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saatorus · 3 months ago

Text

golden — s . gojo x reader

synopsis — satoru gojo is your bestfriend and you are his. but sometimes, lines between friendship and something more seem to blur.

pairing — bestfriend! satoru x reader

word count — 10.6 k

warnings — making out, somewhat heavy petting, they take off each other's shirts but that's about it LOL, angst (not a sad ending though), reader feels unwanted at times.

Satoru Gojo.

How long have you known him? Your whole life, probably.

Scratch that. Not your whole life, but definitely the majority of it.

It started in preschool.

You were the quiet kid—the one who clung to the edges of the classroom, never quite fitting into the messy, chaotic whirlwind of children who seemed to make friends like it was the easiest thing in the world. You didn’t know how they did it—how they found each other in the noise, how they paired up so effortlessly, how they just knew where they belonged.

You, on the other hand, spent most of your time alone, stacking blocks in the corner, drawing quietly, or waiting for the teacher to tell you what to do next.

And then there was him.

Satoru Gojo, the loudest, brightest, most obnoxiously happy kid you’d ever met. He was the kind of child who ran instead of walked, who laughed at things no one else found funny, who always had a scrape on his knee but never seemed to care. He was larger than life, in a way that made your stomach twist—not quite jealousy, not quite admiration, just… confusion.

So when he plopped down next to you one day, completely uninvited, you weren’t sure what to do.

“Whatcha doin’?” he asked, peering at the tiny house you were building out of wooden blocks.

You shrugged. “Building.”

“Cool,” he said, grinning. “Can I help?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want help. But before you could answer, he was already reaching for the blocks, stacking them in ways that made no sense.

“You’re ruining it,” you mumbled, frowning.

He blinked at you, then back at the house. “Oh.” And then, without missing a beat, he knocked it over entirely.

You gasped, horrified.

He just laughed. “Now we can build it again!”

You decided, in that exact moment, that you hated him.

But Satoru Gojo was persistent.

He started following you around—not in a creepy way, just in an annoying way. Every time you thought you’d shaken him off, he’d pop up again like a bad penny, grinning that ridiculous grin of his.

Eventually, you just… let him.

It was easier than trying to get rid of him.

And somewhere along the way, he became your first real friend.

Your moms met not long after.

It happened at pickup time, when Satoru ran straight past his usual waiting spot to grab your hand instead. “Can I go to their house?” he asked his mom, all wide eyes and uncontainable energy. “Please, please, please?”

Your mom looked vaguely alarmed, having not expected to suddenly be responsible for another child, but Satoru’s mom just laughed.

And that was that.

Your friendship expanded beyond the preschool walls, spilling into weekends and playdates. Satoru’s house became as familiar as your own, with its too-big windows and fancy furniture that he absolutely wasn’t supposed to jump on (but did anyway). In return, he practically lived at your place, showing up unannounced, eating snacks straight from your pantry, making himself at home in a way that should have been irritating but never really was.

By the time middle school rolled around, he was less of a friend and more of a permanent fixture in your life.

“Okay, but listen,” Satoru said one afternoon, sprawled across your bedroom floor, Switch in hand. “If you had to pick one Digimon partner, like one to be stuck with for the rest of your life, who would it be?”

You barely looked up from your homework. “I don’t know. Agumon?”

“Agumon?” he repeated, scandalized. “That’s so basic. It’s like saying your favorite Pokémon is Pikachu.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s literally the main character’s Digimon.”

“Exactly!” He threw his hands up. “No originality. None. Zero. I expected better from you.”

“You asked me,” you pointed out, rolling your eyes.

“Yeah, but I thought you’d at least think about it.” He sighed, dramatically flopping onto his back. “I should’ve known. I’m best friends with a casual fan.”

“You should be grateful you have a best friend at all,” you shot back.

Satoru grinned, tilting his head toward you. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

At some point, he started wearing glasses. Not for fashion, not because he wanted to, but because years of staring at screens in the dark, playing Digimon and Pokémon and whatever else he was obsessed with at the time, had officially caught up to him.

“I’m blind,” he announced the day he got them, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely, totally blind.”

You snorted. “You’re, like, mildly nearsighted.”

“Same thing,” he said, already taking them off to examine them. “Do I look smarter with them?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. “Not really.”

“Rude.” He huffed, sliding them back on. “What about cooler?”

You threw a pillow at his face.

He laughed, catching it easily. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

—

Then came high school.

At first, nothing changed.

Satoru was still Satoru—loud, annoying, always in your space. He still showed up at your house unannounced, still texted you at odd hours about random nonsense, still sat next to you at lunch like it was a law of the universe. He was your best friend. Your person.

And for the first two years, you were inseparable.

There wasn’t a single moment where people saw one of you without the other. Satoru Gojo and you. You and Satoru Gojo. Always a pair. Whether it was cramming for exams together, getting kicked out of the arcade because he got too competitive, or spending Friday nights playing whatever old game he got obsessed with that month, he was your constant.

Until junior year.

It started small.

A casual comment in gym class about how fast he was. A joke from a teacher about how he should try out for the football team. A half-dare from some of the guys he barely knew.

And somehow, against all odds, Satoru Gojo became an athlete.

You didn’t think much of it at first. It was just another one of his phases, right? Like that time he swore he’d master speedrunning or decided he was going to learn five languages at once. But he was good—annoyingly good. Tall, fast, with ridiculous reflexes that made him impossible to catch on the field.

And people noticed.

By mid-season, he wasn’t just some new player—he was the star. The guy everyone knew, the guy who had a crowd around him in the hallways, the guy who got called out over the school speakers for game-winning plays.

The guy who no longer just belonged to you.

The first time you really felt it was when he showed up at your house one evening. That part was normal. He still did that, still made himself at home on your couch, still stole whatever snacks he wanted.

But something was different.

You were sprawled out on your bed, flipping through a book, when you glanced up and noticed.

“Where are your glasses?” you asked.

Satoru blinked, as if he had to think about it. “Oh. Right.” He shrugged, plopping down next to you. “They’re kind of a hazard in football, so I switched to contacts. Figured I’d just stick with them.”

You sat up, frowning. “But you hate contacts.”

He grinned, stretching lazily. “Not anymore.”

And just like that, something in your chest twisted.

It wasn’t just the glasses.

It was the way he stopped rambling about Digimon, the way he never asked if you wanted to rewatch old anime together anymore. It was the way his schedule started filling up with team hangouts and parties you weren’t invited to. It was the way people started looking at you differently when you were with him.

Because Satoru Gojo wasn’t just Satoru Gojo anymore.

He was Gojo.

Senior year was when it really started to hurt.

He still sat with you at lunch, still texted you silly memes at night, still acted like nothing had changed. But everything had.

He would often cancel on your invitations, his responses still typed in that absurd, unmistakable way of his—yet his excuses always seemed to follow a familiar pattern. It was always something urgent, something unavoidable: he had to rush off to practice, or there was a party he couldn’t miss, or someone needed his help and he simply couldn’t bring himself to say no. Each time, it felt like a rehearsed script, as though his priorities were perpetually elsewhere, leaving you to wonder if you’d ever truly make the cut.

Every time he plopped down next to you, people stared. Whispered.

“Why’s he sitting with her?”

“Shouldn't he sit with the rest of the team?”

“Is she, like, his childhood obligation or something?”

You weren’t an idiot. You heard it. You felt it.

And it made you snap.

“You don’t have to sit here, you know,” you muttered one day, keeping your eyes on your tray.

Satoru frowned. “What?”

“I said, you don’t have to sit here,” you repeated, sharper this time. “If you’d rather be with your actual friends—”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

You clenched your jaw, hating how defensive he sounded. “Nothing. Forget it.”

He didn’t forget it.

You fought about it. About how he didn’t get it, about how easy everything was for him, about how he could walk into any room and belong while you felt like you had to justify existing.

“You act like I abandoned you,” he snapped, voice low and frustrated. “But I’m right here. I’ve always been here.”

And you hated that he was somewhat right.

So you patched things up. Not because you fully understood each other, but because you both wanted to. And by the time graduation rolled around, you could almost pretend things had gone back to the way they were.

But then came college.

And somehow, Satoru Gojo managed to be even more himself than ever.

Bigger. Louder. More impossible to ignore.

If high school had turned him into a star, then college made him a supernova.

He was everywhere—at parties, in clubs, on the field. Everyone knew him. Everyone wanted to be around him.

And somehow, despite it all, he still tried to keep you close.

“Come with me tonight,” he’d say, sending you an invite to some massive party. “It’ll be fun.”

You always said no.

At first, he laughed it off. But after a while, he started looking at you differently—like he noticed the way you avoided him now, the way you barely answered his texts, the way you pulled away whenever he tried to meet your eyes.

And one night, when he showed up outside your dorm after another party, half-drunk and grinning, you saw the exact moment that grin faltered.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Why would I be mad at you?” you replied, your tone lighter than you felt, as if you could brush the question aside with a casual shrug.

Satoru studied you intently, his glasses nowhere to be found, his hair disheveled from running his hands through it one too many times. His gaze was sharp, unrelenting. “Because you’re avoiding me,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something you couldn’t quite place—frustration, maybe, or hurt.

You forced a laugh, the sound brittle and unconvincing. “I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he interrupted, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Not you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and your throat tightened. You looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “It’s just—” you began, your voice faltering as you struggled to piece together the thoughts that had been swirling in your mind for weeks. “You don’t need me anymore, Satoru. You have them. All your cool—I don’t know, jock and cheerleader friends, everyone else who likes you. You don’t have time for me now.”

He blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice rising slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. His hands gestured vaguely, as though trying to grasp the words you’d just thrown at him. “You think I’d just—replace you? Like it’s that easy? No, like seriously fucking explain to me what the absolute hell you mean?” He mutters out angrily, words slightly slurred.

The air between you felt heavy, charged with emotions neither of you had fully acknowledged until now. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat, leaving only silence hanging in the space between you.

You let out a bitter laugh. “It means I’m tired, Satoru. Tired of feeling like a ghost when I’m with you. Tired of pretending I’m okay with being the weird friend you keep around out of habit.”

Satoru opened his mouth, then closed it.

And for the first time in your life, you saw it—hurt. Real, genuine hurt in his stupidly bright eyes.

“You think that’s what this is?” he said, voice quieter now. “Habit?”

You didn’t answer.

Because if you did, you might have to admit that you missed him. That you missed the late-night anime marathons, the dumb inside jokes, the way he used to act like you were the only person in the world that mattered.

But you weren’t sure if that version of him still existed.

And you definitely weren’t sure if you had the courage to find out.

Satoru stared at you for a long time, the weight of your words settling between you like a stone. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, couldn’t decipher the way his lips pressed into a thin line, the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for something—but wasn’t sure if he should.

Then, after what felt like forever, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t get it,” he admitted, voice lower now, quieter, like he was afraid too many words would push you further away. “You’re acting like I left you behind, but I’m right here.”

You bit your lip. “You don’t see it.”

“Then make me see it,” he shot back, suddenly frustrated. “Because all I know is that one day we were fine, and the next, you started treating me like a stranger.”

That stung.

Because wasn’t that what he did first?

He wasn’t the one being looked at differently in high school when he sat next to you at lunch. He wasn’t the one feeling like a burden when you tagged along with him to something you thought was just going to be the two of you. He wasn’t the one realizing, little by little, that your best friend was outgrowing you.

But how could you even say that? How could you explain it in a way he’d understand?

“It’s not just one thing, Satoru,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… everything.”

Satoru exhaled sharply, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “That’s real specific.”

You rolled your eyes, the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

You hesitated. He looked serious, standing there under the dim glow of the dorm hallway lights, arms crossed, gaze steady. But what would it change? Telling him wouldn’t undo the years of growing distance, wouldn’t erase the fact that you felt like you didn’t fit in his world anymore.

Maybe it was better to let it go.

So you shook your head, stepping back toward your door. “It’s late. You should go.”

Satoru let out a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fine,” he said, jaw tightening. “Run away, then. You’re good at that.”

That hurt more than it should have.

But you didn’t argue. You just stepped inside, closed the door, and pretended the ache in your chest wasn’t real.

It got worse after that.

You thought maybe that argument would clear the air—that he’d finally see why you had been keeping your distance. But if anything, it only made things weirder.

Satoru still texted you, but not as much. He still invited you to things, but there was something almost hesitant in the way he asked, like he was bracing for rejection. And when you turned him down (because of course you did), his replies became shorter, more clipped.

Then, one night, he stopped asking altogether.

You didn’t realize how much you had come to expect it—his name popping up on your phone, his easy confidence that somehow, eventually, you’d say yes. But when Friday night came and went without a text, something inside you twisted.

Maybe this was what you wanted. Maybe it was easier this way.

So why did it feel so awful?

A week later, you ran into him by accident.

Literally.

You were coming out of the campus library, arms full of books, when someone rounded the corner too fast and nearly tackled you.

“Oh, shit—sorry—”

You looked up, heart dropping to your stomach.

Satoru.

Your hands clenched around the books, pulse stuttering. It had only been a week, but he already looked different—like he’d fully settled into his role as that guy. Loose hoodie, messy hair, the faint scent of cologne and something vaguely alcoholic clinging to him.

You swallowed hard. “Hey.”

His expression flickered—just for a second. “Hey.”

It was awkward. Awkward. When had things ever been awkward between you?

You shifted your grip on your books. “Uh—sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, no, my bad,” he cut in quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Silence stretched between you. Too long, too tense.

Then, suddenly, his eyes dropped to the stack in your arms. “Of course you’re carrying, like, ten books at once.”

It was such a Satoru thing to say that, for a second, you almost smiled.

Then his gaze flicked up to yours, something softer in his expression, and your breath hitched.

And then—

A voice called his name from across the quad. Some guy you didn’t know, waving him over. Satoru hesitated. Then, with a small exhale, he gave you a lopsided grin. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

He didn’t wait for a response before turning away.

And you stood there, watching him go, feeling like something important had just slipped through your fingers.

Days passed. Then a week. Then two.

And for the first time in years, Satoru Gojo wasn’t part of your life anymore.

No more texts. No more unannounced visits. No more standing at your dorm door at 2 AM, grinning like he belonged there.

You had wanted this, hadn’t you? You had wanted the space, the distance, the freedom to not be caught in his orbit.

But now, without him, everything just felt… quiet. You hated it.

You missed him.

—

It was months before you and Satoru spoke again.

At first, you kept waiting for him to text you, to pop up at your door with some stupid excuse, to send you a meme like nothing had happened. But days passed. Then weeks. Then months. And Satoru Gojo—your best friend since childhood—became just another person you saw in passing.

Sometimes, you spotted him across the quad, surrounded by his usual crowd. Sometimes, you caught glimpses of him at the library, laughing too loudly with friends who barely even acknowledged your existence.

And it hurt.

More than you wanted to admit, it hurt.

But you told yourself this was how things were meant to be. That he had moved on, and you needed to do the same. That whatever had existed between you belonged to another lifetime, one where you weren’t the quiet girl who spent her nights buried in books, and he wasn’t the golden boy who belonged to the whole damn world.

You thought you were doing fine. You thought you were getting used to it.

Until the professor announced lab partners.

The moment your name was called, a small, high-pitched voice cut through the classroom.

“Uh… who?”

Laughter rippled through the room. You felt your face go hot, every muscle in your body locking up as the girl—some blonde from Satoru’s usual group—looked around in exaggerated confusion.

It was humiliating.

Because she wasn’t just some random classmate. She was someone who had spent actual time with Satoru. Who had probably been to his dorm, who had probably sat next to him at parties, who had probably heard him talk about people in his life.

And she had no idea who you were.

You didn’t even dare look at Satoru. Didn’t want to see his reaction. Didn’t want to see whether he’d step in, whether he’d say anything—

But he didn’t.

He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t correct her either.

Didn’t turn to acknowledge you. Didn’t make some joke to brush past it. Didn’t do anything at all.

Just stared at the table like he was somewhere else entirely.

And that, somehow, was worse than anything.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral as you scribbled down the details of the assignment. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t a big deal. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

—

Working with Satoru again was… weird.

Not just because of everything that had happened between you, but because neither of you seemed to know how to be around each other anymore.

Gone were the days of effortless conversation, of teasing remarks and stolen fries and arguments about Digimon evolutions. Now, everything felt stilted, careful, like you were two strangers trying to relearn the language of each other.

Sometimes, it almost felt normal.

Like when you sat across from each other in the library, bent over research notes, and he’d randomly hum the Sailor Moon theme song under his breath. Or when he muttered something stupid under his breath about the professor’s handwriting, and you nearly choked on your water holding back a laugh.

But then, inevitably, the moment would pass.

Because girls from his usual group would come over, acting like you weren’t even there, their voices too sweet as they draped themselves over the back of his chair.

“Satoru, are you coming to the party on Friday?”

“Satoru, when are you free? We should all hang out.”

And he’d always answer them. Always give some noncommittal shrug or a lazy smirk. But you could tell—even if no one else seemed to notice—that he wasn’t really there. That when he looked at them, he wasn’t listening.

And yet, he never told them to leave. Never told them that you were working. Never acknowledged you at all when they were around. So, after a while, you just stopped expecting him to.

And then, one day, you got sick.

Not just a little sick. Not just a sore throat or a cough you could push through. No, you were the kind of sick that made your whole body ache, that sent shivers down your spine no matter how many blankets you curled under.

But it was a project day. And despite everything, you still had responsibilities. So, begrudgingly, you shot Satoru a text.

Come to my dorm. I can’t go out today.

He didn’t reply right away. But twenty minutes later, there was a knock at your door. You barely managed to drag yourself over, your vision swimming slightly as you opened it.

And there he was.

Looking the same as always—messy white hair, sharp blue eyes, hoodie slung over his frame like he’d just rolled out of bed.

The only difference? The way his expression immediately dropped the second he saw you.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You look awful.”

You groaned, stepping aside to let him in. “Thanks for the confidence boost.” He kicked off his shoes, setting his bag down before eyeing you carefully. “Have you been drinking water? Eating enough? D’you eat somethin’ you weren’t meant to eat?”

You rolled your eyes. “How am I supposed to know, I just woke up sick as hell.”

Instead of a snarky remark, Satoru just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, before you could protest, he was guiding you toward the bed, nudging you to sit.

“You’re not working like this,” he said firmly. “Lie down.”

“I’m fine—”

“Lie down.”

You hesitated.

This wasn’t him. This wasn’t the version of Satoru you had gotten used to in the past year. The one who was always a little distant, a little out of reach. This was… him.

The Satoru you had known since childhood. The one who always knew when you were exhausted, even when you swore you weren’t. The one who used to push his fries onto your plate when you were too stressed to eat.

The one who, for the first time in months, was looking at you like you were still his best friend. So, slowly, you lay back down.

Satoru exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll get you some tea or something. You have any?” You nodded weakly. He moved toward your desk, rummaging through your stash of instant tea packets like he had done it a million times before.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was familiar.

Safe.

And even though you felt like death warmed over, for the first time in months, you didn’t feel so alone.

—

From that day on, something shifted.

It wasn’t immediate, and it wasn’t dramatic, but it was there—a quiet, almost imperceptible change in the way things were between you and Satoru. The library, once the default meeting spot for your project sessions, was suddenly off the table. He stopped suggesting it altogether, and at first, you didn’t think much of it. But then, one afternoon, he showed up at your dorm unannounced, arms loaded with snacks and a careless shrug when you stared at him, bewildered.

“Library’s too loud,” he said, brushing past you and stepping inside like he owned the place. “Figured we’d get more done here.”

You didn’t question it. Not then, and not a week later when you found yourself in his dorm instead, sitting cross-legged on his bed while he scrolled through research notes on his laptop.

“Library’s too crowded,” he explained that time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

After that, it just became… routine. Your project meetings moved from the library to your dorms, back and forth, as if by some unspoken agreement. The shift was gradual, almost imperceptible, but it was there. You still weren’t quite friends again—not the way you used to be, back when everything was easy and uncomplicated. There was still a careful distance between you, an unspoken awareness of all the time that had been lost, all the moments that had slipped through your fingers. But things weren’t cold anymore. They weren’t distant.

Satoru filled the quiet moments with mindless chatter, the way he always had. He teased you about your typos, stole your pens when you weren’t looking, and groaned dramatically whenever you made him do too much reading. Slowly, bit by bit, the pieces of your friendship started falling back into place. Not completely. Not yet. But enough that sometimes, when the two of you were laughing over something stupid, it almost felt like the past year had never happened.

Then, one day, everything cracked open.

It was late—much later than usual—and the two of you were sitting in his dorm, textbooks and notebooks sprawled across his desk. You were both exhausted, the kind of tired that made your eyes burn and your thoughts sluggish. Satoru was absentmindedly flipping through one of your old notebooks when he suddenly snorted.

“Oh my God.”

You blinked up at him, too tired to muster more than a mumbled, “What?”

He turned the notebook toward you, pointing at a messy doodle in the margin. It was a Digimon—a rough, scribbled outline that barely resembled anything recognizable. But something about it made him grin, leaning back in his chair like he’d just uncovered a hidden treasure.

“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “Feels like a whole different lifetime ago.”

And then, in a voice so casual, so familiar, he added—

“Remember when we made a whole ass PowerPoint ranking every Digimon evolution?”

That was it.

That was what broke you.

It was so stupid—just a random memory, an offhand remark. But the second he said it, something in your chest twisted violently. You clenched your jaw, swallowing hard, telling yourself not to be dramatic. But then your vision blurred, and suddenly, you were crying.

“Oh—oh shit.”

Satoru’s chair scraped against the floor as he shot up, eyes wide with panic. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

You barely managed to shake your head, your hands gripping your knees as you tried to steady yourself. But the tears kept coming, and then—through the hiccups, through the pathetic, trembling gasps—you broke.

You clenched your jaw, trying to hold it together, but the tears spilled over anyway. Your chest heaved as you choked out the words, “I miss you. I—God, Satoru, I miss you.”

His face went slack, his usual confidence faltering as he stared at you, stunned. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, like he was trying to process what you’d just said. Then his voice came out quiet, almost fragile. “What are you talking about? I’m right here.”

You shook your head, your hands gripping your knees so tightly your knuckles turned white. “No, you’re not. Not really. You’ve been… gone. For so long. And I—” Your voice broke, and you hated how weak you sounded, how raw and exposed you felt. “I don’t want to be without you anymore. I don’t—I don’t want you to hate me.”

Satoru’s breath hitched, and for the first time, you saw his composure crack. His eyes glistened, and he blinked rapidly, like he was trying to fight it, but a single tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, his voice trembling as he muttered, “You’re so fucking stupid. How could I ever hate you?”

You let out a shaky laugh, but it came out more like a sob. “I don’t know. You just—you stopped talking to me. You stopped needing me. And I thought… I thought you didn’t care anymore.”

He shook his head, his hands reaching out like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he should. “I care. I care so much it’s stupid. I just—” He paused, his voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know how to come back after everything. It felt like you were pushing me away.”

“You could’ve just— I don’t even know what to say,” you hiccuped, your voice barely audible. “You could’ve just… stayed. I don’t know— like yell at me, tell me that you care for me or something. I wish I wasn’t so stubborn about not speaking to you either, but god, maybe I just wanted you to like— tell me how much you needed me. Because it never felt like you did anymore.”

Satoru’s face crumpled, and he let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping like the weight of everything had finally caught up to him. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice raw. “I’m so sorry for leaving you behind. I didn’t mean to. I just… I didn’t know how to be around you without feeling like I’d already ruined everything.”

You looked up at him, your vision blurred by tears. “You didn’t ruin anything. I just… I needed you. And you weren’t there. And really, it was my fault too, for not communicating—”

He cuts you off, his own tears falling freely now, though he didn’t seem to care. “I know. But I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know how to fix it. I— I should’ve been there for you more often because God, life without you is just so horrible, and I’ve been so horrible— ”

“You’re fixing it now,” you said, your voice trembling. “Just… don’t leave me again. Please.”

He let out a choked laugh, his hands finally reaching for you, pulling you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you tightly, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. “I won’t,” he murmured into your hair. “I won’t. I promise.”

You buried your face in his shirt, your hands clutching the fabric as you cried. His body shook against yours, and you realized he was crying too—quietly, almost like he was trying to hide it, but you could feel the way his breath hitched, the way his hands trembled as they held you.

“I missed you too,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Every fucking day. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

You didn’t respond, couldn’t respond, because the weight of everything—the months of silence, the distance, the ache of missing him—was finally crashing down on you. But for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t a bad kind of crash. It was relief. It was the feeling of something broken finally starting to heal.

Satoru’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he held you closer. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice firm despite the tears. “Not again. Not ever.”

You nodded against his chest, your tears soaking into his shirt. “Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”

It took a long time for the tears to stop, for the sobs to quiet into shaky breaths. But even when they did, neither of you moved. Satoru kept holding you, his arms tight around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt safe. You felt like you were home.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red and puffy, but he was smiling—a small, tentative smile that made your chest ache in the best way. “You’re stuck with me now, like y’know, the annoying kid who’d follow you around as kids,” he said, his voice soft. “Just so you know.”

You laughed, the sound watery but genuine. “Good. Because I miss that Satoru, and I’m not letting you go again either.”

He grinned, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Deal.”

And just like that, something shifted. The distance between you closed, the cracks in your friendship slowly mending. It wasn’t perfect—not yet—but it was a start. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like everything was going to be okay.

—

After that night, Satoru made it a point to talk to you during class.

It was weird at first—uncomfortable, even. Because now, whenever he sat beside you, people stared. People whispered. But Satoru didn’t care. And after a while, neither did you.

Then, one day, it happened.

You were in the middle of a conversation when one of the girls from his usual group strolled up, her friends lingering just behind her.

“Dude,” she drawled, arms crossed. “We’re waiting for you.”

Satoru didn’t acknowledge her.

She huffed, looking at you for the first time.

“Who even are you?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

Silence.

Then—calmly, lazily—Satoru turned to her.

“Fuck off.”

Her expression twisted. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, resting his chin in his hand. “We’re talking.”

You swore you saw steam coming out of her ears.

She spun on her heel, storming off in a flurry of designer fabric, and Satoru just turned back to you like nothing had happened.

You blinked at him, stunned. “That was… aggressive.”

He shrugged. “Don’t like her.”

You snorted. “You used to hang out with her all the time.”

“Yeah, well.” He gave you a pointed look. “I was an idiot.”

And maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe it was the certainty in his voice, the way he leaned in just a little closer like this—this—was what mattered.

But for the first time in a long time, you felt something settle inside you. Something warm. Something steady. Something that told you, without a doubt—

Satoru Gojo wasn’t leaving you behind again.

—

It happened slowly.

At first, it was just the way things had been before. You and Satoru were best friends again—finally, properly—and you were making up for lost time.

You sat together in lectures. You ate together between classes. You spent hours holed up in each other’s dorms, either working in silence or complaining about whatever god-awful assignment was due next.

And it was good. It was easy.

But then—then—things started to shift.

It was subtle at first.

A hand brushing against yours for just a little too long. The warmth of his body pressed against yours in a too-crowded study session, his breath fanning over your ear as he leaned in, muttering something you could barely focus on.

The way his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking.

The way yours lingered, too.

—

It was a Friday night, and you were at Satoru’s dorm, lying on his bed while he sat at his desk, spinning lazily in his chair.

“I don’t wanna study,” he whined, stretching his arms over his head. “Let’s do something fun.”

You turned a page in your book, unimpressed. “And what exactly do you define as ‘fun’?”

“Dunno,” he mused. “Wanna go for a drive?”

You sighed. “Satoru, it’s almost midnight.”

“And?” He grinned, kicking his feet up onto his desk. “C’mon, live a little.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “You just don’t want to do your readings.”

“Obviously.” He snorted. “But also, I feel like getting snacks.”

You hesitated, torn.

Then, finally—

“Fine.”

His eyes lit up. “Knew you’d cave.”

You rolled your eyes, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go before I change my mind.”

—

It was raining by the time you got to the convenience store.

Not heavily—just a light drizzle, enough to make the streets shimmer under the streetlights.

Satoru grabbed half the store’s supply of junk food while you rolled your eyes, paying for your single bottle of tea. Outside, the air was cool, the pavement slick beneath your feet.

“I’m driving,” you said as he dug through his bag of snacks.

“Nah.” He grinned, tossing a chip into his mouth. “I got this.”

You gave him a look. “You almost crashed last time.”

He scoffed. “That was a red light, not a crash.”

“You ran the red light.”

“Meow.”

You cringe, snatching the keys from his pocket. “Oh my god. Absolutely not.”

Satoru laughed but let you.

And for some reason, that made your stomach flip.

—

Back at your dorm, Satoru made himself at home—because of course he did.

He sprawled across your bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other mindlessly tossing a snack in the air and catching it with his mouth.

“You should be paying me rent at this point,” you muttered, shutting the door behind you.

“I would,” he said, grinning, “but I’m broke.”

You huffed, settling onto the bed beside him. “What, your trust fund isn’t enough?”

He smirked. “Nah, gotta save that for important things.”

You rolled your eyes. “Right. Like overpriced sunglasses.”

“Exactly.”

You shook your head, reaching for the remote.

And then—a shift.

Satoru turned his head to look at you, and when you met his gaze, something in his expression softened.

“Hey,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “Hey.”

He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Your breath hitched.

His fingers lingered at your temple, just for a moment. His touch was warm, featherlight.

You exhaled, heartbeat stuttering.

And then—just as quickly—he pulled back, flopping onto his back with a dramatic groan.

“What should we watch?” he asked, stretching like nothing had happened.

You exhaled.

Your chest felt tight.

“Uh.” You cleared your throat. “Dunno.”

And just like that, the moment passed.

—

But the tension didn’t. If anything, it only got worse.

It was in the way his hand brushed your waist when he reached past you.

The way he sat just a little too close, his knee knocking against yours under the desk.

The way his fingers trailed across your wrist when he grabbed something from you, his touch slow, deliberate.

And—God—it was in the way he looked at you.

Like you were something he couldn’t quite figure out.

Like he was waiting for something.

Like he wanted something.

And maybe—just maybe—so did you.

—

By the time second year rolled around, you weren’t sure what you and Satoru were anymore. Still best friends, technically. Still Satoru and you. But there was something else, too.

Something unspoken.

Something fragile and complicated and new. And neither of you dared to acknowledge it.

—

The weather had started to change, the air cooler as autumn crept in. You could feel it in your bones—when the days shortened, and the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows. It made everything seem a little softer, like the world had gone quiet just to give you and Satoru a chance to breathe, to figure things out.

You were both sitting in the small, somewhat neglected corner of the university park, surrounded by towering trees with golden leaves fluttering to the ground. You were both on the grass, sitting close enough that your shoulders brushed whenever you shifted. It was the kind of quiet afternoon you could’ve stayed in forever, and maybe that was why you weren’t quite ready to let it end.

Satoru stretched, his arms reaching high above his head. “Ugh, my back’s killing me. Who knew studying could be so physically demanding?” He rolled his shoulders, groaning dramatically.

You shot him a sidelong glance, your lips curling into a smile despite yourself. “I think that’s just you, Satoru. You’re a professional at making everything harder than it is.”

He shot you a grin, a smug little thing, like he knew you couldn’t resist teasing him back. “Oh, please, I make things look easy. It's a gift.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, the great Satoru Gojo.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, catching the teasing tone in your voice. “That’s right. You should be honored to sit next to greatness.” He nudged your shoulder with his, the warmth of his body spilling into yours. The touch was light but undeniable. Familiar.

You chuckled, nudging him back. “I don’t know if I’d call you ‘great’ when you still lose to me in Mario Kart every time.”

Satoru gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like you’d just struck a mortal wound. “You—I’m just going easy on you because I don’t want you to feel bad. I’m a gentleman like that.”

You could hear the playful teasing in his voice, but the way he looked at you—his eyes crinkling at the corners with that boyish grin—felt like something deeper.

“I don’t need you to go easy on me,” you teased, leaning in just a bit too much, your voice soft. “I’m pretty good on my own, thanks.”

That was when you noticed it—the way his eyes flickered for a second, his lips curving down ever so slightly before he caught himself. His gaze held yours for a second longer than normal, and for the first time in a while, you both just stayed there. Not a word. No jokes or banter. Just the space between you thick with unspoken things.

Satoru was the first to look away, clearing his throat. “Anyway, want me to go grab us something from that little café over there? You could use some food if you’re gonna keep up with me.”

You hesitated. He’s back to that again. The Satoru who was always making sure you were fed, always thinking ahead for both of you, even when he had to act like nothing was different.

But you didn’t want to ruin the moment, not now. Not when everything felt right.

“No, I’m good,” you said softly, shaking your head. “But... thanks.”

Satoru studied you for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly, before he dropped his shoulders with a sigh. “I swear, you’re impossible.” But even as he said it, his hand reached out—just a quick pat of his large hand atop yours. The briefest of contact, and for a moment, the world paused around you.

The warmth of his hand lingered even after it was gone, and you could feel your chest tightening, your pulse picking up. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

And for the rest of the afternoon, you stayed like that. Silent. Comfortable in the space between you, letting the quiet be enough. But you both knew it wasn’t just the park that made the air heavy—it was everything unsaid that clung to it.

Eventually, the sun began to dip low on the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched across the grass. You sighed, looking up at Satoru. “We should probably get back soon. It’s getting late.”

He glanced at his phone, then at you, and nodded. “Yeah. You’re right.” He paused. “Hey, you want to walk with me to my dorm? I’m not ready to head back alone yet.”

It wasn’t even a question, not really. But you could feel his eyes on you, like he was waiting for your answer to matter just as much as the offer itself.

You nodded, and the tension between you both lifted just a little as you both stood, stretching out the stiffness in your legs. “Sure, let’s go.”

As you and Satoru walked side by side, the night air crisp and cool against your skin, the silence between you felt heavier than before. It wasn’t uncomfortable—quite the opposite. It was charged, like something waiting to tip over the edge. Every step you took together seemed to draw you closer, and you could feel the warmth of his body beside you, even in the chill of the evening.

You weren’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, his hand brushed against yours again. This time, neither of you pulled away. The tips of his fingers grazed your knuckles—light, tentative. Like he was testing the waters. Like he was waiting for you to stop him.

But you didn’t.

You swallowed, trying to focus on the rhythmic crunch of leaves beneath your feet rather than the way your skin tingled where he touched you. It was such a small thing, barely even a touch, but it sent your heart skittering against your ribs. And when you finally dared to glance up at him, Satoru was already looking at you, his lips curled into something between amusement and something softer, something unreadable.

“What?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

Satoru tilted his head, his silver-white hair catching in the glow of the streetlights. “Nothing.”

A lie.

Because there was something—so much something—wrapped up in the way his eyes flickered over you, lingering for just a second too long on your lips before he looked ahead again.

The air between you felt tight, humming with something unsaid.

You were nearing his dorm now, the pathway growing quieter, fewer students passing by. It was just the two of you, footsteps slowing, the night pressing in close.

Satoru exhaled a slow breath, and then—without thinking, or maybe because he had been thinking about it too much—he reached out again. This time, his fingers laced through yours, not just a brush, not just an accident. A deliberate touch, a quiet declaration.

Your breath caught, and you felt him squeeze—just slightly, just enough.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice low, like he wasn’t sure he should be asking.

You nodded, your mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah. You?”

His lips twitched, like he wanted to smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Dunno,” he said, squeezing your fingers again. “You’re kind of distracting.”

Your stomach flipped, heat crawling up your neck. “Oh, I’m distracting? That’s rich, coming from you.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound warm, teasing. “No, I mean it.” He stopped walking, tugging you gently by the hand so you turned to face him. “You ever notice how quiet things get when it’s just us?”

You blinked, your throat tightening. “Satoru—”

His free hand lifted, his fingertips barely skimming your jaw. He wasn’t quite touching, just there, like he was still giving you room to pull away. Like he wasn’t sure if he should close the space between you.

And God, you wanted him to.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. It would be so easy. Just one step closer. Just one little push, and—

Satoru exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand falling away, his fingers untangling from yours. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair. “Never mind,” he muttered, laughing under his breath like he was scolding himself. “Forget I said anything.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides, the absence of his touch making your skin feel cold.

“No,” you said, firmer than you expected. “I don’t want to.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide, startled. “You don’t?”

You took a breath, steeling yourself. “No.”

Satoru stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a low chuckle, he shook his head. “You really are impossible.”

And then, before you could overthink it, before you could talk yourself out of it—you stepped forward, pressing your palm against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his hoodie. His breath hitched, his body going still under your touch.

The silence stretched again, thick and unyielding.

“Say it,” you whispered.

His hands hovered at your sides, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. “Say what?”

You looked up at him, unflinching. “Whatever it is you’re holding back.”

Satoru exhaled, a sharp, unsteady thing. His hands finally settled on your waist, hesitant at first—then firmer, more certain. His fingers pressed into your hips, grounding himself in the feel of you.

And then, his voice—low, raw, real.

“I don’t want to be just your best friend anymore.”

Your breath caught.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The words hung between you, heavy and dangerous and everything.

Then, Satoru leaned in, his nose just barely brushing yours, his lips hovering so close. His breath was warm, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper.

“I want more.”

And then, finally—finally—you closed the space between you.

The kiss wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy. It was hungry, desperate, like the both of you had been waiting too long to do this, like neither of you wanted to waste another second. His lips crashed against yours, and you gasped against his mouth as he backed you up against the door of his dorm, hands gripping your waist tighter like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, tugging him closer, feeling the heat of him seep into you. His body pressed against yours, and the air between you turned thick with something intoxicating, something impossible to stop now that it had started. The small, breathless noises you made against his mouth only seemed to push him further, his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, thumbs brushing over your bare skin, warm and firm and so much.

The door behind you dug into your back, and for a fleeting moment, a thought broke through the haze—what if someone sees us?

As if he could read your mind, Satoru groaned against your lips, impatient, and without breaking the kiss, he reached behind you, fumbling for the handle. The second the door swung open, he practically pulled you inside with him, kicking it shut before his lips were on yours again, urgent, demanding.

You barely had a second to catch your breath before he was guiding you backwards, hands never leaving your body, mouth never straying too far from yours. You stumbled together, his grip firm, his kisses growing deeper, hotter, more insistent as you moved through the dark room.

By the time you reached the bedroom, your pulse was a wild, unsteady thing, your skin burning under his touch.

His mouth was warm and soft against yours, kissing your lips like he was afraid you were gonna disappear. Using his strength to his advantage, he manhandled you into his lap on the bed, while he sat up against the headboard. His tongue prodded into your mouth experimentally, and when you obliged him entry, he swirled it around with yours before licking into the cavern of your mouth, tasting you as if you were one of those sickeningly sweet delicacies he enjoyed.

His hands roamed from your waist to your hips, to your thighs before stopping hesitantly over your ass, to which you dragged them down until he was squeezing and kneading the supple flesh with his hands, mouth slotted against yours.

You pulled back slightly, gasping for air, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. But Satoru didn’t let you go far. His hands were firm on your ass, keeping you anchored to him as his lips trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, and you tilted your head to give him better access, your fingers tangling in his hair.

His mouth moved lower, pressing hot, lingering kisses along the column of your neck. Each touch of his lips against your skin felt like fire, and you couldn’t suppress the soft moan that escaped your throat. His hands slid up your sides, his touch firm but gentle, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. One hand came to rest on the small of your back, pulling you closer, while the other cupped the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

“Satoru,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, but he didn’t respond—not with words, anyway. Instead, he captured your lips again in a desperate, hungry kiss that left you dizzy. His tongue slid against yours, and you melted into him, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance as the world around you seemed to fade away.

His hands roamed your body with a kind of urgency, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. One moment they were in your hair, the next sliding down your back, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you. You could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt, and you tugged at it impatiently, wanting—needing—to feel his skin against yours.

He broke the kiss long enough to yank his shirt over his head, tossing it aside before his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time. His hands found the hem of your top, and you lifted your arms without hesitation, letting him pull it off and discard it somewhere on the floor. The cool air of the room hit your skin, but it did nothing to quell the heat building inside you.

Satoru’s hands were everywhere—tracing the curve of your waist, skimming over your ribs, brushing the underside of your breast under your bra. You arched into him, chasing the friction, desperate for more.

His mouth found yours again, urgent and unrelenting, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, deliberate stroke that left you breathless. He kissed you like he wanted to consume you, like he didn’t care about anything else but this—you.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, your breaths mingling, heavy and uneven. Every kiss, every touch, every press of his hands left you dizzy, lost in the haze of heat and want.

And when he pulled back, just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide and his lips swollen from kissing, you swore you’d never seen him look at anything the way he was looking at you now.

Like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

Both of your chests were heaving, your own shirt flung on the bed somewhere and Satoru’s completely off and forgotten somewhere on the floor. His hands were still settled on your waist, thumbs tracing slow circles over your heated skin. His head lolled back against the couch, a lazy, satisfied grin stretching across his lips.

“Damn,” he exhaled, voice slightly hoarse. “I think I saw the pearly gates for a second there.”

You scoffed, giving his shoulder a weak shove, while reaching for your shirt. “Dramatic.”

He only laughed, the sound bright and breathless. “I mean it, nerd. Who knew you had it in you?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, fingers curling against his shoulders. “Satoru.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

His grin widened, but he obeyed—for all of two seconds. Then, with a teasing glint in his eyes, he waggled his brows. “You know, we should really make this a regular thing. Like, for health purposes. I feel like I just did an entire cardio session.”

You smacked his arm. “Oh my god.”

He gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to his bare chest. “See? That was uncalled for. Here I am, trying to improve my well-being, and you’re—”

“Satoru.” You fixed him with a look, but the corners of your lips twitched. He was impossible.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating under your fingertips. “Okay, okay, I’ll be good.” His grip on your waist tightened slightly, as if to ground himself—or maybe to keep you exactly where you were. “But… just so we’re clear, this isn’t, like, a one-time thing, right?”

You blinked, his sudden shift in tone catching you off guard. His usual playfulness was still there, but there was something else beneath it—something genuine, something careful.

You swallowed. “What do you mean?”

His gaze flickered over your face, searching. “I mean…” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before looking at you again. “I was serious, you know. About liking you. More than a friend.”

Your breath hitched. “You were?”

Satoru scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Obviously. You think I just let anyone straddle me and—”

You smacked his chest. “Can you not ruin the moment?”

He caught your wrist before you could pull away, lacing his fingers through yours. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, quieter. “I was serious,” he repeated. “I am serious.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I like you, and I want to do this properly.”

Your heart thudded against your ribs. “Properly?”

He nodded, suddenly looking almost shy. “Like… an actual date. Multiple dates. Boyfriend privileges. All that cute shit.” His lips curled into a lopsided grin. “So, what do you say?”

Your stomach flipped, warmth spreading through your chest. “You’re actually asking me out?”

Satoru huffed a laugh. “Well, yeah. What, you thought I’d just kiss you senseless and leave you hanging?”

You bit your lip, pretending to think. “I dunno. You are kind of a menace.”

His brows shot up. “A menace?”

You giggled, and he groaned, tightening his grip on your waist. “Okay, that’s it, you’re legally required to say yes now.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile stretching across your lips. “Yes, Satoru. I’ll go out with you.”

His face lit up, and before you could say anything else, he was kissing you again, arms wrapping fully around your waist. He shifted, rolling you onto the bed so he was hovering over you, his weight pressed deliciously against yours.

“Guess that makes you my girlfriend now,” he murmured against your lips. “Which means—” His fingers trailed down your side, teasing. “—I get unlimited make-out privileges.”

You huffed a laugh. “You’re so weird.”

“Would you like it if I said sex privileges too?”

“I’m gonna seriously hurt you—“

Satoru only smirked before cutting you off with another kiss.

—

A few months into dating Satoru, you realised three things.

One, he had absolutely no concept of personal space. If he was near you, he was touching you—whether it was throwing an arm over your shoulder, draping himself across your lap, or trapping you against a wall just to say hi like a complete menace.

Two, he was shamelessly, overwhelmingly, ridiculously obsessed with you. If he wasn’t texting you, he was calling. If he wasn’t calling, he was physically finding you. And if he couldn’t find you, he’d send a stupidly dramatic voice memo about how he was “perishing” without you.

And three, he was always teasing. Always testing his limits, pushing your buttons, flashing that damn smug grin whenever you got flustered.

Like right now.

“I think you should stay over.”

You blinked up at him from where you were curled up on his bed, wearing one of his hoodies that was way too big for you. “I am staying over.”

Satoru huffed, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow. “No, I mean, like, actually stay over. Move in.”

You snorted. “Satoru.”

“What? I’m serious.” He nudged your knee with his own. “Just think about it. That trust fund has enough money— actually maybe more— for an apartment near college. We basically live together anyway.”

“Not even close.”

He scoffed. “Oh, please. You leave clothes here, you steal my hoodies—”

“They’re practically dresses on me.”

“—and you’re here more than you’re at your own place.”

“That’s a lie.”

Satoru gasped dramatically. “Oh, so I’m imagining you in my bed every night?”

Your face warmed, but you shot him a glare. “You’re exaggerating.”

He only grinned, scooting closer until your noses nearly brushed. “You love sleeping here,” he drawled. “You love my bed, you love my cuddles, you love this d—”

You smacked a hand over his mouth, but it barely muffled his muffled laughter.

“I swear to God, Satoru—”

Before you could finish, he grabbed your wrist and flipped you onto your back, caging you beneath him in one smooth motion. His weight was just enough to make your breath hitch, his silver lashes casting shadows over sharp blue eyes.

“You love me,” he finished, his voice dipping lower, teasing, smug.

Your stomach flipped.

“…Debatable,” you muttered.

Satoru barked out a laugh. “Debatable?” He leaned down, nuzzling into your neck as his hands slid under his hoodie, warm palms settling against your waist. “You’re literally in my bed wearing my clothes right now.”

Your breath stuttered as he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss just below your ear.

“Admit it,” he murmured. “You’re obsessed with me.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, your fingers gripping his bare shoulders. “Satoru—”

“I mean, I don’t blame you.” He grinned against your skin, pressing another kiss, this one lower. “I am insanely hot.”

You groaned. “You ruin everything.”

Satoru laughed, bright and breathless, before rolling over, pulling you fully on top of him with ease. His hands never left your waist, fingertips dancing over your skin in slow, lazy patterns.

Then he suddenly reached behind him, grabbed something off the nightstand, and slid his glasses onto his face.

You blinked. “I thought you preferred contacts now?”

Satoru hummed, adjusting them slightly as he gazed up at you. “Yeah, but I dunno…” His lips curled into a small, lopsided smile. “You always liked me better in these, didn’t you?”

Your breath hitched slightly. He wasn’t wrong—there was something about the way his glasses framed his face, how they softened him just a little, made him look more like the Satoru you’d known before he became everyone else’s.

“…You’re so full of yourself,” you muttered.

His grin widened. “And yet, you’re still staring.”

You scoffed, reaching up to pluck them off his face, but he caught your wrist, tugging you down until your noses brushed.

“Admit it,” he murmured. “You like me better like this.”

Your heart pounded against your ribs.

“I like you anyway,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Something flickered in his eyes—something soft, something warm—before his grin turned teasing again. “Good,” he said, rolling you onto your back in one smooth motion. “Because I was gonna keep you here all night either way.”

You barely managed to mutter, “You’re so weird,” before he cut you off with another kiss.

i don't like this work at ALL lol but tbh i wrote this because i want to be wanted UGH hdhjsdh

#jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu satoru #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #jjk satoru x reader #jjk satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader smut #gojo smut #satoru x reader smut #gojo x reader smut #satoru gojo #satoru x you #gojo x you

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erwinsvow · 1 month ago

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𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: you take care of lena, clean up around the house, and always leave dinner for him when he gets home late. and among constant and never-ending change, you are andrew's northern star.

pairing: andrew cody x babysitter!reader

word count: 13.3k

warnings: read carefully! age-gap dynamics, reader is said to have recently graduated college, i basically ignore anything from the show that wouldn't make sense in my perfect little world. smut—arm humping, oral sex, penetration, the tiniest bit of breeding if you squint real hard.

author's note: and here she is. also known as shea wants to write about doing things to pope's arms.

you used to complain if someone called you their nanny. you’re just a babysitter. this would not—could not—be your full time job. it’s just so demanding. you love the kids you take care of but the idea of saying that you’re a nanny makes it a little more real. like you wouldn’t be able to get out of this, despite how hard you’re trying.

you just don’t want to be a babysitter forever.

but the first time mister cody introduces you as lena’s nanny, you don’t think you mind it all that much.

babysitters are temporary—girls in high school looking for money to pay for coffee and nail appointments, covering date-nights and overtime at the office.

nannies are permanent—it’s a career. you’re responsible for the kid pretty much twenty-four hours a day. kids with nannies are rich, mom and dad too busy at work to be at home. from the little you deduced, nannies buy groceries and make three meals. they go to doctor’s appointments and organize play-dates with other nannies.

you do some of those things for lena. her uncle tries to take her and pick her up from school when he can, and when he calls to tell you that he won’t be able to make it every now and then, he sounds so sorry about it, you don’t know what you can do to reassure him that it’s okay. lena’s young, she doesn’t care about stuff like that so deeply. and she likes you, which helps matters a lot.

you had finished the last few classes you needed to graduate a couple months ago. before that, you’d have to tell mister cody no, i’m sorry occasionally, something that you really didn’t like doing. he seemed like he had enough going on without the babysitter cancelling.

and besides, after you had told him that your classes were done, you were supposed to tell him that you would be looking for a real job, something with your degree, that he should start looking for a real nanny for lena. you were supposed to politely, yet firmly allude to how you’d been scrambling with classes, finishing assignments in the car in between picking up his niece and after she’d fallen asleep at night. how you missed an important lecture because the pediatrician’s office was running behind an hour and lena’s grandmother wasn’t available to take her.

instead, the second you had met his eyes (which were terribly green and incredibly sad), you had folded, and told him you’d be available whenever he needed. and you thought maybe that would garner you a smile—and you’d been wrong. he had looked your way for about five seconds, muttered thank you, and walked away.

and maybe if you could resist those terribly green and incredibly sad eyes, you wouldn’t have wound up as a full-time nanny. life could always be worse—that’s the motto you’ve grown up with. there are so many worse things in oceanside than spending every day in a pretty house by the beach and taking care of a quiet little girl.

if not anything else, you could start making payments on your student loans, if you wanted. mister cody paid you in cash, and he paid you way too much, probably his way of apologizing for how much you had stepped up in the last couple months. but again, you didn’t really mind anymore. maybe if it was another family, you would care more about finding a real job.

but you like lena. you like her uncle, too, you think, as much as you can like a man who is virtually silent and stares at you like he’s boring into your soul when you’re making dinner. you like him because he’s good with her, you can always tell he’s trying his absolute best, his hardest with her. (it doesn’t help that he’s cute—cute in the way that strays are, like you wish you could fix everything wrong with him and reassure him that he’s doing enough, and tell him to stop staring and just come tell you what he’s thinking instead.)

the first couple months were the hardest. lena wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. she hated school, hated all the things she had still cared for when her dad was alive. you’d tried bribing her with trips to the beach, the playground, ice cream with extra fudge and sprinkles. all the things that kids liked. but she wasn’t just a normal kid—and it seemed that you and her uncle were the only ones who understood this.

you didn’t realize you had such a maternal instinct inside of you. maybe it’s because the other kids you’d babysat in your life had been brats, sticky handed toddlers going through the terrible twos and making your life hell while you were trying to pass your classes. lena is the opposite.

she’s the saddest child you’ve ever met, and you know nothing that you or her uncle do is going to fix it overnight.

but progress comes in stages. the first step had been getting her to want to eat again. you’d sat on the couch next to her, watching a nature documentary that her uncle had probably left playing on the tv.

(he is a whole other can of worms—he doesn’t sleep or eat that much either, and one time you had come in really early to get some work done before getting her to school. he’d been awake, watching something just like this, at five-thirty in the morning. and when you’d asked him when he’d gotten up, he had shrugged, and murmured something that sounded suspiciously close to i don’t sleep. that’s your next mission, because you can only focus on one at a time.)

“you hungry, sweetie?” you didn’t want to be pushy. she wouldn’t like that, would only retreat further into herself. you wanted her to come to you when she was ready to eat. lena shook her head and focused back on the television. “okay. well, if you get hungry later, i’ll eat with you.”

lena says okay in her quiet voice, holding onto a stuffed animal and staring ahead. you wait a couple of hours—there’s always something to do in the house. you clean up, wiping counters and sweeping while she stays on the couch. you check in every now and then to make sure she didn’t fall asleep.

and then, thirty minutes before her new bedtime, she comes and sits on the chair by the dining table while you’re wiping it down.

“can we get pizza?” she asks, and you nod right away.

“of course we can. what kind do you want?”

another thirty minutes later, the pizza’s there, and you’re both eating slices of pepperoni and spinach. you’ve formulated your plan for the rest of the night—her uncle’s still not home, which means you can crash on the couch or stay awake. you decide to stay awake, since there’s no follow up text from him. if he wasn’t going to come home tonight, you’d expect the standard, concise message; won’t be back tonight. is lena okay?

and you’re stupid, because you think it’s sweet that he always asks if she’s okay. like you wouldn’t call him the second something went wrong, like he doesn’t believe that you’d trust him with that information before anyone else. but there’s no texts tonight from the contact you’d saved as andrew cody (lena’s uncle).

lena’s finishing her last slice and you’re cleaning up when you hear it—the rumble of his truck pulling up to the house. then a minute later, footsteps and the front door opening.

“what’s all this?” he asks, and you have to remember to find the words.

you don’t know why that happens when he comes around—you’re usually great with dads. maybe it’s because he looks tired, more tired than usual, at least. his copper curls are messed up, like he’s been running a hand through his hair all night. lena’s uncle is always stiff, but it seems worse today, somehow.

(another thought seeps in, an uninvited guest in your mind, about how you’d really like to take care of him. he just needs some sleep, a little peace of mind. that’s it. you’re still trying to figure out the best way to give it to him.)

“we got pizza, uncle pope,” lena fills in, setting down the last piece of crust you knew she wouldn’t finish.

“there should be enough for you,” you add, smiling at him. he doesn’t smile back, but you’re used to that at this point. and you can tell what’s about to come. “lena, can you go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on for me?”

she nods and climbs off the chair, running into her room.

“it’s past her bedtime,” he starts, taking a few steps closer to you. “and pizza for dinner-”

you interrupt him, even though you probably shouldn’t. you close up the box, setting it on the island and you go back to wipe the table.

“she’s not eating, mister cody,” you put the paper towel down, getting your bearings in order to face him, make the dreaded, never-ending eye-contact. “when kids don’t eat you have to meet them halfway. i thought this was better than her going to bed without eating at all.”

he keeps looking at you. you think you should be a little nervous, but you don’t get like that anymore. flustered, sure, but not nervous—lena’s uncle is just kind of a starer, and you’ve gotten used to it by now.

“i’m sorry. i’ll run it by you next time, i promise. i just wanted her to eat something.” he’s silent for a while, like he’s processing what you said.

“yeah. okay. thanks.”

you smile again, a small one. the kitchen’s clean now, or at least as clean as you can get it. you’re sure that when you’re back in the morning, it’ll be spotless, which you can only assume is one of mister cody’s nocturnal activities. you have a routine before leaving—you say goodnight to lena, make sure you didn’t leave anything behind, and tell her uncle you’ll see him in the morning.

he doesn’t normally say anything back, maybe a grunt of acknowledgement. so you’re surprised tonight, when you grab your bag and your keys and hear—

“have a good night.”

“you too, mister cody.”

it took time, but you’ve gotten her schedule better. she eats dinner with you now, whatever semi-healthy thing you can think of with the stuff in the pantry and the groceries you picked up while she’s at school. her uncle leaves money for that sort of thing—an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. it’s labeled lena’s babysitter in stiff, neat handwriting and he told you to use it for copays and ice-cream and anything else that lena needs. but it feels wrong to use his money when he already overpays you, so you just use your own.

you thought he might not have noticed that the envelope isn’t getting any thinner, until one morning when you arrive and see him counting the notes in it with his head down. now you’re the one staring—watching his arm flex and the muscles move as he flips through the bills. he wears the same kind of shirts every day, short sleeve button-ups, and every day, you are subject to watch his forearms while he does whatever he does. it’s a cruel and unusual punishment.

the worst had been when you needed a box down from the cabinet, the one with the muffin tins and cookie cutters. he had appeared behind you and taken it down for you in seconds, carrying it to the kitchen for you. you had been staring then too, uncomfortable and slack-jawed and wondering why his arms had your mouth dry. (you know the answer, it’s just better to live in denial, you think.)

“good morning, mister cody.” you set your bag down on the sofa, heading inside to get started on breakfast. you open the fridge, taking out a carton of eggs and orange juice and avoiding looking right at him. you don’t need to be flustered before seven-thirty am.

“you haven’t been using this money,” he states. you wish you could figure out what his tone means—there’s no inflections, no emotion simmering behind the words. it’s just cut and dry, stating a fact.

“well, i-” you turn back and look up from the stove and your words die on your tongue. he’s standing up, looking right at you, a fist full of cash like he’s going to make you use it one way or another. a single vein running through his arms tenses. your gaze flickers from it to his eyes quickly, looking at you like he wants you to start listening to him.

“i, um, i had enough.”

“you should use it.”

“but you already gave me a lot, so i-”

“i want you to use it.” the way he says it, it’s not a request.

“right. i-i will. is lena awake?”

“she’s getting ready.”

“great. thank you.” you turn back to the eggs with a flushed face. and even though you’re not facing him anymore, you can tell he’s still staring at you.

“i might not be back tonight.” you turn around and meet his eyes again. terribly green, incredibly sad. you’re too far now to see the brown, but you know it’s there. “i…i’ve got some work. it’ll be late, if i do.”

“thank you for the heads up. i, uh, i’ll crash on the couch then.” you think he might say something else, but you’re not sure. it’s silent for a moment, while you get the eggs onto a plate and hurry into the hallway to get lena.

she comes out first, carrying her backpack. you follow with her hairbrush for once she’s done eating, getting her already packed lunch out from the fridge to sort into her bag. there’s a whole routine that you had learned when you first started babysitting her, and now it’s just a way of life. filling up her water bottle, checking the calendar on the fridge to make sure there’s nothing you’re missing, pulling her jacket from the closet if it’s cold outside.

you get the bottle out, glancing back at her uncle. he’s leaning in while lena takes a bite of the eggs, probably telling her that he won’t be home, and to have a good day, and all the other things you’re sure he says to her. then they hug, and you feel like you’re intruding.

he picks up his keys, which rest in the small blue bowl by the door where yours sit too. and without thinking, you call out after him.

“have a good day at work.” he doesn’t say anything back, but he looks at you before he leaves. you don’t even know what he does for work.

“ready for school?” lena shakes her head no like always.

the days are long, but the weeks are short. you bring lena to school, but they have a half-day, so there’s no point in going home for the day if you need to be back in a couple of hours. so you head back to mister cody’s place, focusing your attention on cleaning the remnants from breakfast. you check the fridge, making note of how much fruit and milk you have left, scribbling onto a piece of paper for later. and for once, you listen to him, taking a single bill out of the envelope and putting it into your wallet. there’s other hundred dollar bills in there too, ones you need to deposit.

it hasn’t been making sense lately. a lot of nannies live with their families because it avoids the wastefulness of paying rent for an apartment you hardly ever visit. you pay internet and electric for a one-bedroom that’s empty the entire day. and now that you’re done with classes, you don’t even need to work on anything late at night or even at lena’s house. you carry around a book with you, and you think you’ve even left a couple on the coffee table, just for the future.

you don’t know why you still have your apartment. well, you know why—mister cody has never mentioned you moving in. and he probably never will, because he doesn’t want you to. but it just doesn’t make sense the more you think about it. you show up between six and seven and sometimes you don’t go home until ten. sometimes you don’t go home at all.

after making your list, you rack your head of things you can do to occupy lena’s time today. the library has a weekly reading, and there’ll be other kids there. you like to pick things so she can get some company from kids her age, so she’s not only stuck with you and her uncle all the time.

closer to when school gets out, you get in the car, bringing in your emergency bag with a change of clothes and your toothbrush since you’ll be staying the night. it’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence, which is why the bag, and a couple others like it, is always ready to go. you go to the bank first, depositing everything except the single hundred-dollar bill you took today. then you drive by the park, see if they’re having any of those pet-therapy sessions today. and then finally school to pick up lena.

the rest of the day goes how you planned. you forget how exhausting it is keeping a little kid entertained for hours on end, unsure of exactly what her uncle pope and his brothers do with her sometimes, when you struggle to fill up a couple of extra hours. the grocery store—where you splurge and buy ingredients to make stove-top smores because lena asks and you’ll take your wins where you can get them—then the library, where you take out a couple of books for lena to read at home and smile when she’s talking with some of the other girls there, then the playground for an hour, before home for dinner.

you make spaghetti while she finishes her homework, and review her homework while she changes into pajamas. and then it’s time for the routine she loves so much, just like her uncle, a nature documentary about penguins while you toast the marshmallows on a fork.

an hour later, lena’s asleep in bed, and you’re scrubbing hardened chocolate off the counter next to the stove. you don’t want more work for her uncle when he’s back, and you’ve learned lena’s a heavy sleeper, so you get to cleaning. it’s not like, as pathetic as the thought is, you have anything better to do.

and then about two hours after that, it’s eleven-thirty. it’s right around the latest that mister cody has ever come home, so you’re pretty sure he won’t be back tonight.

the only thing you have to look forward to in your apartment is the shower you take after a long day. you’ll have to make do with the shower inside the room where mister cody sleeps, since lena’s is close to her room and filled with products for an eight year old, and at the very least, you need adult shampoo and soap.

the room is bare—you would have guessed it’s a guest room if you didn’t know better. you’re not nosy, but you look around, trying to see if there’s anything there that makes the room her uncle’s. you know there’s still another bedroom, the one her parents used to share, since lena sometimes goes in there when she can’t sleep. so this was a guest room, and now it’s mister cody’s, and now you’re lurking in it.

besides for a closet full of clean-pressed button up shirts and organized shoes, you can’t discern anything that makes this room his. there’s not a single thing out of place, from the garden-variety decor that someone else had picked to the artwork to the sheets. the bathroom is more of the same, the entire place having that lemon-cleaner smell to it.

you turn the water on and strip, trying to avoid thinking about how you’ll be sleeping on the couch after this. and even inside the shower, you stare at the two-in-one shampoo bottle and the old spice body wash—old spice. who would have thought?—like you can’t believe what you’re looking at. you inhale the scent for longer than you need to. wrap yourself in a clean towel that doesn’t belong to you. brush your teeth with his spearmint toothpaste. and then you open your overnight bag, and find nothing but sundresses and bathing suits.

it’s past midnight, and you’ve grabbed the wrong bag. you need to get up in about six and a half hours to get lena ready for school, and you’re not positive you have the correct bag in the back of your car.

hesitantly, you open one of the dresser drawers. there’s black and white t-shirts folded precisely, tucked in evenly. one drawer up there’s folded socks and boxers.

you chew on your cheek. he did say that he won’t be home tonight. there’s no way he would know you took anything if you ran a load of laundry as soon as you woke up and folded it after morning drop-off. he might not even be home until the afternoon or evening, for all you know.

your tiredness makes the decision for you. the couch isn’t that comfortable, and you refuse to sleep in the shirt and jean skirt you spent all day in. you take a white shirt and black boxers, and then sneak back in for a pair of black socks because the living room is cold at night. and then you set your alarm, turn on another documentary—this one about hummingbirds, wrap yourself in the throw blanket on the couch, and close your eyes.

andrew comes home at quarter to three. it would have been a lot sooner—he doesn’t like leaving you alone here at night with lena if he can avoid it—but he doesn’t always have control over it. a bullet had grazed deran and he’d spent two hours cleaning up that mess, and then they had to organize their splits before leaving. he had to make sure to stay for that—he needs the cash to pay you, rent for baz’s place, money to put into lena’s savings account.

but he hates leaving you alone in the apartment with lena. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he knows now it’s not safe, not without him there. he likes to get you home early but it’s rarely the case, and then he feels like he should pay you extra since he’s making you drive home alone in the dark.

telling you to stay is a better option. you can sleep in his room—it’s not like he’s going to sleep in there anyways. but he doesn’t say that, doesn’t need the nanny thinking there’s something wrong with him too. so he settles for telling you to stay the night, and letting you decide where you’ll sleep.

you always pick the couch. and sometimes, he’s not back early enough, sometimes you’re already up making breakfast or gone out for the day with lena by the time he’s back.

but tonight, you’re asleep on the couch. he sets down the bag with the cash on the couch, hovering over you. the television is still on, stuck on a are you still watching? screen, covering up a photo of some birds. a breath leaves him when he realizes you’re watching what he always watches. you’re knocked out—he can tell since the front door opening didn’t wake you like it sometimes does. you’ve kicked away the blanket you usually use, and he thinks for a second he should just cover you up and let you sleep.

but he doesn’t. he stands over you, staring at your sleeping form. he doesn’t like it—how pretty you are when you sleep. it’s a distraction that he can’t escape, knows that the next time he closes his eyes, he’ll think of you. that the next time he sits on this couch, he’ll be able to smell your skin. you snore softly, chest rising and falling evenly.

and then he notices it—the plain shirt, black socks with a familiar logo. are those his boxers? and now he definitely can’t look away. he puts the pieces together—your hair is wet, meaning you must have showered and then put on his clothes before coming back out here. if you were going to do all of that, why didn’t you just sleep in his room?

yes, pope decides, he needs you to sleep in his bed. he needs the couch anyways, since he won’t be sleeping, so he might as well bring you inside.

he lifts you carefully, not wanting to stir you accidentally. his shirt is a little big on you, hanging off your shoulder. you stay sound asleep the entire short walk to his bedroom, not stirring even when he sets you down. you must have been really tired, but that makes sense, given the fact that you’ve been out all day with lena.

he thought about sticking a tracker on your car, but the first time he was taking care of lena, after baz, you had shared your phone’s location with him so he could keep track. you had offered it, voluntarily, saying something about how that’s common with babysitters now, and that you never go anywhere without your phone so he won’t have to worry about you leaving it at home.

you thought reassuring him that he would always have lena’s location in his phone would make him feel better. and maybe it had, but he’d never mentioned it again after that day, never brought up if he actually checked it or not.

(it’s not like you would know if he was using it, it doesn’t work like that. deran had explained it to him.) he did check it, pretty frequently, actually. he checked it after you’d leave when he got home, after lena was asleep. he’d watch your little circle drive home and pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex. it wasn’t as bad of an area as it could be, but it wasn’t that safe either. he liked to check it every now and then too, middle of the night, saturday evenings when he was home with lena and you got to leave early or had the day off.

he assumed, somehow, that you’d be in bars or parties at your college, maybe. but when he looks at your location late at night, you’re always at home. he checks other times too—but he’s just trying to keep you safe. (that’s what he tells himself—that finding another babysitter than lena liked and that he trusted would be a hassle. he needs to keep you safe.)

but it doesn’t seem like you like any of that stuff. he’s never seen you drink the beer in the fridge, though you offer one to him every now and then. you’ve met smurf and deran and craig before, like when you’d go to drop off lena before one of your classes, back before you had finished school.

you were smart—he knew that much. that was the kind of good example he needed around lena, someone who had gone through school and finished. he didn’t know what your degree was in, but it must’ve been something smart, something important. you were always typing on your computer and reading books. whatever it is that you studied, he wants someone in lena’s life that can help her with that stuff, stuff he doesn’t know much about, when it’s time.

you were smart enough to turn down every joint or bump that craig offered. you never accepted a drink from smurf that didn’t come from a can that you opened yourself. and baz used to tell him that you were just a local college kid, that you didn’t have any family nearby or anyone to occupy your time, really.

it didn’t make sense—pretty girl like you. he would have thought you had a boyfriend, but if you do, you’ve never brought him around. and if he didn’t live with you or live at that coffee shop you liked that was down the street from your apartment, then he didn’t know if you even had one. maybe he shouldn’t spend any time thinking about your hypothetical boyfriend, but that’s just what comes up sometimes when he thinks about you for too long. like right now.

you look peaceful lying in his bed. your eyes flutter quickly like you’re having a dream, and he sits on the bed next to you, watching you sleep. your hair falls across your face, and his finger twitches. he almost moves his hand to brush the hair away, but he decides not to, settling for just watching you for another minute or two.

the bed creaks slightly when he gets up. no one uses it much, so it’s a little weary. he doesn’t think the noise is anything, but your eyes blink open. the door’s open, light from the living room illuminating a sliver of the space.

he thinks he should get out before you can ask any questions, but he doesn’t, hovering over the bed while you look around.

“andrew?” and god if it doesn’t sound different coming from your lips. you’re too tired to remember that you usually stick with mister cody, which is so formal it hurts. it sounds real, sincere, not filled with fear or anger or anything else. you haven’t even said anything and he thinks he’s losing his mind.

it’s just the way you say it. there’s no question attached, no demand, no sacrifice. just you, making sure it’s him.

“that couch is bad for your back,” he says.

he knows it is, the couple times he tried to lay down and stare at the ceiling. he’s always sore, muscles screaming and joints aching but he knows how to ignore it. he doesn’t think you should start feeling like that. feels angry at the very idea that you would be sore after spending a night on the couch, taking care of his niece, looking after baz’s house. doing all the things that he’s too busy to do.

you take care of things. you do a good job too—figuring out how to get lena to eat and sleep again. making sure her routine doesn’t go awry just because he’s gone on a job all day. you remember things that he doesn’t even know about—activities with kids after school and how the school has soccer practice starting soon. you think a couple steps ahead when it comes to lena, and sometimes, he doesn’t think you see it as a job.

like when you make enough breakfast for the three of you. leave dinner on a plate inside the microwave with a note on the counter. when you clean like it’s your house, make sure things stay in the place they’re supposed to, which is so much harder when there’s a kid around. he’s not stupid—it’s why he gives you so much money each week, shoves an envelope into your hand despite your protests. why the first thing he does after he gets his cut is make sure you get yours.

and as hard as the thought is to swallow, he doesn’t think he could do all of this without you.

“mmh-” you agree, making a soft noise. he wishes he could engrain it into his brain and replay it whenever he wants. “i thought you don’t sleep?” you ask, and he sees your lips turn up into a smile. he wishes the lights were on.

“i try,” he replies, realizing that he’s still hovering over you. he wonders why you weren’t scared the moment you woke up. “sometimes. i try.”

“do you wanna try now?” you ask, whispering. and he goes silent—because what is he supposed to say that?

you reach out in the dark for his hand, and he flinches, taking it back. but you don’t retreat, reaching out again until you’re grasping his fingers.

“try for a couple hours. i set an alarm,” you say, and the way you say it, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. you have a way of convincing him, or maybe it’s just late and you’re tired, and your sleepy voice isn’t helping matters. nor does the fact that you don’t seem even remotely concerned that you’re inviting him to come sleep on the bed next to you.

you sit up a little, and he regrets even staying as long as he did. you need your sleep, unlike him. you’re still holding onto his hand, and your skin is warm on his. it couldn’t really be, but it feels like it’s burning his, where your palm rests against his, where your fingers twist with his.

“hey,” you start, slow and soft. “don’t think about it. just sleep for a little.”

“yeah,” he says. “okay. a little.”

you move over, and when he lays down—back straight against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling—it’s warm where your body was resting. you’re still holding onto his hand, not letting go. your grip is loose enough that he could free his hand easily, and even if it wasn’t, he could overpower you if he wanted.

but he doesn’t want to. and somewhere between your slow breaths and how you rub his knuckles, running your soft skin against dozens of old scars—because that’s his punching hand—andrew falls asleep.

you can hear it, his breaths getting steady, evening out. your hands stay together in the middle of the bed, between you, and you wonder for a split second how you’re going to deal with this in the morning, how you’ll make sense of this in daylight. the semblance of a professional relationship you had maintained this entire time might turn into dust in a couple hours. and then you breathe in andrew’s comforting scent, clean linen and saltwater, and fall back asleep.

the best thing about this house is the light and the waves. golden rays pour in through the half-way open blinds and you can hear the ocean crashing against the rocks in the distance. it’s the perfect way to wake up, even if it is six-thirty and your alarm is going off in the living room, where your phone must be.

you need to get up. you don’t want lena to wake up from the noise, even though you know she won’t—that girl can sleep through anything. it’s a problem for when she’s older, when she goes to college and there’s no one besides a roommate to make sure she doesn’t miss class. even half-asleep, you smile thinking about it.

and somehow, when you look on the other side of the bed, it hits you that it wasn’t a dream. andrew is asleep next to you, still in whatever clothes he was wearing throughout the day. a short sleeved button up and pants. you’re surprised that he didn’t fall asleep with his shoes on.

he looks very calm when he sleeps. the lines of tension on his forehead and around his eyes are soft when he’s like this, his hair a mess and cheek smushed against the pillow, against your hand.

he’s still holding your hand. it makes a certain kind of warmth rain all over you, flooding you from inside out. he’s on top of the covers and you’re under the throw blanket, and you don’t remember doing that, which means that he did.

an exhausted, half-asleep andrew cody covered you up before he fell asleep on top of the covers. he fell asleep holding your hand and your chest hurts because he won’t wake up holding it still, since you need to go turn that stupid alarm off.

he never sleeps, you know this. he’s never been asleep when you show up early, never heading to bed when you leave for the day. this bed is pretty much always made, sheets never rustled and not a pillow out of place because no one sleeps here. you hope you can start changing that.

you don’t want to pull your hand away from him. it’s so simple, so sweet that you can’t bring yourself to do it. that this whole time, andrew just needed someone to sleep beside him. you rest your head back on the pillow, continue staring, creepy as it is. you’ve never been able to study him like this before, have never been close enough.

the hand holding onto yours is softer than you’d imagined. the veins running through his forearm are thick and tense, even when he’s like this. you think it might be from how tightly he’s holding onto your hand, like even in his sleep he’s worried he might lose you somehow.

andrew cody has freckles—all across his arms and on his hands too. there’s a splatter of them across his nose and cheeks, places where he must have gotten burnt as a kid, maybe when he was lena’s age. the tips of his ears flush pink while he sleeps, and he snores. all things that make you smile, things that are so personal you feel your face getting warm, like you shouldn’t have access to that information.

you need to turn that god-damn alarm off, before it wakes him up. you think you’d rather die than disrupt the few hours of peaceful sleep he’s getting right now. so you wriggle your hand, trying to find the best way to get it out of his grip and make sure you don’t wake him in the process. nothing’s working, even in his sleep he’s thrice as strong as you. the generic alarm tone keeps going in the background.

you lean in, pressing a chaste kiss to andrew’s cheek, whispering that you promise to be right back. and for a split second he moves around, and you regain control of your tingling hand.

the bed creaks a little when you get up, but you do it slowly so it’s not too loud. walk to the couch as fast as your bare feet will take you, looking down and realizing you’re still in andrew’s socks.

(his shirt and boxers too, but you’re choosing to ignore that for now. if someone walked in through the front door in this moment, it would look like you and him were something other than a guardian and babysitter. you think you’d actually enjoy trying to see him explain to his brothers why you’re in his clothes head to toe. you might like this more than you think you did.)

you can hear the ocean again once the alarm is turned off. it’s a beautiful thing to wake up too, you think, pulling open the curtains and looking outside on the street. people are on runs, doing yoga on the beach, watching the sunrise with their dogs.

and inside, andrew cody is sound asleep.

the first part of your day is waking up lena. she grumbles and takes five, sometimes ten, minutes to get up after you go in there. in that time, you set out clothes for her and then head back to the kitchen. you have a habit of making sure her backpack has everything—the colorful pens she’s always telling you about and yesterday’s homework. if she forgot something at home, the school would call andrew, and then andrew would call you, and you hate adding more work to his life. so, you make sure it’s all there before she leaves.

then breakfast—eggs and toast if you’re running late, pancakes if you got there early. it’s seeming like a pancake sort of day.

you make the batter and then pull out the bag of chocolate chips and head back to lena’s room. you use the semi-sweet morsels as an incentive to get her up, which works like a charm. while she’s changing and brushing her teeth, you make three pancakes. two for lena, and the first one you peeled that’s never quite as good is for you.

lena comes to the table to eat her pancakes, and you tell her to stay just a little quieter than usual because her uncle pope is still sleeping.

“really?” she asks, and you feel something inside of you twist in discomfort. as if you had imagined before you met him, maybe he was sleeping, that maybe this was something recent. you smile at lena.

“yeah, sweetie, really.”

you bring lena to school, come back home, and check on andrew—who is still sleeping. you cover him up with the blanket you’d slept under and then make three more pancakes and some scrambled eggs. there’s no bacon in the house or you would have made that too.

you scribble it on the grocery list and then head back inside the bedroom, carefully perching yourself on the edge of the bed and maybe a little too comfortable, too quick, run your fingers through his messy hair. he sighs against the pillow and it makes you smile immediately. you keep going, fingers not stopping until you see his eyes fluttering open. you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, though you don’t want to stop either.

“i made breakfast,” you say quietly. andrew looks up at you, and then to your slept-in side of the bed. he moves, sitting up in the bed and you take back your hand tentatively. his hair is soft like you’d imagined.

he wipes his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes. and when he looks at you, you feel any prudence that once was inside you melt away. well-rested, sleepy andrew cody, waking up in the bed you shared last night, while you tell him about the pancakes you made for him. you couldn’t have imagined this, for some reason, which makes it feel all the more real.

“what time is it?” he asks, in a gruff, sleepy voice.

“almost nine, i think.” he looks up at you quickly.

“lena?”

“i brought her to school already. you-you were sleeping. i didn’t want to wake you.”

“when did you get up?”

“six-thirty. my alarm. remember?” you do remember telling him about it before you fell asleep, one of the last things you had said in a conversation that feels like it was light-years ago.

“yeah.” you know better than to expect anything right now. he’s always been quiet, sentences curt and expressions relatively blank. you’ve had a few hours to simmer in it—think about what’ll happen tomorrow and next week and what it means to sleep in the bed next to the man whose niece you babysit. he just woke up a few minutes ago.

“well, there’s pancakes. and eggs. there’s no bacon but i’ll go get some later-”

“did you eat?” you catch his eye. perched on the bed next to him, you can see more than just green. brown too, around his pupils. not nearly as sad as they had seemed yesterday.

“yeah. i had one.”

“just one?” you don’t have an answer for that, but unusually confident, you stand up.

“i’ll have a bite of yours if you come eat with me.”

and though you couldn’t have imagined it last night, you end up leaning against the counter with andrew, splitting bites of chocolate-chip pancakes (yours drenched in syrup, his comparably dry as a bone), and luke-warm scrambled eggs.

he washes the dishes, and you put them away. it’s incredibly domestic.

“i’m sorry about your clothes,” you say, sliding a plate back into the cupboard. “um, i’ll wash everything today.” you had to bring it up at some point.

and then andrew turns to look at you. head to toe, he stares, gaze flicking up and down for what seems like eons. you don’t have a guess for why, maybe he’s trying to decide if he’ll accept your apology.

(he’s trying to memorize it, capture it like a picture in his brain, seal it up and hold onto it forever. how you look right now—his white shirt, with nothing underneath, which must be why he can see the outline of your breasts when you turn to put another dish away. his boxers, that you bunched up around your waist, his socks, one rolled up around your ankle and the other halfway up your calf. did you go to the school drop-off in his clothes, too?)

“and i can wash your jacket too, i’m sorry. it was kind of cold and i don’t know where my hoodie is. i-i’m sorry.”

he turns to look at you again. you seem worried, chewing on your cheek, waiting for his answer.

“don’t wash the jacket,” he says, and turns back to the sink. he doesn’t want it to stop smelling like you, but you don’t need to know that.

“yeah. sure. i won’t. sorry again, andrew.”

his heart thuds in this chest at the realization that you might never go back to calling him mister cody.

the two of you finish the dishes. he wipes up the counter while you put away lena’s things, and then he grabs his keys and puts on his shoes. you stand there watching, feeling awfully close to something like a wife watching her husband about to leave her for the day. and when you open your mouth, you can’t stop it from coming out.

“do you know when you’ll be back?”

“i’ll be here for dinner. can you pick up lena?” he doesn’t want to leave you, but there’s about ten texts and three missed calls on his phone that he needs to deal with. when he shrugs his jacket on, it does, in fact, smell like you. it might be enough to keep him calm the rest of the day.

“yeah, of course. well.. i’ll go start the laundry.” a vision of you peeling off your—his—clothes plagues his mind momentarily. “i’ll see you later?” you say, smiling hesitantly.

and without thinking too much about it, andrew comes up close to you, leans in a little awkwardly, and kisses your forehead.

“i’ll see you later.” he leaves you there in his shirt and socks, blinking stupidly at the door.

andrew does come back for dinner. you make an attempt at chicken parm at lena’s request, which really just turns out to be a sort of chicken parm-casserole situation, but lena likes it and the garlic bread tastes good, so you will call it a win for now.

while you’re simmering sauce and frying the cutlets, your mind flicks through everything you know about lena’s uncle. he’d never once been anything but nice to you—nice is one way to put it. polite is another. courteous, appropriate, reserved.

one night you had been waiting for him so you could leave, and he’d come home with lena’s other uncles. you had introduced yourself and smiled nicely, and when you left and gotten into your car, it hadn’t turned on. you remember debating if you should go back inside or just call triple a and wait, but somehow, andrew had known something was wrong. he had come out a few minutes later, told you that he would drive you home while his brother stayed at home and that he’d be back in a minute.

he’d dropped you off at home and told you he’d come get you in the morning. and you had slept anxiously that night, wondering what was wrong with your car and how much of a disturbance it would be to andrew to come get you.

but after the two of you had dropped lena off at school—again, disturbingly domestic—he brought you back to the house. and without any words at all, he worked on your car while you sat and watched. you held a flashlight when he needed it, and he said it shouldn’t happen again when he was done.

and you guess that’s the kind of man andrew cody is.

true to his word, andrew comes home in time to eat dinner with you and lena. after dinner, since it’s friday, you let her have a brownie and a half, the ones you’d made earlier that day. you have one too and you offer one to andrew, but he shakes his head, and you’re only mildly disappointed.

you haven’t been home, so you’re wearing one of the dresses from the wrong overnight bag you’d brought here. (your disappointment goes away when you notice that he hasn’t stopped staring at your exposed thighs since the minute he walked through the door.)

lena watches a cartoon before bed and you try to clean up the rest of the kitchen, but it’s hard, since andrew’s done most of the leg-work already. he tucks lena in and you gather your belongings—and true to your word, you did laundry and put his clothes back in the exact place you found them.

(you did steal another pair of socks, but you hardly think he minds now. he kissed you goodbye this morning like he was actually your husband, or something, and every minute you spend in this house washing dishes and scrubbing counters next to him is not helping. he stares at the straps of your dress like he could slip them off your shoulder with his mind, like it’s the only thing he’s thinking about. you don’t mind.)

“she’s out,” he says, coming back into the living room. you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest while you change the channel to one of those documentaries you’ve been so fond of recently. you turn to smile at andrew and he comes and takes a seat next to you.

“that’s good. i can go soon.” but you make no effort to move, staring at the screen in front of you. this one is about sea-life, shades of blue flooding ahead of you both.

“you can stay,” andrew says, quiet like always. “if you want.” his voice is deep and gravelly, and the words he says scratch an itch somewhere deep inside of you, and the relief is visible on your body. you sink a little further into the sofa, knees falling next to andrew’s, thighs touching.

“if that’s okay with you.” you whisper it, as if saying it too loudly might make the entire idea crack open and fall apart.

you two stay like that for a while. you don’t know when, but andrew swings an arm around your shoulder, and you rest your head against his chest, collapsing into his comfortable grip. you can hear his heart beating, can feel every breath he takes. his hand brushes the top of your shoulder every time you breath, and his other hand is clasped with yours. you watch schools of fish and pods of dolphins, and you think that any other night, you could fall asleep like this.

“andrew?” you ask, still staring straight ahead. you brush your fingers over his knuckles like you had done last night, and you can feel his hand tense under your touch, until it finally relaxes. “do you want to go to bed?”

“yeah, kid,” he says. “let’s go to bed.”

and you’ll be damned if the domesticity doesn’t kick you in the stomach, sucker punch you in the chest and knock all the wind out of you. andrew turns the tv off, puts the remote back in the right place. and then he picks you up, and you make a quiet noise of surprise, underestimating him momentarily. you should know better.

one hand wraps around your legs and the other around your back, bridal-style (fitting, you think), and he sets you down on the creaky bed. you worry, how loud it’ll be and how you’ll have to be quiet but then andrew hovers over you, nothing but a tiny lamp brightening up the room, and you lose your train of thought.

“you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, that rough voice again. like you’ve thought about anything else for the last twenty-four hours. you nod quickly, bringing your hands to his chest, and then his arms, fingers tracing the sinewy veins and thrumming muscles up and down on both sides. his eyes shut while you do it, breaths getting heavy and deep. but you keep going—it’s only fair. you’ve only thought about it a million times.

“does that feel good?” you whisper, and he lets out a quiet, almost painful groan.

“y-yes,” and you smile, fingers moving on their own while you lean in for the kiss you’ve been waiting for.

andrew’s mouth is hot, and his kisses are like fire. as soon as your lips touch, he pins you all the way down, his body weight on top of yours. he kisses you the same way he had held your hand last night, the same way he held you on the couch, like you’ll slip away if he stops for even a second. your lips start to ache, but you moan quietly into his mouth, letting him swallow them while you still stroke his arms. one day, you’ll crawl into his lap and play with his hands until he’s sick of you, but today, you need to feel him.

you can’t do much from your position, but you can wrap your legs around his waist, one hand going towards his chest to pull at his shirt. he takes it off in one motion, yanking the fabric at the back until it comes off, messing up his hair while he pulls it. your free hand goes there, running through his hair again. you use it to steady yourself, gaining leverage while he keeps kissing you like there’s nothing else for him to do. like his life depends on it. he thinks it just might.

“an-andrew,” you get out in gasps, moving your mouth away for a second. “i need to breathe,” you pant, but he doesn’t stop, kisses your cheek and your jaw and buries his face in your neck. you feel the skin there between his lips, then his teeth, and you grip hard on his arm while he keeps going. you want him to keep going, you want to see the marks he leaves tomorrow and every other day. you want everyone to look at you and know that he’s the one who left them. and you think your wish is about to come true.

your fingers let go of his arms and he groans against your skin—there’s no words but you know he didn’t want you to stop. instead you guide them to both sides of his face, staring up at him and then bringing him back in for another kiss. you think you’d be perfectly content to do this forever, that you could spend hours, days, weeks in bed kissing andrew cody. that you’d be stupid to ever leave this bed, leave this house, when there’s a man here who kisses you like each touch of your lips is a prayer, like he’s here to worship.

he’s not hesitant anymore, not wondering if you’re going to pull away and walk out and ask to pretend this never happened. you keep your hands on his face, and then work down to his jaw and neck, clasping your arms around to keep him in place.

and his mind is empty. he thinks he should know what to do with you, with your labile body flush against his, all the things he’s been thinking about for the last months, if not at least what he was thinking since this morning. you’re still in your little dress, one of the thin straps fallen over your shoulder and dangling on the skin of your upper arm. he pulls away and you whine, another noise he wishes he could capture somehow. it’s a melody, one he wants to keep hearing.

you wish he hadn’t stopped the kiss, and you expect him to lean right back in after you both catch your breath, but he doesn’t. andrew’s hovering over you, eyes fixated on your shoulder, staring intently at the strap of your dress.

“andrew?” you whisper, the hand on his neck rubbing the tense skin there, wondering if you could get your kiss back. “is something wrong?”

his lovely eyes flicker up to you, staring while you swallow and wait patiently. maybe you’d been too eager, maybe he was having regrets—after all, you’re the nanny and he’s the dad and maybe you’d been too presumptuous in assuming that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him—

“no. nothing’s wrong.” you sigh a tiny breath of relief, it comes out before you even notice. but andrew is nothing if not perceptive, and he wraps his hand around your back and lays you back on his bed.

“why did you stop?” you question, flustered and embarrassed as the words come out, sounding like a spoiled child. but you suppose you had been spoiled these last few hours, getting everything you wanted—his hot touch, breathless kisses, the ability to finally see what the veins on his arms feel like under your palm.

he doesn’t answer your question, just flicks his eyes back to your shoulder. and then he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the end of your collarbone, tracing more kisses down through the length of your shoulder, stopping when he reaches the skimpy cotton of your dress. you take deep breaths, watching it happen in front of you. he repeats the same with the other side, pulls the strap down like he’s unfolding a gift, kisses your skin like you’re his present. and you think you are.

there’s nothing between you two except your thin dress, and you pull on it eagerly, trying to get it off, when his hands come and stop on top of yours.

“you’ll rip it,” andrew says, fingers going towards the zipper in the back, undoing it slowly.

“i don’t care,” breathless, eager, unable to wait even another minute to get what you want. he pulls the zipper all the down, your dress falling off as your shrug out of it.

and you want another kiss, you want his touch, you want something, anything—but all you get is andrew staring at your naked body. and you think somehow this is worse than anything else, anticipation burning in your belly painfully. your thighs feel sticky and sore and your underwear is soaked through. and all he’s done is kiss you.

“you’re perfect,” he says quietly, and you feel your entire face burn hot. you don’t think you’ve ever felt like this before—and you know how andrew is. he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.

you tilt your head up, pressing your lips to his for a moment, a soft kiss in contrast to the ones from earlier.

“so are you,” and you kiss him again, smiling against his mouth. he feels it, though he doesn’t smile back. and when he pulls away, he looks down at you, naked and willing in his bed, smiling up at him and telling him he’s perfect, when you don’t even know half the monster he is. “you are,” you repeat, watching andrew’s eyes as he thinks a million thoughts in his head, carries a million burdens on his shoulders. “even if you don’t believe me. i think you’re perfect.”

you feel cheesy saying it, though you know there isn’t another man in the world who needs to hear it more. you can hear him make a noise of protest, like he doesn’t think you mean it, and incredibly desperate for him to believe you, you sit up.

your hands go to sturdy shoulders while you try to get him to move, until he’s sitting back against the headboard and you can crawl onto his lap. he’s silent, watching you as you do it, exposed body flush against his skin, and yet, you don’t feel scared. you don’t feel embarrassed, or worried. you just want to make him feel good.

you start with a kiss to his jaw. andrew’s body tenses under yours, the slightest bit of contact making him groan and buck up, his hands tight on the soft skin of your waist to keep you both steady. you work your way down to his neck, pressing kisses everywhere in your path.

“do you want to know what i’ve thought about you?” you ask, though you don’t wait for an answer. you kiss down his chest, stopping at the strong muscles of his chest and the old bruises and scars that cover some of them. “i thought that you’re so good at taking care of your family.” you move down to his abs, more kisses, hearing more noises from andrew that you never would have thought he would make for you. he takes shuddering breaths, not replying to you but grunting from pleasure while you keep going. “i thought that you’re so good to me. that i don’t have to worry since i know i can always come to you.” you think of your car and the money he gives you and how you woke up in bed despite falling asleep on the couch.

finally you make your way to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the belt with surprisingly steady hands. he reaches down, his hands covering yours for a moment, but you stare up at him with your glassy eyes, not even pulling the entire belt off, just enough to get you what you need—what you want. and then you undo his zipper, tug down his boxers, and take his girthy length into your hand, stroking up and down while still staring up at him.

“can i take care of you, andrew?” and you don’t realize how it must sound to him, his head thudding back onto the pillow. you press a gentle kiss to his leaking tip, both hands wrapped around his dick and stroking while you wait for your answer.

“y-yes, yes-” and you don’t wait any longer, taking as much of andrew into your mouth as you can fit. you drive your mouth up and down, your hands twisting around the base, everything wet and warm and sticky from your spit. and you think you would do this forever, that you would do this everyday if you could hear the noises he makes and how his body takes the pleasure you give him. you gag around him, feeling his hand snake into your hair, pulling you off gently. you smile up at him, though you’re sure you look like a mess, hot tears running down your cheeks and lips shiny and wet.

but you don’t stop—licking up and down until you bring him back into your mouth. you can feel how embarrassingly wet you are right now, can feel yourself leaking onto your thighs and the sheets, wanting friction as badly as you wanted to make andrew feel good right now. and then you hear it—andrew’s moan, louder than any of the other noises and full and from the chest. he bucks up into your mouth and you take it, ready to hear what he sounds like when he finishes, when he pulls you off of him.

“andrew—” you whine, as though you were the one about to come. he pulls you up, naked bodies pushed against each other, and kisses you until you feel light-headed.

“not until you do,” he murmurs, and you feel dizzy all over again.

“but i’m not done,” still eager to kiss the rest of his body and tell him how good he is, until he starts to believe you. you wrangle out of his loose grip, knowing full well if he wanted to stop, he could have. he could pin you down and do whatever he wanted to you and you wouldn’t be able to fight him, a thought that makes you feel like you’re going to faint. but you resume quickly, starting at his shoulders—stopping to admire all the sunspots spattered there—and starting your journey again, working down his bicep and to his freckled forearm, the ones you stared at whenever the opportunity presented itself, the one you thought about all the time.

andrew doesn’t know about that, and you’re not sure you can bear to tell him. it feels too revealing, despite how you’re naked on top of him, your breasts pressed against him and wet pussy on top of his hard, leaking dick. but sure—that’s what you get nervous about.

you stop and trace all the veins with your fingers, feeling him pulse underneath you, repeating on both sides. he’s got his head tilted back, soft groans filling the empty space between you as you keep going. if they’re this sensitive for him, you can only imagine what it would feel like for you, especially the one leading down to the middle of his wrist—and then the words slip out before you can realize you had said them out loud.

your face goes hot again. he looks up at you a little confused, and you have to stop yourself from collapsing and burying your face into the pillow next to you.

“andrew?” you ask, shy and embarrassed and yet not stopping yourself at all.

“you… you like my arms?” he says, and you feel your face heat up.

but so many things have happened already that you couldn’t have even dreamt about twenty-four hours ago, so you think it’s worth a shot. (that’s a lie. you have dreamt about this, so many times that you’ve woken up in your bed covered in a cold sweat, that you’ve burned through a vibrator and ruined pillows imagining what it would be like to rub yourself against his veiny arms. you guess you’re about to find out).

your fingers trace the length of them again.

“i like everything about you,” you say quietly, understanding just how silly you sound. “but we don’t have to do anything.” you try to cover your tracts, worried you’ve just messed up the incredible time you’ve been having so far littering his body with kisses and feeling butterflies in your cunt from the fact that andrew will be inside of you soon.

“how would you-” andrew starts, and you watch him carefully as he gets out the next few words. “do it? how?” and it’s just cut and dry way he speaks, though it’s really going to your head (and other places) right now.

“well, i-”

“show me.” oh.

you feel yourself pulse and throb in response to his words. even below you, you can still feel how hard andrew is. you try to start positioning yourself, but you must be moving too slowly for him, and you feel his hand on your ass, grabbing you and pushing you up to his chest, face to face. he lays his arm next to you, watching your naked body as you try to balance yourself between it, his free arm on your hip, keeping you steady.

when you lower yourself, just an inch or two, just until you feel the ridge of his forearm and you can decide what to do after realizing that you are, in fact, doing this, andrew curses under his breath.

“fuck, you’re so wet.” he can feel it. feel you, on his arm, leaking, for him. you take a deep breath, pressing your hands against his chest to keep your balance, moving your hips up and down slowly. and your eyes flutter shut because fuck, if it isn’t better than every fantasy you’ve ever had.

you hadn’t known that your pathetic attempts to recreate this at home would have never lived up to the real thing, and now you realize you’ll never be able to go back to anything else but andrew, that no one else could make you feel this way. months of pent-up desire leave your body as you rock yourself against him, finally getting the stimulation you’ve been craving.

when you open your eyes, just for a second, you see andrew, his eyes glued to where your pussy meets his arm, his breaths heavy and deep, like he wouldn’t look away from the sight before him for anything.

and then you feel the veins rub against your clit, and your eyes roll back into your head. you keep going, trying to muffle your moans and sighs, but you can’t get the image out of your head—andrew staring at you, like he wanted this as much as you’ve wanted it, like he needs to see you cum like this. you start going faster, the friction and the slide from your juices making it easier and the veins rubbing at you just the right way—

he leans in, putting one of your peaked nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it, before letting go and repeating the same with the other one. but it’s really when andrew starts talking that you’re pulled over the edge, his hand hot on your back.

“please,” he says, and you feel yourself falling into it, hanging onto every raspy word, so much better than you could have ever dreamed, “-i-i need you to cum for me. i need to feel you, i need to see it, please-”

and you do. you always listen to andrew, all the white-hot tension wound up in your belly releasing, flooding your entire body with the relief you’ve been wanting all night. your body tightens up, stopping, but he moves you with the huge hand on your hip, makes you rub on him all through it, pulling your body like you’re a toy for him.

your mind is empty while your toes curl and uncurl, thighs aching and sore in this position. andrew ushers you towards him, and you collapse on his chest, heaving and sweaty and tired—and the realization hits you that he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.

he kisses you while he has you trapped in his arms, your eyes shut as you breathe him in, moan into his mouth and let him swallow it.

“y-your arm,” you get out, realizing you’re not speaking in coherent sentences. “i’m sorry-”

“why?” he asks, and you shut up instantly. “didn’t know you liked them that much.”

he laughs quietly, a sound you have only heard a few times. you laugh against his chest for a moment, before pulling him in for another kiss. this time, it deepens, and he gets you on your back in front of him before he pulls away. you stare up at him, mind empty and chest heaving, seeing how his eyes stay on your tits, and you reach up, putting your hands on his chest while he hovers over you.

“it might hurt,” he says, and you feel your entire body tighten, your walls clench at his words. there’s nothing but truth behind his statement—it’s not meant to be arrogant or boastful, he’s warning you. it’s going to hurt, you know it is—you could barely fit half of him in your mouth and it took you both hands to be able to comfortably stroke him.

but the way he says it elicits a fire in you, and suddenly you need him now, no matter how much it hurts.

“i don’t care, andrew, please,” you beg, staring up at him. he still hovers, licking his lips and staring at your how tits bounce while you beg him to fuck you—a thought that he cannot process, even with you splayed out in front of him. he brings his arms out, fingers teasing your sensitive nipples until you’re covering your own mouth to avoid being too loud and you think you’re going to black out. (even in the dim light you can see the shine on his forearm from you, and the memory of it takes over your mind like a twister.)

“i have to stretch you out first.” the words possess your body like a demon. andrew takes your knees and spreads them apart, and no matter how hard you try to close them, you can’t compete against him. when he slides in one huge finger, your eyes roll back. he slips in so easily, the noise is obscene. the second finger goes in just as quickly, but there’s more resistance. two of his fingers are at least three of yours (if not more, you think, and then you want to faint again). the stretch is delicious, your pulsing walls realizing that this has been what you’ve been craving all along. that no toys or pillows or fingers of your own could ever compare.

when he slips a third finger in, he doesn’t change the pace. just keeps pushing them in and out of you like you’re a toy he’s testing the limits with, seeing how much you can take before you break. there’s no instructions for you besides to sit back and take it—and your toes curl and your head spins at how good he feels. the stretch hurts, but you want it so badly, you hear yourself crying out and saying incoherent things. you think you see andrew smile from where he is, watching your cunt suck his fingers in, his entire hand coated in your juices.

and when he hovers over you, bringing his tip to your entrance and prodding against you for a moment, you think you’re in heaven. he’s so flushed, tips of ears and his cheeks pink, sweat coating his body, just like yours. you can only imagine how hard he is, how you’ll get to feel how hard he is soon enough. his eyes stay at your pussy, pushing in, just barely, but you need more. you bring your hands to his arms, holding onto him while he slides in, and when you feel him push all the way in—so much bigger than you could have imagined, three of his fingers is nothing compared to this, nothing, nothing, nothing—he’s on top of you and kissing you.

whatever noises you make are tuned out—your ears are ringing and you can’t hear anything besides andrew’s grunts and moans as they come into your mouth. you keep kissing him, pulling on his lower lip and feeling his tongue on yours, but your entire body goes slack when he starts on a brutal pace, pulling all the way out and slamming into you. the bed is creaky, and the only noise besides it is the obscene one—the squelch of your soaking wet cunt taking andrew all the way, the repetitive slap of his skin meeting yours. you feel everything—the pressure of his hands while he holds you incredibly tightly, the fullness in your cunt that makes it feel like you can’t breathe.

and then andrew kisses your lips and makes a noise that makes you leak even more, and you know you’ll be just fine.

“i-i want-” he starts, and you feel him slow down the pace slightly.

“please, andrew,” you beg, and he resumes, fucking into you with an intensity that reminds you how badly he wants you, how long he’s wanted this. it reminds you of every time you caught him staring, every time you smiled at him wondering what he was thinking. and now you think you know—maybe he was thinking about something like this.

“i want another one,” he says into the skin of your neck, feeling him lick the sweat there and kiss the skin. “i want to feel it while i’m inside-” and god if you can’t comply. you want to do every single thing he tells you for the rest of your life, you don’t want to make another decision without andrew cody.

he changes the position, pulling out of you for a second and making you whine again. (spoiled, you think, he’s spoiled me for anyone else forever.) he holds both of your knees up and spreads them wide and wraps your arms around them, keeping them in place. and then he slides back inside of you in one swift movement, making your eyelids flutter shut. he doesn’t get right on top of you, leaving space between you that makes it impossible to lean in for a kiss, and you keep whining, impossibly and irrationally angry that you can’t kiss him, wondering why he wants you like this, when you feel his fingers circle your clit slowly—then quickly.

your head falls back onto the pillow. andrew can feel you pulsing around him, walls clenching every time he rubs your sensitive clit, and that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs, wants to feel you cum around his dick and squeeze him even tighter than you are right now. wants to see how you look completely fucked out, wants to see if you can give him a third. (he’ll get it, he decides, later. he’ll give you a chance to breathe, get you water after this. all the things he would do to take care of you, just like how you deserve, how a husband would take care of his wife.)

because at the end of the day, isn’t that what you two basically already are? you couldn’t be a girlfriend, because you have to get comfortable around a girlfriend.

no, he thinks, watching your fucked-out, flushed body take him like you were made for it. you already know him, know what he likes and doesn’t like, know how to make him feel good like you had been inside of his head already. you have been inside. you’re all he thinks about. that’s a wife, that is something that is forever, what the two of you have.

he doesn’t realize how hard he’s going, how fast, or how you’ve been squealing with your entire body tensing while he was stuck in his thoughts about you. this time when you finish, it explodes through you, the electric current staring from your core and spreading to every finger and toe. you jolt, legs shaking and head heavy, the after effect rolling through you while andrew keeps fucking you, keeps going even though he should probably stop. you’re incoherent, writhing and crying and feeling completely numb and like your entire body is burning all at once.

and when you blink open your watery eyes at andrew, smile sweetly and reach out for a kiss, one that he happily gives you, you say it quietly.

“i love you, andrew.” and you feel his thrusts stutter, his body weight almost collapsing on you. you feel andrew cum, feel it filling you up while you listen to his quiet moans and run your hands over his tense muscles, saying sweet things that he can barely understand in this state.

he rolls over minutes later, not pulling out until you were done kissing him. the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breaths. you need a shower, and you need to sleep.

you curl up on andrew’s chest like you had been on the couch what felt like a lifetime ago. you play with his fingers and he runs his other hand up and down the expanse of your arm. you can hear birds outside—and you know you need to get up soon, but you can’t find any words.

“you think that was enough?” andrew asks, and you look up at him with a confused expression. he looks at you with so much sincerity you feel like crying. your andrew.

“what do you mean?” you ask quietly, still not sure what he’s even talking about. your head is spinning and your eyes are tired—every part of you is tired.

“we can go again after you get some sleep. it might take more than once.”

“andrew?”

“you don’t have to worry about it. i’ll figure it out. i won’t stop until i put a baby in you.”

♡ thank you for reading

#why am i so nervous about this #pope cody #pope cody x reader #andrew cody #andrew cody x reader #andrew pope cody x reader #babysitter reader

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bloomiize · 1 month ago

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gooner!jake finally gets pussy and its so much better than his hand

part one two three

gooner!jake was embarrassed for the first time. He usually doesn't care about his perverted, disgusting behaviour — but it's different now. Jake's jerked off to other girls more times than he can remember, but you're the first one who's real. He's talked to you, seen you smile and laugh at his jokes, even hugged you — that fucking hug that led to this.

You heard him fuck his fist and drain all his cum out while saying your name. He basically confessed to you in the middle of it. Jake wanted to end the call and crawl up and die from embarrassment, but how could he when you said his name like that?

"Jakey," you whimpered, and that alone was enough to get him hard again.

Even though Jake is vile — the guy who eats his own cum pretending it's yours and stole your panties to get off — he's a gentleman. He would never leave you alone in a state like this. Especially not when you're moaning like that, thinking about him. So even though his dick is sore and tired, he rubs it again so you’re not alone.

gooner!jake is in heaven. The girl he's been obsessed with for the past year is on the other side of the phone making lewd sounds for him. He never thought this would happen —not for another year at least. Jake hasn't even asked you out yet, and here you are, begging him for more.

"P-p-please, i-i can't take it!" Your pussy is clenching desperately around your fingers begging for more. So close but not enough to tip you over the edge. You can't believe that jake — your project partner— fucked his fist while you were still on the phone. What's even worse? You can't believe how hot it was.

Maybe you did wear extra short skirts when you studied together, and perhaps you did push up against him a little extra when you gave him a hug. Who are you kidding? You knew how he looked at you. You weren't dumb. Besides, jake wasn't exactly discreet with his staring, and he wasn't good at hiding the tent straining against his pants either.

You pushed him just to see if he would break, and he did. You just weren't expecting how wet you would be for him.

gooner!jake couldn’t sleep at all. He kept replaying how you sounded earlier; your adorable moans and whimpers, the way you cried out his name. How you said you wanted him — no, needed him. His overstimulated dick was sore and aching from the ungodly amount of times he'd cum that day. But the thoughts of you still plagued his brain, and his hand slipped into his shorts, gripping his throbbing cock. He couldn’t control himself. It hurt, but it felt so fucking good. He closed his eyes and thought about how desperate you sounded. Would you beg like that for him in person? He could make you.

As he continued pumping his cock, he realized he needed you too. He needed your lips everywhere. He wanted to fuck your tight cunt so good that you'd have his name imprinted inside you. Just one chance.

Jake was holding back tears from how sensitive he was, breaking into a loud, animalistic moan when he finally came. It still wasn’t enough. He turned onto his side and groaned into his pillow.

Jake knew he was a gooner — he knew it was gross. He wasn’t planning on showing you this side of him at all. What if you didn’t want to talk to him anymore? What if you found him revolting?

Because Jake didn’t just like you for his dirty fantasies. He liked you in a way that wasn’t fueled by lust. It was more than that.

How is he supposed to face you after whispering, "Good girl, just like that" and, "Fuck yourself a little harder for me," into the microphone just so you could finish?

gooner!jake couldn't make eye contact with you when he came over. You hung up the phone right after you finished last night but you quickly sent him a text after.

Y/N: um, thanks for the help

Y/N: can you come over tomorrow after class?

JAKE: of course, i'll be there at 6

And now here he is.

"Sorry about last night. It’s just been a while, and you were there, so... asking you for help was a one-time thing. It won’t happen again, I promise—" You stop rambling when you realize Jake’s been staring, looking down at you. When you finally lock eyes, he jerks his gaze away at lightning speed, a red flush creeping up his neck.

"No, I’m sorry. I thought I hung up. You weren’t supposed to hear... me." Jake is struggling to keep his composure. You’re wearing your tiny tank top and shorts again, talking about what happened like it's nothing, looking up at him with those big, innocent eyes. Is this be the angle he would get if you sucked his cock? Even now, he still can't stop thinking about you.

Jake feels a pang in his chest when you call it a one-time thing. "Was my help not good enough for you?" he says, stepping closer, closing the gap between you, pushing you back against the kitchen counter.

If this was his only chance with you, he was going to take it.

"Th-that's not what I-I meant..." You’re trapped now, caged between his arms, the cold counter behind you. He's leaning down so close you can feel his breath on your skin. Your face is burning; your breathing turns uneven.

Jake’s towering over you, waiting, daring you to say something. "I-it was g-good," you finally admit, voice small.

gooner!jake takes that as the only sign he needs. His hands immediately grab your waist, holding you tight and firm, tugging you closer. He’s breathing hard — both of you are — the air thick with tension. His hands roam up from your waist, fingers skimming the base of your chest. You can feel it, his hard cock pressing against you through his sweats. You’re already soaking through your panties.

"Tell me to stop, Y/N," he rasps, nibbling your ear and groaning when you whimper. "You have no idea what I want to do to you. It’s unhealthy. I’m sick."

His mouth trails down your neck, kissing, biting, soothing over the marks he’s leaving. You’re shaking under him, and Jake pauses, his hands trembling but still tucked under your top. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes — big, round, pleading.

"Y/N," he whispers, voice hoarse. "Tell me to stop."

You shake your head.

How could you tell him to stop when you’ve been touching yourself thinking about him for the past six months? When he started as the classmate who stared at you for a little too long, and became Jake, suspiciously strong, ridiculously cute, flustered so easily, always willing to do anything for you?

You liked him.

You really liked him.

gooner!jake is humping into you thigh at a desperate pace. He gave you a way out but you...

You. Shook. Your. Head.

This must be a dream. There's no way that he's palming your your tit and hearing you gasp under him like this right now. He's biting on your shoulder and rutting into you like a dog in heat and you're just letting him.

"F-fuck! I'm disgusting for you. I stole your panties two weeks ago. They're back at my apartment covered in my cum... I'm gross, I can't stop. Tell me to stop. Please." He admits to you, maybe this will snap you back into reality and make you realize he isn't the type of guy you want. He's scared and hides his face in your collar, licking the bruises he just left there. If you're going to say yes to him, he wants you to know him, the true him and what you're signing up for.

Your hands grab his face so he's looking at you, stroking his flushed cheeks with your thumbs. His eyes are glassy and desperate— poor baby. "Jakey," His hips slow down and he lets out a tiny whimper hearing his nickname. "I left those out... for you to see. I-I... i want you too."

gooner!jake nearly cums in his pants. His lips crashing into you. His tongue is finding yours at a rapid pace. Your fingers are tangled in his hair and his hands are groping your tits. Jake is moaning into you like you're his saviour, his piece of salvation.

When you finally pull away for air, a string of saliva connects you two. You glance at the bed and he takes the hint. He refuses to take his lips off your neck and hands away from you as you walk over, him pushing you onto the bed when you eventually make it.

gooner!jake is drinking in the sight of you lying there. Hair messy, tank top and shorts raised up, you're so perfect. He strips your shorts off in one swift move, tossing them somewhere he doesn’t care to look. His heart stutters when he sees the wet patch staining your panties. So fucking cute. His eyes roll back, hips bucking against the mattress like he’s in heat.

"I've thought about this for so long. Please, I'll take such good care of you. Just a little taste, I'll be so good." He whines and mumbles it over and over like a prayer while his fingers ghost over your clothed cunt, teasing you. Your cute little gasps and whimpers drive him fucking crazy. His cock twitches painfully hard in his pants.

When you let out a soft, breathy "Mhm," — barely a sound, but enough — Jake loses it.

He dives in without hesitation, mouthing at your pussy through your soaked panties. Sucking, licking, nuzzling like he's a dog. You can feel the heat of his tongue through the thin fabric, the way he moans against you like he's the one being touched.

It’s messy. It’s desperate. It’s Jake.

But it’s not enough. He needs more.

Without even thinking, he yanks your panties aside and then tears them down your legs. Jake buries his face between your thighs, tongue fucking you like he’s starving. Slurping, moaning, whimpering your name into your pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

His hands are everywhere — gripping your thighs so tight they’ll bruise, pushing your hips down when you start to squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure.

"P-please, Jake — ngh — s’too much—" you whimper, fingers threading into his hair, trying to pull him away.

He shakes his head, lips locked around your clit, sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the bed.

"No, please, please, need more — need you to cum, need it so bad. Fuck, just wanna taste you, wanna drink you — please, please—" he's babbling against you, voice cracking like he's about to cry.

You don’t even get a chance to argue before he slips two fingers into you, pumping slow and deep, curling them just right. His mouth never leaves your clit, tongue flicking and swirling fast and messy. Your fingers never reached that deep; this new sensation has you seeing stars.

Your orgasm crashes down hard, your thighs clamping around his head, your voice breaking into whiny little sobs. Jake groans like he’s the one cumming, grinding his leaking cock against the bed without a shred of shame. There's probably a wet spot on your sheets.

He keeps licking you through it, sloppily, hungrily, tasting everything, like he's trying to burn the memory of it into his mouth forever.

When you finally go limp, trembling, Jake pulls away with a slick, swollen mouth, looking dazed. His pupils are blown wide, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his hairline. He's licking his lips to savour it.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but it’s useless — he’s soaked. His whole body is shaking from how badly he needs you.

"You taste so fucking good," he mumbles, voice hoarse. He presses desperate, messy kisses to your thighs, your hips, anywhere he can reach. "Need you," he whines again, hips bucking helplessly against nothing. "Please — please let me fuck you, I’ll be so good, promise, I swear — I c-can’t, please.”

You grab his face, pulling him up, and whisper, "Jake... fuck me."

You swear you feel his soul leave his body.

He fumbles with his sweats, shoving them down along with his boxers, cock slapping up against his stomach — red and leaking, twitching from how fucking desperate he is. Fuck he is bigger than you thought. You're a little worried about how it'll fit and it shows on your face.

He lines himself up, hands trembling so badly he almost misses, but when the tip catches against your slick entrance, he chokes on a sob.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" he gasps, pressing in slow, dragging the thick head against your messy cunt, sinking in inch by inch. His head is thrown back and he's already close.

You both moan, loud and filthy, as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours. You feel full, stretched so good you’re already clenching around him, body trembling from oversensitivity.

"F-fuck, you’re so tight — 's perfect, made for me —" Jake whines against your neck, rutting his hips shallowly, not able to stop himself even for a second.

"Please — please relax for me" he gasps out, voice cracking as he presses desperate kisses along your jawline. "I can’t — you’re so warm, fuck, just a little looser, please, I can’t—"

He’s needy and messy, thrusting into you in short, desperate snaps of his hips, each movement punching a gasped moan out of you. You’re already fucked out, clawing at his back, tears brimming in your eyes from how good he feels, from how full you are.

"Jakey — ngh — slow down —" you whimper, but he can't.

"Can't — can't stop—s-sorry, you're too good —" Jake babbles against your skin, biting and licking at your collarbone. He’s holding your hips, pounding into you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets up for even a second. Every time he bottoms out, he grinds his hips down, stuffing his cock as deep as he can, dragging the most pathetic little sounds out of both of you.

"I love you, I love you, i can't believe you're letting me do this —" Jake whimpers like a broken record, words spilling out without him even realizing. You’re squeezing him so tight he’s losing his mind. Jake’s cock twitches violently inside you, and he presses his forehead to yours, voice cracking. "Please — please let me cum inside — need it, need it so bad — please, fuck, please, y/n—"

You nod through the haze, too fucked out to even form words. Jake sobs when you nod, hips stuttering, and then he’s slamming into you hard, once, twice — before spilling deep inside, thick and hot, filling you so much you feel it pooling inside.

But he doesn't stop.

Even after cumming, Jake keeps fucking into you, desperate little thrusts pushing it deeper, his cock still painfully hard from how ruined he is. "S-sorry — can’t stop — need you, need you, fuck—" he's whining and broken, face buried in your neck, breath hitching on every thrust.

You're gasping, trembling under him, brain fuzzy, body overstimulated and twitching from the relentless pace. Your pussy flutters around him helplessly, milking every last drop out of him.

"J-Jakey — ngh — too much—" you sob, clinging to his back.

"I know, I know. Fuck — just a little more, just a little more, wanna stay inside you forever —" he cries against you, hips still moving, slower now, grinding, as if trying to mark your insides.

Your bodies are a mess of sweat, cum, and desperate sobbed praises, and Jake doesn't even know where he ends and you begin anymore. His whole body is trembling. When he finally slows down enough to pull out — whimpering when he sees your pretty cunt leaking with his cum and immediately tries to grab a tissue from your nightstand with shaky hands.

You watch him, heart pounding, still dazed, still aching from how good he fucked you. Jake wipes you down so gently, biting his lip so hard he might draw blood, too scared to hurt you even though he just ruined you. He tosses the tissues in the trash and hesitates by the edge of your bed, eyes darting everywhere but at you.

Then he turns to leave. He actually turns, like he’s going to go.

Your sleepy hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist and pulling him right back into your chest. Hugging him close. He lets out a little "oof," stumbling onto the mattress, cheeks flushed bright red. He’s stiff against you, nervous, breathing shallow like he thinks you’re going to kick him out or regret this. You wrap your arms around him tighter, burying your face into his hair.

And that’s when he speaks, voice cracking adorably, "Um... y/n, I, uh... I like you. Like, like-like you. A lot. Um... Do you maybe wanna go out with me sometime? No pressure, though.. If you don't want to, that's fine, I totally get it, I just, I just wanted to say it, so you knew—"

You pull back, glaring at him, completely fed up with how stupidly oblivious he is.

"Jake," you say, voice low and threatening.

He freezes. You called him Jake and not Jakey. A million thoughts go through his head, he's panicking, he's about to be rejected.

"If you don't get it through your head that I like you too, I swear to god I’ll suck you dry right now until you can't even think anymore."

Jake short-circuits. He makes the stupidest whimpering sound you've ever heard and immediately buries his face into your chest to hide. "F-fuck — y/n. You can’t — ngh, you can’t just say shit like that." Jake whimpers, voice wrecked and desperate, rutting his hips subtly against you like he can’t help it. "I can cum again if you want me to, fuck—"

You giggle breathlessly, running your fingers through his messy hair, pulling him even closer until he's basically lying on top of you like a big, whimpering puppy.

"I mean it," you whisper into his ear, smiling. "I like you, Jake."

He clutches you tighter, breathing a shaky sigh of relief.. Jake's heart is pounding so loudly that you can feel it through his chest. He nuzzles into you deeper, mumbling something incoherent, completely melted against you.

gooner!jake still can't believe you're dating him. Months later, not much had changed. He's moved out and said goodbye to his roommate but he still goes over to hang out all the time. He was still hopelessly obsessed with you, still got hard at the smallest things, still stole your panties when he thought you weren't looking, just to jerk off like a desperate freak. Except now?

Now, you always catch him.

Like tonight, you caught him red-handed again, laying back on your shared bed, your baby pink lacy panties fisted tight in one hand, his cock leaking against his stomach, whining your name into the fabric like a lovesick puppy.

"Jake," you scold softly, arms crossed, but your voice is fond.

He jolts, face flushing deep red. "I-I was gonna put them back! I swear!" he stammers, cheeks burning, cock twitching in his hand like it had a mind of its own. His eyes glisten like he's about to cry from the embarrassment. You sigh and walk toward him slowly, watching the way his eyes widen and follow your every move like he doesn’t deserve to touch you.

"You really can't help yourself, can you?" you murmur, climbing into his lap. His hands immediately fly to your waist like instinct, needy and trembling.

"Can't — you're too pretty," he whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut like it's physically painful to look at you. "You're perfect, and you're busy and — f-fuck, just wanna stuff you full all the time — wanna ruin you. Please, baby, let me —"

Jake's cock twitches violently between you, smearing precum against your thighs. You can feel how badly he's shaking underneath you, how he’s basically vibrating with the need to touch, to fuck, to have you. You roll your hips and he lets out the filthiest, neediest moan, hips jerking up against you helplessly. His knuckles are white where he’s gripping your waist, and he’s babbling again without realizing it. He never had to hide his disgusting behaviours with you, and for that, he's grateful. So fucking grateful.

"Thank you, thank you," he mumbles into your skin, hips stuttering up helplessly, "I’ll be good, I'll be so good for you."

And you just smile, knowing he already is.

from bloomiize: I'M FINALLY DONE!! I like this one a lot so hopefully you guys do too!! A lot longer than I intended whoops. this might be the last piece I do for gooner!jake but idk yet, maybe, maybe not LOL! I've grown quite fond of him. Thank u for reading and ur support! pls lmk what u think :3 reblogs and comments are appreciated ^^ love u guys <3 ALSO IF U WANT MORE GOONER!JAKE, CHECK THE TAG bloomiize: hardthoughts

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lovhrin · 6 months ago

Text

𓇻 ॱ˖ ENHYPEN HYUNG LINE AND THEIR GIRL GROUP GF

──ॱ˖ ❀ enhypen hyung line and girl group girlfriend. genre fluff. warning none just fluff and multiple different ggs | enhypen x fem!reader.

lee heeseung ( 이희승 )

you’re in aespa

ever since enhypen and aespa debuted you two were shipped together

and during that time you guys had barley interacted so he tried his best to avoid you at all costs to not make things worse

emphasize on tried

you were just too pretty

he honestly felt honoured to be shipped with you

and as much as he tried he couldn’t take his eyes off of you

it had gotten to the point where one day while passing him on the stage amongst other idols you muttered this to him

“not making those rumours any better, yeah?”

he was so flustered

but instead of jumping off the stage like he wanted to…

he found you backstage and said this

“what if I want the rumours to be true? private of course.” “is this you asking me on a date.” “yes.”

and the rest is history

──ॱ˖ ❀ your photobook “every time I see you smile that’s all me” - kali uchis all mine

park jongseong ( 박종성 )

you’re in meovv

jay has been dating you for a while like wayyy before you debuted

you come from a really wealthy family

you were basically an influencer before you became an idol

jay found you on his private insta account on day and was immediately drawn in by your internet personality

he found the way you held yourself really attractive

you were classy

you were just a little internet crush to him nothing more

that was until enhypen got invited to an event were coincidentally your family was also there

his heart sped up when he spotted you by the drinks with your face in your phone

you were obviously bored

and maybe he could make your evening better

and he sure did

he doesn’t even remember how it happened

all he remembers is having all sorts of conversations with you that had him thinking about how nice it would be if he could talk to you everyday

“you’re the first person to ever ask me things like this, yeah I would love to become an idol but I’m scared people will use my families wealth against me” “who cares what they think? I heard the black label is having auditions you should go, I’ll help you practice.”

and that was the starting to his long term relationship with you

──ॱ˖ ❀ your photobook “taking our dreams, turing them to things” - lana del ray groupie love

sim jaeyun ( 심재윤 )

you’re in katseye

when he first saw your introduction for dream academy he was practically hypnotized

you were so charismatic

and beautiful

he hated to admit it but after your introduction he kept tabs on the show

and voted for you every mission

was he even allowed to do that???

the first time he ever met you was a moment he would never forget

while he was freaking out internally you were freaking out outwardly

“omg sofia that’s jake, should we go up to him? nah that’s weird we should wait for him to come up to us, but why would he come up to us?”

he found your rambling so adorable

see you act like that calmed down his nerves and gave him a lot of confidence

but it immediately vanished once he was actually in front of you

sofia described it as watching two people stutter compliments to each other for five minutes

“I could… uh… um show you around the city if you’d like, you know all the cool um food places.” “yes! I mean… um… uh yeah.. cool..cool that would be cool.”

──ॱ˖ ❀ your photobook “I will still fall in love my clementine.” - grent perez clementine

park sunghoon ( 박성훈 )

you’re in le sserafim

to be honest sunghoon had been dating you for as long as he can remember

you guys were figure skating partners

you guys had been dating since you were little kids

well that’s what he likes to say

you both just had a crush on each other since you were little kids

he was a couple years older so you thought you never had a chance

and while you were going through years of having a crush on him

sunghoon had thought you guys already had come to the agreement that you were in some kind of relationship

it wasn’t until you were both a little older that you both slapped on the title of bf & gf

your love was real

and it showed all the time on the ice

you both were scouted

sunghoon was more easy to win over than you, you didn’t know if you wanted to leave figure skating just yet

but you also knew that if sunghoon left figure skating and left you behind you’d probably never skate again

you could never picture yourself skating without him

sunghoon practically begged you to leave with him

he needed you to do this with him

you hated him for always knowing how to pull you into things

the next thing you knew you were watching sunghoon debut on tv and about two years later he was watching you perform your first stage

“you were skating partners with le sserafims yn right? and now you’re both idols under the same company, it’s like you’re soul tied are you still close with her?” “I don’t think I could get rid of yn even if I tired.”

──ॱ˖ ❀ your photobook “tangled in love, stuck by you from the glue ” - beabadoobee glue song

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deansbeer · 11 days ago

Text

when your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, you call the one person you shouldn’t — your ex, dean winchester.

♡ ⋮ minors do not interact.

the engine dies with a pathetic sputter, and you barely manage to coast to the side of the empty highway before your car gives up completely. “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter, turning the key again. nothing. not even that clicking sound that means a dead battery. just absolute silence except for the wind whistling through the kansas plains.

you pop the hood even though you know it’s pointless. you can change a tire, check the oil, jump a battery — basic stuff. but whatever’s wrong with your car right now is beyond basic, and you’re stranded on a stretch of road that hasn’t seen another vehicle in the past hour. the sun’s starting to set too, painting everything in shades of orange and pink that would be beautiful if you weren’t completely fucked.

your phone has two bars of signal, which is a miracle out here. you scroll through your contacts, thumb hovering over the name you haven’t called in exactly three months. not since that night when everything imploded, when you’s screamed at each other in bobby’s salvage yard about hunting and danger and how tired you were of patching him up just to watch him throw himself into the next fight.

but dean’s only forty minutes away, still in lebanon according to sam’s last text. and he knows cars better than anyone. knows your car specifically, since he’s the one who helped you buy it, who spent a weekend underneath it making sure everything was running perfectly. “reliable and safe,” he’d said, wiping grease off his hands. “nothing fancy, but she’ll take care of ya.”

ironic, considering you’re now stranded because of said “reliable car.”

you hit call before you can talk yourself out of it. it rings once, twice, and then— “sweetheart?” dean's voice is rough, surprised. the nickname slips out like he can’t help it, like the past three months haven’t happened. “everything okay?”

“my car broke down,” you say, hating how small your voice sounds. “i’m on route 36, about thirty miles east of smith center. it just... died. won’t turn over, no clicking, nothing. i think maybe the ignition?”

there’s a pause, and you can practically see him straightening up, switching into problem-solving mode. “you somewhere safe? off the road?” when you confirm, he’s already moving — you can hear keys jingling, boots on floor. “i’m leaving now. forty minutes, maybe less. just stay in the car, doors locked. you got water?”

yeah,” you manage, throat tight. this is so unfair. three months of silence, of trying to move on, and one phone call has you remembering why you fell for him in the first place. the way he drops everything to help, no questions asked. “dean, you don’t have to—”

“yes, i do,” he cuts you off. “just... stay put. i’ll be there.” he hangs up before you can argue, which is probably for the best. you slouch in your seat, watching the sky darken. this is fine. should be fine. he’ll fix your car, you’ll thank him, and you’ll go your separate ways again. simple. easy. no need to think about how good he looked the last time you saw him, or how your body still remembers the shape of his.

thirty-five minutes later, you see headlights in your rearview mirror and hear the familiar rumble of the impala. your traitorous heart speeds up as dean pulls up behind you, parking close enough that his headlights illuminate your car. he’s out in seconds, and damn him for looking even better than you remembered. worn jeans, that damned leather jacket of his, dark blue flannel with the buttons unfastened revealing the tight gray t-shirt underneath, that concerned furrow between his brows.

“hey,” he says softly when you get out to meet him. his eyes do a quick scan, checking for injuries even though you told him you were fine. “you okay?” the question carries more weight than it should, like he’s asking about more than just the breakdown.

“i’m fine,” you lie, wrapping your arms around yourself. the temperature's dropped with the sun, and you’re in just a thin sweater. “thanks for coming. i know things are... weird.”

he shrugs off his jacket immediately, holding it out. “put this on before you freeze.” when you hesitate, he just steps closer and drapes it around your shoulders himself. the smell of leather and him overwhelms you. “and things aren’t weird,” he says, but won’t meet your eyes. “you needed help. end of story.”

“right,” you mutter, pulling the jacket tighter. “so, the car?”

he’a already popping your hood, pulling a flashlight from his pocket. “tell me exactly what happened.” you explain while he works, trying not to stare at the way his shoulders move under his dark blue flannel with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the competent way his hands check wires and connections. it’s been three months, but your body remembers exactly how those hands feel on your skin.

“found it,” he announces after a few minutes, pointing with the flashlight. “ignition wire snapped. must’ve been wearing thin and finally gave out.” he straightens up, wiping his hands on his jeans. “i can fix it, but not here. gonna need to tow it to bobby’s.”

“shit,” you breathe. bobby’s is two hours away, and it’s already dark. “okay, i’ll call—“

“i’ll drive you,” dean interrupts. “we can call for a tow in the morning. no point paying extra for night service.” he’s already closing your hood, decision made. “grab what you need from your car.”

you want to argue, but what’s the alternative? spend a fortune on a late-night tow to a shop that won’t even look at it until morning? “are you sure? i can get a motel or something...”

“there’s nothing out here for miles,” he points out. “just... let me help. please.” the please gets you. always does. dean winchester doesn’t say please often, and the vulnerability in it makes your chest ache.

you grab your phone and purse from your car, locking it up even though there’s literally nothing around. the impala is warm when you slide into the passenger seat, and muscle memory has you adjusting the vents the way you like before you remember this isn’t your place anymore. dean pretends not to notice, just puts the car in drive and pulls onto the empty highway.

the first ten minutes are silent except for the radio playing low — some classic rock station you know he’ll never change. you sneak glances at him in the dashboard light, noting new lines around his eyes, a healing cut on his knuckles. he’s been hunting without you, and the thought makes your stomach twist.

“so,” he finally says, voice carefully neutral. “how’ve you been? still working at the clinic?” he remembers. of course he does. the veterinary clinic job you’d taken in the next town over, trying to build something normal.

“yeah,” you answer, grateful for safe territory. “it’s good. steady.” boring, your mind supplies. nothing like the adrenaline of hunting with the winchesters. “how’s sammy?”

“he’s good. still a pain in my ass.” there's fondness in his voice though. “keeps asking about you.” he glances over quickly. “told him to give you space, but you know how he is.”

you do know. sam winchester, ever the optimist, probably thinks you and dean are just taking a break. probably doesn’t know about the screaming match, the accusations thrown like weapons. how you’d told dean he was reckless, that he had a death wish. how he’s shot back that you were asking him to be someone he wasn’t, that hunting was in his blood.

“i miss him,” you admit quietly. “both of you.” the last part slips out before you can stop it, and dean’s hands tighten on the wheel.

“yeah,” he says roughly. “we miss... sam misses you too.” the correction is obvious, and something in your chest cracks. you turn to look out the window, watching empty fields fly by in the darkness. this was a mistake. you should’ve called a tow truck, dealt with the expense. anything but sitting in this car that holds too many memories, breathing in the scent of leather and gunpowder and dean.

“i can drop you at a motel,” dean offers suddenly. “in smith center. get your car towed there instead.” he’s giving you an out, even though it makes no practical sense. that’s dean though — he’ll inconvenience himself before making you uncomfortable.

“no, it’s fine,” you say, because you’re apparently a masochist. “bobby’s makes more sense.” what you don’t say is that you’re not ready for this to end. three months of missing him, and having him this close is torture and relief all at once.

the next hour passes in fits of conversation and comfortable silence. he tells you about a vengeful spirit in iowa, you tell him about the Great Dane who ate an entire thanksgiving turkey. it’s easy, too easy, falling back into this rhythm. by the time he mentions being hungry, suggesting a diner he knows, you’ve almost forgotten why you’re not supposed to be here.

“i should probably just wait in the car,” you say when he pulls into the parking lot. it’s one of those 24-hour places, neon lights flickering, maybe three other cars in the lot. “not really hungry.”

he gives you a look. “when's the last time you ate?” when you don’t answer immediately, he shuts off the engine. “come on. my treat. least i can do since i’m kidnapping you to kansas.”

“you’re not kidnapping me,”, you protest, but you’re already unbuckling your seatbelt. “i called you, remember?”

“details,” he says with that half-smile that always made you weak. inside, the diner is exactly what you’d expect — cracked vinyl booths, ancient jukebox, waitress who looks like she’s been working since the place opened. dean guides you to a corner booth with a hand on your lower back, and you pretend the touch doesn’t send electricity up your spine.

you order coffee and a sandwich you probably won’t finish. dean gets a burger and fries, and when the waitress leaves, the silence stretches awkward for the first time. here, under fluorescent lights instead of dashboard glow, the reality of your situation is harder to ignore.

“this is weird,” you finally say, fidgeting with your napkin. “right? this is weird?”

“yeah, it is,”, dean agrees, but he’s smiling a little. “good weird or bad weird?” the question catches you off guard. you look at him, really look at him, and see the same conflict in his eyes that you’re feeling.

“i honestly don’t know,” you admit. “both? neither?” you take a breath. “i wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon. or at all, maybe.”

something flashes across his face — hurt, maybe. “you really thought that was it for us? one fight and we’re done forever?” he leans forward, intense now. “baby, we’ve been through too much for that.”

“we broke up, dean,” you remind him, voice sharper than intended. “that usually means done forever.” but even as you say it, you know it’s not true. nothing about you and dean has ever been usual.

“we had a fight,” he corrects. “a bad one, yeah. but i never said... i didn’t want...” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “fuck, i’m bad at this.”

the food arrives before he can finish, and you both pretend to be very interested in your meals. but the tension’s there now, thick between you. your sandwich tastes like sawdust, and you notice dean’s not really eating either, just pushing fries around.

“i’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “for what i said. about you not understanding the life, about being clingy. i was pissed and scared and i said shit i didn’t mean.” he meets your eyes. “you weren’t asking for too much. you were asking me to be careful. to come home. that’s... that’s what people do when they care.”

your throat feels tight. “i’m sorry too. i knew who you were when we got together. hunter first, everything else second. i shouldn’t have tried to change that.” you pause, chose your next words carefully. “i just... i got tired of patching you up. of wondering if each hunt would be the one you didn’t come back from.”

“i know,” he says softly. “i get it. hell, sometimes i wonder the same thing.” he reaches across the table, stops just short of your hand. “but these past three months... hunting without you, coming back to the bunker and you’re not there. it’s been...”

“i know,” you whisper, because you know. you’ve felt it too. the empty spaces where he should be. waking up alone, no one to call after a long shift, no one who understands the nightmares. “dean...”

he does touch your hand then, fingers brushing yours. “i fucked up. letting you walk away. not calling. being too stubborn to...” he takes a breath. “i missed you. every damn day.”

you turn your hand palm up, letting your fingers intertwine. “i drove past the bunker,” you confess. “two weeks ago. almost stopped.” you’d sat at the end of the road for twenty minutes, engine running, trying to find the courage. “…missed you too.”

the moment stretches, both of you holding on like letting go means losing this again. then dean’s phone buzzes, breaking the spell. he checks it with his free hand. “sam,” he says. “making sure i found you okay.”

“what did you tell him?” you ask, curious despite yourself. dean types one-handed rather than let go of you.

“that i got you. that we’re stopping for food.” he pauses, then adds something else. when he sets the phone down, there’s color in his cheeks. “he says to tell you hi. and that your room’s still exactly how you left it.”

your room. not the guest room, not a room. your room. like you still belong there. “dean...” but you don’t know how to finish. everything’s too complicated, too raw. three months wasn’t enough to get over him. you’re starting to think three years wouldn’t be enough.

“i know,” he says. “i know it’s complicated. but...” he squeezes your hand. “just come back tonight. we’ll figure out your car in the morning, and then... then we can talk. really talk. if you want.”

you should say no. should insist on a motel, on boundaries, on protecting whatever healing you’ve managed. instead you find yourself nodding. “okay. but just tonight.” it’s a lie and you both know it. nothing with dean is ever just anything.

he pays the check despite your protests, and then you’re back in the impala, except now there’s this thing between you. this acknowledgment that you’re not over, maybe never were. his hand finds yours across the seat, and you let yourself have this. for tonight. when he parks behind the bunker two hours later, you’re still holding on.

“home sweet home,” he says, but catches himself. “i mean…”

“i know what you meant,” you tell him. because despite everything, part of you has always known this was home. not the bunker itself, but wherever dean winchester is. that’s the problem.

that’s always been the problem.

you don’t make it inside the bunker. dean kills the engine and the silence is deafening, both of you still holding hands across the seat like teenagers. “we should go in,” you say, but neither of you moves. the air feels charged, heavy with everything unsaid. “sam’s waiting inside.”

“yeah,” he agrees, but his thumb is stroking across your knuckles and his eyes keep dropping to your lips. “he is probably waiting.” another beat of silence. “fuck it,” he mutters, and then he’s pulling you across the bench seat and into his lap.

his mouth crashes into yours and it’s like coming home and drowning all at once. three months of missing this, of pretending you didn’t need him like air, and now his hands are everywhere —. tangling in your hair, gripping your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. you kiss him back just as desperately, grinding down against him and swallowing his groan.

“backseat,” he pants against your mouth. “now.” you scramble over the seat ungracefully, dean right behind you. the space is familiar, how many times you’ve done this before, but it feels different now. charged with the weight of your separation, the raw need to reclaim each other.

“missed you so fucking much,” dean breathes, pulling you back into his lap. his hands slide under your shirt, rough palms against soft skin. “thought about this every night. how you feel, how you taste.” he mouths at your neck and you’re already falling apart, three months of built-up want making you hypersensitive.

you gasp softly, rocking against him. he’s rock hard already, denim rough against your core through your thin leggings. “please, i need you inside me.” there’s no room for putting on an act here, not when you’ve been starving for him. your hands shake as you work at his belt, desperate to feel him.

he helps, lifting his hips to shove his jeans down just enough. then he’s pulling at your leggings, the fabric catching awkwardly in the confined space. “these fucking things,” he growls, and you laugh breathlessly, helping him get them off one leg so you can straddle him properly.

when you sink down onto him, both of you moan so loud it could probably be the only thing heard for miles and your heavy breaths start to fog up the windows. “fuck, baby,” he grits out, hands gripping your hips bruisingly tight. “so perfect. always so perfect for me.” you can’t speak, too overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness, the rightness of having him inside you again.

you start moving and the impala rocks with it, shocks creaking with each roll of your hips. dean’s making these broken sounds against your neck — grunts and whimpers that shoot straight to your core. “that’s right,” he pants. “ride me. show me how much you missed my cock.”

the dirty talk unlocks something in you and suddenly you’re bouncing on him hard, the car protesting with every movement. “missed it so much,” you confess in a whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. “nothing else... mmm, nobody else feels like you.” he groans and bucks up into you, feet planted on the floor for leverage.

the position changes everything, letting him thrust up deep and hard. the whole car is moving now, rocking obviously with your rhythm. “everyone’s gonna know,” he grunts in your ear. “gonna know i’m fucking you so good you can’t keep quiet.” as if to prove his point, he hits that perfect spot and you cry out, not caring who might hear.

“i’m so fucking close,” you gasp again, that familiar tension building. dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles as he continues pounding up into you. “dean, shit , i’m gonna—“ you come with his name on your lips, clenching around him.

he follows right after, arms tight around you as he empties himself inside with a broken whimper. you collapse against his chest, both breathing hard as the car finally stills. “definitely not making it inside anytime soon,” you murmur against his neck, and feel him laugh. “good,” he says, arms tightening around you. “not done with you yet.”

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la-patrona-magdalena · 17 days ago

Text

Synopsis:

You always wanted your family to look at you, even just once. At least with a bit of the affection they gave to the portraits of your mother. Too bad that when they finally did, you were looking at the pages of a comic that showed the cruel future.

Inspired by the manhwa: no place for the Fake Princess

Warnings: English is not my first language, so I used a translator. Yandere content, neglect, abandonment, angst (?), allusions to death, original character (not the reader), allusions to torture. I try to keep the gender neutral,but in part there are mostly feminine pronouns. If any warnings are missing here, please let me know.

Disclaimer: This fanfic is for personal reading only. The use of this text for AI model training, data mining, commercial purposes, or any automated reproduction is strictly prohibited without the explicit consent of the author. Translation or reposting to other platforms is also strictly prohibited without the author's permission

Thank you.

You can read the fanfic in its original language (Spanish) on my AO3

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Masterlist

Chapter two - See them Truly

This was going to be hard. In moments like this, you wished you had inherited some of your siblings' intelligence— well, Bruce's kids', really. It would also be hard to stop thinking about them as family.

You realized that while trying to fall asleep. You don't know anything about the outside world, or how to manage money nothing. You're only 12! You just wanted to worry about getting a good grade so Alfred would give you ice cream, not about getting tortured by some clown-painted lunatic. The upside is, that won't happen for a few years, so you have plenty of time to hide from the Joker's eye and think about what you're going to do with your life once Serelith shows up… unless you end up bringing her into this yourself just to get out of this strange family as soon as possible. The downside is that you want to figure something out now, and it's really hard to think when Tim's trying to brush your hair in front of the mirror in his room, where he dragged you earlier this morning.

—If you’re doing this so I won’t say anything about— He cuts you off before you can finish. —I'm doing this because I want to. I trust you enough to know you won't tell anyone… That includes Bruce and the others, okay?—he asks as he keeps trying to make your hair look somewhat decent.

After reading the comics, you learned a lot about everyone else's skills. Sure, you already knew Tim was smart—you'd asked him for help with your homework more than once just as an excuse to spend quality time together. But you didn't know he was on Batman's level, or that he figured everything out when he was nine. Yeah, you're way out of his league. If you were him, you wouldn't bother teaching some kid basic algebra either, not when you've got complex cases to deal with. …Although, he’d probably teach Serelith if she asked him…

The point is, once you woke up with a clear head and your emotions under control, you'd decided not to tell anyone about the comics. Which means you'll have to be really careful around someone like Tim.

—I won't tell Bruce or anyone else. I promise.— You give him a half-smile, one he definitely notices… When did you stop calling Bruce “dad”? Wasn't it just you and Damian who used to call him that?

Maybe Damian had something to do with your anxiety attack—now that Tim thinks about it, Damian’s so-called “company” probably just means fights and arguments. It was really stupid of him to think Damian treated you differently just because of some fight from years ago. Besides, you don’t know anything about Damian’s past! To you, he probably just seemed like a troubled kid. Tim should’ve paid more attention to you. He shouldn’t have kept his distance just because of his own issues with Damian. He shouldn’t have looked away just because everyone else did.

He won’t take his eyes off you, not until he’s sure you’re not close to another breakdown like last night’s. Not until he knows nothing’s going to hurt you again.

—Ow!— You wince as he tugs too hard on your hair with the brush. He mutters a string of repeated apologies, mixed with complaints about how hard it is to deal with your hair, though really, it’s just lack of experience.

After some struggle and a few tips from you on how to do it right, he managed to do a decent job brushing your hair and even put in a slightly crooked flower clip.

—Thanks,—you mutter, somewhat indifferent. Tim wasn’t exactly close to you not that anyone in this family really was, unless you counted Damian’s short conversations with his arrogant attitude. So Tim’s strange behavior today is a surprise. A part of you wanted to hug him and tell him about your day, ask about his likes, and knit him something out of wool with a design he might like, now that his eyes were on you. But the other part of you, the bigger part, wanted to throw in his face how, in the comics, he was so desperate to find Serelith, sleepless nights without rest, with such a tired and loving look aimed only at her, never noticing your absence. Why was he looking at you now? Was it because of what happened last night? He was surely making sure you wouldn’t cause any trouble. Once he was certain you wouldn’t make another “drama,” he’d go away. You shouldn’t get your hopes up about him; you can’t look at him with love because he won’t look at you that way. That belongs to his real sister, not you. You have to try to act normal about his sudden concern; you’ll only make things worse if you tell him what you saw.

Tim swallowed hard at your tone, yet he kept his eyes fixed on his task. He would make sure to learn properly later.

—I’ll walk you out,—he gave you a half smile, though it looked more like a grimace trying to escape the awkwardness. You just nodded, letting him accompany you to your bedroom door. —I homeschool,—you replied, returning the same awkward smile, which in your case looked more like a dry smile— —I just have to go to the study room. —Ah…— His uncomfortable smile faltered a bit. Why don’t you go to school? Did you even go once? Now that he looked at you properly, he should have known—you’re not wearing any uniform. —I’ll walk you there then.

You nodded, and Tim led the way to your door, then stood there still. Which was your study room inside the mansion? Maybe you studied in the library? Apparently, you noticed his confusion and walked past him, now leading the way yourself. In a few minutes, you showed him how to get to your study room. It was near the library, and he didn’t waste time analyzing the place as much as he could with a quick glance. It was a slightly small room compared to the usual rooms in the mansion, with several of your study things near a small worn-out stool, scratched in bright colors with different little animals. Inside was an older man, unknown to him, accompanied by Alfred, who gave a somewhat surprised look upon noticing him.

—Master Drake?—Alfred asked, while the man, who Tim assumed was your teacher of some unknown subject, looked at him with curiosity. —Oh… hello, Alfred. I didn’t mean to interrupt.— He looked at the stranger in front of him suspiciously while nodding in greeting. Could this man be the reason for your near breakdown? —Good afternoon. I didn’t mean to impose.

you entered the room, walking right past him, , and sat on your little stool in silence. Had you always been this quiet? Or were you only acting this way because the teacher was present? Did he intimidate you?

—Can you leave so I can focus?—you asked. You didn’t mean to sound harsh, but your tone wasn’t exactly gentle either. You just wanted space and to study without his strange behavior weighing on you. If he stayed, you felt like at any moment you might break down in front of him—run to hug him without caring about Alfred or your teacher being there. You didn’t want that. You couldn’t do that. You didn’t have the right.

Tim blinked once. The request caught him a little off guard. First you kicked him out of your room, and now your class? You? Didn't you know that he could teach you the same class you were taking without any problem? He lowered his gaze a bit, didn’t say anything right away, wondering if maybe he was overthinking it all. —Of course,—he finally replied, with that same smile that, after seeing it so much, gave you a strange chill. —I don't want to bother. He took a step back. Then another. Carefully, trying not to make unnecessary noise, like he was afraid of being a distraction even as he left. —Good luck with your studying,—he murmured before turning fully and disappearing down the hallway, his footsteps nearly silent.

He was already thinking about quickly finishing the case at hand to start investigating you, and all your teachers. Maybe he could even convince Bruce to let him take you to his apartment and homeschool you himself. That way he could be absolutely sure no teacher was hurting you. He didn’t trust any of them. Even if he investigated every teacher in Gotham, you’d still be safer if he was the one doing the teaching.

Alfred followed him with his eyes for a moment, then turned his gaze back to you, one brow slightly raised. Your behavior lately had been… unusual. You hadn’t come down for dinner last night or for breakfast this morning. He’d also noticed how young Master Drake had rushed through his breakfast and ran straight back upstairs. At first he thought it was because of the case he was working on—until he saw you with him.

Normally, he would’ve been glad to see the two of you spending time together. That finally, after all these years, someone in the family was looking at you the way you’d always wanted… But your behavior, the way you spoke to him, and that empty, pained look you gave him…

Alfred could only politely bid farewell to your teacher and to you, leaving you to study alone while he headed out to take young Master Damian to school. Who, by the way, was in a foul mood today—more than usual. Ever since he noticed your absence at dinner last night, and all the way until he got into the car this morning.

Grumbling in the back seat, the green-eyed boy sat with his arms crossed, not even bothering to hide his annoyance from Alfred, who glanced at him now and then through the rearview mirror.

Where the hell were you?

Damian hadn’t seen you since you returned from your shopping trip with Pennyworth, jumping around excitedly after buying some ridiculous comics. He had hoped, really hoped, to at least see you at breakfast, hear you talk about what you’d read while he pretended to be annoyed. But you weren’t there. If Pennyworth hadn’t told him you were fine, he would’ve gone to look for you himself. And if it weren’t for his father, he would’ve stayed home to study with you.

Not that he needed to. Obviously. He already knew everything they taught. But at least he would’ve listened to you, would’ve looked at you when you asked about something you didn’t understand, and then he could’ve mocked you and explained it himself afterward.

But Richard says “you need to make friends,” and his father agrees. He can’t argue against both of them, so if he has to socialize, why aren’t you coming along too? You, who don’t even have a double life as a vigilante, should be the one socializing more, getting friends in your civilian life, not isolating yourself in a room.

Though… part of him was glad you didn’t have anyone else. And he suspects that’s exactly what his father wanted when he decided you’d be homeschooled.

With a grunt, Damian got out of the car when Pennyworth parked in front of Gotham Academy.

—She’s acting like an idiot,—he muttered with a rough, irritated tone.—It’s not normal.— He glared at the butler for a few seconds, his annoyance clearly showing—though beneath it, so did his concern.

Alfred watched him for a moment before answering, his face composed as always, though carrying that same faint concern.

—I’ll take care of her. Master Damian should focus on school for today.

Damian turned his gaze away, jaw tense as he realized Pennyworth was trying to calm him down about his half—no, his sister.

—I’m not a child. I don’t need to be calmed.

—Yet you throw tantrums like one,—Alfred replied with his usual sarcasm. Damian only scoffed in response and started walking away, pausing only briefly to mutter something under his breath.

—She shouldn’t lock herself up like that. It’s pathetic.

When Damian first arrived at the mansion and met you, he thought you were pathetic.

Everyone else was a vigilante, everyone went out to fight at night—even Gordon found a way to stay useful after losing the ability to walk.

You weren't. You were just someone he shared half blood with. Nothing more, nothing less. He didn't pay attention to you for a while, just insulting you and telling you what a nuisance you were whenever you came near. It only took two interactions for you to realize you didn't want to be around him. It bothered him a little for a while, more than the others' attitude toward him.

He didn’t know why you, specifically, annoyed him—until eventually, he realized you were just like him in this family.

Clearly, compared to him, your combat training was nonexistent, your intelligence was average, and your hands were clean. He was the son of a devil, and you were just the daughter of a pretty model. He was a child whose father never knew existed, and you were a child who was always planned.

And yet somehow, the family treated you both the same. Except for Pennyworth, he seemed more familiar with you.

You were two kids who didn’t fit. Two kids the family didn’t quite know what to do with.

You both reacted differently to being treated that way. He fought back when necessary, every time someone dared to mess with him. You, on the other hand, smiled… and then ran off to cry. It was pathetic—but he hated it. He hated how you cried from the way others treated you. He understood, to a degree, that he came from a very different world than this one. But you? You were born here. You were supposed to be more loved, because you were cleaner, because you were wished for.

But somehow, the opposite happened. Eventually, he adapted. And somehow, they adapted to him. he made a place for himself. And somehow, they ended up loving him.

And though he’d never admit it, and he’d rather cut out his tongue than say it out loud, he loves them too.

And he knows, somehow, he knows, this family loves you. And he hates how, even so, you still don’t have a place here. They never adapted to you, not even when you keep trying to adapt to them.

Eventually, he chose of his own willto be around you. He found a way to make you interact with him again. It was difficult and strange at first, but he made it work

You weren’t close. You never have been. And he won’t allow it… not yet. Not when his mother put a price on his head and was capable of killing him. Not when that man is capable of putting Gordon in a wheelchair, capable of killing and torturing Todd, and capable of nearly doing the same to Thomas.

He wasn’t going to risk you. He’s already risking too much with the Joker knowing everyone’s identities. He’s already risking too much just by sharing a last name with you. Getting closer would only put you in more danger.

You have to stay in your place—clean, untouched.

Reluctantly, and only after Richard explained things to him, he came to understand that somehow, the situation you were in was the safest way to keep you alive.

So for now, he only comes close enough so you don’t cry because you feel lonely. He’ll send Titus to play with you, let you pet Alfred the cat, and listen to you rant about your latest wool creation or how tough a particular class was. He’ll come near and keep his eyes on you during breakfast, lunch, and dinner—even if his father doesn’t come down to eat with you. He’ll be there, talking with his usual attitude and way of being. He doesn’t act differently around you; he treats you the same as the others. And that probably doesn’t bother you… does it?

He’ll keep up that same routine until one day, he’s completely sure you’ll be safe. That you won't suffer for the life this family you were born into chose. When that day comes, he’ll allow himself to get close to you the way he’s always wanted.

If his grandfather saw him now, he’d tell him how pathetic he is for getting attached to you. And to some extent, he is. It’s pathetic how he gets angry when you don’t attend classes with him, even though he knows it’s a thousand times safer for you, according to his father.

It’s pathetic how he sneaks into your room at night just to steal a wool keychain you made and didn’t have the courage to give him. It’s pathetic how he keeps it in his pocket and carries it everywhere, wishing you’d make more wool creations for him, like you did with the oven mitts or Pennyworth’s scarf.

It’s pathetic how much he hates Drake after finding out he stayed the night in your own bed. Doesn’t he see that puts you in danger? And why did you even let him into your room in the first place?

And it's even more pathetic that he keeps thinking about all this. I'm sure by the end of the day you'll get over that attitude of yours, and at dinner you'll finally talk about the comics you brought yesterday.

He just hopes you don't look at him and think he's pathetic, how pathetic he is just because of his beloved sister.

Okay, two weeks as I promised… plus a two-day delay, dear god. The worst part is that this chapter was already written since the synopsis...

Ahem, even though I still plan to keep the two-week schedule for each chapter (now every Saturday), for now it'll be every three weeks, mainly because I’m planning the direction of the story better and figuring out how I want to develop it. I also prefer publishing chapters with a good chunk already done, not just writing as I go. And unfortunately, under my hyper-fixation on the Bat-Family, which makes it very difficult for me…In fact, I wasn't even sure I'd put Damian's thoughts on Reader so quickly, but I think they'll be important for the rest of the story. So yeah, thanks for your understanding.

On another note, I’m really grateful for all the support! I wasn’t expecting so much love and such sweet messages. I love you all, internet strangers. I tried to tag things as best I could, but one or two might have ended up mislabeled. Well… love you lots!

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