to end all of this before it really began.

Abby.

If Abby said no, then it stopped.

Full stop. No slow fade, no lingering maybe, no let’s just see where it goes.

If her daughter gave her even the smallest sign that she wasn’t ready, that she didn’t want this, then Beth would walk. She’d done it before. She would do it again. He knew that.

He’d known it before he ever kissed her. She’d made it exceptionally clear when he stayed the second night in a row. My daughter and I are a package deal. He knew it when he brushed her hair out of her face in that record store and watched her glance over her shoulder like there was a part of her always checking for someone else. Knew it when she hesitated at his door, when she fumbled with her keys outside her own and looked over her shoulder before letting him in.

He’d been here before. With Janie. With Jake. He remembered what it felt like to lose something not because the feelings weren’t real, but because the stakes were higher than anyone else could understand. Because it wasn’t just about chemistry or connection or compatibility. It was about trust. About showing up for someone’s whole life, not just the part that wanted to be held at night.

So he hadn’t rushed. Hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t asked for anything she couldn’t give.

But now… things were changing. Shifting. Getting closer to real, and she wanted it to. For the first time in god knows how long, she wanted it more than she could put to words. She was so tired of nights that felt too quiet once Abby went up to bed and the house fell still. Of a bed that felt too cold, of days that felt too lonely when the quiet felt too sharp. It hadn’t felt like that since he came around. It was quiet still, but in a way that felt kinder when night came and she spent it wrapped in arms that didn’t slip away when she opened her eyes and the dreaming stopped. He’d still be there, breathing evenly on the pillow beside her, sighing gently in his sleep when she traced her fingers along a bearded jaw before he’d make a soft sound and pull her closer. It was warmer, softer. In a way that just felt like him.

But that want was held in place by one quiet condition:

If Abby says yes.

If Abby sees him; sees the way he holds space for her mother like it wasn’t a burden, the way he watches her laugh like it’s something intoxicating, the way he doesn’t flinch at the hard stuff, doesn’t tiptoe around the name of her father, doesn’t treat her like an accessory to show off to his friends until he no longer found her shiny and new and moved onto something younger and newer and brighter. That he says yes when others said no.

Beth hoped she would. Hoped Abby could see what she saw. That it wasn’t about replacing anyone. That he didn’t want to step in and throw things off balance, but instead even the scales for the both of them. That maybe, finally, this wasn’t a risk, but a choice. Somewhere soft for them both to land with a man who was kind and becoming the reason why she didn’t skip every love song before they could even begin anymore.

She tried not to let it show. Tried not to hold her breath every time his name came up in the house, or read too much into the way Abby asked about him, the way she didn’t protest when Beth mentioned maybe seeing him again this weekend. The way she hadn’t yet said no.

Still, she knew.

If Abby said no, that would be it. And she’d let it be. But still, that hope remained, twisting in her gut like a tangle she couldn’t undo herself for fear of only making it tighter.

God, she hoped she said yes.

But yes was never an easy thing to get from her daughter.

Abby wasn’t stubborn, not exactly. Just careful. Guarded in a way most seventeen-year-olds weren’t supposed to have to be. She’d seen too much too young; enough to know what it looked like when people came and went. Enough to know her mother’s smile wasn’t always a guarantee that things were okay.

Fuck, who was she kidding? That child was the most stubborn person alive.

So Beth didn’t expect a yes outright. She just hoped.

Hoped for it that night as she dug through the closet for heels she hadn’t worn in months. Hoped for it as she poked at her reflection, frowning at the dress she’d pulled from the back of her closet that she hadn’t worn since Becca’s divorce party. Which one, she couldn’t remember. It was a simple thing; black and sleeveless, tight at the waist and far more low cut than anything she wore any other day. Maybe it was too much, she thought. Too tight. Too hopeful. She adjusted the neckline and smoothed the fabric over her hips, then reached into the neckline and adjusted that as well.

“You look pretty.”

She turned, surprised, and found Abby sitting on the edge of her bed with her good foot tucked under her, the other stretched out in front of her, brace half hidden by a purple fuzzy sock. It had felt like mercy last week when the ortho cleared her to remove the boot a week before Homecoming. She hadn’t even heard her come in.

Beth smiled softly, a little cautious almost. “Yeah?”

“You don’t look like a sleep-deprived raccoon that snuck into a hospital, so yeah. I guess,” Abby just shrugged.

Ouch. What a way with words, kid.

She tapped at something on her phone and didn’t look up. “When are you coming home?”

Beth crossed to the bed and sat down beside her. She tucked a piece of Abby’s hair behind her ear.

“I should be home by eleven,” she said.

“Wow, the nursing home lets him stay out that late? That’s generous.”

“He’s only two years older than me, Abby.”

“Whatever. Still old.”

Beth sighed. “Is that okay?”

Abby tapped something on her phone and bit her bottom lip before she shrugged again. “I guess.”

Not yes. Not no. Just that heavy, hesitant middle ground that Beth had learned to live in for years. She nodded.

“If you need me to come home sooner, just text me, and Michael and I will come back.”

Abby stiffened at that, like the sound of their names together was something offensive. “I’ll be fine,” she said quickly.

Beth watched her daughter, heels forgotten for the moment, the low stretch of tension pulling her toward her daughter like gravity. Abby had gone quiet, thumbs moving across her phone screen like lightning in what Beth was sure was a far more honest text to her best friend than what she was getting in the silence her daughter gave her. Not sulking. Not pouting. Just… clammed up. Guard up, chin down, picking at the frayed edge of her sleeve like it could unravel everything she didn’t want to say.

Beth knew that look. She’d seen it in her child’s face before, saw exactly where she learned it from every time she looked in the mirror. She reached out and took Abby’s fidgeting hand between her own.

“You okay, boo?” she asked softly.

Abby shrugged, shoulders small beneath her faded hoodie. “I just… I don’t get it.”

“Get what, baby?”

“Why you chose him.”

Beth let the question sit for a beat. Didn’t rush to fill the silence. Just reached out, thumb tracing an old snag in the comforter.

“You don’t have to get it yet,” she said. “I just… think you might like him. If you gave him a chance.”

“He wears cargo pants.”

“He’s a man in his fifties, Abs. They all do. I can’t limit my dating pool because of poor fashion choices. I will run out of options.”

Abby didn’t meet her eyes. Just kept picking. Kept tugging.

Beth waited. “Is that all it is?”

And then, in the smallest voice:

“I don’t know. What if…” she took a heavy breath and exhaled. “What if it’s like Ed?”

Beth froze and felt something twist just under her breastbone; not pain exactly, but recognition. The knowing of the shape of the question formed in her daughter’s silence. Ed had been gone over two years; plenty of time for her to pack up those years they shared before she sent that up in flames and walked away without looking back. Abby had never been his biggest cheerleader, but Beth knew that this had little to do with the police captain who once hung his jacket and service weapon by their door, despite how many times Beth got after him about it. No, there was a heaviness in that question left by an absence that stretched over the years when that jacket stopped sitting on the hook, and a new one didn’t come to replace it until a navy blue hoodie filled that space.

What if he doesn’t get me?

What if he tries and still gets it wrong?

What if we’re too much for him? What if he wants me to be less?

Beth took a breath. Let it out slow.

There hadn’t been anything wrong with Ed. He’d been kind. Soft-spoken. Thoughtful in the way someone tries to be when they know they’re out of their depth. But he’d never seen Abby; not the real Abby, anyway. Not the kind, sweet, brilliant girl hidden behind sharp edges and whip-quick sarcasm, the brittle wit she used like armor. Not the way her mind raced ahead of her words, or how she tested people with jokes that stung just enough to see if they could hold her weight.

Ed had tried.

God, had he tried.

But Abby made people work for it. Made them earn it.

And Ed… Ed just hadn’t known what to do with the pieces she gave him.

But, Robby? Robby was trying. He showed up. He took every bit of snark on the chin. He said yes. It had been a long time for them both since anyone tried.

Beth let her hand rest lightly on Abby’s knee.

“You know… I can stay home if you want me to,” she said softly.

Abby looked up, wary. “Like… you and Robby?”

“Just me,” Beth said, her voice gentle. “I can change into sweats, put on Gilmore Girls. We can eat ice cream straight out of the carton and order whatever you want for dinner. Just us girls.”

Abby chewed her lip, fingers stilling on her screen. She looked at her mom, considering the way kids do when they’re not sure whether to believe you or protect you.

Then she shook her head.

“It’s fine,” she said. Too quick. Too practiced. The kind of fine that always meant not really. “Go do… whatever it is old people do together.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, Mom. I’m sure,” Abby gave the smallest smile. “Can I fix your makeup before you leave?”

That made Beth smile for real. “That bad?”

“Don’t you think your eyeshadow is a little too smokey for a Thursday?”

“You think so? I think Myrna would approve.”

“That’s the standard now, Mom? Myrna? Tragic.”

Beth huffed out a laugh that felt a little more honest and nodded. They sat cross-legged on the bed, Abby squinting up at her like an artist with a canvas. She was careful, quiet, dabbing concealer and adjusting eyeliner like she’d been doing it for years. Beth stayed still. Let her do it. Let her care that way, because she knew Abby wasn’t always good with words, but she was good with precision. With making things feel right. And when she was done, she leaned back and gave a satisfied nod.

“Better,” she declared. “Less… whatever that was.”

Beth laughed. “Wow. Compliment and insult in one.”

“I have layers,” Abby said, dry as ever.

They both smiled. And it felt like maybe this was a little bit of a yes.

But when he showed up later, knocking lightly on the door with that lopsided smile and a bouquet of peonies that felt charmingly old fashioned, Abby didn’t come downstairs. Didn’t peek around the corner when Beth kissed him on the cheek and invited him inside while she found a vase. Didn’t hover or ask when Beth would be home or say have a good time.

Just stayed upstairs, silent and invisible.

And maybe that wasn’t a no. But it didn’t feel like a yes either.

Beth smiled anyway. Nodded and said yes when he asked if she was ready to go after she pulled him down by his tie for a kiss. Stepped outside, heels clicking on the porch, the soft thud of the door behind her feeling heavier than it should.

She didn’t say anything about it. But the whole drive to the restaurant, she felt it sitting with her in the passenger seat, as real as the weight of his hand resting on her thigh.

The almost. The maybe.

The ache of a yes she hadn’t quite gotten yet.

But Beth kept asking.

And Robby kept saying yes.

Every time she turned to him with that quiet, hopeful look — the one that said I know this isn’t easy. Please, keep trying, even if she didn’t have the words — he nodded. Came back. Showed up.

And he tried.

He remembered things; details Abby didn’t think he’d caught. Asked about the English assignment she mentioned in passing, listening to her reluctantly explain the character analysis that was due next week and asking questions about it that made Abby pause for a second before answering. Made sure there was always a pint of Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer after the fallout with her best friend she didn’t want to talk about, but hadn’t exactly kept private either, not with how loudly she’d vented to Beth one night at dinner.

When she came home from Homecoming two hours after she was supposed to and found him still awake in the living room, he didn’t say a word about how she was supposed to be home at midnight, or the way she reeked of wine coolers and was a little unsteady on her feet. Just made it sound like that night’s episode of Stephen Colbert was worth watching twice before he turned the lamp off and followed her up the stairs slowly, then made sure there was water and ibuprofen on her bathroom counter. He even asked about college stuff; letters of recommendation, essay deadlines, what she wanted to study. If there was anything he could do to help even when she told him no.

Not in a pushy way. Never like he was trying to impress her.

Just… curious. Present.

And even when she shrugged him off, rolled her eyes, or gave him that dead-eyed teenager glare that could drop a lesser man in his tracks, he still stayed. Still said yes. Said yes when Beth asked him to come for dinner again, even when Abby barely looked up from her plate. Said yes to movie nights where Abby chose the film and gave him shit for not having seen it already. Said yes to ordering pizza when her friends came over and teased him like they didn’t hate him but weren’t quite sure if they were allowed to like him either.

And when it came to staying the night, he never assumed. Not once. Beth didn’t have to remind him, he knew how those nights went. He waited until Abby gave the okay. It would come in the shape of a casual mention of a friend’s sleepover the same night he was supposed to come over, always just a little too convenient in the way it had her out of the driveway before he ever pulled in.

But still, he never pushed. Never commented. He’d come in and kiss her the same, ask whose house she was at and if one of them needed to pick her up in the morning, and if she had texted Beth that she had made it safely yet.

He kept trying.

Then one night, it landed. Just a little.

He was talking about work over dinner, something stupid one of the new med students had done in the ER that day. Beth was laughing, fork halfway to her mouth, and Abby was mostly picking at her pasta. Quiet, withdrawn in that familiar way that made Beth’s heart ache with how much of herself her daughter still kept locked up.

Abby glanced up and muttered, “They should’ve done a subclavian instead. Would have been a lot more stable. Obviously.”

Beth froze, fork suspended, and held her breath. She did this—this I know more than you routine like she was proving she was smart enough to be a part of the conversation. Abby knew that. Beth knew that. But Robby—

Well, Robby paused. He smiled. He nodded.

“Hell yeah they should have. That’s what I said, too. You wanna come teach the next round? I could use the day off.”

It wasn’t much. Just a twitch. The smallest pull at the corner of Abby’s mouth before she ducked her head and went back to her plate like nothing had happened.

Not a full smile. Not a yes. But something.

Abby still retreated to her room that night, but when she came downstairs after Robby went back to his apartment, she looked around like she was confused before she turned to Beth and said, “He left?” Beth nodded, and swore for a moment Abby looked disappointed.

“Oh,” Abby said simply. “I thought he was staying over. I wanted to make him watch Hamilton. He hasn’t seen it. It’s un-American. Is he coming over tomorrow?”

Beth sputtered over her words before she cleared her throat and said, “I think so.”

Abby nodded and turned to go back upstairs. “Cool.”

Cool.

It continued like that for a while. The slow thaw. No major declarations, no sudden shifts — just quiet changes in temperature. Abby wasn’t warm, exactly. But she wasn’t cold either. She stopped glaring quite so hard. Started lingering longer before retreating upstairs. Let herself laugh at a joke he made once, even if she immediately tried to smother it with a cough and rolled her eyes.

Beth knew better than to push. But still, she noticed the small things. Catalogued them carefully. Let herself hope, just a little.

Then, she almost ruined all of it.

Not on purpose. Not really.

Abby wasn’t home for the night — off to Mia’s for a sleepover after making up over a text that Robby helped her draft while they drove back from PT the other night. Something about compromise, or humility, or whatever flavor of empathy teenage girls tolerated when it came from someone who wasn’t their mom.

The house was quiet.

Dinner had been something simple. Fast. Something they threw together after a shift that had left both of them wrung out. A toddler with broken ribs and a mandatory CPS report. A father who’d spit in Beth’s face and threatened her with just about everything he could before Victoria shouted down the hall for help and Robby came charging in with Ahmad right behind him. A couple not much older than them, the wife crying in a corner chair while her husband coded, only to start wailing when Robby turned to her and gently told her that there was nothing else they could do. A GSW that had them all pacing and snapping at each other until the OR doors closed behind a gurney and the trauma bay was washed clean of blood but not tension.

Which, of course, was when he brought it up.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said casually, standing beside her at the sink, sleeves pushed up and a tea towel slung over his shoulder. That soft, even tone he used when he’d been sitting with something for a while. “We should probably tell Gloria. File the paperwork with HR.”

Beth stilled, a plate halfway between the rinse water and his waiting hands. “You want to tell Gloria?”

He dried the plate slowly, like he hadn’t expected the question to land like that. His brows pulled together like he didn’t quite understand why she was asking. “I mean… yeah. We’re not exactly subtle, Liz. Especially not after today.” He glanced at her, gave a small, rueful smile. “And I’d like us both to keep our jobs.”

Beth didn’t smile back.

He meant it as a joke. She could tell. Like it was no big deal; just the next natural step for two people doing what they were doing. It was sweet. The responsible thing for someone in his position to suggest. The kind of thing that should have made her feel steady.

Instead, her stomach twisted.

Because she knew what came next; the formality, the visibility, the acknowledgment of a we that reached past the walls of her house and into the part of her life she hadn’t let anyone else touch in years. And instead of reaching for his hand or kissing his shoulder or saying something normal like you’re right, she felt herself bristle.

She did what she always did when things got too real too fast: she picked a fight.

She didn’t even know why, exactly. Maybe it was the way he said we. Maybe it was the fact that it suddenly felt so official—like this fragile, undefined thing between them was becoming something permanent, and real, and visible to everyone else.

So she said something flippant. Something defensive. Something about HR not needing to know about every guy she lets into her bed. And the second it left her mouth, she hated it. Hated herself for saying it. For watching his smile falter and the crease between his brows deepen—not with confusion, but disappointment.

He set the plate down carefully on the drying rack. Took the towel off his shoulder. And in a voice much quieter than before, he asked, “Is that really what you think this is?”

“I just don’t see why we need to announce it,” she said, quieter now. “Why we need to make it a thing.”

“It is a thing,” Robby snapped, something tightening in his voice. “Liz, I’m not asking you to shout it from the roof. I’m saying I’d rather not get fired because someone sees me go ballistic again when someone puts their hands on you and puts two and two together.”

She crossed her arms. “So that’s what this is about? Your job?”

“No,” he said, sharper now. “It’s about the fact that this is real. That you and I are real. And I’m tired of acting like we’re not just because you get twitchy any time someone puts it into words.”

Her breath hitched. “I’m not twitchy, Michael.”

He scoffed and gave her a look. Dry. Disbelieving. “You’re twitchy as hell.”

She hated that he wasn’t yelling. Hated that he was right. That he was staying so damn calm while her chest burned with a panic she couldn’t name.

“I didn’t ask you to do any of this,” she snapped. “To stay. To help. To deal with her—”

“I want to deal with her,” he said, stepping forward, his voice low. “I want to deal with you. All of it. I’m here, Beth. I’m part of this because I want to be. I’m just tired of having to pretend like I’m not in love with you every time we walk into that fucking hospital.”

Her breath caught.

It was a chance to walk it back.

To soften. To say she didn’t mean it. To reach for him and apologize and pretend like the words hadn’t already sunk in too deep.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she doubled down. Got sharper. Meaner than she meant to be. Defensive in the way that made her feel like she had control even when she didn’t. She accused him of pushing. Of wanting too much. Of turning something simple into something complicated.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t match her tone. Didn’t stoop to her level when she turned bitter and lashed like a cornered cat. But she saw it; the flicker of tension in his jaw, the way he closed his eyes like he was counting backwards from ten, like if he didn’t anchor himself, something in him might break.

“I can’t do this,” he muttered.

And just like that, her stomach dropped.

She’d seen this film before. Knew the cues. The rhythm. That line was always the turning point. The beginning of the end. She waited for it. Braced for the rest of the quote she’d memorized.

I’m done.

This isn’t working.

I should go.

But instead, he just sighed. Rubbed at his jaw like it ached. Then gestured toward the stairs, voice low and fraying at the edges.

“This is going nowhere. I’m going to bed.”

Beth’s breath caught. “You’re what?”

“I’m exhausted. We’re talking in circles,” he said, already backing away. “I’m taking a goddamn shower and going to bed. You can yell at me again in the morning if you still want to.”

She stood there, rooted to the tile, mouth parted like maybe she had more to say, like maybe she would finally say it, but nothing came.

Just the burn in her throat. The sting behind her eyes. Something hot and rising that wasn’t anger at all.

“Michael—.”

“I’m not doing this with you tonight, Lizzie,” he said, already heading for the stairs, the name only he called her sharper on his tongue. “Not when I know you don’t even mean half the shit you’re saying.”

And then he was gone, but not really. Just… annoyed. Hurt. But still here. No slammed doors. No parting shot. Just quiet footsteps on the stairs and the sound of the bathroom door clicking closed behind him.

She stood there for a long time. Her hands still trembling. Her eyes wet. She moved slowly, each step soft and unsure, half-expecting to hear the zip of his bag and the slam of the front door behind him. Half-expecting him to decide he’d had enough. But when she reached the bedroom, the lamp on the bedside table was still on.

He was still awake, shirtless and sitting up in bed, his hair still shower damp and glasses slipping low on his nose as he scrolled through something on his phone. He looked up when she entered, not surprised, not exactly inviting. Just… tired. His gaze met hers for a second, unreadable, then dropped again without a word.

She hesitated at the threshold, hands tight in the hem of her shirt, heart in her throat. He looked up at her again, noticing the uncertain way she hovered. He kept her gaze, reached down, pulled the covers back on her side of the bed, and patted the space beside him.

“C’mere,” he murmured.

Her throat burned. She crossed to him slowly, like if she moved too fast he’d vanish. Like she wasn’t sure she deserved the welcome. He shifted as she neared, reaching for her waist with one broad hand, guiding her gently into his lap. She folded into him automatically, legs draping over his waist, and let her head tuck under his jaw. He sighed against her temple, chest rising beneath her with something almost like relief.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” she whispered.

His fingers brushed along her spine. “I know.”

“I just… panicked.”

“I know.”

She closed her eyes and leaned into him, forehead to his shoulder. His skin was still warm from the shower, chest rising slow and even under her cheek. He smelled like her shampoo.

“I’m not good at this part. I usually… I don’t usually get this far. I don’t want to ruin this,” she said so quietly it barely registered. “I want you to stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to.”

They sat in the hush for a long time. Her head tucked beneath his chin, one of his hands resting warm and open on her back, the other idly tracing circles at the base of her spine.

Then he spoke; quiet and steady.

“You know what this is to me, Beth?”

She didn’t answer. Just looked at him, her breath caught somewhere in her ribs.

“This is the first real plan I’ve made for myself in a long time.”

Her throat tightened. Shame bloomed heavy and slow in her chest, crawling through her like rot. She blinked fast, but it didn’t help much. It was still there, thick behind her eyes, her chest. He reached up; that same, steady hand that had cupped her hip in his sleep, guided a syringe in a trauma bay, reached for her without hesitation when things got loud, and brushed his thumb across her cheek. Gentle. Sure. Forgiving, somehow.

She watched his face. All of it. The kindness he never weaponized. The exhaustion he never used as an excuse. The patience he kept choosing over pride. Over ego. Over the easy out. Saw the lines around his eyes that deepened when he smiled at her or laughed at something Abby said. The way he never flinched from her sharp edges. The way he kept showing up anyway. Even when she gave him reasons not to. Especially then.

The word she’d been running from for years sat squarely in the center of her chest; familiar and frightening and foreign all at once.

“I love you,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

His expression shifted. Softened like sunlight through gauze. His hand slid from her cheek to her back, pulling her in close.

“I love you too,” he murmured, low and certain. “Even when you’re being a giant pain in the ass.”

She let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Then she buried her face in his chest and let herself believe, for once, that someone might actually stay. Because they chose to.

They disclosed to HR the next morning. Walked into the hospital hand in hand, signed the forms without fanfare. Nodded through the conversation about ethics policies and conflict-of-interest protocols. Listened when they were told schedules would need adjusting. Promised not to share cases. Promised to be smart.

They were out of the office in less than an hour. He reached for her hand again in the elevator. She didn’t let go when the doors opened and walked through the Pitt on their way to his car. She smiled when Dana rolled her eyes with a smirk and muttered, “Fuckin’ finally.”

He had a key to the house by the end of the week, hooked to his key fob like it had always hung there. And when he mentioned needing to reup his lease in the spring—just in passing, over breakfast and bills—Beth reached across the table and took his hand. Told him maybe he shouldn’t. You know, if Abby said yes.

Abby said maybe.

Maybe stretched into a full thirty days of careful observation; of raised eyebrows and quiet calculations, of not-quite-smiles and definitely-not-approvals. A long, slow, quiet month where she didn’t roll her eyes every time she found Robby in the kitchen. Where she lingered on the stairs just a beat longer when they laughed about something she didn’t ask about. Where she let her gaze flick toward the front door when he didn’t come over, like she wasn’t keeping track.

But then one morning, Abby wandered into the bedroom while Robby was already gone, curled her legs under her on Beth’s side of the bed, and asked if he’d be back in time for dinner. Beth blinked. Abby shrugged. “You can tell him he can move his crap in, if he wants. Just don’t let him touch my shelf in the fridge.”

It wasn’t a yes with fanfare. But it was something similar.

After that, things didn’t change overnight. His apartment collapsed into cardboard boxes that filled the garage. His clothes sat with theirs in the laundry hamper. Yours and mine because ours. “See you at your place,” became, “Ready to go home?”

There were still quiet dinners where Abby kept her headphones in. Still movie nights where she watched from the armchair instead of the couch. Still long, uneasy pauses and half-smiles and unspoken doubts. No declarations. No grand gestures. No real affection. Not yet.

But the silence felt less sharp.

It wasn’t peace exactly. But it was a truce. And that was something.

And then one afternoon, the wedding invite came.

Becca and the nearly seventy-year-old boyfriend who filled her wrists with enough Cartier that Robby had once, on the drive home after meeting Becca for the first time at some wine bar downtown, jokingly warned Beth not to get any ideas. Beth couldn’t remember the man’s name until she saw it printed in gold script on thick, overpriced cardstock: Charles Something IV. Cabo, of course. Third time’s the charm.

She opened the envelope at the kitchen table, phone on speaker, Becca already mid-monologue about travel dates and dress fittings and how the welcome brunch was going to have a make-your-own chilaquiles bar because she was doing this right this time, Beth. Beth rolled her eyes and said that she couldn’t wait to see what she did right for the fourth one, snickering when Becca called her a catty bitch with a snort.

Abby sat across from her, legs tucked up under her, scrolling on her phone with the kind of studied indifference only a teenage girl could pull off. She didn’t flinch at the words “maid of honor for the third time,” though her eyes narrowed just a little when Beth repeated Becca’s breezy reminder that she’d be in the bridal party too; junior bridesmaid turned full-fledged bridesmaid by virtue of not being in a training bra anymore.

“Wow, thanks Aunt Becs.”

“Anything for my favorite neicey-poo.”

“I’m your only neicey-poo.”

There was a plus-one card tucked in with the RSVP. Beth didn’t say anything. Just turned it over once, twice, fingers curling around it absently. Becca kept talking. Abby kept scrolling. Beth barely noticed when Abby reached over and plucked it from her hand, holding it up like it was just another homework assignment before she grabbed a pen.

“Wait, should I put Robby? Or Michael?”

Beth looked up, caught off guard, and froze just long enough to give herself away. Abby looked up, eyebrows raised like it was a perfectly normal logistical question—no deeper meaning, no emotional weight—and when Beth didn’t answer right away, she shrugged and looked back down at the card like it didn’t really matter either way.

Beth cleared her throat. “Michael.”

“Weird. Why do you get to call him Michael? Nobody else does.”

“Because I’m his girlfriend,” Beth said, lips twitching like maybe if she smiled a little it would feel less terrifying to say out loud.

“Gross,” Abby muttered. She scrawled his name, pushed the card aside, and picked her phone back up. “Don’t say girlfriend. You’re old. It’s cringey.”

Beth bit back a laugh, shaking her head as she reached for her coffee, the sound of Becca’s voice still droning in the background about facials and pedicures. Across the table, Abby kept scrolling, expression neutral again, eyes back on whatever video or thread had her attention. But there was a softness to her posture now; not much, just a little. Her legs still curled under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands like always.

She hadn’t rolled her eyes. Hadn’t scoffed. Hadn’t said no. It wasn’t an open invitation, not exactly. It wasn’t an I like him. It wasn’t I’m glad he’s around.

But it wasn’t a door slammed shut either.

And for Beth, for now, that was enough.

Cabo started in airport security.

Which, of course, was a nightmare.

Beth was already sweating under her zip-up, her license between her teeth, trying to fish her liquids bag out of her overpacked carry-on with one hand. Robby leaned over and plucked her license out of her mouth, tucking it into his pocket while heaving his carry-on onto the belt, when Abby—barefoot on the cold tile and exuding teenage apathy like it was a perfume—leaned over and muttered, low enough for only Beth and God to hear, “So, pipe bombs are still a hard no, right? I might have to rearrange some things.”

Beth froze. “Abigail.”

But before she could level her with a mom-glare or hiss out the you-do-NOT-joke-about-weapons-at-TSA-be-normal speech she’d given exactly once before at LAX, Robby barked out a laugh. Not a chuckle. Not a quiet snort.

A full, startled, head-thrown-back, holy-shit-she-did-not-just-say-that laugh, loud enough to turn heads in line.

And when he caught his breath, still grinning, he said, “Jesus. Remind me not to fly international with you again.”

Abby blinked. Then, betrayed by her own damn reflexes, she laughed too.

Just a quick burst, small and sharp and real. Then she caught herself, looked away fast, and deadpanned, “You weren’t invited the first time.”

Robby saluted her with his empty sneaker. “Understood.”

Beth didn’t say anything, but she caught her daughter’s faint smirk as she tugged her hoodie back on. It wasn’t just tolerance anymore.

They got through security without being flagged for terrorism—a minor miracle, all things considered—and grabbed overpriced airport lattes before settling at their gate. Abby took the window seat when they boarded, earbuds in, hood up, legs folded beneath her like she was gearing up for war. Robby sat in the middle, all elbows and long legs and none of the spatial awareness he thought he had, nudging her every few minutes until she finally rolled her eyes, took one earbud out, and said, “Seriously? You’re man-spreading, Michael.”

“I’m not man-spreading, Abigail. I’m just taller than you.”

“Oh, okay. Whatever, Gumby.”

“You good over there, Thumbelina?”

Abby didn’t hide her laugh that time.

By the time they were taxing out of the gate, Abby was side-eyeing his neck pillow like she might steal it in his sleep, and Robby was muttering something about how if she tried, he was putting gum in her hair. Beth shook her head and told them to knock it off but smiled anyway. Something about the rhythm of it felt easy. Familiar. Like they’d done this before, or could again.

Once they were in the air, Abby let Robby plug in her charger without a single snarky comment. He passed her his unopened Diet Coke when the drinks came around and she didn’t roll her eyes. She didn’t give him shit for his movie choice when she leaned over to watch with him. Beth pretended not to notice, staring down at the copy of the Brandon Sanderson book she bought in the airport (that they both immediately gave her shit for) while a warmth bloomed in her chest; slow and quiet and stubborn.

It wasn’t perfect. It probably never would be.

But somewhere between the TSA jokes and that damn smirk Abby didn’t quite hide, it was something.

Cabo glowed golden and too bright to be real. Abby joked that it felt like it had been built for a postcard—white linens drying in a salt-laced breeze, seafoam-tinted light bouncing off infinity pools, the distant sound of tequila-fueled karaoke from someone’s rehearsal dinner that definitely wasn’t the one they attended. The wedding was still two days away, but the whole resort seemed to buzz around them; every sunburned couple and overdressed influencer acting like they were starring in a destination rom-com.

And in the middle of it, something started to shift.

Not fast. Not all at once. But slowly, the edges between them softened. Robby fell into step with them like he belonged there—quietly, without pushing. He got up early and walked the beach paths with Beth while Abby slept in, always coming back with coffee for her. He knew by now that Abby wouldn’t touch the scrambled eggs from the buffet, so he ordered the fruit platter without her needing to ask. Every time she offhandedly mentioned something like paddleboarding or ziplining, he had them signed up by lunch. Beth watched him stare down a middle-aged man in board shorts whose eyes lingered too long on Abby at the pool, holding his gaze until the man blinked and looked away before he sat down, still watching as the guy walked away.

They shared jokes now. Nothing huge. Nothing forced. Just the occasional smirk passed across a table, a quiet one-liner when someone said something ridiculous. Abby didn’t offer up compliments, but she didn’t ice him out either. She asked if he’d remembered to book the snorkel trip, and when he said, “Of course, Abigail, I live to serve,” she rolled her eyes and said, “H’okay, guy,” but didn’t argue.

Beth watched it unfold from the edge of her lounge chair, book open in her lap but mostly forgotten. It wasn’t a miracle. It wasn’t some grand, sweeping change. But it was real. Tentative, sometimes clumsy, still marked by careful distance—but growing, anyway. Like something tender beginning to bloom between long stretches of silence.

One night at dinner, under string lights and stars and the kind of humid breeze that only ever felt good on vacation, the waiter handed Robby a rum and coke when he came with their drinks. Without even glancing at it, he slid it across the table to Abby. She took it, eyebrows raised like she was waiting for a catch, and took a sip without her usual dramatic commentary.

Almost.

She coughed once, wrinkling her nose, and handed it back. “That’s disgusting. Tastes like nail polish remover and cough syrup.”

Robby just shrugged. “Yeah? Wanna try something else?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, why not? What do you want?”

“Michael Shai!”

“Oh, c’mon, hon.” He laughed, already flagging down a waiter. “She’s eighteen. It’s legal down here. Relax, Liz.”

“Yeah, Liz,” Abby echoed, barely holding back a smirk. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

Robby leaned back in his chair, smirking. “You sure sound relaxed, telling me how relaxed you are.”

That finally cracked Abby, who laughed, real and unguarded, and leaned her elbow on the table like she was settling in. Robby winked at her and leaned over to kiss Beth’s cheek.

“Just one,” he murmured, low enough that only Beth could hear. “Enough to hate it.”

The tequila shots came a few minutes later, lined up like trouble. A good choice, she hated to admit. Nothing like straight tequila to turn someone off to alcohol forever. Beth shook her head, already explaining the order as she reached for a slice of lime, but Abby reached for hers with absolutely no hesitation. She downed it in one clean motion and set the glass down like it was nothing.

Both Robby and Beth stared. Abby cleared her throat, expression tight, and said, flat as possible, “Oh no. Gross. I hate it.”

Beth gave her a look.

Robby burst out laughing, dragging both hands down his face. “Oh, we are so fucked when she goes to college.”

Abby just beamed. Grinning wide, golden in the candlelight, and for the first time in a long time, she looked happy.

“Can we do another one?”

“No.”

Then came the cat.

Scrappy. Half-feral. An orange tabby with one good eye and a limp, like it had brawled its way through every alley in Cabo and came out the other side with nothing but attitude and a taste for bacon. It haunted the back steps of the resort’s open-air restaurant, scaring off the seagulls and meowing like it owned the place. Abby spotted him first, crouched low and offering up half her breakfast like a peace treaty.

Beth saw the look on her daughter’s face before she even opened her mouth.

Oh no.

“Can we keep him?”

“Abby…” Beth warned, already exhausted by the argument that hadn’t happened yet.

“Please, Mom! Please, please, please. He followed us to the cabana this morning! He likes Robby. We gave him shrimp. His name is Mango.”

“Mango?”

“Yeah, Mom. He’s orange. Duh.”

“Yeah, Beth,” Robby parroted from the chair next to hers, not even looking up from his phone. “Duh.”

Beth opened her mouth. Closed it again. “Sweetheart, he has fleas.”

Abby raised an eyebrow. “So does Robby, and you still let him in the house.”

Robby choked on a laugh. Beth turned to glare at him, but he just held up a finger like give me a second, still typing. “Not anymore. I had that checked out.”

“Oh, thank God. Finally.”

“I’m not sure we even can,” Beth said, trying for practical. “The airline probably won’t allow—”

“He meets the import guidelines for emotional support animals,” Robby interrupted casually, still scrolling.

Abby gasped. “Shut up, you’re joking. Be so for real right now.”

“I’m nearly done with the paperwork,” he added, completely deadpan.

Beth stared at him. “You’re not helping.”

He shrugged. “He’s a cute cat.”

That was apparently all Abby needed. She launched at him in a tangle of sunburned limbs and gratitude, hugging him hard before bolting down the beach after Mango with a triumphant, “You’re the best!”

Robby was still grinning when he looked over his sunglasses at Beth.

“Hear that?” he said. “I’m the best.”

Beth was already shaking her head, but she couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at her mouth. “Don’t let it go to your head, big guy.”

“Too late.”

By the time they boarded the flight home, Mango Robinavitch-Baker had a collar, a flea bath, and a $78 soft-sided carrier Abby refused to let out of her lap. She cooed at him like a newborn, slipped scraps of turkey into the mesh sides, and called Mango her “son” so many times that Beth stopped trying to correct her. Abby had clearly won. Or Robby. Or maybe it was Mango. At that point, Beth was too sunburned and travel-worn and deliriously happy to care.

She was on her way back from the bathroom somewhere over the Gulf when she spotted them two rows ahead and stopped.

They were asleep.

Abby in the window seat, curled into Robby’s side like she’d done it a thousand times. Her head tucked against his shoulder, one earbud in, hoodie strings wrapped around her fingers. Robby was leaned slightly toward her, chin resting gently on the top of her head. His arm rested beside hers, just barely touching, like the contact wasn’t even something to think about anymore. Like it was natural. Expected. Wanted.

Beth stood there for a long moment, just watching.

Six months ago, Abby wouldn’t have sat at the same dinner table as Robby without a fight. Wouldn’t have let him pour her coffee or help with her homework or offer an opinion on anything without rolling her eyes so hard Beth worried about long-term damage.

Now?

Now she was asleep on his shoulder, a shared bag of half-eaten gummy worms between them and the second act of Hamilton still playing to an audience of none on Abby’s laptop. The mangy little cat she swore was fate was snoozing happily at her feet like he’d always been part of the family.

Beth slipped back into her seat without saying a word. No photo. No comment. Just that quiet warmth spreading through her ribs like the sun had followed them onto the plane. And a whisper of a thought she’d been too afraid to voice before now:

This is what yes looks like.

A cat. A shoulder. A breath of sleep shared at 30,000 feet.

A few minutes later, Robby stirred. Turned his head groggily, cracked one eye open, and reached across the space between them to brush a kiss to Beth’s temple when she leaned her head on his other shoulder.

A cat. A shoulder. A maybe that turned into a yes.

No big declarations. No orchestras or spotlights. Just a nap in row 18 and a girl who’d finally let go of the fight and a man who cared enough to stay.

Beth smiled to herself and closed her eyes.

Yes, she thought. Quiet and certain. Yes.

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby #michael robinavitch

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writing-the-stars · 2 days ago

Text

You Didn't Say No

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader, Nancy Wheeler x Fem!Reader (Platonic), Jonathan Byers x Fem!Reader (Platonic)

Summary: As doubts mount, you find yourself reluctantly pulled into Billy Hargrove’s orbit after he volunteers you both for a class project. Despite every instinct telling you to keep your distance, something about his persistence — and the way he looks at you like he already knows you’ll say yes — begins to chip away at your resolve.

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: Teen Angst, Internal Conflict, Emotional and Sexual Tension, Cliché, Slow-Burn. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

A/N: Woah guys! I was not expecting the amount of love Bambi’s Game received!! Thank you all so much. I’m so glad you all love this story as much as I do. Here is part two to Bambi's Game! Thank you so much for reading. I hope you all enjoy and that you have a wonderful remainder of your day!

Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist

Part 1: Bambi's Game

You did not dream about Billy Hargrove.

That’s what you tell yourself — even as you wake up with your heart pounding and your sheets twisted around your legs like you were trying to outrun something in your sleep. Whatever it was, it fades too quickly to remember. Just heat, motion, and the echo of a voice you refuse to recognize.

You shake it off. Toss the blanket back like that’ll fix anything. Pretend it didn’t mean anything — because it doesn’t.

By the time you get to school, you’ve got a whole speech prepared for yourself.

He doesn’t matter. He was just being Billy — cocky, relentless, a walking complication in denim and smirks. He’s not thinking about you.

You hold onto that thought like armor — right up until the moment that theory implodes.

Because there he is. Again.

Same posture — shoulder leaned against your locker, one boot crossed over the other like this is his second home. Like you’re just another stop on his morning routine. His eyes are already on you, like he was waiting.

Your stomach dips — sharp and sudden. No. Not again.

A couple of sophomore girls hover nearby, whispering behind bubblegum and bangs, stealing glances at him like he’s some rockstar out of Tiger Beat. Billy doesn’t even look their way. His focus is laser-locked. On you.

Shit.

“Hey, Bambi,” he calls — and God, does it have to sound like that? All lazy drawl and trouble.

You don’t respond. Not immediately. You adjust your grip on your books like that matters — like it’s going to protect you from him — keeping your eyes forward.

He’s beside you before you even reach your locker, walking backward just to face you — a dare in motion. A smirk on legs.

“You always this cold in the morning? Or is it just for me?”

You stop walking. He stops too, tilting his head like you’ve amused him again.

“What do you want, Billy?” you ask, exhaustion already creeping into your voice. First period hasn’t even started.

He grins, wide and unbothered. “Just saying good morning. You make it sound like I’ve got an agenda.”

“You always have an agenda.”

He laughs at that — a soft, surprised sound — like you’ve said something clever without trying.

And that’s scary.

Because for the first time, you can’t tell if he’s messing with you… or if he actually means it.

Billy shifts closer, still grinning like he’s in on a joke you haven’t heard yet. “So… what’s got you in such a mood, Bambi? Bad dreams?”

Your breath catches — not enough to be obvious. Just a tiny hitch. Barely anything. Most people would not have noticed.

But he’s not most people. His smile sharpens.

“Hit a nerve?” he asks, voice dipping low. Teasing. “Come on, don’t tell me you missed me.”

You roll your eyes hard enough to hurt, trying not to show how fast your pulse is going. “Wow. You really think highly of yourself.”

“Nah,” he shrugs, as if the conversation means nothing at all. “Just got a good memory. Especially when it comes to pretty girls who act like they hate me.”

Pretty.

That word alone makes your throat go dry.

He’s too close now — not quite touching, but close enough that you can smell the leather of his jacket, the cigarettes clinging to his clothes, the faint trace of cologne that’s not school-approved but unmistakably Billy. You can see the scar above his eyebrow. The twitch of something almost playful in his expression.

You hate that your heart stutters.

You hate that he notices.

And worst of all — you hate that some part of you wants him to notice.

“Why?” you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be. “Why are you talking to me?”

Billy tilts his head like the question caught him off guard. “Why not?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because you’ve got reasons — a dozen of them — stacked up and rehearsed. You’re not his type. You’re not interesting. You’re not the kind of girl who smokes behind the gym or climbs into the passenger seat of his Camaro just because he smirks at her.

You’re not Tina. Or Carol. Or any of the girls he actually wants.

And yet… here he is. Again.

Before you can figure out what to say, the bell rings. A sharp, shrill end to whatever this almost-was.

Billy doesn’t move. He watches you for a moment longer, then gives a lazy half-smile, like the whole morning was just a game and he already won.

“See you around, Bambi.”

And just like that, he’s gone — striding off like he didn’t just rattle your entire day in under five minutes.

You stare after him, heart thundering. The hallway is suddenly too loud around you. Lockers slamming. Voices rising. And somewhere, a Walkman blasting Madonna.

You’re trying to remember the speech you gave yourself this morning.

He doesn’t matter.

You repeat it, quieter this time.

He doesn’t matter.

But it’s already falling apart.

-*-

You’re already running late, breath a little uneven as you reach the classroom door, a pink hall pass clutched in your hand — a flimsy excuse from the nurse’s office. Not a lie, exactly. Just part of your student assistant duties. You hesitate only a second before pushing the door open.

The class is already buzzing. Students scattered across their desks, conversations layered over the scratch of pens and the crinkle of notebook paper. A couple of girls in the back are exchanging gum like contraband. The air smells like chalk dust and pencil shavings — distinctly school.

And there, right at your desk, is Billy Hargrove, draped over your chair, making the girl beside him laugh with something no doubt as charming as it is annoying. She twirls a piece of hair around her finger like she trained for this moment, leaning a little closer to where Billy is hovering.

Typical.

You walk straight to the teacher, Mrs. Langford, who is mercifully still scribbling something on the chalkboard in her usual tight cursive, and wordlessly offer her your pass. She accepts it with barely a glance and a distracted nod. You turn with a deep inhale, steeling yourself, and start toward your seat.

Billy sees you immediately. His eyes spark with mischief like someone just handed him his favorite kind of trouble.

“Hey, Bambi!” he calls, loud and unbothered, cutting off whatever the other girl was saying mid-sentence. That familiar smirk tugs at his mouth as he shifts to face you fully like you’re the main event.

You freeze �� just for a beat — your stomach doing that annoying little flip it always does when he looks at you like that. Like you're not invisible. Like you’re something worth noticing.

The girl beside him — clearly not thrilled by Billy’s sudden attention on you — shoots you a venomous look, her eyes narrowing into a glare that could cut glass. You pretend not to see it.

“You’re in my way,” you mutter, arms crossed as you stop in front of him.

Billy doesn’t move, clearly taking pleasure in the fact that he’s drawing your attention. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

He grins wider. “You’re not even gonna say hi first? After I called out to you and everything?”

You sigh, pointing to your desk. “Move.”

He leans in — too close — voice dipped in mock sweetness. “C’mon, Bambi. Sit on my lap. We’ll share.”

The girl beside him lets out a bitter little laugh. You shoot him a withering look. “Gross.”

Before he can respond, Mrs. Langford’s voice cuts across the classroom: “Alright, everyone, eyes up front!”

Billy raises his hands in mock surrender and finally backs off. You slide into your seat with a quiet exhale, pretending not to notice the slight tremble of your hands, fingers curling around the edges of your notebook.

He drops into his own seat in the row beside you, still grinning like the cat that got the cream.

“Now,” Mrs. Langford says, flipping open a manila folder, “we’re starting a new project today. A group project.”

The air in the room shifts immediately — the collective groans are unmistakable.

“Now, now,” Mrs. Langford says, raising her hand to silence the class. “You’ll be working in pairs. And I’m letting you choose your own partners.”

The moment the words leave her mouth, the class erupts into a low hum of movement — whispers bouncing between rows, names mouthed across the room, chairs scraping against tile. Choosing your own partner means you don’t have to put up with awkward group dynamics. You’re used to flying under the radar, working alone, or in smaller groups where you don’t have to deal with people who don’t take anything seriously. She begins passing stacks of papers down the aisles — the dreaded rubric.

You glance over it just briefly, scanning the headings and due dates, trying to decide which of your friends in this class might be the least exhausting to work with.

Out of your peripheral vision, you see Billy stand up. For a split second, your heart races. You feel the familiar sense of panic rising in your chest — is he coming to ask you?

No. That’s ridiculous.

Sure enough, you glance over just in time to see Flirty McHairTwirl waving him over like she’s already called dibs.

You look away, telling yourself you couldn’t care less. Though the tiny stab of disappointment in your chest disagrees.

A shadow falls across your desk and you blink.

Billy’s standing in front of you, one brow raised, arms crossed like he’s waiting for you to catch up.

“You gonna ask me, or do I have to beg?”

You stare at him. Your mouth going dry as your pulse quickens. “What?”

He jerks his chin toward the rubric in your hands. “Partners, Bambi. You and me. Obviously.”

“Why—”

“Because I like a challenge,” he cuts in, his voice low now, just for you. “And you like pretending you don’t want me here.”

Your breath catches. Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs. He’s too close again — confident and annoying and entirely too amused by the fact that you haven’t told him no yet.

“…Fine,” you say finally. “But if you tank this, I’m throwing you under the bus.”

Billy grins like you just made his day. “Looking forward to it.”

Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he drops into the empty seat next to you. Flirty McHairTwirl stares at the two of you, her face twisted in an annoyed, almost jealous expression. You feel a little bad for her, but it’s hard to care when your own head is spinning.

Billy spins his chair around to face you fully, draping one arm over the back like he owns the place. He’s clearly enjoying himself — lounging like this is a social call instead of an actual assignment.

You open your notebook, deliberately not looking at him. “Okay. We need to pick a topic by the end of class and submit a short proposal. The list is at the bottom of the rubric.”

Billy doesn’t move.

You glance up. He’s still watching you, not even pretending to read the paper.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, lips twitching. “You’re just real cute when you’re bossy.”

You make a show of flipping your pencil around and pointing it at him like a dagger. “And you’re real annoying when you breathe. Can we work now?”

He raises his hands. “Alright, alright. Let’s see the options.”

You both scan the rubric. The assignment is some half-baked “modern history meets pop culture” project where you have to analyze a major societal event through media coverage, or film, or music of the time. It’s broad. Too broad.

You chew your lip. “We could do something on the Cold War. Music and fear propaganda. Or post-Vietnam era and media portrayal of masculinity.”

Billy whistles low. “Wow. Look at Bambi. Already writing the thesis.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m just trying to get this over with.”

“I’m serious. You’re smart.”

The comment throws you. It’s said so casually, without any edge or teasing. Just… honest.

You blink. “Thanks… I guess.”

He smirks again, but it’s softer this time. “Let’s go with the masculinity one. Sounds hot.”

You snort. “That’s not the point.”

“Yeah, but you’ll explain it to me, right?” he leans closer, voice lowering. “Real slow?”

You narrow your eyes. “Try that line again when I’m not holding a sharpened pencil.”

Billy throws his head back in a laugh, genuine and unbothered. It’s annoyingly charming. “Fine. So, division of research?”

“Yeah. I can take the media angle. You do the historical context — post-war effects on American identity, masculinity, reintegration of soldiers—”

“Woah, woah. How about you do the boring stuff, and I handle the sexy parts?”

You lift a brow. “Which would be?”

“I dunno. The music. The violence. The rebellion. I’ve got layers, Bambi.”

You try not to smile. “Sure you do. Like an onion.”

“Hey. Onions are complex.”

You shake your head and start writing a rough outline, already resigning yourself to doing eighty percent of the work. But for once… you don’t mind. Not completely.

Because Billy, surprisingly, doesn’t move back to flirt with anyone else. He stays there the rest of the class, quietly leaning over the desk with his chin in his hand, watching you scribble ideas while occasionally chiming in with half-serious suggestions.

He doesn’t even make fun of your handwriting.

And when the bell rings and students start to scatter, Billy doesn’t get up right away.

“You free after school?” he asks suddenly.

Your stomach flutters. “For what?”

“To work. On this,” he adds, like it's obvious. “Unless you think I’ll distract you.”

You hesitate.

“I can behave,” he adds, grinning. “Kinda.”

You close your notebook slowly. “I don’t believe you.”

He leans in again, eyes bright. “Then come find out.”

And before you can answer, he’s gone — walking out with that loose, confident stride, like he didn’t just leave you completely flustered and, worse, curious.

Now you’re stuck thinking about him. Again.

And worse?

You’re starting to look forward to it.

Damn him.

-*-

You pick at your lunch, half-listening to Nancy as she rants about her English teacher’s obsession with The Scarlet Letter. She’s sitting across from you, her tray untouched as she waves fork like punctuation, launching into yet another monologue about symbolism and puritanical repression.

Beside her, Jonathan chuckles under his breath. It’s a soft sound — barely there — but it pulls your attention. He’s resting his chin in one hand, the other absentmindedly peeling the label off his water bottle.

He’s been hanging around a lot more lately. You’re not particularly close to him, but you like him enough. He doesn’t talk much, which is refreshing. And when he does, it’s never empty words.

“He actually said ‘Hester is the original feminist,’” Nancy huffs, stabbing at her salad with more aggression than necessary.

You laugh. “Did he really?”

Jonathan nods, smirking. “Verbatim.”

Nancy sighs like she’s been personally betrayed by the American literary canon. You smile, turning your gaze back to your tray — where a scoop of limp cafeteria macaroni waits, tragically under-salted and overcooked. Your mind begins wandering back to history class — to Billy, to the project, to the way he looked at you like he’d already decided you were his. And all you could do was blink like an idiot while he smirked and sat down beside you as if it was obvious, natural, unavoidable.

It was just a seat. Just a project.

And yet… he sat there like it meant something. And you let him.

“Earth to space cadet,” Nancy says, snapping her fingers in front of your face.

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

“You’ve been zoning out all day,” she says. “Something wrong?”

You shake your head. “Just… tired.”

Nancy gives you a look that says liar, but she doesn’t push. Jonathan, on the other hand, is watching you a little more carefully now.

“Is it that guy?” he asks quietly. “The one from history. With the car.”

You raise a brow. “Billy?”

Nancy perks up at the mention of the denim-clad devil who’s been slowly taking up too much space in your head.

Jonathan shrugs, clearly trying to play it cool, but there’s a tightness in his voice that betrays something more protective. “He gives me a weird vibe. Just… watch yourself, okay?”

You’re startled by the sincerity in his tone — the way it isn’t judgmental or condescending, just… cautious. Concerned. It’s more than most people offer.

“I will,” you say, softer than before. “Thanks.”

Nancy frowns a little. “What did he do?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, stirring your pasta like it’ll save you. “Just being his usual obnoxious self.”

She doesn’t look convinced.

“We’re partners in class now.”

She gasps

“He asked me,” you protest. “It’s not like I volunteered for it.”

“Still,” Nancy says, lips twitching. “You didn’t say no.”

You stab at your macaroni, trying to keep your face neutral. “Because it’s a grade. And he was already standing there. And the other option was Kyle Witherspoon, who once asked if dinosaurs were still real.”

Jonathan nearly chokes on his water laughing.

“Billy, though,” Nancy says, giving you a look. “I mean… that’s kind of a big deal.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you mutter, heat rising to your cheeks. “He probably just thought I’d do the work.”

“He calls you Bambi,” Jonathan reminds you. “Loudly. In public.”

“Yeah,” you say, rolling your eyes. “And I call him fungus in my head. We all cope.”

They’re still looking at you like you’re missing the obvious. And maybe you are.

Because it is weird, isn’t it? That Billy Hargrove — all confidence and chaos, with his muscle car and smirks and too-loud swagger — picked you. And stuck around. And asked if you were free after school like he actually wanted to spend more time with you.

You poke your food again, trying not to let that thought settle too deep.

“I’m just saying,” Nancy says, her teasing tone softening, “watch your heart. He’s not exactly known for subtlety.”

“I know,” you murmur.

But what you don’t say — can’t say — is that it’s not the obvious parts of Billy that scare you.

It’s the moments in between.

The way he looked at you in class when he wasn’t trying to impress anyone. The way he said you’re smart like it wasn’t a joke.

Those are the parts you’re trying really hard not to think about.

The quiet. The honesty. The possibility that he means it.

Because if he means it — even a little — you won’t know what to do with that.

Jonathan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press either. His eyes flick toward the far end of the cafeteria, and when you follow his gaze, your stomach tightens.

Billy Hargrove.

He’s sitting with his usual group — loud, obnoxious, laughing too hard at his own jokes. But he’s not laughing now. He’s looking at you. His arm is slung casually over the back of his chair, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips like he knows exactly what kind of havoc he’s wreaking on your thoughts.

Nancy follows your gaze and smirks, tossing you a knowing look.

Your eyes linger, still locked with his for a second too long.

Then you look away.

But the damage is already done.

-*-

The final bell rings, and you’re one of the last to leave the building. You’d hoped maybe he wouldn’t be there — that he’d forgotten, or changed his mind, or done anything but wait for you like it actually mattered.

But of course, he’s there.

Leaning against the hood of his car, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into his hair like some kind of California ad for trouble. His jacket’s off, slung casually over his shoulder, and he looks far too relaxed for someone who’s supposed to be working on a group project.

Your stomach knots.

You tell yourself it’s annoyance. That it’s the sun in your eyes or the way your backpack digs into your shoulder. Not him. Definitely not him.

He spots you immediately. Smirks, but doesn’t move. Like he knew you’d come. Like there was never any doubt.

Cocky bastard.

You hesitate.

You could keep walking. Pretend you didn’t see him. Pretend this isn’t happening. Pretend that the simple fact of him showing up doesn’t make your skin prickle with anticipation and unease, all tangled up together.

But your feet betray you — stupid and slow — and before you know it, you’re standing a few feet away, arms folded tight across your chest. You meet his gaze like it won’t cost you anything.

“You’re late,” he says.

“I wasn’t aware we made a schedule,” you reply, eyebrows lifting.

He grins like you’ve just confirmed something for him. “Thought you might bail.”

You shrug. “I considered it.”

Billy laughs — low and amused — like it’s a game, and you’re playing exactly the way he hoped you would.

“Well,” he says, pushing off the car, “you’re here now.”

You shift your weight. “So… what’s the plan?”

He squints up at the sun, then back at you. “Thought we could head to the library.”

You blink. “Hawkins Library?”

“Yeah,” he says, casual. “Figured you’d be more into that than my place.”

You hesitate — caught off guard, maybe, by the fact that he thought about what you’d be comfortable with. Or the fact that he even knows where the public library is.

Something flickers in your chest. Surprise? Gratitude? Stupid, traitorous hope?

“It’s quiet,” he adds, misreading your silence. “I won’t even make you sit next to me.”

You try not to smile. “That generous, huh?”

He shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I’m full of surprises, Bambi.”

You roll your eyes. “Do you ever call people by their actual names?”

“Only when I’m bored.”

“So never?”

He grins wider. “Exactly.”

You don’t want this to matter. It’s just a project. Just a ride. Just Billy being Billy.

But your pulse is already loud in your ears.

You stare at him for a second too long. You don’t want to go. You do want to go. It’s maddening — the push and pull of it — the way he makes you feel like you're teetering on the edge of something, and you don’t even know what.

He opens the passenger door like he’s sure you’ll get in.

And somehow… you do.

Your fingers fumble with the seatbelt for a second before it clicks. Your heart is thudding — stupid and loud — and you hate that you’re hyper-aware of the way he smells: like smoke and leather and something sharp beneath it. All heat and mischief.

You wonder if that scent would cling to your clothes, if Nancy would notice, if you’d even care.

He starts the engine, resting one arm on the back of your headrest as he backs out. His sunglasses catch the light, and he’s half-shadowed, half-golden in the fading sun.

And it takes everything in you not to look at him when he says, all velvet and smug:

“Don’t worry, Bambi. I’ll whisper in the library.”

You don’t respond.

But the corners of your mouth betray you — just a little — and when you glance sideways, he’s already looking at you like he won something.

And maybe… he did.

If you want to be a part of my tag list, please submit an ask specifying series, fandom, or all and I will happily add you (If you don’t specify, I’ll just assume you want to be on the general list)!

Taglist: @head-locked @yawzzns @rizzraa @rowynbriarsalix @asillysimp

#billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x female reader #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove stranger things #billy stranger things #stranger things #stranger things fandom #stranger things fanfiction #billy hargrove imagine

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its-captain-sir · 8 months ago

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Thanksgiving break literally could not come sooner I can't take this anymore

#I'm emotionally drained physically exhausted and mentally wrung out #it's all too much and things just keep hitting one after another and i barely have time to process any of it #i literally did not even have the time to cry today.#i had to just keep soldiering on even though i heard one of the most heartbreaking things #this coming week is honest to god going to be one of the most difficult in my life for so many reasons #and i can't do anything except just let it happen nonstop and try not to drown under the weight of everything #it sucks. and i don't know how much longer i can keep it all up #megan.txt

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mihanisms · 4 months ago

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endurance test

— you decide to spoil your boyfriend by riding him stuuupiddd :p

— sub zayne, use of "mistress", overstimulation, mindbreak, zayne eventually goes into subspace, biting kink, nipple play

The remaining sanity that your boyfriend was trying to preserve crumbled the moment you pressed his body deeper into the mattress, grinding your pussy onto him for what felt like the hundredth time. The slick that was dripping between your legs, a mixture of your juices from the rounds you had pushed him through, made every movement of yours effortless, your pussy clamping down on him and making him see stars as a strangled moan leaves his throat.

"Love, I think- I thinhaah! are you still n-not-" His cock throbs as you grind down in a particularly harsh manner, cutting off any of his protests. "Not satisfied? Of course not - you can still talk, honey." Your voice was sweet and teasing, yet your actions were anything but, your hands sliding over his torso and finding his nipples, the two pink buds perky and cold to the touch.

Watching his flushed face intently, you start to pinch and pull at his buds, the sudden gesture causing his eyes to roll back and his body to jerk into you, a high-pitched whine slipping past him before he could stop himself. Spurred on by his reaction, you pull harder, causing tears to well up at the corners of your doctor's eyes.

"I-It's too much, please it's too seehns'tive-!" Zayne's words were barely coherent at this point, his words slurred together as he cries and sniffles at all the sensations overwhelming him, from your pussy bullying his cock to your fingers rolling over his nipples and your heated gaze that wanted nothing but to see him driven to ruin - it was all too much, and the doctor found himself orgasming again, spurt after spurt of cum painting your walls and dripping down from you to his thighs.

The tears that he was just barely holding earlier were now spilling onto his red cheeks as broken sobs fell from his lips—pleas for mercy that completely contradicted how he remained rock-hard inside you. A condescending smirk curls up at your lips as your fingers trail up from his chest up to his jaw, tracing it lightly. Your voice dips into something low and sultry, amusement dancing in your heated gaze. "Your words say one thing and your dick says another....Now, I just don't know what to do."

Zayne, parting his lips to reply, gets cut off by a choked whine as you abruptly halt your movements. His teary eyes focus in on your self-satisfied smirk and hooded eyes. Fuck. He knew that look.

Your still-teasing fingers slide back down to toy with his oversensitive nipples, gentler this time but enough to pull a shaky breath from him. "I’ve gotta say, honey….If you really want me to stop because you can’t take anymore, well, I guess I have to respect my sweet doctor’s wishes."

His breath hitches and his expression falls, but he knew he had it coming with all the mindless babbles leaving him throughout the whole session. It only hits him how far you wanted to take it when you slowly start to lift yourself off his cock, a small whimper leaving him as his hands instantly move to your hips to stop you, a pleading look in his eyes. "I...I..." He starts out, the words catching in his throat.

"You….You....You what, Zay?"Your voice is thick with amusement, his hesitance deepening at the smirk on your face. "You have to use your words." To punctuate your statement, you roll your hips, letting the remainder of him inside you feel that brief, fleeting pleasure and earning yourself yet another wobbly gasp of your name.

For a few agonizing moments, his mouth opens and closes, nothing coming out—until he finally caves, his voice barely above a whisper.

"...Please." His fingers dig into your skin, his resolve crumbling entirely. "Keep on riding me…until I can’t think."

His admission brings a wicked grin to your face, one that the doctor knew only spelled ruin for him. Before he could brace himself, you slam your hips down onto his, changing your rhythm from slow, teasing grinds to an eager and relentless pace, your slick pussy easily moving up and down his cock as he writhes beneath you.

This time, his thoughts truly scatter, lost in the overwhelming pleasure of your movements, your voice, and the way you looked at him as you rode his cock—like he was nothing but a pretty toy for you to use.

And oh, that turned him on.

Small pleas and whimpers for more left him like he had never protested against you in the first place. He lets himself get fucked into oblivion, relishing in everything you so generously give him. In between his moans and mumbles of pleasure, a singular word leaves him that lets you know he'd fully given up control.

"Mistress...!"

That one desperate cry of your title sends heat flooding through you, your desire surging into overdrive. One of your hands slide from his chest to his abdomen, steadying yourself as you lean down, biting into the flushed skin of his neck. His breath hitches and breaks into tiny, high-pitched mewls, his hips jerking up instinctively to push deeper into you.

He was beautiful like this.

Wanting more of his delicious sounds, you keep your teeth against his skin, sinking in just enough to leave a mark—something for him to wear long after this was over. When you finally pull away, Zayne lets out a soft hic, his hazy, tear-filled eyes locking onto yours with a look of longing…and unmistakable desire.

You open your mouth to tease him about it, but before you can, he surprises you—his voice needy and utterly wrecked as he stumbles over his words. "M-Miss...please, I- ah-! N-Need more, want t' be marked-"

Even as his consciousness crumbles, his desires remain clear. He knew exactly what he wanted from you now, and he wasn’t afraid to beg for it with each of his shameless moans and hips that were desperately meeting yours with every thrust.

Unable to deny your lover's desperate plea, you bite down, canines marking him as yours once more. Your tongue follows, soothing over the fresh wound, and causing Zayne to break off into a series of fast-paced cries. His body trembles as pleasure courses through his veins, a whimper of gratitude escaping him and sobs wracking his body as he cums, filling you up again and sending a wave of bliss through you, your cunt fluttering in the tell-tale sign of orgasm to seal both your fates.

"....Cumming just from a bite? Oh honey, you really are gone, aren't you?" You receive no answer but Zayne's flushed face, tear-streaked cheeks, and violent hiccups of pleasure let you know exactly what he would have said, anyways. He was completely spent. Yet you keep moving, using his cock to chase the last of your high.

When you finally reach your peak, your body tenses, shuddering through the aftershocks. Even then, you don't pull away, merely slowing to a gentle grind as you catch your breath. By now, Zayne was barely conscious, a hazy look in his eyes as his body twitches from the overstimulation. He weakly attempts to pull away, not wanting to keep his cum in you for too long but you push him right back down, a soft snort of amusement breaking free from you.

"Don't worry about it, honey. Let me stay like this for a little while, alright?" He only whines reluctantly in response but makes no further moves to resist. Instead, he simply lies there, his body spent, mind floating.

As the minutes pass, the heavy rise and fall of Zayne’s chest gradually even out, though the occasional aftershock still runs through his arms or legs. His hands that were gripping you so desperately now rest limply, his fingers twitching with the lingering echoes of pleasure.

You brush a hand through his damp hair, smoothing it back from his sweat-slicked forehead. His half-lidded eyes flutter at the touch, unfocused but filled with something tender—something that made your heart clench despite what you had just made him go through.

“There you go,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Breathe, love.”

A faint hum vibrates in his throat, and after a few slow blinks, his dazed expression melts contentment. His lips part, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “…You're insatiable.”

A warmth spreads through your chest as you giggle, shifting just enough to lie against him without breaking the intimate connection you both shared. "...I know. But you liked it, didn't you?"

He scoffs lightly, burying his face in your hair. Even without a response, the way his hands soothingly rubbed over your skin said enough. And as his body finally relaxes beneath you, you hold him close—letting the night settle around you, wrapped in the heat of each other’s presence.

a/n: BOOOOMSHAKALAKAAAAA I GOT SOMETHING OUT OF MY DRAFTS

#౨ৎ m's fics! ₊˚ෆ #lads zayne #zayne x reader #zayne x you #zayne smut #sub zayne #lads smut #lads x reader #love and deepspace

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snail-day · 3 months ago

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Okay, Satoru. It’s just a thought. Just a tiny little passing thought that’s totally not turning his insides into goo. You should move in with me.

He thinks it once. Then again. Then another twelve times before lunch. Tossing and turning in bed, kicking the sheets off in frustration because the thought keeps trickling back.

He’s lying flat on his back in bed, hair a mess, blindfold askew, thumb mindlessly scrolling his phone while you hum in the kitchen. And it hits him again - soft and sudden - how nice this is. How perfect. How stupidly, heart-warmingly good it feels to have you here.

You’re wearing his shirt. His biggest one. It swallows you whole, slipping off one shoulder, sleeves dragging past your fingers. And you look so at home like that. Humming and barefoot and sleepy-eyed, stealing strawberries from his fridge like you belong here.

And maybe you do.

He makes a list in his notes app again. Title: Reasons you should move in Beneath it:

No more goodbyes

No more packing bags

No more waiting for a “made it home safe” text (even though he loves them. But he’d rather hear you say it in person. Whispered, sleepily, into his chest.)

No more having to wait when he has missions to come see you

No more nights without you

And then, after a pause:

I love you.

He stares at it too long. Taps the screen a few times. Doesn’t delete it.

Then, Shoko. Of course it’s Shoko. At the worst possible moment, over coffee, just sips and goes, “Most couples break up when they move in together, y’know.”

And now Satoru is spiraling. What if you hate his weird dish organization system? What if you think he takes up too much of the closet? What if you want to split rent even though he just wants to spoil you rotten and give you everything? What if you get tired of him? What if he says the wrong thing and ruins it?

He’s big. He’s loud. He forgets to put the cap back on the toothpaste sometimes. He talks too much when he’s nervous (which is always, around you). He’s him.

But then - you’re here again, on his couch, laptop propped on a pillow, mumbling at apartment listings with the cutest frown on your face.

“This one’s tiny.” “Why is there carpet in the bathroom?” “Three stars and one said ‘roach army.’ I can’t do roach armies.”

And something in his heart just snaps - in a soft, trembling, full-body kind of way.

He watches the way your nose scrunches. The way you tuck your feet under you. The way his hoodie dwarfs you completely. With the throw blanket you always leave thrown across your lap. You belong here. He wants you here. Desperately.

So he says it. Barely above a whisper. Practically choking on his own heartbeat.

“…You could just move in with me.”

And then he’s frozen. Stiff as a board. Sweat prickling at his neck. His pretty mouth parted like he wants to suck the words back in.

You blink up at him. And then that smile. Bright. Full of surprise and something sweeter, something soft and glowing and yes.

“Are you sure?”

His heart stutters. Then melts. Then does something violent and romantic in his ribcage.

God, you’re so pretty. Why are you so pretty? He swears the sun could retire, you’re smiling so bright.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “I mean - only if you want to. I just thought... it’d be nice. Y’know. To have you here. All the time. With me.”

And then you’re in his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, giggling into his hair, and he’s pretty sure his soul just left his body.

He clutches you, hands slightly trembling, grip lacking because he's scared this is some dream. Hides his face in your shoulder. Mumbles something pathetic like, “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh. “In a good way?”

He nods into the hoodie you stole. “The best way.”

He doesn’t let go for a long time. Anytime you move away, he brings you back. Hopefully so you don't see the mess he's become. He's the strongest. Yet you make him weak.

Later that night, you’re lying in his bed again - your bed now too, maybe - and you’re talking about what corner your books would go in and whether he has space for your desk, and he’s just watching you, glassy-eyed and stupid in love.

Your fingers graze his jaw, after tracing a few scars on his body, brush his snowy hair from his lashes. And he just… melts. Turns into a puddle right there.

“I can’t believe you said yes,” he whispers. Slow and full of disbelief.

You giggle, a soft gentle noise that somehow still makes his heart stop, brushing your nose against his. “I can’t believe it took you this long to ask.”

Satoru smiles, wide and sleepy and helpless. He’s flushed pink all the way to his ears. He wants to bottle this feeling. Keep it forever. Because for once, everything is quiet. Safe. Full of love. That this is what forever feels like. New list: The proposal.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk gojo #Satoru x reader #Gojo satoru x reader #Satoru gojo x reader #Jujustu kaisen fluff #Based off of one of my friends officially moving in with her boyfriend

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screampied · 1 year ago

Text

sukuna never says “i love you.”

to him, the words are meaningless. he’s been alive for thousands and thousands of years, of course he knows what it means. he’s not stupid, but for some reason—every time it comes out of your little human mouth, his heart aches. you say it so sweetly with the cheekiest grin on your face, not a single care in the world. he hated it. three words, eight letters of pure rubbish. at least, that’s what he thinks to himself. for sukuna, he expresses his love in a different way.

physical touch. flicking your forehead, teasing you, saying things he’d never say to you while you were awake. that was his version of love, he didn’t need those stupid, stupid words. or did he?

“love you, ‘kuna,” you’d pepper another kiss against his cheek. he tchs, the audacity for you to do something so embarrassing. he never says it back but you know deep down he’s got to feel at least something in that cold heart of his. he just has to, after all you did steal his heart in a way. and he stole yours. your eyes always had a glinting sparkle whenever those words would come out and he hated it. his response to you saying you loved him would always be the same.

“yeah yeah,” he gruffs. or a simple, “i know..”

but— there’d be a time where he’d regret not saying it back. a cold, cruel time where it’s just you and him, no one else. except, it would really just be him.

sukuna had a hard time at expression his feelings. it’s not like he hated you—despite his rough, barbarous persona.

he didn’t hate you but he did. it was complicated. it was a struggle trying to put it into words. all he knew was that he loathed how soft you made him, he noticed his behavior would change around you overtime. sukuna’s voice was get more gentle, his shoulders would relax, and he’d always finding himself flicking your forehead for some strange reason. it’s annoying,

you’re annoying.

the feeling was love though, it had to be.

had to be,

so the moment comes where he regrets not saying it back.

it’s something he’d continuously beat himself up over for. because now, here you are, laid all out near the ground in his arms. all four of his arms held you in a tight, cradling embrace and he’s got an expression you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. sukuna’s scarlet red irises were blown and fearfully dilated. his thin nostrils flared up and his slit brows contort in panic and confusion.

sukuna ryomen was scared.

“brat. get up.” he murmurs, three simple words was all he said to you. three simple words but you could barely even hear them.

all you heard was a brief inaudible mumble. you saw his lips moving but barely any sound came out. your body felt crushed, the pain was excruciating. your limbs, they felt like they were on fire. getting up was the last thing on your mind and you’ve probably sone the most careless thing imaginable.

you took a hit for sukuna, a deadly hit that was powerful enough to cost you your life. it’s funny though—all the talk of seeing your life flash before your eyes, and now, being snatched into the inevitable end, you were starting to really see it.

“get up,” he repeats, and this time, a single tear falls right onto your cheek. you meet sukuna’s gaze. the king of curses was a mere mess right before your eyes. he was like this for just you. teary eyed and sniffling, he can’t stand this pain.

you’re being held in his lap and not once does his eyes leave yours. sukuna takes a while to speak again and it’s as if he’s carefully thinking of what to say. time was precious right now, but he didn’t wanna think about anything. his focus was solely on you, his favorite little human.

“can you hear me? say something.”

“you .. you’re gonna get wrinkles if you keep frowning too much, ‘kuna.” you hum, a weak finger stroking against his cheek.

archons, for whatever reason, that little comment brought a smile to his face. you were so annoying to him and yet, he wouldn’t wanna be in anyone else’s presence. everything hurt though,

your body felt scorchingly hot, your pulse remains to ring through your ears and you were wheezing a bit. “hey, hey,” he watches as you try to cling onto his hand. sukuna didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to say - all he did do though, was hold you. it was the least thing he could do. your hand was so small compared to his, his long fingernails gently tickling against your skin.

he didn’t have it in him to scold you for trying to protect him. as fragile of a being you knew you were, you did it anyway. you risked your life for him. sukuna let his guard down and you jumped right in the way without a second thought for yourself. that’s what love was, his heart bleeds at the recent flashback before a shaky breath leaves his lips. “this wasn’t supposed to happen. you can’t leave me like this, please.”

“i’m not l- leaving.” you reply, your voice weak and frail. sukuna knew that was a lie. the more you stared at him, how the look of worry on his face paints and marinates his features, he was really scared. you were his everything, his breath of fresh air, maybe even his one true love. “never gonna leave you, sukuna.”

and sukuna lays there with you on his lap. you seem still - too still. right before his eyes, he watches as your body’s temp run cold, final breaths making its introduction. everything was going so fast. he barely had time to react before he realized,

you were gone.

“no,” he whispers under his breath. the demon was at a loss of words. the feeling in his chest, it was indescribable. painful, and tight as he watches the light leave your eyes, something within him leaves also. a part of him. you were drifting away and there was nothing he could do about it. “no.” he repeats against, feeling a dull ache run cold through his body. sukuna didn’t know what to do. he’s seeing red, but perhaps that wasn’t just bloodshed and anger. maybe, maybe it was the one true feeling he was denying all along,

love.

his breaths become heavy once he realizes you’re actually gone. no movement, no cheeky replies, no random “i love you ‘kuna’s,” no nothing. the tear in his heart was enough to make him see the light with you. it hurt horribly, a lump in his throat builds up before he starts to weep. one tear comes then multiple shortly follow, landing past the thin fabric of his sown kimono and onto your lifeless body.

sukuna hated you. he hated how you made him so soft, so vulnerable, so weak. you came into sukuna’s life, stole his heart, and also broke it.

as his eye twitches, his smile had already faded once you left him.

for the first time in centuries, sukuna was defeated. his enemy wasn’t a sorcerer, a curse, or even himself who he believed was his true worse enemy. sukuna ryomen was defeated by four simple letters, love. not only did you leave him in tears, but you also left him with an engagement ring inside his right palm.

he was far too late, he was gonna propose to you. that way, he’d build up the courage to say those stupid, stupid words. opening up his right hand, he stares at the ring he wanted to give you way earlier before this incident even happened. sukuna waited too long, he’d actually plan this for quite some time but again, he was scared.

with a defeated sigh, he surrenders, glancing at you for one last time. no smile on your face anymore but he just used his imagination. there you laid, peaceful, almost as if you were asleep. taking a deep breath, sukuna gives you his last gentle forehead flick before finally telling you the words he’s been longing to say for years.

“i … i love you too, brat. never leavin’ you either.”

#★vegasbaby.#lol time to cry #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #sukuna angst #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen x reader #jjk angst #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x gender neutral reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk fic #jjk drabbles #jjk imagines

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isagispuzzle · 7 months ago

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it's so hilarious how yukimiya is canonically the unluckiest character, i imagine he would have such a hard time trying to impress his crush.

being a model, yukimiya knows his angles and how to carry himself, but somehow, you never catch him in the most flattering positions. the first time you meet, you see him trying to catch the snack his friend was going to throw into his mouth, but his friend sneezes right when the snack is launched and yukimiya gets hit in the eye (yes, the snack somehow gets past his glasses. how does that even happen?). on another day, he sees you stranded at a bus stop near the school because it's pouring and you didn't have an umbrella, but when he walks towards you in hopes of getting to share his umbrella with you, he slips on a puddle and lands on his butt with a splash.

while yukimiya always has a smile on his face, his close friends would know that it isn't always genuine, and behind his polite friendliness, he loved to gossip. the unfortunate thing is, you've caught him more than once in a less than ideal situation. for example, after politely rejecting a classmate's confession, he turned around to roll his eyes because she could barely give a good reason beyond his looks for why she had feelings for him, just for you to be right in front of him to see his scoff up close. ah, not to mention that one time you overheard yukimiya snickering with his friends about a teacher looking like a turtle. it still keeps him up at night sometimes.

yukimiya knows that it's impossible to keep up his smile all the time, but at the very least, he wants you to always see him smiling, so he makes sure to try extra hard whenever you're around. or at least whenever he thinks you're around.

it's one of those days when everything is just a little too much to bear, so yukimiya excuses himself from soccer training to catch a breath in a corner of the school compound, hidden from view behind a vending machine. but of course, it's just his luck that you happen to use the one next to him, out of all the vending machines in the school. he brushes off your concern when you ask why he's crouched on the ground, and he slaps on a smile as he tries to distract you with some small talk. yet, you seem unconvinced, so you buy him a drink and crouch next to him.

in your bid to comfort him, you recount the silly situations you've seen him in, not realising that he's burying his face deeper into his hands with every word you say. you let it slip that you think these sides of him are cute, and although many, including himself, think of yukimiya as calm and composed, he looks up at you with wide eyes and an uncontrollable blush.

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #yukimiya kenyu #yukimiya kenyu x reader #yukimiya x reader #emma is thinking...

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tender-rosiey · 2 years ago

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“GOOD! NOW PUNCH HIS FACE!”

— when your baby and gojo, geto, nanami, toji, and sukuna get protective over you (f!reader)

a/n: I am alive!! as an apology here is a multi-character post 🙏 btw in toji's part, you're megumi's mom

GOJO SATORU:

two peas in a pod, twins, copies: these are all things people have called your husband and son.

honestly, they’re not wrong. your son has his father’s looks—satoru swears he has your nose and ears but anyway—and he carries the same protectiveness and love he holds for you, if not amplified.

you can’t count on one hand the amount of times the house has been turned upside down because of their fights for a cuddle session with you.

of course, you have always tried suggesting them simply sharing you, but these problem children would rather eat raw zucchini than ever share the cuddle time.

so while your son is barely six, you can still count on him to team up with satoru against anyone who wrongs you in anyway like what’s happening right now for example.

you’re out with your lovely family to buy some groceries, and since they both were whining about getting some sweets, you allowed them to go and snatch a couple from the next aisle.

on the other hand, you stayed to look for another type of detergent to clean the floor—especially since satoru got this new type of paint for s/n and it’s quite an endeavor to remove it with a regular detergent.

however, being in the cleaning supplies section never guaranteed the lack of filthy men who can’t take no for an answer. this one man approaches you, smug grin on his face as he leans on the wall, “what’s a pretty lady like you doing alone?”

“buying groceries like a normal person; now please leave me alone.”

he quickly frowns, “don’t be so stingy doll,” his hand extends towards your arm, “I can show you a good time; I promise—“

the man is swiftly smacked with an egg on his face, and he is left with the egg dripping down his face, “what’s your wrong with your kid, man?!” he yells at the person behind you.

he then grumbles, “ruined a potential good night.”

“my kid was absolutely right in what he did,” you hear satoru’s voice. you then feel a hand on your shoulder, and you’re pulled into a chest you’re all too familiar with, “’toru—“

your husband shoots a small smile your way, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, before looking at his son, “that last throw was very good, s/n! throw another one but just below his stomach."

a cheshire cat-like grin is plastered on your husband’s face as s/n prepares to launch another egg at the man.

there is a very evident scowl on your son’s face as he yells, “don’t you ever bother mama again, you stinky bum crumb!”

the man gasps and tries to make a run for it, but your son wouldn’t be the son of gojo satoru if he doesn’t manage to land the hit exactly where he wants.

the man quickly crumbles to the ground screaming and alerting literally everyone in the store.

so satoru picks both you and s/n and makes a run for it.

you hold tightly onto him, “wait, ‘toru, the groceries!”

“we can always order! saving my princess and son is more important!”

your son grumbles, “but I want to hit the rude man!”

“me too, champ, but—“ satoru sweat-drops and glances behind him, “I doubt the angry security guards would like that!”

GETO SUGURU:

your twin girls are one of the sassiest to exist.

in a way, they take after their father who is also pretty sassy but very low-key.

the sass of all three combined is terrible to be the victim of. luckily for you, they don’t dare direct their triple ray towards you, especially—in any argument—at least one will try to win you over.

if it’s suguru trying to stay on your good side, then he is hugging you from behind, pressing feather-like kisses on your shoulder and whispering about how sweet you are. if it’s the girls, then they cling to your legs and keep yelling about how much they love you.

so it is safe to say that you have a small squad to protect you from any potential “danger”.

“oh my, dear shouldn’t you focus on refining yourself a bit more?” you hear a woman say beside you.

you turn towards her, offended, “excuse me?”

“I mean,” her eyes scan you, disapprovingly, “you look average at best, and with that you won’t be able to find yourself a husband, let alone have children.”

you’re still processing her audacity as she continues, “but then again, it’s probably for the better that you don’t have children; you can barely take care of yourself.”

“can I help you?” your husband says as he approaches the woman.

she smiles condescendingly before chuckling, “I was simply telling this lady to take care of herself more; she hardly looks presentable.”

geto’s smiles tenses up as he is about to give the woman a calm peace of his mind, but his daughters beat him to it.

your older twin stands in front of the woman, scanning her with pure disgust in her eyes.

she grimaces and voices out her thoughts, “you are like a crunchy lizard.”

the woman gasps, “how dare you—!”

you cut off the woman, curious about your daughter’s conclusion, “why a crunchy lizard, sweetheart?”

your daughter looks at you with a small frown, shaking her head, “a crunchy lizard is an ugly sad lizard.”

a snort escapes your husband, and you’re barely able to contain your smile.

your other daughter follows up, looking at her twin sister, “the lady looks like that one green thingy we saw yesterday,” she taps her little foot, trying to remember and beams at the woman, “shrek! you look like shrek!”

then they both glare at her, frowning, “you’re a monkey!”

your husband doesn’t let it go as he deals the final—subtle—blow, “come on now girls; we shouldn’t bully the lady with the mcdonald’s like hairline anymore.”

it seems like the woman can’t take it anymore as she starts sobbing and running to the hills.

a moment of silence is shared across the four of you, before you carry both of your girls in your arms and start tickling them, “I don’t know whether to be proud of you or scold you, little evil girls!”

they squeal, trying to escape your hold and calling for their father.

geto chuckles and wraps his arms around the three of you, “let them have it for tonight, y/n,” he ruffles their hair, “they were brave and defended their mom, after all.”

“yeah, papa is right!”

“yes mama, please!”

you pout then smirk at geto, “well I don’t mind, and since papa is also very proud of you girls, he will buy any toy that you guys want today!”

the color drains from your husband’s face, and he watches motionlessly as his girls latch onto him, screaming about the toys they want.

you giggle at his expression and blow him a kiss. he reluctantly blows you one back, while the girls excitedly pull him towards the toy store.

NANAMI KENTO:

you and your husband were blessed with the sweetest girl as your daughter, and she was just recently joined by another sweet girl.

you can never forget the happiness on your daughter’s face when she saw her baby sister.

it also seems that no matter how many times you give birth, your husband can’t help but get emotional when he holds your baby. his hands are forever delicate as he cradles her to his chest.

you remember what he said during the birth of your first daughter.

“I feel like a piece of heaven has been plucked and placed in my arms.”

the way he always goes soft for the three of you is honestly adorable.

today, you were going on an outing with your—now 6 months old—baby and your older daughter who is almost six.

your husband never brags about his muscular form, but he never misses a chance to carry the baby or the baby supplies.

you have offered to at least carry the bag, but he always refuses, stating that ‘you already carried the baby for nine entire months in your belly; this is the least I can do.’

so yeah, sometimes you wish to smooch your husband till forever, but that’s not the point.

you’re walking hand in hand with your daughter as she sings her favorite song. you hear someone click their tongue, so you look to the side and lock eyes with an old lady. she takes the opportunity and approaches you.

“you should be ashamed of yourself!” she yells pointing at you, “your husband shouldn’t be carrying the baby supplies nor the baby itself for the matter,” she scowls, “that’s your job!”

“with all due respect ma’am, but that isn’t her job, and taking care of the baby should be something we are both responsible for.”

“yeah!” your daughter huffs, “and don’t take out your sad life on my mama!”

your eyes widen as you stare at your daughter.

on the other side, your husband is just as speechless. your daughter pays no one any mind as she continues, “mama works hard every day! you wouldn’t know that! you immature nugget!”

nanami frowns lightly, “d/n, that’s not nice—“

and for the cherry on top, your baby daughter throws the bottle cap she was playing with at the old lady, and frowns at her.

she starts babbling some nonsense that you're pretty sure are curse words in baby language.

having had enough, the old lady huffs, “the utter disrespect,” and starts walking away.

the rest of the spectators’ eyes follow her till she is out of sight. finally then, people start minding their own business, and you and your little family are left to the aftermath.

you giggle, “that was funny.”

“really?!” your daughter beams.

nanami cuts her off, “no,” he then looks at you with a small frown, a sigh escaping his lips, “y/n don’t encourage them—“

your baby daughter screams happily when she sees her sister smile. she starts kicking her feet with the biggest smile on her own face.

your older daughter starts laughing with her and tries to make her little sister laugh more—she was successful.

meanwhile, you chuckle, leaning on your husband’s shoulder, “admit it, kento; it was kind of funny.”

his resolve softens at the sound of laughter from all three of his girls, “okay, maybe a little, but—“

“yay!!”

ladies: 1

kento: 0

FUSHIGURO TOJI:

your husband and son are so alike, save for the part that your husband is a bit more shameless, and your son is more on the shy side.

however, they both have the same bluntness and the tendency to give anyone who they don’t like attitude.

for example, today, you were walking in the park with the both of them to unwind a bit.

not to mention that megumi wanted to walk his dogs which was a plus, since you would be able to watch your dear son play around with them.

it was all going great until you saw an old ‘friend’ who came running at the sight of you. he was someone who has always been way too touchy and in your personal bubble.

you have tried talking to him about it, but you’re confident that he does it to somehow force you into reciprocating the intimacy.

even if you’re a married woman with a freaking kid.

he giddily clasps your hand, “y/n, ‘been a long time!”

“h-hey,” you smile awkwardly.

he laughs, “I was passing by when I saw your figure, and I couldn’t help but come and say hi.”

you nod, “that’s great, but I am busy, so maybe later?—“

“you’ve gotten even prettier!” he exclaims, “I wish you would finally take me out on a—“

“can’t you see that she is uncomfortable?” your son retorts, “also, you should step back; you shouldn’t touch someone like this without asking them.”

megumi squeezes himself between the both you and glares at the man.

the guy was about to reply to your son, but toji pushes him back with ease, pulling you beside him and hand resting on your waist almost by instinct, “kid is right,” he tilts his head a bit, “ever been taught manners or do I have to do the teaching for you?”

the guy is taken back; offended, he snaps “you can’t speak to me like that!”

“and you can’t hold my mom’s hands like that, but here we are,” your son cleverly sasses him.

on the other hand, your—shameless—husband pulls you into one scandalous kiss and smirks at the guy when he pulls back, “and you can’t hit on a married woman, by the way.”

you hear your son gag in disgust at his dad’s actions, but you’re too busy burying your face in your husband’s chest, hoping that the guy disappears before toji makes even more of a bigger scene.

you also hope that the ground would swallow you, but that’s the alternative option.

the guy clutches his fist, before walking away, spewing insults at the sky—since he is too scared to cuss out your buff husband. once the man is out of sight, toji ruffles megumi’s hair, chuckling, “good job, kid.”

your shy bean’s cheeks redden slightly as he looks away, “…thanks.”

you’re still thinking about what just happened when you slap your husband’s chest, “toji, literally why?” you grumble, patting megumi who started holding onto your leg the moment you hugged toji.

“why not,” your husband shrugs with a small smile, taking pride in your flustered form.

“dad, I want ice cream.”

“no, you just want me to let go your mom, so you can hog her for yourself,” toji grumbles, staring down at megumi.

unfaltering, megumi looks up at him ,“dad, I want ice cream.”

“god damn it, listen here you—“

“divine dogs.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA:

there is no denying that both your son and your husband care for you very much, and they both—very aggressively—compete for your attention.

I am talking he literally throws the kid across the room kind of aggressive, and your son, in turn, throws whatever he has at him.

it’s eventful, but you would be lying if you said that it wasn’t one of the reasons why you will get grey hair earlier than everyone else.

so their very aggressive nature is also shown in their protectiveness over you.

a person doesn’t need to insult or even dare flirt with you for your devil duo to make their life a living hell; your husband and son don’t tolerate someone speaking to you if it causes you to ignore both of them.

for example, this one new servant was clueless to where the broom is, and unluckily for him, he saw you sitting with your husband and son in the gardens. he humbly approached you, “excuse me, m’lady.”

you turn to look at him with a smile, “yes?”

he clears throat, a bit flustered by the attention, “I—I wanted to ask where the—“

“up your ass, you disgusting fiend,” your son sneers followed by his father’s ever-permanent scowl.

“who gave you the permission to come and speak to her so casually?” sukuna presses, and the servant quickly falls to his knees.

“m-my apologies, my lord! I did not mean to disturb you!”

sukuna crosses his arms, “well, you did, and you also disturbed your queen and prince,” his eyes narrow at the servant, “what do you have to say for yourself?”

meanwhile, you’re watching all of that, mouth agape and trying to articulate anything to save the poor guy. you finally find your voice, “sukuna, it’s okay; he didn’t mean—“

your son hugs you tightly and glares at the servant, “to think he would so brazenly speak to you like you’re old friends is terrible, mother.”

you can almost see your son’s cursed energy flaring, and you can spot the small smirk on your husband’s face as he watches his son.

before it escalates any further and you find yet another dead corpse in your palace, you pick up your son, kissing his cheek which makes him flustered and causing him to bury his face in your neck.

you look at the servant, “you’re dismissed, and you can ask the head maid about anything you need, okay?”

“y-yes, m’lady!” he, however, stays glued to the ground, “may I have the permission to lift my head?”

sukuna grunts, “sure.”

“thank you, m’lord,” the servant says, before scurrying towards the gate, having secured his freedom after his little mistake.

or at least, that’s what he thought.

your husband slices his legs off with a flick of a finger, and your son, who has inherited his father’s technique, slices the head off.

and so the body falls to the ground, and the other servants hurriedly start cleaning up the mess.

you frown at your husband, “sukuna! he apologized!”

he rolls his eyes, and pulls you by the waist, “do I look like I care? he shouldn’t have interrupted our time together.”

“aww, you’re jealous!”

“no, I am not—“

“hands off, old man!”

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawingss @pompompurin1028 @scul-pted @requiem626k @nameless-shrimp @sonder-paradise @jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @ginneko @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @starlostlaiba @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @dazaisbloodybandages @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @the-midnightskies@pianopuppygirl @gojosblackqueen @kryscent @kunikida-simp @whoami-72 @mx-0-child @fiona782 @kisakitwister @imjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme @dreamcastgirl99 @watyousayin @doobiebochana @laylasbunbunny @hojicha-expresso @4sat0ruu @nineooooo @chuuyasboots @alekssashka7 @rieejjyubi02 @satoryaa @nothisispatrick300 @fallencrescentmoon @etheviese @ho34gojo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @the-weeping-author @stray-npc @libbyistired @anon1412 @anakalana @maehemthemisfit @satorustar @b4nka1 @sad-darksoul @ko-fi-heart @pumpkindudeishere @suyaaachin

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

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maskedbyghost · 4 months ago

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The fight had been pointless. Like always, it started with something small, but the frustration kept building until it finally boiled over. You barely even remember what set it off. Something about Simon shutting you out again, about him always leaving when things got too heavy instead of talking things through. You’d snapped, voice raising in your shared home, demanding to know why he always ran.

And then he’d snapped back, eyes dark, jaw tight. "Maybe I leave because I don’t wanna say somethin’ I’ll regret."

It was a low blow, but so was your response. "Maybe you already did."

The silence after that was to much. Simon had let out a breath, and without another word, he grabbed his jacket and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Now, the house is too quiet. You sit in bed, arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the ceiling. You’re not even that angry anymore, just exhausted. Fighting with Simon never felt productive—he never wanted to talk, never wanted to express his feelings. He just walked away, like he was afraid of what might happen if he stayed.

You roll onto your side, pull the blankets up, and tell yourself you’ll deal with it tomorrow.

Simon doesn’t plan on drinking much. He just needs air, needs noise that isn’t the echo of your voice in his head. He finds a pub—not too crowded, not too quiet—and takes a seat at the bar, ordering whiskey. Price doesn’t matter. Taste doesn’t matter. He just needs the burn.

He still keeps checking his phone even though he knows you won’t text.

Then the man sits next to him. Mid-forties, maybe older, eyes bloodshot, a deep crease in his brow. He orders another round, then turns to Simon, as if deciding he’s the one to unload on.

"You ever have a fight with your missus?" the man asks, voice thick with alcohol.

Simon doesn’t answer right away. Just tenses, fingers tightening around his glass.

"Yeah."

The man lets out a bitter chuckle. "Mine was pissed at me the other night. Said I never listen, that I take her for granted." He shakes his head, staring into his drink. "We went to bed mad. I thought we’d be fine." His throat bobs as he swallows hard. "She never woke up."

Simon freezes.

"Now she’s gone," the man mutters, voice breaking. "And all I got left is this pint and an empty fuckin’ house."

The words hit Simon like a bullet to the chest.

He shoves his glass away and stands so fast the stool scrapes against the floor. The man calls after him, but he doesn’t stop. He pushes through the door, out into the cold night, and starts walking—fast, then faster, until he’s almost running.

His heart pounds, breath coming quick. His mind is screaming at him—what if that was the last time? What if you don’t wake up? What if the last thing you remember of me is me walking out that door?

He can’t get home fast enough.

The house is dark when he gets back. For one horrible second, it feels too dark.

His hands are shaking as he unlocks the door and steps inside. "Love?" His voice is rough, too loud in the silence. No answer.

His stomach twists. He moves through the house quickly, checking the living room, the kitchen. Then he sees the faint glow of light from the bedroom. He exhales sharply, then makes his way there, pushing the door open.

You’re curled up on your side, your back to him, buried completely under the blankets. Asleep—or at least trying to be.

Relief crashes into him so hard he has to steady himself against the doorframe. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve you waiting, doesn’t deserve to come back to you after walking out like that. But he can’t help himself.

He kicks off his boots, shrugs off his jacket, and crosses the room in quick steps. The bed dips as he climbs in, and before you can roll away, he’s there—arms wrapping around you, pulling you flush against his chest.

His face presses into the crook of your neck, his breath uneven. "’M sorry," he murmurs, voice wrecked. "I’m so fuckin’ sorry."

You stir, shifting slightly under his grip. "Simon—"

"Please don’t leave me," he breathes, words tumbling out too fast. "I love you, I swear it—I don’t wanna be angry, I don’t wanna fight, I just—fuck, I can’t—" He presses his lips to your shoulder, his whole body trembling. "I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you."

You’re fully awake now, turning in his arms to look at him. His mask is gone, his face open and raw in the dim light. His eyes are desperate, terrified.

Your chest aches. "I’m not going anywhere, Simon."

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for hours. He cups your face, tilting your forehead against his. "Didn’t mean to walk out. I just—I needed time to think."

"I know."

You reach up, brushing your fingers over his cheek, his jaw. He leans into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him sane at the moment.

"Stay?" you whisper.

His grip tightens around you, holding you like you might disappear. "Always."

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

Something similar happened with my boyfriend and me, and I just want to say this to the guys out there—fucking talk to your partners. Stop bottling shit up and actually communicate instead of acting like a little bitch.

@daydreamerwoah

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley

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melminli · 6 months ago

Note

I LOVEDDDDDDD your Thanos “bang bang bang” post and it made me very curious abt how they know eo and stuff and like I’d love to read more about it in general if you don’t mind. It’s so great and I love your writing <333 have a fun day / night 🫶🏻

BANG BANG BANG ll

summary - thanos was always just such an easy person to argue with. you really hated the guy and that was something that was never going to change, even if your life was on the line and it fucking was.

pairing: (thanos) choi su-bong x fem. reader

word count: 1.8k

contains: violence, angst, death, drug use and addiction, dark content - just usual squid game stuff really

a/n: ty so much! this turned out kinda freaky but that is because thanos is a freak so, i didn't really have a choice.

prev. | next. | masterlist

There was an eerie silence among all the participants for the first few seconds after the first death happened. The realization of what this meant for everyone present slowly sank in, and you thought that maybe the crazy man with all his screaming, wasn't quite as crazy as you originally thought. The real madman was probably the person somewhere upstairs or - you didn't know exactly where, but you knew that they were watching you.

“Don't move!” His voice shouted again, but this time with a completely different force. It may be that this was the most logical conclusion one could draw from what had just happened, but some seemed to throw all logic out of the window as soon as the fear of death hit. It only took one person to panic to set off a domino effect and from one second to the next loud gunshots could be heard, following the fearful screams of one person after another. The participants were being slaughtered like frightened animals in a cage, what kind of sick game was really going on here?

You too began to tremble as you looked down at the floor, dissociating and trying to ignore your surroundings as best you could. You had to stop yourself from flinching when the person right next to you was killed, even as you felt his still warm blood covering your cheek, even as a small river of it started pooling around your foot. You were most likely going to leave a trace of him all over the ground as soon as you started walking again - whoever he was. It didn't take very long for everyone who had moved to be shot, maybe half a minute - and yet it must have been the worst half minute of your life so far.

“Don't you dare move,” Thanos said in a voice you weren't used to hearing from him. “I'm serious, don't make me mad.”

You just looked at his back from behind, with a tense posture while you tried to regain control of your breathing again. Finally, there was complete silence on the pitch again. Even if it wasn't an entirely welcome silence.

The voice from the loudspeakers began to speak again and you already knew that this would be a voice that would haunt you in your nightmares. “Let me repeat: You can move forward while the tagger shouts, Green light, red light. If your movement is detected afterward, you will be eliminated.”

Ah, so that's what you meant with eliminated. A bit literal but no biggie! The game continued, but no one really dared to move a muscle even when the puppet looked away. You then saw Thanos shift slightly out of the corner of your eye and noticed that he was pulling his cross necklace out of his t-shirt. Safe to say, that you could barely believe what you were seeing right before your very eyes. You've got to be kidding me, they took everything we had from us, but he was allowed to keep that old thing? “Are you seriously going to take that stuff now?” you whispered in disbelief but didn't really judge him for it. You were this close to just laughing out loud at the absurdity of the scene, but you didn't.

“You don't have to be jealous, sweetheart,” he replied with slightly shaky hands as he stopped his movement abruptly when the doll finished talking. He just stared longingly at the colorful pills in front of him. “I don't mind sharing with you, you know that.”

You sighed inwardly at the thing you were about to do. You had been clean for maybe about three years by now and quitting drugs of any kind overnight was fucking hard - definitely one of the hardest things you had to do in your life. On the other hand, your life was still as shitty as before, the only difference being that you were now consciously depressed and unhappy, so who cares? You could die every second anyway. “Thanks.” you just said after taking the pill out of his hand and threw the thing as quickly as possible in your mouth as soon as the doll looked away. Yeah, you were the biggest hypocrite on earth, old news.

It only took maybe a few seconds after that for you to feel the effects of the pill and then finally, all the stress started to dissipate. Your muscles relaxed, all the shouting about whatever felt like a soft pillow hugging you and the weird laying positions of the dead around you suddenly seemed incredibly funny. These were really strong pills, you could practically feel your whole body tingling. “Why are they all suddenly forming a line?” you asked with a grin and Thanos just hummed, not knowing the answer himself. “No idea, but watch this,” he said and waited until the puppet had turned towards you to push the person next to him, causing everyone in front of them to fall over too. “Ding! You lost,” he told them while wiggling his eyebrows and smirking after he watched them get shot.

You didn't even try to stifle your laughter at the scene. “You really are such an asshole.” you replied, shoving him aside this time after the doll averted its gaze. You then ran away as fast and as far away as you could so that he couldn't take revenge on you for what you had just done. However, you quickly stopped moving with both hands in the air as soon as the girlish voice emitted red light as if you were surrendering to her. You stifled your grin and pretty much failed when you noticed a slightly older woman standing relatively close to you. “Hey, are you trying to hide behind me to use me as a shield?” you spoke out without moving your mouth much and watched as she began to sweat more after you realized what she was doing. Still, she didn't pay you any further attention. “And now you're ignoring me too?” you spat out annoyed and grabbed her by the arm when you were free to move and pulled her in front of you against her will.

She tried to fight you off but you forced her further forward while she tried to defend herself. “You're older than me, aren't you ashamed of yourself?” You asked her and stopped walking before the robot's face turned towards you.

Number 57, who was still resisting your grip, stumbled a little to the side when you suddenly let go of her. She was about to howl in delight when she noticed how everyone else stood still. “No…” she mumbled out fearfully. “It's because of that bitch! I didn't -” she tried to defend herself to someone as she looked around the room, but her head caught the bullet before she could even finish her sentence.

“I may be a bitch, but at least I'm still alive.” you sang to her dead body on the floor before running past her. You didn't know how much time was left, but you had almost made it to the finish line anyway. You stopped with your back to the robot girl this time and it didn't take you long to spot the purple hair in the crowd. “Su-bong!” you shouted his name, since you had somehow gotten separated while running. You waited until he yelled back with a what?! “Last one there, gets fucked in the ass!” you yelled out without any shame or filter and saw his facial expression turn serious at the challenge. “Let's Go!”

The whole game went by relatively quickly once you took the pill from Thanos. It was actually quite fun, you thought to yourself as you both jumped around like two crazy people with grinning faces, waving your arms around wildly. I know it's not socially acceptable to say this, but I fucking love doing drugs! It was like everything around you was happening in slow motion and all the decisions you made felt foggy, like you didn't even realize what you were doing.

You loved being this person, it felt great to forget everything and just - not think. “I have won! No, really! You crossed the line two steps after me, I saw it!” you exclaimed before Thanos could object to a single thing. “Didn't anyone else see that?” you exclaimed in disbelief as if the others weren't busy staying alive while watching several others die right before their faces. You didn't care about the looks they gave you as you waved your hand. “No, they definitely saw it. I won.”

Thanos just gave in with a heavy sigh and a roll of his eyes. “Yeah yeah, I'm getting fucked in the ass which is gay, very funny.” he just mumbled to himself annoyed, and continued to avoid your gaze, but couldn't help grin again when you slapped him on the shoulder laughing. “Hey, why did we stop doing all this again?” he asked you when he couldn't remember the reason. All he knew was that he hadn't had this much fun in a long time, even though he knew that he always had a great time with you - no matter what.

You laughed. “Oh, that's because you promised me that we'd both get clean together, and then you spent the money I gave you for rehab on more drugs behind my back.“ you laughed along with him, even if Thanos frowned a little at the memory and you started to smile forcedly after remembering again how he had betrayed you. “Or what was it again? Was it something about that Youtuber you told me about…” you mumbled to yourself obliviously, feeling any sense of happiness begin to fade. You finally gave up, the details weren't that important anyway. “It doesn't really matter though, right? In any case, you used the money for something else, whatever it was. Even though you knew how hard I worked for it - hell, I didn't even eat most days to scrape it together, man.” you stated while you looked him in the face, even though he averted his gaze from you. “That's just fucked up dude.”

Exactly. You actually hated being this person. You might not remember it right now, but you would as soon as the effects of the pill wore off, which hopefully wasn't soon. You really hoped it wasn't soon, because you didn't want to be aware of anything that had happened today.

next.

2K notes · View notes

nayiana0 · 16 days ago

Text

"Off Limits" 2

choi san. just your brother’s best friend. off-limits. untouchable. but the tension between you two just doesn’t just disappear—it builds, until one late night... he snaps.. and it gets messy. and your brother seonghwa?? he’s not putting up with it.

wc : 7.7k

tags : explicit content, shower sex, teasing, overstimulation, softdom!san, cursing possessive behavior, san is thirsty & down bad, brothers bestfriend, protective!seonghwa, possessive!san, aftercare, secret hookup

genre : smut

a/n : okay sooo i didn’t expect the last part to get that much love lol but i’ve decided to start wrapping this up, and this chapter felt like the right place to slow things down a bit. softer energy, some sibling tension, quiet guilt, all that good emotional mess. not as messy as usual but still very them if that makes sense.

READ PART 1 !! - Part 1

taglist : @gabruix @keyiswatching @rosydipity @nopension @chartrucewhore

It’s late afternoon now.

The sun’s starting to mellow, but the heat is still pressing — thick and heavy, clinging to your skin like it’s trying to make a home there.

You're bored. Still sore. A little restless.

And curious. Very curious.

You stretch, wincing a little at the ache still blooming through your thighs, but the pull of voices — laughter, metal clinking, low murmuring — draws you toward the front of the house.

You pad down the stairs, bare feet on the cool wood floor, and when you open the front door, it hits you like a wall.

Heat. Dry and dizzying, like stepping into someone’s oven.

You squint against the brightness, shielding your eyes as you follow the sound. The garage door is wide open.

And that’s when you see them.

Seonghwa’s on his back under the car, legs sticking out as he wrestles with something metal.

And San?

San is leaning back against the big red metal tool chest — the one Seonghwa always brags about — drink in hand, head tipped back just slightly, eyes half-lidded from the sun.

He’s shirtless, skin slick with sweat, a thin sheen glowing across his chest and down his abs.

His black sweats are hanging dangerously low, clinging in all the right places.

Your body reacts before your mind does — heat curling low in your stomach like a spark against dry grass.

Flashbacks flicker: his hands on your hips, the way his voice rasped against your ear last night on the couch, those low groans buried in your neck—

You blink, snapping back into the present.

Get a grip.

You step onto the driveway.

But before you can even say a word, San is already moving.

He meets you halfway, crowding into your space, fingers brushing the hair out of your face like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before.

“You okay?” he murmurs, thumb sliding gently along your jaw. “You still sore?”

You nod, then shake your head. “No—I mean, yeah. I’m good. I’m fine.”

Without another word, he leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead before wrapping his arms around you in a warm, comforting hug.

You melt into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours.

From under the car, Seonghwa’s voice barks out.

“I see your feet, dude. Why are you so close to my sister?”

You roll your eyes. “Seonghwa, I’m literally standing. He’s just—god, never mind.”

Seonghwa’s head doesn’t appear, but his voice softens a little. “Y/N, you good?”

“Yes! Why does everyone keep asking that?” You throw up your hands. “What the hell are you two even working on?”

Seonghwa finally rolls out from under the car, grease on his hands and his shirt dark with sweat.

“Alternator. Trying to swap it out before the heat fries the rest of the engine.”

San adds, “Battery’s draining way too fast. It’s not catching the charge. If we don’t fix it, the whole thing’s gonna—”

“—shit out in traffic,” Seonghwa finishes.

You blink.

“Oh… okay. Cool. Mechanic language. Love that for me.”

San grins and bumps your shoulder with his. “We have to wash the car after, though. You wanna help?”

Before you can answer, Seonghwa immediately shoves himself up, almost smacking his head on the hood.

“No. Nope. She’s not helping.”

“Why not?” you frown.

“Because I know exactly what’s going through this dude’s head,” Seonghwa glares at San. “And you’re still sore.”

“I’m fine!” you snap. “I’m not even sore anymore. Can I please help?”

Seonghwa sighs dramatically. “Fine. Whatever. Get the hose.”

Victory.

You trot off toward the side of the house to unroll the green hose while San gathers a bucket and sponges.

He tosses in a bottle of soap with no label, the kind of thing Seonghwa probably swears by.

Seonghwa backs the car out of the garage, positioning it into the little cement space in front of the house, wheels crunching over gravel.

You turn the valve, water gushing out.

San’s beside you now, pouring soap into the bucket just as the hose fills it.

You crouch down to help stir the soap in, fingers just brushing the surface—

And a sharp blast of water hits your back full force, soaking your shirt straight through.

You yelp, stumbling forward as icy droplets race down your spine.

“San!!” you scream.

He’s holding the hose, eyes shining with amusement.

“Why the fuck would you do that?! My hair!”

“You looked hot.” He shrugs, mouth twitching into a grin. “You needed to cool off. Hydration is key, baby.”

You grab a sponge and hurl it at him. It bounces off his chest uselessly.

He laughs.

You dip another sponge into the soapy bucket and start scrubbing the car, scowling — but then San joins you, arms flexing, eyes sneaking toward you every few seconds.

“You look really sexy doing that” he murmurs, low enough for only you to hear.

“Shut up,” you mutter, cheeks hot.

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear. “No, seriously. I’m about to buy a dirty car every week just to see you bend over like that.”

You slap him with the wet sponge.

“Shut. Up. And scrub.”

Seonghwa's voice floats from the other side of the car. “What’s going on over there?”

“We’re cleaning!” you both say in unison.

Silence.

Seonghwa speaks again, slower this time. “You keep going quiet whenever I get close. And I swear I heard one of you whispering.”

Another pause. You can practically hear the suspicion brewing.

Then Seonghwa again: “Are you two hooking up?”

Your entire body freezes.

“What? No!” you laugh, forced and awkward. “Ew, Seonghwa. Why would you say that?”

“‘Ew?’” San echoes, voice dropping half an octave.

Seonghwa rolls his eyes. “I know you’re hiding something. You think I’m an idiot?”

“We’re not doing anything,” you say quickly.

“Then why’d you two suddenly get so close?” Seonghwa wipes sweat from his brow.

You smirk. “Aw, Seonghwa. You scared I’m gonna steal your best friend?”

“That’s not funny,” he mutters.

“Oh, come on,” you tease. “Jealous much?”

Seonghwa scoffs from the other side of the car. “Jealous? Of what? Watching you two flirt like you’re in some cheap Netflix teen drama?”

San lets out a low laugh. “Damn, Seonghwa. You been saving that one?”

“I’m serious,” Seonghwa says, walking around the front of the car now, expression tight.

“You two weren’t even speaking a month ago. Now you’re—” he gestures vaguely at the two of you, “—all close and whispery and weird.”

You raise a brow. “Whispery?”

“Don’t act dumb. You’re doing that thing with your eyes. And he’s doing that thing with his face.”

“What face?” San asks, smiling way too wide.

“That one!” Seonghwa snaps, pointing. “The smug one you make when you think you’re getting away with something.”

You glance at San. He absolutely is making that face. You stifle a laugh.

“We’re literally just washing the car,” you say.

Seonghwa narrows his eyes. “Then why do you look guilty?”

“I’m wet and cold, not guilty.”

“You were blushing.”

You shrug. “It’s sunny.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m happy.”

Seonghwa looks at San. “And you haven’t said a word except to make it worse.”

San holds up his hands innocently. “Look, man, I’m just following instructions. She said ‘we’re cleaning,’ so I’m cleaning.”

Seonghwa turns slowly back to you. “You’re lying.”

You cross your arms. “You actually are paranoid.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“You’re projecting.”

San whistles. “This is getting intense. Should I get popcorn?”

Seonghwa throws a glare at San. “Dude. Shut the fuck up. You’re not helping.”

San grins, leaning casually against the hood of the car. “Wasn’t trying to.”

Seonghwa turns back to you, eyes narrowing. “Okay, if nothing’s going on, then why do you both look like you just committed a crime and are about to commit another one?”

You blink. “Because we’re washing your car and it’s hot out?”

He doesn’t let up. “He keeps looking at you like he’s two seconds away from doing something I’ll have to fight him over.”

You tilt your head, unimpressed. “That’s just how his face looks.”

San smirks. “You like my face.”

You shoot him a sharp look. “Not. Helping.”

Seonghwa points between you. “See?! That! Right there! You two are doing that thing again. The weird eye telepathy. Cut it out.”

You raise a brow. “Seonghwa, relax. You’re spiraling.”

Seonghwa folds his arms, not backing down. “I’m observing,” he insists. “And what I’m observing is way too suspicious for a couple of innocent car washers.”

You smirk, stepping closer to San. “Maybe we just make a good team.”

San’s grin turns sly eyes flicking between you and Seonghwa, “Dynamic duo, right here.”

“But seriously, Seonghwa, you might wanna chill before you get yourself worked up.”

Seonghwa shoots you a warning look. “Keep this up, and I’m making you both do extra chores.”

You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “What, like washing your car again? Sounds like a fair deal.”

San chuckles, flicking the water droplets off his fingers as he leans casually against the car. “Yeah, I’m down if it means more time with this view.”

He glances at you — slowly, pointedly — gaze dragging from your wet legs to your face, and grins. “Could wash cars like this every day.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks betray you, burning pink.

Seonghwa’s eyes narrow, voice sharp. “You — go inside. Now.”

You stop, caught off guard by the sudden command.

“Seonghwa, come on, we’re just—”

You glance at San, and he glances at you with a little smirk. “Guess I’ll see you later. Maybe next time, less soap, more privacy?”

“San,” Seonghwa snaps.

San just grins, holding up his hands. “I’m just saying.”

You exhale sharply, annoyed now — cheeks flushed from embarrassment, from being treated like a kid in front of San. “We aren’t doing anything.”

“Sure,” Seonghwa says coldly. “And I’m just overreacting, right? Just the paranoid older brother again.”

You blink at him, frustration boiling over.

“I’m trying to look out for you,” he continues. “But if you want to keep acting reckless—”

“Oh my god,” you cut in, finally snapping, “you’re so fucking annoying, Seonghwa.”

His mouth opens — stunned, momentarily speechless.

You don’t wait for him to recover. You toss the sponge down, shoulders tense. “Seriously. You don’t get to control everything just because you’re older.”

And then, quieter, more to yourself: “It’s exhausting.”

San watches you walk away, a flicker of something more serious crossing his face as the screen door closes behind you.

—

The front door slams behind you. Your wet clothes cling to your skin, soap still dripping down your arms.

You're flushed — from anger, from the sun, from everything that just went down.

You don’t even know why you're shaking.

You storm into the kitchen. Grab a towel. Press it to your face like it’ll make the embarrassment go away.

But then—you hear it.

The door creaks open again.

Footsteps.

You don’t have to look. You know it’s him.

San.

“Y/N?”

You exhale through your nose, towel still pressed to your face. “What?”

His voice is soft. Almost careful. “You okay?”

You drop the towel. Turn to face him. His hair is still damp, sticking to his forehead. Chest bare, still glistening.

That same casual calm he always wears — but his eyes?

Worried.

You cross your arms, suddenly cold in your wet clothes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

San doesn’t answer right away. Just steps closer. His brows pull slightly together like he’s reading you — like he’s searching for a lie under your words.

“You basically stormed off.”

“I’m dramatic.”

He hums. “You don’t usually get that pissed unless something really hits.”

You roll your eyes. “Seonghwa was being annoying. That’s all.”

San nods slowly, still watching you. “You wanna talk about it?”

You stare at him. For once, he doesn’t have that smug smirk. He just looks... present. Like he really wants to know. Like it matters.

But you notice something on his face, so you lean in a little closer, eyes narrowing.

“Wait, wait, wait—what’s that on your face?”

He follows your gaze, then slowly touches the spot on his jaw where the red mark is blooming, his expression flickering between amusement and something softer.

“What, this?” he says, trying for casual. “Just a friendly .. uh .. love tap.”

“See? Nothing to worry about,” he says lightly, but you catch the slight hesitation in his voice.

“Did he hit you?!”

San shrugs, but you can tell he’s trying not to let on that it’s bothering him more than he wants to admit.

“San.”

He lifts a brow. “What? It’s not like he punched me. Just… a warning. You know. Friendly bonding.”

You stare. “That looks a lot less like bonding and a lot more like he nearly beat the shit out of you.”

He scoffs, rubbing the mark with the back of his hand. “I’m fine.”

“Did he actually hit you?”

San exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. “Okay. Maybe he got a little worked up. But it’s not a big deal—he just wanted to make a point.”

“And the point was?”

He smirks, but there’s less bite to it now. “That he doesn’t like me flirting with you.”

You blink at him. “And that surprises you?”

“No,” he admits, lips quirking. “..I just didn’t think he’d actually leave a mark.”

You shake your head, moving closer without thinking, fingers reaching up to gently touch the mark yourself.

He stills under the contact, the silence settling heavier between you.

“San,” you say softly. “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t bother you.”

His eyes meet yours, and for once, he doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t joke.

“I’m okay,” he says. Quieter. “Promise.”

You watch him carefully, the usual cockiness softened by something almost protective in his eyes.

The room feels quieter somehow, the noise from outside fading away.

Something in your chest lets go.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He smiles — not the usual crooked, smug one you’ve grown used to — but something softer. Honest.

“Just trying to figure out what you’re thinking.”

Silence again. But not uncomfortable.

He draws a slow breath, then says,

“I know we started this all... fast. And messy,” he starts. “But I didn’t just do this to mess around. I’m not just here for a good time. I like being around you. I like you.”

You feel your eyes sting — from relief, maybe. From surprise. From the way that warmth spreads through you, slowly, like sunlight.

He watches you. “Is that okay?”

You nod, slowly. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

His lips tug up into a small smile.

A beat.

You can’t believe you said it. It left your mouth before your brain could even stop it.

“Do you wanna shower with me?”

San blinks. “Huh?”

It hangs in the air.

Your face flames. “I just—I mean—you don’t have to, I just thought…”

He laughs under his breath. Low. Surprised.

But not in a bad way.

He steps closer. Real close.

“Are you trying to make me lose control right here, right now?” he murmurs, voice like velvet.

You swallow. “You started it.”

“I started it?” He smirks. “Baby, you’re the one who invited me into the shower.”

You shrug, trying to play it off. “Well… it’s been a long day. I’m wet anyway. Might as well…”

His eyes darken slightly. “Careful with how you say that.”

You laugh, turning away to hide your face—but he catches your wrist gently.

“Hey,” he says. “I’d love to.”

You glance back up. “Really?”

His smile softens. “Really. But not if you’re just doing it to prove something. Or to distract yourself from earlier.”

You pause.

And then you nod. Honest. Bare.

“I just… wanna be close to you.”

That’s all it takes.

He leans in and kisses you, slow and sure, his fingers slipping around your waist as he walks you backwards toward the bathroom. Every step is warm. Heavy. Wanting.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you.

Steam curls through the air, the water already running. The sound of it pattering gently against the tiles fills the silence between your mouths.

You tug your hoodie off slowly. He watches you. Every inch revealed, his gaze grows darker.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

You roll your eyes, half-flustered. “You’ve seen me like this already.”

“Not like this.” His voice dips. “Not when it’s just us. No noise. No hiding.”

His chest is toned, still glistening faintly from the heat outside — but here, in this soft light, he looks real. Less smug. More yours.

You take a step closer. So does he.

Your fingers graze his ribs. His hands rest at your hips. And for a second, the world quiets.

“You sure?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours.

You nod.

Together, you step into the shower.

The water hits you first — hot, calming, the spray soaking your hair and running down your shoulders.

San’s right behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as he pulls you back against his chest.

You sigh into it. Into him.

His hands move slow. Reverent.

Washing over your arms. Tracing your collarbones. Palming your hips like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep holding you.

He leans down to kiss your shoulder. Then your neck. Then behind your ear.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs. “You know that?”

You close your eyes.

Every kiss he leaves feels like a promise.

One on your jaw. One at the curve of your spine. One at the small of your back.

“Every time I look at you,” he breathes, “I wanna memorize you all over again.”

You turn in his arms — slowly — and his hands slide down to the backs of your thighs, lifting you before you can even brace yourself.

A small gasp escapes you as he pins you gently to the shower wall.

“You okay?” he whispers, lips brushing yours.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He presses his forehead to yours again. “Tell me if anything hurts.”

Your fingers thread into his damp hair.

“I will,” you promise.

And he kisses you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.

Water droplets cling to your lashes as he pushes into you, gentle yet firm.

The sensation is overwhelming, a delicious pressure that makes you arch your back and grip the tiles behind you for support.

"Are you okay?" he asks again, his voice strained with restraint.

You nod, a soft whimper escaping your mouth. "It's just... it's a lot."

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours for reassurance. "Too much?"

"No," you say, almost desperately. "I just want... I need you to go .. harder."

His eyes widen slightly in surprise, but he doesn't miss a beat. "You're sure? Aren't you still sore from last night?"

You give him a look that says you can handle it, that you need it. "I'm sure."

His grip on your thighs tightens, and he starts to move faster, his thrusts deep and deliberate.

The sound of the shower echoes in the small bathroom, mixing with your gasps and his grunts.

"This what you want?" he asks, his voice a low growl.

You nod, the heat in your eyes unmistakable. "Y-yes," you murmur, your voice barely audible over the patter of water.

With a gentle yet firm hand, he tilts your chin up, capturing your mouth in a passionate kiss as he starts to move with more urgency.

His hips drive into yours, the rhythm of his movements setting a tempo that resonates deep within you.

You can feel your muscles tightening, the delicious ache spreading through your body as he hits just the right spot.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

His hands roam over your curves, gripping and caressing as if he’s trying to claim every inch of your skin.

The water streams down your faces, mingling with the sweat that’s starting to form on your forehead.

You moan, your body responding to his touch, his possession. “More,” you breathe out, your voice needy.

His movements become more insistent, his hips snapping into you with a force that makes the shower wall shudder

Your legs wrap around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back as you try to pull him closer, deeper.

"Oh, fuck, yes," you cry out, your voice echoing off the tiles. "I'm... I'm there."

He chuckles darkly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Already?"

"Yes," you gasp, your voice tight with pleasure. "I'm... I'm gonna..."

He kisses you harder, swallowing your words as you both feel the tension coil tighter. "Then cum for me, baby," he whispers, "Let go."

You nod frantically, your eyes squeezed shut as the orgasm builds.

He kisses you again, his tongue delving into your mouth as if to swallow your cries of pleasure.

"I-I'm.. cumming," you manage to say between gasps, your body trembling as the orgasm crashes over you.

"Good," he grunts, his pace unrelenting. "Cum for me."

“I am," you whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He doesn't ease up, though, his eyes locked on yours, reading every little twitch of pleasure and pain.

"Please..," you whisper, the words barely making it past your clenched teeth.

He pauses, his eyes searching yours, a hint of concern flashing through them. "You can't take it?"

You bite your lip, shaking your head slightly. "I... don’t think I can ..."

"We're not even close to finishing, baby." He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "But if you want to beg, I'm all ears."

You whimper, the delicious mix of pleasure and pain making your toes curl.

You bite down on your lip, trying to muffle your moans. But the feeling is too intense, your body too eager for release.

“You’re being loud,” he whispers against your ear.

“I... I can't help it,” you admit, your voice strained.

He chuckles low, the sound sending a thrill down your spine. "I know, baby," he murmurs, his strokes growing more deliberate.

"But remember, your brother is probably in the house right now."

You moan louder despite his warning.

"He's gonna hear us, Y/N." he says, his voice low and playful.

You can't help but moan louder, the sound echoing in the tiled room.

"Let him," you pant, your hips pushing back into him. "Let him know you're fucking his sister."

He stares at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before it morphs into pure hunger.

"You're so fucking dirty," he says, his voice a mix of amazement and lust.

You smirk, feeling a thrill at his reaction. "Is that what you like?"

He doesn't answer, his eyes hooded and focused on the spot where your bodies meet.

His breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

You can feel his cock pulsing inside you, the tip hitting your sweet spot with every thrust.

"Say it again," he commands, his voice gruff with need.

You smirk up at him, feeling a thrill of power at his reaction. "I want him to know you're fucking me," you repeat.

For a moment, he just looks at you, his eyes dark with passion. Then, without a word, he starts to laugh.

It's a low, deep chuckle that fills the steamy bathroom, a sound that sends your heart racing even faster.

"You're crazy," he says, shaking his head slightly. But his grin says he's anything but complaining.

You just smirk, your legs still wrapped around his waist. "Only for you," you murmur, nuzzling into his neck.

He groans, his hips stuttering before he stills completely, his cock pulsing as he fills you with his warmth.

"Jesus, baby," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin.

"Mm," you murmur, your eyes closing in pleasure as you feel him throb inside you. "I need more."

He chuckles, his breath warm against your neck. "Why’re you so greedy today?"

He pulls out slowly, making you whine with the sudden emptiness. "I've got you."

You lean into him, feeling his heartbeat thunder against your chest as you both catch your breath. "Please just one more..?" you murmur, your voice still thick with desire.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours for a moment before he shakes his head. "No, Y/N," he says, his voice gruff. "We cant."

You pout, feeling the need for more of him, but understanding his concern. "But I can't get enough of you," you murmur.

"I’m right here," he says, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "But we've got to get out of this bathroom.."

He gently helps you stand, your legs still shaking slightly as you both reach for the towels.

Wrapping one around yourself, you watch as he does the same, his eyes never leaving yours.

You both stand there for a moment, steam swirling around you, suspended in the silence.

The water’s still running, but neither of you moves to turn it off just yet.

San’s eyes linger on your face like he’s memorizing you. Again.

You’re wrapped in a towel, damp hair clinging to your skin, and he still looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Your legs wobble a little as you shift your weight, and he catches you — one hand steady on your hip, the other brushing your cheek with his knuckles.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Still a little shaky.”

You breathe a laugh. “Whose fault is that?”

He grins, but it’s softer this time. Gentler.

“Let’s get you into bed,” he says.

You blink. “Shouldn’t we put our clothes on and go back outside?”

He shrugs one shoulder, a playful glint in his eye. “Seonghwa can wait. You need to rest.”

You tilt your head, curious. “Since when are you this thoughtful?”

“Since I started falling for you,” he says, so casually it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

Your chest tightens. “San…”

But he just smiles, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “Come on.”

You let him lead you out of the bathroom, fingers still tangled in his, and the moment you both go upstairs and step into your bedroom, the air feels heavier. Quiet. Safe.

He grabs an oversized hoodie — and gently helps you into it. His touch lingers longer than it needs to. Warm. Like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you.

Then he guides you toward the bed.

You sit, still flushed, still warm from the shower. San pulls the blanket over your legs, then drops down beside you, back against the headboard, towel still low around his waist.

Your hand finds his on instinct.

He squeezes gently. “You okay?”

You nod slowly, watching your fingers toy with his. “Yeah. I just… I meant it, you know.”

He glances over. “Meant what?”

“When I said I can’t get enough of you.”

His face shifts. Something softer beneath all that usual confidence.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “You’re not the only one, baby.”

Your stomach flips.

And for a second — just a second — the worry disappears. The guilt. The risk. Seonghwa. All of it.

Just you and San.

Tangled in silence. Breathing each other in.

But the peace doesn’t last long.

From downstairs, faintly, you both hear it:

“Y/N? San?” Seonghwa’s voice echoes up the stairs.

Your eyes widen.

San groans, letting his head fall back against the wall. “He has the worst timing in the world.”

You suppress a laugh. “You should go.”

He looks at you, reluctant. “Do I have to?”

“Unless you want to explain why you’re still in my room… half-naked…”

He raises a brow. “I could think of a few convincing reasons.”

You snort, shoving his shoulder gently.

He kisses your hand once more, then stands, grabbing the clothes he’d left in a heap earlier.

He pulls his shirt over his head, still damp, but it does nothing to hide the flush on his skin or the softness in his eyes.

At the door, he glances back at you.

“I’ll come back later,” he says, voice low.

You nod.

“I know.”

He smiles — and disappears down the hall.

You’re left alone, wrapped in your hoodie, hair damp against your back, heart full and aching in equal measure.

And even though Seonghwa might be one floor away…

Your thoughts?

Still with San.

–

That night, you’re curled up in bed, hoodie on, knees to your chest, scrolling aimlessly on your phone when there’s a knock at your door.

You barely get the chance to respond before it cracks open and Seonghwa peeks his head in.

“Hey,” he says, voice uncharacteristically calm. “You… mad at me?”

You glance up, eyebrows raised. “What do you think?”

He walks in anyway, hands stuffed in the pockets of his sweats like he’s trying to downplay his guilt.

“Look,” he starts, crossing the room and stopping at the edge of your bed. . “I shouldn’t have snapped at you… about, you know, being so close with San. I guess I just got worried.”

You don’t say anything. Just blink at him.

He shifts on his feet awkwardly. “I mean, you two are always together, and sometimes I feel like I don’t know where I fit in anymore.”

You glare.

“But—like, in a normal way,” he hurriedly adds, holding up his hands. “I didn’t mean to come off like I don’t trust you. It’s just…weird, you know?”

You roll your eyes. “We weren’t acting weird.”

He gives you a look.

You sigh. “Okay. A little weird.”

“Thank you.” He mutters. Then, his eyes flick over your shoulder, and his face changes. “Wait. What is that?”

You frown. “What?”

He leans forward a little, squinting at the base of your neck. “Y/N… is that a bruise?”

You freeze.

“Did someone hit you?” he asks, voice suddenly sharper. “What the fuck is that?”

Your eyes go wide. “What? No! No, no one hit me.”

Seonghwa narrows his eyes and steps closer. You try to pull the hoodie tighter around yourself, but you’re too slow.

His hand comes up before you can stop him and he gently pulls the hoodie up, revealing more of your shoulder.

“Seonghwa!” You half-laugh, half-shriek, twisting away from him. “What the hell are you doing?!”

He stares. “Wait… was that another one on your hip???”

“Stop undressing me with your hands, you freak!” you smack his shoulder, laughing now because his expression is pure horror.

Seonghwa backs up, hands in the air.

“No, because seriously—what is that? Are you getting beat up? Is something hitting you when I’m not around? Because I will throw hands—”

You cut him off, fast. “I slipped!”

He pauses. “You slipped?”

“Yes! When I came back into the house earlier after you told me to come back inside, remember? The floor was wet and I slipped on the hardwood. It’s not a big deal.”

Seonghwa looks you up and down suspiciously. “That’s… a lot of .. weird marks for one slip.”

You shrug, trying to look nonchalant. “I fall hard, okay?”

He stares a second longer, then sighs. “Damn. You should’ve dried off first.”

You roll your eyes, grinning. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Dad.”

He scoffs. “Whatever. Just… next time, be more careful, alright? I don’t want to see you walking around with mystery.. bruises and weird excuses.”

You nod, the smile still lingering. “I got it.”

Seonghwa moves to the door, pausing before he leaves. “And… for real. I’m sorry for earlier. I was out of line.”

You hesitate, then nod slowly. “I know. Its okay.”

Seonghwa snorts. “I mean… I’m not totally wrong, but I’ll take it.”

You chuck a pillow at him.

He catches it with one hand, grinning, then flings it right back — it hits you in the face.

“Seonghwa!!”

“I told you,” he laughs, already halfway out the door. “You're dumb and slow!”

“Asshole!”

“I heard that!”

The door shuts behind him.

You’re left in your room again, cheeks sore from smiling, hoodie still pulled up a little too high from the struggle, and heart beating a little too fast — not from Seonghwa…

But from what you’re really hiding.

And now there’s another bruise you didn’t think you’d have to cover: the ache of lying to someone you love.

–

It’s quiet now.

The hallway lights flicked off.

Seonghwa’s door shut with that signature click.

Your room is dim, lit only by the soft blue glow from your phone screen as you lay in bed under the covers, eyes heavy but mind racing.

You should sleep.

You want to sleep.

But your heart won’t settle.

Not after that day. Not after San. Not after Seonghwa’s way-too-close call.

Then—tap.

You freeze.

Another tap. Soft. Familiar.

Your eyes flick to your window.

You sit up, tugging the curtain just slightly.

There he is.

San.

On the roof outside your window, crouched down, hoodie up, his lips curved in that smug little smile that somehow makes your chest ache and flutter all at once.

You shake your head, motioning for him to come in.

The window creaks open quietly, and he slips inside with practiced ease, careful not to make a sound.

“Really!?” you whisper as he lands on your carpet. “Seonghwa just went to sleep. And why are you coming through the window??”

“Front door felt too risky,” he murmurs, voice low, laced with that sleepy rasp. “And I couldn’t go to sleep without seeing you.”

Your breath hitches, just a little.

He’s already pulling off his hoodie and shoes, like this is something he’s done a hundred times before.

You slide over in bed to make room for him, heart thudding in your chest.

San climbs in without hesitation, the bed dipping under his weight as he tugs the covers back over the both of you.

His bare arm slides around your waist, warm and solid, pulling you into him.

You sigh into the comfort of it all, head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“Long day,” he murmurs into your hair.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He strokes your back, slow and soft, like he’s memorizing the curve of your spine.

A moment passes. Still. Safe.

Then—

“I missed you,” he whispers.

You pull back just enough to look up at him.

“You were literally just with me.”

“I know,” he says, brushing your hair away from your face. “But I still missed you.”

The words melt into your skin like warmth, soaking into every place that felt cold before.

You don’t even think before saying, “I missed you too.”

His eyes soften. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You rest your head against his shoulder again, and for a moment, the world is quiet. No Seonghwa. No sneaking. No pretending.

Just him. And you.

“San?” you whisper after a minute.

“Mm?”

“Do you think this is… bad? Us, I mean. Keeping it from Seonghwa?”

He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s choosing his words carefully.

“I think…” he exhales, “it’s complicated. But I don’t think you are bad. And I don’t think this”—he pulls you in tighter—“is bad.”

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

You believe him. Or… you want to.

He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Try to sleep, princess.”

You smile. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why? You love it.”

You roll your eyes, nuzzling closer into his chest. “Shut up and hold me.”

He does.

His hand finds your hoodie strings, gently tugging at them, twisting them around his fingers as his other arm stays locked around your waist.

His voice is soft when he speaks again, like he’s been thinking about it for a while.

“Okay. We should tell him.”

You blink. “Seonghwa?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

You shift slightly to look up at him. “When?”

He doesn't hesitate. “Tomorrow morning.”

Your eyebrows raise. “That quick?”

“Yeah.” He’s still playing with your hoodie strings, focused on the little knot he’s tying in them. “I’ll just sleep over. We’ll wake up, go downstairs, and tell him. Straight up.”

You bite your lip. That easy? That quick?

“Okay,” you say, after a pause. “But… don’t be too like…” You search for the word. “Don’t be smug about it. Be normal.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Smug? What do you mean ‘smug’?”

“You know what I mean,” you say, dead serious. “You do that thing. That smirky, cocky thing with your eyebrows and your stupid mouth—”

“My stupid mouth?”

“Yes.” You poke his chest. “Like when you said ‘I’ll be right back, ‘princess’ and flirted with me outside.. You almost got us killed.”

He’s laughing now, shaking his head, his hand still idly tugging your hoodie string like a nervous tic. “You’re being dramatic.”

You lean in closer, voice low. “No, San. I’m not. Seonghwa will actually beat your ass this time.

“Like not in a cute way. He’s gonna full-on older brother rage blackout if you go in there acting like you just won a prize.”

His smile falters just slightly, but the edge softens into something serious.

“I got it,” he murmurs. “I’ll be respectful.”

“You swear?”

He leans down, presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Swear.”

You stare at him for a second. “Okay. Then… yeah. Let’s do it. Tomorrow.”

His fingers lace with yours under the covers, warm and a little sweaty.

“You sure?”

You nod.

“I’m scared,” you whisper with a tiny laugh.

“Me too,” he admits. “But I’d rather him hate me for being honest… than for sneaking around with his sister.”

You exhale slowly, heart thudding again.

“God,” you say, “he’s gonna kill you.”

San grins. “Probably.”

You nudge his shoulder, burying your face in his neck again. “I’ll miss you.”

He chuckles. “I’ll haunt you.”

You smile.

Wrapped in the quiet. In his arms. Hoodie strings still twisted around his fingers.

Tomorrow’s coming fast.

But for tonight—you let yourself rest in this moment.

Warm. Honest. Real.

—

The smell of eggs and toast fills the kitchen. The morning sun spills lazily through the blinds, casting warm lines across the tiled floor.

Seonghwa’s at the stove again, flipping something in the pan with casual focus.

He’s talking — something about the car’s suspension or the alignment, his voice cutting through the silence like it's any normal day.

But it’s not.

You’re sitting at the table with your legs tucked up under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands.

San’s next to you, close enough that your knees are touching beneath the table. You keep your eyes on your juice, the tension heavy in your chest.

He hasn’t said anything yet.

And you know it’s coming.

“Yeah,” Seonghwa says, pulling the pan off the heat. “Think I just need to replace that whole left-side control arm. Might as well—what?”

He glances over his shoulder, noticing San watching him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

San clears his throat. Sits up straighter.

“I gotta tell you something. Like. Serious”

Seonghwa furrows his brow. “What? You’re finally gonna admit you’re fucking annoying?”

San grins. “Worse.”

Seonghwa rolls his eyes, setting the pan down. “When are you ever serious, man?”

But something in his tone shifts when he looks between you two.

“What is it?” he asks, slower this time.

You hold your breath and take a long sip of your juice.

San’s voice is calm. Steady. “I’m fucking your sister.”

PFTTTT—

You choke, juice spraying back into your glass as you slap a hand over your mouth.

“Oh my god, San—”

Seonghwa doesn’t react at first. Not right away. He just stares at him.

“What?” he says, quiet.

San shrugs, like he’s talking about the weather. “You heard me.”

“Say it again.”

Seonghwa’s hand goes to the juice pitcher.

He lifts it slowly and sets it down hard on the table. Juice sloshes over the side, dripping across the wood.

You swallow hard.

Seonghwa’s voice stays eerily calm.

“I knew something was up last night,” he mutters. “I said it. I said—‘are you two hooking up?’—and you both lied to my face.”

San raises a brow, unbothered. “Well technically, you asked a question. we just let your imagination do the rest.”

SPLASH.

Seonghwa launches the juice directly into San’s face.

A full, aggressive pour. Citrus floods his curls, streams down his jaw, and pools into his collar.

“What the fuck, man?” San coughs, laughing.

Seonghwa's already standing, storming around the table, grabbing San by the collar and yanking him to his feet.

“You think this is a fucking joke?” he growls, face inches from his best friend’s, knuckles white around his hoodie.

San just grins, tongue dragging over his cheek, tasting the juice. He winks at you.

Your stomach drops.

“San—” you whisper, disappointed. This is exactly what you told him not to do.

You quickly rise, rushing over. “Seonghwa, stop! Calm down—please, just calm—”

“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down!” Seonghwa barks, eyes blazing. “You lied to me. You lied to my face. And you—” he looks at San, his tone venomous, “—you really thought this was gonna be funny?”

“Seonghwa—” you start, but he’s already stepping back, shaking his head.

“I need air,” he snaps, already heading toward the door. “You two can clean up this bullshit.”

The door slams.

You exhale shakily, turning back to San.

He’s still laughing. Juice dripping from his nose, hoodie soaked, face red with barely restrained amusement.

You stare at him, arms crossed. “That was a bad idea.”

He wipes his eyes. “Y/N—baby come on—it was kinda funny.”

You don’t smile. “I told you not to act like that.”

He straightens a little, finally noticing your tone. “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I am. But hey… at least he knows now, right?”

You stare at him.

“Come here,” he says, voice softening.

You sigh and grab a towel from the counter, walking over and gently dabbing his face.

You wipe the sticky juice from his cheeks, his neck, brushing his hair off his forehead as he leans into your touch.

“You smell like oranges,” you mumble.

He grins. “Kiss me.”

You blink. “No. I’m not kissing orange juice off of you.”

“Come on,” he laughs. “Do it. Just do it—”

He tugs your wrist. You trip forward, falling straight into his lap.

You gasp, your hands landing on his chest. “San—!”

“Kiss me,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Or I’m not letting you go.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re literally so annoying.”

He shrugs. “And yet… here you are.”

You roll your eyes, then finally kiss him. Soft, sticky, citrus-sweet.

Then you shove off him and dart away, heading for the stairs.

“Hey—!” he calls after you, laughing. “That’s not fair!”

You don’t look back. “Maybe next time you’ll listen to me!”

His laughter follows you up the steps.

—

That night, dinner is quiet — too quiet. the only sound is the clink of forks against ceramic, echoing louder than it should.

Well, that and the faint, passive-aggressive clench of Seonghwa’s jaw.

He hasn’t said a word in fifteen minutes. Not one.

You’re sitting across from him, quietly chewing your food and trying not to look directly at his face.

His expression says everything: cold, closed-off, and aggressively avoiding eye contact. He’s stabbing his pasta like it personally wronged him.

Next to you, San is chewing like he’s got not a single care in the world.

Laid-back. Legs spread. Elbow draped casually over the back of your chair. His fork twirls lazily through his food, and he hums a little under his breath. Hums.

The tension is suffocating.

You try to break it. “This is really good, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa doesn’t even blink.

“Like… the sauce? Kind of amazing.”

No response. Just a sigh. A very loud sigh.

San smirks, glancing across the table. “You’re really not gonna talk to us? You’re just gonna sit there pretending we don’t exist?”

Seonghwa finally looks up, slowly.

Deadpan. “That’s the goal.”

You press your lips together, swallowing a laugh.

San tilts his head, feigning innocence. “What? You don’t believe me?”

Seonghwa raises an eyebrow. “Believe what? That you’re a moron?”

San shrugs dramatically. “No. That I’m fucking your sister.”

Seonghwa drops his fork with a loud clank. “Dude.”

“What??” San’s grinning now, full smug-mode activated. “I’m just saying, if you’re having doubts—”

And before you can stop him—

San leans over.

And kisses you.

Right in front of Seonghwa.

Not a quick peck. Oh no. He goes in with soft pressure, hand slipping to your jaw, angling your face toward him. It's slow. Purposeful. Completely, utterly unnecessary.

You pull back a little too late, wide-eyed, lips tingling. “San—”

Seonghwa just stares. Horrified.

Then, in a flat, revolted voice: “Okay. Okay. You don’t have to prove it. Just—stop.”

He wipes his mouth with a napkin and pushes his plate away.

“Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

San leans back in his chair, totally unfazed. “You didn’t believe me! I was clarifying!”

“Clarifying?!” Seonghwa throws his hands up. “That was not clarification, that was—graphic evidence! At the dinner table!”

You duck your head into your hands, shoulders shaking.

“Seonghwa,” you mumble through your fingers. “Please stop yelling at the pasta.”

Seonghwa mutters something under his breath. Then stands up.

“I’m eating in my room.”

He grabs his plate and storms off down the hall and up the stairs.

San’s still smirking. He reaches for your garlic bread.

“That went better than expected.”

You smack his hand. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” he says, biting into the bread, “you’re still sitting next to me.”

You groan and flop back in your seat, staring at the ceiling.

This is your life now.

And somehow... you kind of love it.

—

Masterlist

#ateez #ateez fic #ateez smut #smut #choi san #choi san fanfic #choi san imagines #choi san smut #san smut #seonghwa scenarios #seonghwa fic #seonghwa #park seonghwa #san

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cherry-coloureddfunk · 7 months ago

Text

IMAGINE BEING LOVED BY ME, bfd!joel miller

summary, no matter what you'd always end up in the bed of your boyfriend's father

warnings, p in v, cheating (duh not cool but when joel miller tempts u it is!), daddy kink if you squint, a teensy bit of fingering, fat age gap between joel and reader, keeping up with the canon that joel's son is named jack but hes a dick in this sorry, not proof read

wc, 2k

note, joel miller is the type of fine that physically pains me to think about... i was thinking about making this a series because i love these two so much but we'll see :)

Joel Miller hated nights.

He hated how he could never seem to fall asleep no matter how hard he tried. He hated the sliver of moonlight that seeped in through the blinds of his bedroom, almost taunting him with the agonizingly slow routine of the moon when all he wanted was for the sun to make its return. He hated the silence too– though it wasn’t the silence he appreciated during slow mundane mornings; it was the kind that was almost suffocating forcing him to confront every thought he tried burying during the day.

The blur of all the restless nights he’d spent alone bled into one another as he found your warmth replacing the cool, bare sheets of his king.

He was fucked up, and he knew that.

No matter which angle he approached it with, he knew. There wasn't any justification for his actions— not that he ever tried. As someone who gave and gave time after time again you’d think he would be able to cut himself some slack.

Not when it came to the privilege of a pretty thing like you waiting to sneak in between his sheets– with the moon only as witness after his son would fall asleep.

“Missed ya.” Is all he says as he nuzzles his face into the dip of your neck. He breathes every ounce of you in, and when he exhales, you giggle softly at the light air that tickles your skin. His hand that had been resting in between your thighs drifts upward to slip under your shirt. His hands grazed your nipple lightly, and he stifled a groan.

“I have to close the door.” You remind him, though it comes out as a whisper when you feel him start to grope your breasts.

He shakes his head, “Don’t.” He guides your steps until your back hits his bed. His mouth ghosts over your neck, peppering feather-light kisses on your skin.

“Joel, what if he hears?” You whisper so quietly you aren’t even sure you’d said it aloud– but you must’ve since he answers.

“Guess you’ll just hafta be quiet then.” His closed-mouth kisses turn into open-mouthed ones, conscious enough not to leave any visible marks, just saliva in their wake. He places a wet kiss on your Adam's apple, trailing upwards to the underside of your jaw until he gets to your lips. One of his hands moves the hair out of your eyes so you can see him as he places his lips against yours. It’s a silent admission, and he doesn’t have to say anything for you to understand. This is how it’s supposed to be. This. You, here. With me.

His chapped lips rub against your own; a sloppy semblance of a dance. Opening up a bit, you let him slot his tongue into your mouth. He tastes of faint mint toothpaste as he spreads the artificial flavor in your mouth. Your hand twines in his curly hair, trying to pull him impossibly closer to yourself. No matter how close he’d get, it would never be enough. You’d always want more.

He presses himself into you, feeling his hardened length through his boxers. He moves against you slowly, his eyes open, watching every scrunch of your nose, the furrow of your brow, and the ‘O’ shape you make with your mouth. You moan into him. The friction of his movements against your clit causes you to move your face to the side and voice your pleasure. His hand darts to cover your mouth, not giving up his agonizing ruts against your center.

“Gotta be quiet, babygirl.” He reminds you with a tone that’s in between gentle and stern. You nod, and his hand moves from your mouth, drifting between your bodies. He slips past your panties, using his index finger to drag past your folds and collect your slick. His finger glistens under the moonlight that slips in past the window blinds. He holds it out in front of himself, eyes trained on yours as he brings it to his mouth. He let out a shameless groan against his finger, working his tongue to ensure none had gone to waste, “You have no idea how sweet this pussy is, y’wanna taste, baby?”

You stare at him with big eyes and without a second thought you nodded, unable to speak even if you wanted to. The corners of his mouth tugged into a crooked smile. He brought the finger that had previously been in his mouth to your lips. The pad of his finger traced your bottom lip, feeling the groves that made up the skin there. You opened up a bit, trying your best to capture his finger in your mouth. Your efforts fell short as he dragged his finger to catch the inside of your bottom lip. He was doing this on purpose. You felt incredibly hot– his heavy breathing on your skin seemed to be the only thing to cool you down. Finally, he leaned in, catching his lips with yours once more. He shoved his tongue in slowly, causing you to moan at the taste of yourself in his mouth.

“Perfect.” He pulled away whispering against your lips, like it was a secret just between the two of you, the way you melted in his arms made his head rush, “Every inch.”

You sighed, letting your head rest on his neck as you tried to catch your breath, “M’sorry I didn't come yesterday, he stayed up all night playing with his friends but I swear I thought about you every–”

“Don’t you ever be sorry about somethin’ like that. S’not your fault baby.” He stops you by bringing his large hand up from between your bodies to cup the side of your face, it’s almost comical how it almost covers the entire surface, “Just want some attention, hm? My sweet girl always thinkin’ of me.”

A part of him worried about the nights you never showed up but he would never tell you that. You weren't his and you weren't able to sneak off as much as he wanted you to. The nights you were a no show always left Joel with that nagging voice in the back of his head that probed at him taunting, you didn’t want this anymore. Of course he’d respect your decision if it ever came down to that. He was older than you, lived more than enough of his life, and a wife that up and left as soon as she’d brought their son into this world to show for it.

You made it easy to forget all of that, and if it were up to him you’d both stay in his bed for as long as you’d have him.

His lips brushed the top of your head, “You’re here with me now s’all that matters.”

You lifted your head up to see the sincerity in his eyes, the way he held you tight like this was just some sick dream and he was a perverted old man for lusting over his own son’s girlfriend. But he wasn’t because you were real and you were here and fuck you were perfect.

Joel stood up, his hands finding your ankles and you let out a soft giggle as he pulled you toward him allowing your legs to dangle off the side of his king. He smiled softly standing in between your thighs, allowing his hand to run up and down the inside of them.

“Joel.” You sigh, reaching out for him always hating any purposeful distance between the both of you. You wanted all of him, “Can you kiss me?”

He caves like he always does for you. Bending down one hand on the inside of your thigh as the other travels up to rest his palm against your face as he leans in for another kiss. He kisses with fervor it’s slow as he takes his time with his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth, gently nibbling down on your bottom lip when he pulls away, “Wanna make you cum for me babygirl.”

“Y’gonna let me do that for you?” He asks breathlessly, hand slipping past your pajama shorts and over your panties.

You nod your eyes wide, the contact causing you to buck into his hand.

“Needy little thing… S’what you are huh?” He ran his fingers over your wetness and let out a groan at the feeling of your warmth before pulling his hand back entirely, “Tell me what y’want sweet girl.”

“Want you inside me Joel.” You didn’t care how desperate you sounded. When it came to Joel Miller you had zero shame, “Wanna feel you here.”

His eyes darkened, following the hand that pressed just above your lower stomach. He replaced yours with his own, pressing down gently with a groan. His other hand pulled down your pajama shorts along with your panties down just enough so he could see your core.

“Fuck.” He mumbled, “S’what my sweet girl wants?’

You nodded at his words, eyes focused on his face alone. You hadn’t even registered that he had pulled his boxers down; the hand that had previously been inside of you along with your juices was now around his cock. He lazily stroked it peering down at you with a crooked smile.

“Gonna fuck you baby– Gonna– Fuck– Gonna feel me so deep.” He gripped his length as he rested the tip at your entrance, gently running the tip along your opening, collecting the juices there, “S’that what you need? T’feel daddy deep inside you?”

You nodded.

“Tell me.” His tone took on a desperate one, “Tell me you need it baby.”

“Always need you Daddy– Need it inside me. Wanna feel it deep inside.” You whined at the feeling of him rubbing his tip against your entrance knowing he could easily slip inside if he wanted to.

Joel pushed himself inside, as moans like sighs of relief sounded from both of your chests. He stilled for a moment enjoying how perfect this moment was. Your chest heaving heavily as you peered at him with glazed eyes. Fucking ethereal.

He wanted you to feel it– the feeling of being so full in more ways than one. How perfectly he fits inside you– the shape and every ridge of his cock. You were made for it– made for him.

His hands gripped your thighs lifting them so he’d be able to reach you at a perfect angle and began to pound into you at harsh speed. His thrusts were deep as they shook your pliant body on the bed, yet again another reminder of the differences between your boyfriend and his father. You’d never really felt loved when you’d have sex with Jack– It was more or less an experience for him than you. He just wanted to empty himself inside of you, never really wanting to make sure you enjoyed yourself. After finding yourself in Joel’s bed one rainy evening, it only made sense that his giving nature bled over into the bedroom. By the time the storm cleared, you knew this wouldn’t be a one time occurrence.

“He doesn’t deserve you babygirl.” He groaned against your neck, he’d been so lost in the feeling of you around him he wasn’t able to stop himself from leaving marks on your body. He sucked into your skin, kissing and licking the pain away. The sound of his skin smacking against yours as he fucked into you with such vigor made you disregard it completely, “Want everyone to know you n’this sweet pussy belong to me.”

Everything he did always made your head spin. The combination of the sweet words and his musky scent that was just so inherently Joel made you light headed. Him saying you belong to him was just confirming words you felt linger in the air between you when this whole ordeal started.

“Tell me.” He moaned, trying to delay the steady approach of his orgasm. He didn’t want this to end, “I need it.” He urged you, and you looked down to see him thrusting in and out of you. You moaned at the sight of your hole taking all of him inside of you. Joel caught you by surprise when he leaned down to capture your lips, biting on your bottom lip as he continued to fuck into you with the same harsh pace he’d set previously.

You hadn’t even noticed that you’d begun to cry until his large hand wiped the tears from your eyes. Your cheeks were red and your eyes were glossy. He loved that he was the one making you feel this way– absolutely wrecked.

His hand went to your clit, rubbing it as he fucked into you with fervor, “Tell me you’re mine.”

You were close and he could tell.

“Please” He begged, the desperation in his voice made you clench around him, “Need to hear you say it sweet girl.”

You didn’t know what to do. His hand came to wipe the tears from your eyes, fucking you harder, making sure you felt him and every roll of his hips. Your legs wrapped around him in an effort to get him impossibly closer to you than he was already. This new angle allowed him to get even deeper inside of you. Overwhelmed with pleasure, you looked into his eyes though it had been said many times over before for the first time you said, “I’m yours Joel.”

“And m’yours baby.” He whined into your mouth, “All yours– Fuck– No one elses’ you own me.”

It seemed like your tears came out tenfold at the statement, the overwhelming sense of pleasure– of love and care. His hips started to stutter but he tried to push through, and you let out a strangled cry as the feeling in your stomach intensified at the realization;

You owned Joel Miller.

“I own you.” You repeated back in a whine-confirmation, your voice still unsure if you’d even heard him right.

“M’ all yours sweet girl never been anyone else’s.” Joel responded with a moan. It was foreign to the both of you, a sense of vulnerability you’d experienced with anyone before and it’d obviously been far too long since Joel had let someone in the way he let you.

But he was willing for you.

“Fuck– Im– m’gonna cum Joel.”

Your orgasm wracked through your body before you could get another word out. You cried into his shoulder, nails digging harshly into his back as you garbled unintelligible words.

The look on your face was enough to send him over the edge, giving one last thrust he buried himself to the hilt as he peered down to see where your two bodies met. The only thing he was able to make out was the curly hair at the base of his cock as he emptied himself inside of you with a strangled groan. His eyes quickly found yours to communicate you both already knew;

I know, I felt it too.

After he’d cleaned you up he peppered your face in soft kisses, wrapping his arms around you. He laid there with you, enjoying the feeling of you snuggled warmly against his chest.

You looked at him like you always did. The aquiline shape of his nose and grey whiskers that made up his facial hair.

He was beautiful in a way that felt beyond your grasp, as if the very essence of it existed in a language you’d never learn to speak.

Then he softly looked down at your face that rested on his bare chest, his hand found yours, a quiet plea in his touch.

‘Don’t sleep with him,’ he whispered, his voice steady but filled with something deeper, something unspoken, “Stay– stay with me tonight.”

After a long pause, you simply nodded.

“Okay."

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