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pretentious-blonde · 7 days ago

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pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve's father gets in his head, and he takes it out on the one person who has only ever asked him to love her

warnings: toxic parents, arguments, crying, MEAN steve, hurt steve (i'm sorry)

a/n: im sorry (again), i wrote this on two separate five hour train journeys, so i apologise to the elderly gentleman opposite me for witnessing the five stages of grief i went through. @allergictosoup thought about you, so buckle up

welcome to pt. 7, can be read as a standalone

next part

series masterlist

Flour dusts every surface of the Harrington kitchen. Particles drifting through the air in soft swirls that settle on the counter, some even managing to make their way onto the tiled floor.

You’re not even sure how it got this out of hand. One minute, you and Steve were diligently following a cookie recipe—or, maybe it was muffins—and the next, he was downright threatening you.

It felt almost unfair how he leveraged his height to corner you, using the same relentless technique he must have honed on his high school basketball team—leaving you with no room to slip past him.

You’re cornered against the fridge, glancing for your closest escape route, your cheeks hurting from nervous laughter.

“Come on, honey,” he croons, voice dripping with mischief as he edges closer, a devilish glint in his eye. “Usually, you like my cream.”

For a split second, your brain short-circuits.

“Ugh, Steve!” you shriek, scandalised and horrified, your laughter bursting out before you can stop it. Your hands fly up, shoving at his chest as he boxes you in. “You did not just say that!”

But he only smiles wider, utterly unrepentant, eyes twinkling as he takes in your exasperated expression. He gasps in mock horror as you smear some of the flour residue on his shirt.

“Oh, that’s how we’re playing, huh?”

“It is,” you declare as you gaze up at him smugly, a fresh, white handprint marring his navy polo.

“Alright,” he bends his arms to engulf you, whipped cream at the ready. “You asked for it.”

You duck under his shoulder and dart toward the counter, squealing when his other hand snakes around your waist. “Steve Harrington, if you get that on me I—”

He smirks, hold in you tighter, leaning in like he’s about to whisper a secret.

“Too late.”

Before you know it, he swipes a small dollop of cream onto your cheek. You shriek, raising your hands as if to grab him, but he’s faster. Dodging your retaliatory swing, he nearly collides with the kitchen island, laughter echoing off the walls.

“Ok—please! You win!” You finally beg, giggling.

His grin spreads across his face, and for a moment, you think he’s going to comply. Then he arches a brow, stepping closer, feigning another attack.

“I swear to God, if you so much as—”

The phone rings, slicing through the chaos. You both freeze, breathless.

“Saved by the bell,” he says smugly, using his pinky to flick a tiny dab of cream onto the tip of your nose as a final victory.

You huff, wiping it away with the back of your hand, but you’re still smiling. He grabs a kitchen towel on his way to the wall-mounted phone, wiping his hands as he picks it up.

You watch him. Even with his disheveled appearance, he’s effortlessly stunning. There’s something boyish about him in the aftermath of his teasing, his eyes alight with mischief as he takes in your irritated expression.

He doesn’t look the least bit sorry—and if he apologised now, you wouldn’t believe him for a second.

“Harrington residence,” he answers as he tucks it against his shoulder, still slightly winded from the physical exertion.

It only takes a few seconds. A muffled voice crackles through the line, and just like that, it all drains away.

In an instant, his entire demeanor shifts—shoulders tightening, brow furrowing, the remnants of his smile vanishing without a trace.

“Oh… hey, Dad.”

He straightens as if bracing for impact, his hand raking through his hair in that telltale nervous tic you’ve come to know all too well. The motion is restless, almost absent-minded, but it betrays everything he isn’t saying.

“No, yeah, of course,” he says. “Thought you were coming back Thursday?” A pause. You hear a faint rumble of a voice from the other end, and Steve nods like his dad can see him. “Yeah… I’ll take care of it. Sure.”

He hangs up, his fingers lingering on the phone for just a second longer. When he turns around, the corner of his mouth moves in what might pass for a grin if you weren’t paying attention.

But you are.

You’d heard about his parents in passing, though any mention of them was always met with a swift change of subject. It was clear the topic was a sore spot, and you never pressed—some wounds were better left untouched. There was an unspoken understanding between you: his parents had never been his greatest supporters, but he didn’t dwell on it. He had Robin, the kids, and now you—a mismatched, unconventional family where, despite everything, he had found a place to belong.

“Steve?” you ask gently.

“Hey, honey.” He clears his throat, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Gotta drop you home, okay?”

His voice is casual—almost too casual, the kind of forced nonchalance that immediately sets you on edge.

“Wait, what? Why?”

“My parents are coming home… in a few hours.” He gestures around the flour-strewn kitchen. “They’re, uh, back early. You know how they get about the house.”

There’s something in the way he speaks, a little too even, too measured, as if he’s trying to smooth over something. Your brows knit together, suspicion flickering in your eyes as you search his face for cracks in the façade.

“Oh,” you decide not to press. “Alright, well, I can help clean? We haven’t even started actually baking yet, so...”

No. Absolutely not.

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” He shakes his head, a hint of that lopsided grin returning. “I’ve got this. I’ll save you some, okay?”

“Are you sure?” You study his expression, noting the strain just beneath the surface. He’s definitely not as relaxed as he’s pretending to be, but he’s trying.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he insists, stepping closer to place a gentle hand on your shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Think I can handle a little cleaning.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, your heart gives a little flip. For a moment, it feels almost normal again, lips sugary sweet on yours.

“Come on,” he says, grabbing your coat and guiding you toward the front door. “I’ll drive. Promise I’m not a fan of this either.”

There’s a flicker of humour in his eyes as he helps you slip your arms into the sleeves. But it still feels as though he is ushering you out of the place.

“Hm, fine. But you better not eat all of them.” You tell him, trying to coax out a real smile. “They were a joint effort.”

“I won’t,” he says with a grin that’s almost genuine. “Promise.”

You can’t shake the worry in the back of your mind, but he’s doing such a good job acting like everything’s fine that you decide not to push.

He’s Steve, after all—he’s handled plenty. If he says he’s got this, he probably does.

He hurries around the living room, heart hammering in his chest. He’s in overdrive, picking up discarded socks, tossing them into a laundry basket, and wiping away streaks of flour on the table.

There’s still residue smudged on the hardwood and batter-encrusted mixing bowls cluttering the counter, but he couldn’t bring himself to ignore the muffins. You were so excited about them in the first place.

He promised he’d finish them for you, so he popped them in the oven anyway, cranking the temperature and muttering a silent prayer that they’ll actually turn out okay. It feels ridiculous, making time to bake when he knows his parents are about to walk through that door and nitpick every speck of dust they can find.

But he can’t help it. He pictures your smile, the way you’d probably tease him about being sentimental, and he clings to that for a second.

He hears tires crunch against the gravel. A breath catches in his throat.

They’re here.

The front door opens. Footsteps in the hall. He steels himself, leaning against the counter like he’s cool, collected—like he hasn't spent the last two hours in a panic.

“Steven?”

He hates that name—so formal, so stiff. Only ever used by his father, and therefore only said with coldness.

“In here.” Steve replies.

Mr. Harrington appears with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes skim the room with mild disinterest, like he’s barely registering the baking utensils piled near the sink.

“You’ve certainly left your mark,” he remarks flatly, setting the bag on a chair. “We leave you alone for a couple weeks and this is what happens to the house?” He shakes his head. “The house you don’t pay for.”

Steve swallows, cheeks warming already. He has no rebuttal for that, and it stings.

“I was gonna clean up,” he starts, rubbing at a flour stain on his shirt. “Just... got caught up in the baking.”

His dad’s eyes flick to the mess, then settles on the oven.

“Baking?” The sarcasm is mild, but pointed. “Sounds productive.”

A defensive retort swells in his chest. He’s too worked up to let it slide.

“I was—doing it with someone.” He mutters out. His father’s gaze flicks to him, bored. “My girlfriend,” Steve adds. “The one I told you about?”

There’s no real surprise on Mr. Harrington’s face, just the slightest arch of his brows—barely a sign of acknowledgement. Steve feels a sharp sting of irritation. He’s mentioned your name before, more than once—dropped it casually in passing, threaded it into brief phone calls, even muttered it during those rare, fleeting visits.

And yet, it’s clear now that none of it stuck.

“She still around?”

The question stings more than it should.

“Yes,” Steve says, jaw tightening. “She’s still around.”

Mr. Harrington gives a dismissive shrug, dropping the bag onto a chair.

“Huh.” He glances at the flour smears on Steve’s shirt, then back to the general state of the kitchen. “I assume this girlfriend of yours is the one with the real job, right?”

“She’s a journalist at the Hawkins Post,” he clarifies as he exhales slowly. “It’s not like—”

“Right, an office job,” his dad cuts in. “Something stable. Maybe you could take a page out of her book. Instead of playing clerk at that Family Video.”

The words sink into him like tiny barbs. Sharp and painful.

“It’s a job,” he fires back, voice tight. “I’m making money.”

“Making money,” his father echoes flatly, ��sure. Must be enough to keep you rolling in dough.” He glances to his son after the ill joke, eyes dull, as if he’s reading a newspaper he doesn’t care about. “Could be worse, I guess. You could be back at that ice cream place.”

A hot surge of anger flares in his chest, impossible to ignore. It burns at his father’s indifference, the way he effortlessly dismisses things that matter to him. But there’s another touch of resentment, small but undeniable, curling at the edges of his frustration.

Toward you.

He loves that you’re driven—admires it, even. The way you carve your own path, the independence you wear. Your own place, your own ambitions. It’s everything he wants for you, everything he respects.

But sometimes, it does make him feel like he’s lagging behind, stuck in some endless game of catch-up. And hearing his father throw it in his face? That’s just twisting the knife.

“Where’s Mom?” he blurts, hoping to derail the conversation.

“Meeting me in Evansville,” his father replies, running a hand through his hair. “I won’t be here long, so you can relax. You won’t have me breathing down your neck for more than a day or two.”

Relax. Yeah, right.

He shifts on his feet, hating how resentment twists in his core.

He doesn’t want his dad around, but there’s also that pang of disappointment—like he’s never worth sticking around for anyway. Mr. Harrington rolls up his sleeves, staring at his flour-stained clothes with faint distaste.

“You should probably change,” he remarks. “You look awful.”

Before Steve can speak, the oven timer goes off with a shrill beep, making him jump. He strides over, turning it off and tugging the tray of muffins from the oven. They’re a little golden around the edges—exactly how you wanted them.

For a second, he imagines you here, teasing him about his shirt or the bit of flour in his hair.

You’d probably know exactly how to handle this.

He sets them on the cooling rack, the scent of vanilla lingering in the air. Behind him, his father is already rifling through his bag, not even sparing the fresh-baked goods a glance.

Embarrassment prickles at the back of his neck, creeping in like a noose tightening around his throat. He can feel his father’s presence, the weight of his judgment making his hands tremble as he carefully decants them.

He almost regrets letting you pick the pink casings. They stand out—bright, cheerful, undeniably soft. He remembers the way you squealed in the shopping aisle, eyes alight with excitement, how you turned to him with that look—the one he could never say no to.

And so, of course, he agreed.

Because it made you happy. Because that was enough.

But now, under his father’s silent scrutiny, those same bright casings feel like a spotlight, like something he should be embarrassed about. They’re not the kind of thing his father would ever see as ‘manly.’

He hates that he thinks that.

He hates that he has to think that.

“Hope you didn’t make a huge batch,” Mr. Harrington says absently. “Seems like a waste if it’s just you.”

Steve’s grip on the rack tightens, but he forces a deep breath.

“They’re not for you,” he mutters under his breath.

He almost regrets speaking up—pushing back never gets him anywhere. It never has. But he can’t help himself.

“Hm.” His dad barely reacts. It’s the sort of non-answer that grates on his nerves more than an outright insult. “Anyway,” he continues, “go get changed. I’ve got some calls to make.”

Steve hesitates, his eyes sweeping over the kitchen. It still needs a proper cleaning, but that can wait. Right now, all he wants is to get out of there—to put as much distance between himself and this moment as possible.

There’s resentment. It’s pointed at his father for being so dismissive, but there’s a traitorous thread pointed at you, too—at how you seem to have your life figured out, while he’s still stuck in this stupid loop of disappointment.

“Fine,” he mutters. He tosses the potholder onto the counter and trudges out of the kitchen.

Climbing the stairs, he tries to ignore the storm of frustration swirling in his head. He’s so tired of feeling inadequate. So damn tired of just bored disapproval in his dad’s eyes.

And if he’s honest, it scares him how easily that frustration can twist into resentment toward you—as if you being successful somehow makes him look worse.

He stumbles into the house, shoulders heavy under the weight of a long shift. The overhead lights in the hallway feel too bright as he heads straight for the shower. His clothes reek faintly of the store—a scent he’s gotten so used to, he hardly notices it anymore.

But it’s there. And he knows his dad smells it, too.

Steve tries not to think about it, tries not to think about him, as the hot water cascades over his tired muscles. Tonight’s supposed to be his night—your night. You’d made plans to see that new movie you were buzzing about, something you’d both been looking forward to.

He’s been distant this week, but only because he doesn’t want to drag you into this—doesn’t want you to see just how bad it’s gotten with his dad living under the same roof again.

Water off, towel around his waist, he pads back into his bedroom and rifles through his drawers for something decent to wear. Jeans, clean shirt, maybe that jacket you said you liked. He checks himself in the mirror, fusses with his hair—he just wants to look put together.

He’s about to slip on his jacket when he hears the door open behind him. Turning, he sees his father standing in the doorway, arms crossed, scanning the room like he’s taking inventory.

“Hey,” Mr. Harrington says, clearing his throat. “I’m off.”

“Yeah… alright.” He nods, tries to keep his tone light. “Talk later.”

He goes back to checking his pockets for his keys, wallet—waiting for his dad to leave. But the older man remains planted, gaze still on him. Eventually, he stills, looking back.

What now?

“Listen.” His father sighs, pressing his lips together. “I’ve spoken to your mother, and we’ve both agreed that when we’re all back here, it would be a good idea to have a discussion. A proper discussion.”

Steve’s gut sinks. He forces a calm he doesn’t feel.

“About what?”

“Come on,” his father says, giving him a flat stare. “You’re not stupid.”

“No, about what?” Steve’s jaw clenches.

“It’s just….” He pauses. ”You have no direction.” Mr. Harrington exhales, like even speaking to Steve is a chore. “No goals, nothing you’re striving for.”

Those words dig in like glass splinters. Steve forces himself to breathe, reminding himself of all the good things in his life—you, his friends, the sense of contentment he’s so close to finding.

“Listen, Dad,” he starts, voice tight, “it’s not like I’m not happy.”

His father’s mouth twists, disbelief etched into every line of his face.

“I don’t understand how that can be true.”

“Well, lucky for you,” he swallows, holding back the flash of anger clawing at his throat, “you don’t have to understand.”

Mr. Harrington’s gaze narrows. “It’s that girl, isn’t it?”

“What about her?” Steve’s heart thumps, a little jolt of protectiveness sparking to life.

His father waves a hand dismissively. “Let me know how long that lasts.”

“Now I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Jesus, Steven,” his father cuts him off, “wake up and think for a second. That girl is going places. You think she’s gonna stay in Hawkins forever?”

He feels something twist. He doesn’t want to consider it, but the thought’s already worming into his head, even with your prior reassurance.

You’re so damn ambitious, so ready to chase the next big thing. You moved to Hawkins on your own—who’s to say you wouldn’t move again if it meant climbing the ladder?

His silence stretches, and that seems to spur his father on.

“Girls like that always want more. They need someone who’s going to add to their life, not drag them down. And from the looks of things right now, you don’t exactly have much to offer.”

Steve’s throat tightens as he tries not to let his father’s words sink too deep. But he can’t help it—he’s suddenly thinking about all the things you love: work, reading, writing, devouring books at an alarming rate.

And him?

He can’t remember the last time he touched a novel. He’s thinking about the times you’ve told him about your articles in excited detail, and he just nodded along, telling you it sounded amazing, without any real critique to give.

What if that’s not enough?

He's had these thoughts before, but now, they seem harder to push away. Especially with his own flesh and blood repeating them back to him.

His father’s watching him, expression grim, like he’s waiting for a reaction. And finally, Steve snaps out of it, forcing his voice to remain steady.

“Dad, seriously, can we not do this right now?”

“Clearly, there’s no good time to figure this out.” Mr. Harrington’s mouth sets in a hard line. “Your mother and I want you to find a new job. A real job.”

“I’m not doing that,” Steve says, voice shaky with suppressed fury.

He likes his job, even though he moans about it non-stop. He likes that it’s easy enough to leave behind at the end of the day so he can spend time with you.

He knew that he shouldn’t have pushed back, it never works out in his favour. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him from the words that spilled out of his father at that moment. Years of resentment leading up to one of the worst interactions he could have ever imagined.

“Just—look at yourself, Steven! You can’t stick with anything—sports, school, friends—all of it, you just quit the second it’s not convenient. Basketball, football, every damn team you tried out for—quit when it got hard. Remember that?”

“And don’t get me started on the so-called friendships you let fade. You can’t keep anyone close. You can’t even hold on to the people you claimed were so important to you back in high school. They’re all moving on, building real futures—and you’re just stuck in the past.

“And college? Jesus, don’t even try defending yourself there. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is for your mother and me to tell people our son couldn’t get the grades to even apply? Now here you are, wasting away in some run-down video store. I mean—for God’s sake–-you could’ve at least found a respectable job if you weren’t going to stick with school. But no—you’re working a job any clueless teenager could do, living here, making nothing of yourself, with no plan for the future.

“You know what that looks like to everyone else? It looks embarrassing. And I’m sick to death of explaining it to people. I’m sick of defending you when there’s nothing to defend.

“So here’s the deal. You have three months—three, Steven—to figure your life out. Find a job with some kind of respect attached to it, or at least prove you’re trying for something better than that worthless retail gig. Because if you can’t pull yourself together by then, you’re out of this house for good. I’m done watching you throw your life away.”

Then he turns on his heel and slams the bedroom door behind him, the sound reverberating in Steve’s ears long after he’s gone. Completely shattering him in the process.

For a moment, he just stands there, chest heaving.

It feels like the entire room has shrunk around him, the walls pressing closer, threatening to suffocate him. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, white-knuckled.

He thinks of you—your voice in his head telling him to breathe, that he’s got this, that he’s enough. But it’s drowned out by the echo of his father’s voice, the condemning words bouncing around his skull.

All at once, he can’t contain it. He roars in frustration, snatching up the first thing within reach—some old textbook—and hurling it across the room. It hits the wall with a dull thud, slides to the floor.

The sight of it fuels him, and in a blind rush, he tears at the piles of clothes on his bed, toppling anything and everything, yanking drawers open only to slam them shut again. He barely registers the sting in his hands when he punches the wardrobe door, the hollow crack echoing in the small space.

His breathing is ragged, tears hot behind his eyes, though he refuses to let them fall. He can’t stand the thought of crying because of that man, can’t bear the humiliation of it. But it’s all so overwhelming—the heartbreak of possibly losing you, the fear that maybe his father’s right, the suffocating knowledge that he has nowhere else to go.

After a minute—two, maybe three—he sinks to his knees in the midst of the chaos. His chest aches, his throat tight. He stares at the scattered clothes, the overturned laundry basket, the scattered tapes and magazines.

Tears threaten to rise again, and he sucks in a sharp breath, willing them back. There’s no point—no way he’ll be seeing you tonight, or maybe ever again. Not after this. Not after it had been made so clear to him.

You were never going to stick around.

He stays in his room for a long time, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the house around him. Eventually, he drags himself downstairs, peeking into the hallway just to make sure his father is gone.

The silence is suffocating.

He sinks onto the couch, eyes unfocused on the flickering TV screen, and wonders how the hell he’s supposed to get through the next few months.

Steve had never been one to leave you hanging. That was the first clue something was off.

It’s Friday—your day. The one evening you both set aside, no matter what. By the end of the week, you’re both drained, desperate to shake off work and just be together.

Your schedules don’t always line up—his weekend shifts, your late nights—but Fridays are non-negotiable. You made sure of that, telling your boss it was the only evening you needed off.

You’d spent the whole afternoon daydreaming about it, picturing whispered commentary during the previews—because Steve could never quite keep his mouth shut. He always had something to say, too eager to share his thoughts, even when it earned him a few irritated shushes from strangers. He’d turn to you with that sheepish blush, murmuring an apology before inevitably doing it again. And maybe, if he’d remembered, he would’ve brought the muffins you baked earlier that week.

When he didn’t show, you lingered outside the theatre, wrapping your jacket tighter around your torso. You’d picked out a dress he’d once admitted was his favourite, fussed with your hair until it looked just right. It felt silly standing there alone, trying not to look too disappointed as other couples filed in.

But Steve was never late, much less a no-show. It just didn’t happen.

By the time you reach your car you are more concerned than frustrated. Maybe he’s with his father—he barely hid how tense it made him. It’s possible he’s sick, lying in bed refusing to call because he hates worrying you. Hell, he’s a big baby sometimes—always trying to hide his vulnerability. You tell yourself it’s something along those lines as you start the engine.

The drive to his house feels longer than usual. Every turn builds a knot in your throat, and your brain sprints through every worst-case scenario. It was a gift and a curse to have such an overactive mind.

But when you pull up, there it is: Steve’s car, parked at a slight angle like he always does. No sign of his parents’ vehicles, though. The driveway is eerily empty otherwise. You turn the key, nerves skittering through your chest.

Knocking on the door yields no response. Yet the windows glow with gentle lamplight—a habit you once teased him about. ‘Conserve energy,’ you’d nag. He’d roll his eyes but always hit the switch when leaving. The fact that they’re still on now makes your pulse spike. Peering through the window, you see no movement.

“Steve?” you call softly, tapping on the glass.

Still nothing.

Worry nudges you into action. You crouch down, lift the door mat, and fish out the spare key—the same key you’ve begged him to hide somewhere else at least a dozen times.

Your heart hammers as you open the door, the familiar creak of the hinges echoing in the silent entryway.

“Steve?” you try again, growing more confused.

You shouldn’t have to break into your own boyfriend’s place just to find him. Yet here you are, turning on your heel at every shadow, hoping to see him emerge from the corner with some sheepish grin and a perfectly reasonable explanation.

But of course, life would never be that kind.

He sits hunched on the couch, his body all stiff angles and clenched fists. Usually, you’d see him sprawled comfortably, a grin tugging at his lips, something soft in his eyes whenever he looked at you.

But tonight, there’s nothing soft about him—his posture is wound tight, like a spring ready to snap. The air crackles with a tension so thick you can practically feel it pressing on your skin.

You step deeper into the living room, heart thudding heavily in your chest. He’s always been the sweet one, the one who’d drop everything just to see you smile. But now, that warmth is nowhere to be found, replaced by something guarded. Something scary.

A word you thought would never have been possible to describe your Steve.

“Steve?” Your voice comes out quieter than you intended, thick with caution.

His gaze stays fixed on the floor for a long moment before he finally sighs.

“Yes?”

He sounded hollow, like he was done with you. Like he didn’t even have the energy for this conversation.

“Where were you?” You ask with uncertainty, hating how small your voice sounds, but you’re too unsettled to hide it. “... I waited.”

“Sorry,” he rubs his temples, though it doesn’t feel like an apology, it feels like a statement. Something he is supposed to say. “Didn’t feel like going.”

Your stomach twists, a sting of hurt blooming in your chest.

He never talks to you like this. Ever.

“Uh, okay,” you say, trying to keep your tone steady despite the ache behind your ribs. “When were you going to tell me?”

His only answer is a ragged breath, and then he drags his hands down his face, the weight of the entire week pressing on his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he mutters, “I had other things going on, okay?”

Every syllable strikes like a blow, and you can practically see the frustration rolling off him in waves. Your own pulse thrums as you struggle to navigate what is happening, feeling fully out of your depth.

“So you wasted my time because you can’t pick up the phone?” you ask, trying your best not to let your voice shake—but it does anyway.

At that, he finally looks up, his eyes meeting yours. You expect to find the tender brown gaze you know so well, but instead, you see anger there—a bitterness you barely recognise.

“Oh,” he snaps, “because your time is so important?”

His words lance right through you, and a flush of heat crawls up your neck. This isn’t the Steve who calls you pet names or who leaves little notes around your apartment just to make you smile. This person feels like a stranger, and you can’t even hide the waver in your voice as you press forward.

“Steve,” you whisper, “what is this?”

He sucks in a sharp breath, scrubbing his fingers over his scalp as though trying to ground himself. You see something flicker in his eyes—anxious, irritated.

“Can’t I have one bad day without you being on my case?”

The words punch the air from your lungs. A bad day?

Of course he can have a bad day. But that is not what this feels like. His anger is directed at you. You have not the faintest idea as of why, and that thought unsettles you as he is not letting you in to fix it.

“I’m not trying to be on your case,” you say, voice filled with a confusion that’s fast morphing into desperation. “I’m trying to get you to talk to me.”

His lips curl in a scoff. “Yeah, well, not everything needs to be talked about to death.”

A tremor of frustration flutters through your stomach. Why on earth is he acting like this?

“I’m not trying to talk it to death,” you manage, forcing each word out carefully, “I’m trying to understand.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want you to.”

He levels you with a stare so intense it makes your heart pound. Each word is laced with a fury you can feel, and it’s so unlike the man you know that it sends your mind reeling.

Before you can reply, he shoves himself up from the couch, stalking toward the hallway like he can’t stand to be in the same room as you. You’re left in the sudden void of his absence, your pulse thrumming in your ears. You lurch forward, catching him by the arm, your grip gentle but urgent.

“Is this about your parents?” you ask, breath hitching. You know enough about his situation to deduce that fact, it would be the only logical explanation. “You know this isn’t the way —”

He twists away from your touch so violently that you stagger back, a jolt of invisible pain shooting up your arm. Alarm flares in your chest as you see his eyes—there’s a dullness in them, a coldness that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

“Isn’t the way what?” he challenges, voice shaking with pent-up rage. “No, seriously—what is it? Am I not handling this in the right way?”

You want to tell him no. You want to tell him that this is not the right way to handle it. But the way he is staring at you lets you know that your pleas will fall on deaf ears.

You can see just how worn down he is. That expression—something’s building into a storm inside him. But his voice is sharp, slicing through the empathy you’re trying to offer. He hurls more words at you, each one stinging deeper than the last.

“You want me to cry on your shoulder?” he hisses, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Let you tell me how I should feel? You’re always right, after all.”

It’s like a punch to the gut. You reel back, tears prickling at your eyes. He’s never spoken to you like this—like you’re the enemy. You were supposed to be a team. A unit that supported each other—talked to each other—not whatever this was.

This was scary.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you say, your voice cracking.

His laugh is hollow, painful to hear. Almost mocking in tone, like you were too dumb to figure it out already.

“Oh, you know exactly what I mean, sweetheart. Always gotta be the smartest person in the room, right? Always got the perfect words, the perfect answer… like you’ve got life all figured out.”

You feel raw, exposed, like he’s peeling back layer after layer just to wound you.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even seem to care about the words falling out of his mouth.

“Where is this coming from?” you plead, practically choking on your words. Inside, your heart is tearing.

This is the same man who used to beg to spend every moment with you. The same man who waited for you after your shift with candy in the glove box. The same man who showed up to your apartment whenever he got the slightest inkling that something was wrong.

Now, there’s nothing but resentment in his eyes. Nothing recognisable as yours.

“You think I don’t see how you look at me sometimes?” He swallows hard, his throat bobbing, anger carving lines into his features. “Like I’m some fucking idiot—some dumbass wasting his time working minimum wage while you’re off playing reporter, living on your own like you’re so fucking independent.”

Your breath stutters, and a stinging heat blooms behind your eyes, tears threatening to spill. You’ve fought so hard for your career, your home—and he’s always been proud of you. Always your number one supporter, even when it got too tough for you to carry on your own.

At least, you thought he was.

“You know how hard I worked for that, Steve,” you manage to say, your voice trembling.

“Oh yeah, and you make sure everyone knows it, don’t you?” He barks a harsh, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “Perfect job, perfect apartment. Well, congratulations, sweetheart—you did it. You’re better than the rest of us.”

His words feel like a knife twisting. This bitterness, this rage—it’s as if he has been pushed so far that he desperately needs an outlet, and you’re the only one here.

You’re the scapegoat.

You’re the collateral damage.

“Is that what you think?” you ask in disbelief. “That I—what? Look down on you?”

He meets your gaze, and for just a second, you see the flicker of something else—pain, exhaustion, maybe even fear. Then his jaw sets, and he spits out the words like their poison.

“I think you pity me.”

A silence runs through the room, lingering in the air after his words.

For a moment, you see the fragile boy beneath his anger: the same kid who once prowled the halls of Hawkins High with a chip on his shoulder, always desperate for approval but never sure how to earn it.

You remember how he confessed, quietly one night, that he’d been bad in high school. But you never imagined this—the cruel sneer, the razor-sharp tone, the venom in his stare. Willing to risk it all in the heat of the moment.

“Steve, if you feel that way, maybe we can—”

“Don’t fucking analyse me!” he snarls, the word cracking across the room. “I’m not one of your leads for you to pick apart.”

The accusation stings, but before you can gather yourself, he lashes out, swinging a kick toward the coffee table. The impact jolts the furniture with a dull thud, sending it skidding a few inches across the floor. It’s not aimed at you, but the fury in the motion makes your stomach lurch.

You flinch—an involuntary reaction, your hands instinctively shifting, breath catching in your throat.

Everything seems to stop for him in that instant.

His anger halts, mid-flow, eyes widening at the sight of your trembling form. You can practically see the realisation crash over him.

You’re scared. Of him.

He’s never seen that kind of fear on your face before—and it hits him like a freight train, knocking the breath from his lungs. For the first time in his life, he truly understands what it means to have someone be afraid of him, and the realisation sinks in his stomach like lead.

“Wait,” he breathes, voice shifting from explosive rage to desperate remorse. “Angel, wait—”

Your eyes sting with tears you refuse to let fall, but the shock and hurt are already etched across your features. You take an unsteady step back, and he tries to reach for you, fingers twitching with regret.

“Please don’t be scared— I didn’t—” His words tumbled over each other, pleading, panicked. He moves closer again, arm half-extended.

“Don’t,” you repeat, your voice thicker this time, harsher. “Don’t you dare touch me after that.”

The words cut through him like broken glass. You can see it in the way he staggers a little, anguish flickering across his face as he tries to gather himself.

“Listen,” he starts, voice trembling, “I—”

“No,” you say firmly, turning away, each step feeling like it’s taking every ounce of will you have left. He follows, heart thudding, panic rising.

“Please—” he calls, voice strangled. “You said you wanted to talk—let’s talk. We can talk for however long—just—”

You’re already at the door, blinking back tears. Your hand is on the knob, and you glance over your shoulder, voice shaking with anger and hurt.

“I’m going home, Steve. I’m leaving.”

“No, don’t—” He begs, chest tight, desperation thrumming like a live wire under his skin. “Please don’t go.”

But it’s too late. You slip out the door, and his heart seizes. He charges after you, no shoes on his feet, stumbling into the cool night air. The gravel bites at his soles, but he barely feels it, his voice cracked and hollow as he calls after you.

“Come on, sweetheart—we never fight like this,” he pleads, each word drenched in remorse. “Please—we don’t do this.”

You grip your car door, shooting him a look brimming with hurt, tears still shimmering in your eyes.

“You know what else we don’t do?” you manage, voice raw, unsteady.

His face crumples. He already knows what you’re about to say. Knows it’s true.

“We don’t use each other as punching bags when our feelings get hurt,” you continue, anger and betrayal bleeding through every word. “Grow the fuck up, Steve.”

You slide into your car, turning the key as he watches, frozen in the driveway, his heart pounding so hard it drowns out everything else. The engine roars to life. He wants to scream, wants to beg you not to leave, but the words stick in his throat.

The tires crunch against the asphalt, and then you’re gone—taillights disappearing around the corner, leaving him standing there in the silent darkness, a chill sinking through his bones.

His father was right in some aspects—that you would leave. But Steve never thought that he would be the one to make you go.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #stranger things x reader #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things imagine #steve harrington angst #stranger things fic #stranger things x you

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nonranghaes · 2 months ago

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it's silly, but...

"sorry, we aren't eating spicy food right now." soonyoung says it over the phone to mingyu who, from what you heard because the call is on speaker, is trying to pawn off leftovers to soonyoung. not you, because your wisdom teeth just came out, and it'll aggravate it now. you look up from your phone, your heart warm at the notion.

we. we aren't doing this. we are in this together. you think you might cry. soonyoung's already explaining it to him: you can't have it, so he won't eat it, either: not directly in front of you while you're missing it this much already. you think this means he might indulge himself if he goes out without you, but you don't mind that. hell, you really hope he does if that's what he wants.

mingyu laughs after a moment, after soonyoung has apologized a few too many times. "no, it's fine," he says. "i'll ask vernon. are they craving anything that i can make?"

soonyoung looks at you when he thinks you're not looking or listening. "um... i think anything soft is good. they're miserable right now. i think i'll have to let anything hot cool down first, but... i think they'd appreciate it."

mingyu lets out a hum of affirmation. "i'll pull something together and drop by."

you fight back a smile as you listen to soonyoung thank him more than a few times before saying he'll talk to him again later. he comes over, bottle of pills in hand, and sets them down on the coffee table so that he can move your legs and sit underneath them. he drops them back into your lap, still holding on.

"is it bothering you?" he gestures toward his jaw. "i can get you something to eat so you can take your medicine..."

"i love you."

he blinks a few times. "... huh?"

"you don't have to cut out the stuff you enjoy for me." you reach out, pinching his cheek a little. "i don't mind. i'm an adult."

he pouts a little. "i'm not cutting them out completely," he says, one hand squeezing your ankle a little. "just when i'm with you. it'd be mean to sit in front of you and eat anything i know you want." he's sheepish now, eyes drifting away from you. "i like sharing with you. so... whenever we eat together," he meets your gaze again, "i'll eat only things i know you hate. okay?"

despite the tiny way your jaw aches now, you lean in, pressing a quick peck against the corner of his lips. it's clumsy, but still just as sweet, and it sends him into giggles nonetheless as he leans in to pepper your face with kisses as gently as he can.

"we're in this together," he says when he pulls back. he extends his pinky, beaming at you more when it makes you smile. "okay? we're a team."

you just giggle through the pain and lock your pinky around his own, taking the chance to steal one more kiss from him.

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amirasainz · 4 months ago

Note

Can you write a Yn Alonso story where George and her have a proper British tea party. Geroge tells Yn that she is now a true princess. .ame it fluff and cute 🙏😭❤️

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 💕

Unky Georgie

Three-year-old Yn Alonso, the tiniest bundle of joy in the paddock, bounced on her toes as she held onto her uncle George’s hand. Her rose-colored dress swayed with every step, layers of tulle billowing around her like the gown of a true princess. She gazed up at George, her eyes wide and filled with excitement. Uncle George, or “Unky Georgie,” as she liked to call him, had promised her something very special that day while her dad, was away at a meeting. Today, Yn was going to have her very first Princess Tea Party.

George knelt down to her level, smoothing out her dress a bit. "Alright, Princess Yn," he said in a very serious tone, his British accent making her giggle, "are you ready for your royal tea party?"

Yn gasped, nodding her head enthusiastically. "Yes, Unky Georgie! I'm ready!" She clutched a tiny pink purse to her side, her other hand wrapped around his fingers.

"Right this way, Your Royal Highness," George said, guiding her to a little setup he’d created just for her near the back of the paddock. He had found a small table with two chairs and had decorated it with a pink cloth, a little flower in a vase, and a selection of pastries piled high on a plate. In the middle, he’d set a small teapot with a delicate floral design and two matching cups.

Yn’s eyes sparkled as she took in the scene. "It’s so pretty!" she gasped, looking up at George with a mixture of admiration and disbelief. "Is this… is this really for me, Unky Georgie?"

George nodded, his face lit with a proud smile. "All for you, Princess. Only the best for royalty, of course."

He held out her chair, and she carefully climbed onto it, smoothing out her dress like she’d seen princesses do in her favorite storybooks. Once she was settled, George took the seat opposite her. He poured “berry tea”—actually a bit of berry-flavored water he’d prepared—into each cup, trying his best to look as dignified as possible.

Yn picked up her cup carefully with both hands, peeking over the rim to look at George. "Do I look like a real princess, Unky Georgie?"

George smiled warmly, nodding. "You look like the most real princess I’ve ever seen." He raised his cup as if to toast. "To Princess Yn, ruler of the paddock kingdom!"

She giggled, clinking her tiny cup against his. "To the paddock kingdom!" she repeated, trying to sound very grand. Then she took a sip, her face lighting up at the taste of the berry water.

George took a pretend sip as well, lifting his pinky finger dramatically. "Now, tell me, Princess Yn, what does a real princess do at a tea party?"

Yn thought for a moment, scrunching up her nose. "Princesses talk about their… about their kingdom!" she decided. "And about the animals and… and the fairies and… and the horses!"

"Ah, yes," George said, nodding along. "Do you have many fairies in your kingdom, Princess?"

Yn nodded, her face very serious. "Lots! And they’re all pink and blue and sparkly, and they love tea parties. And they sing songs to the horses so they can go super fast!"

George chuckled, absolutely charmed by her imagination. "Just like your papa and his car! Maybe the fairies help him go super fast too?"

Yn’s eyes lit up. "Yes! Papa has fairies too. And… and maybe you have fairies, Unky Georgie!"

George gasped in mock surprise. "You think so? Maybe that's why I’m so fast!"

Yn giggled and reached for a tiny pastry from the plate. It was almost too big for her little hands, but she managed, taking a small bite and grinning at the taste. "Mmm, this is my favorite," she declared with her mouth full, looking at George as if they were in on a big secret.

"I'm glad, Princess. We have to keep the royal princess well-fed, after all." George pretended to munch on one of the pastries, savoring it dramatically. "These are delicious! Fit for a queen."

Yn looked delighted, holding her little pastry like it was made of gold. She glanced around as if worried someone might interrupt their special party. "Do you think Papa will come soon?"

George took her little hand in his, giving it a comforting squeeze. "Don’t worry, Princess Yn. He'll be here soon. And when he sees you looking so beautiful in your princess dress, I bet he’ll be so happy he might even want to join the tea party."

Yn’s eyes widened at the thought. "You think so? Papa will be a prince with us?"

"Absolutely," George replied confidently. "And you know what? He might even want to be your knight, protecting the kingdom."

Yn looked at him with all the wonder of a little girl who thought her papa was already the greatest knight in the world. "Papa would be the best knight!"

Just then, a familiar voice called from nearby. "What's going on here?" Fernando had returned from his meeting, and the sight before him nearly stopped him in his tracks. There was his daughter, perched like a little princess in her rose-colored dress, holding court over a tea party with her “Unky Georgie.”

Fernando’s heart melted instantly. He walked over, a soft smile spreading across his face as he took in the joy radiating from Yn’s face.

"Papá!" Yn squealed, jumping up and running to him, her arms open wide. Fernando scooped her up into a big hug, her tiny fingers clutching his neck. "Look, Papá! I’m a real princess now!" she declared, pulling back to show him her dress.

Fernando looked at George with a soft chuckle, his eyes full of gratitude. "A real princess, huh?" he asked, looking back at Yn with admiration. "Did Uncle Georgie make you a princess today?"

Yn nodded with pride. "Yes! And we had tea and pastries, and he said I have a kingdom with fairies!"

"That sounds wonderful, mi amor," Fernando murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I’m so happy you had fun."

George stood up, giving Fernando a mock bow. "Well, I was merely following orders from Her Royal Highness."

Fernando laughed, shaking his head. "Thank you, George. This was… perfect." He looked back at Yn, his face full of love. "You know, Princess, if you need a knight, your papa is always ready for the job."

Yn’s face lit up, and she reached for Fernando’s hand. "Can we all have tea together? All of us, Papá?"

"Of course," Fernando said with a smile, taking a seat beside her and picking up one of the tiny tea cups. "For my princess, I’ll do anything."

George grinned, raising his cup again. "To Princess Yn, ruler of all the fairies and horses in the paddock kingdom."

Yn raised her cup with a giggle. "And to Papá, my best knight ever!"

As they sipped their “tea” together, Yn looked up at her father and uncle, feeling like the happiest princess in the world. And for Fernando, seeing his little girl so full of joy made him feel like the luckiest dad in the world.

#formula 1 #formula 1 x reader #xoxo babygirl 💋#fernando alonso x reader #fernando alonso x alonso!reader #fernando alonso x daughter!reader #george russell x reader #dad!fernando alonso #alonso!reader #charles leclerc x reader #lando norris x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #max verstappen x reader

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strayingawayy · 2 months ago

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thinking about dad! seungmin who's always early to pick your child up from preschool. he's waiting at the gate silently, shifting his weight on his feet as he checks his watch every few seconds expecting it to miraculously turn to 12:30.

the guard at the gate stares at him amusedly as he does so. the keen father observes other parents coming after a while and breathes out a sigh of relief when he finally hears a bell ring in a distance. he's first in line to peek in through the bars of the white gate, eyes scanning the crowd looking for his daughter.

suddenly, he hears a shriek and his eyes fall to a little girl with rosy cheeks, big bright eyes that could light up an entire room and two lopsided pigtails running towards him. seungmin laughs heartily as the gate opens, releasing a couple dozen children smiling and laughing at the sight of their parents or siblings. he crouches down as he opens his arms wide for his little girl. she jumps onto him, little arms wrapping themselves around his neck and her face buried in his chest. she looks up and seungmin's eyes soften at the way your daughter looks at her father with utter love and adoration. she grabs his face and pulls him down before planting a wet kiss on his cheek.

seungmin returns the action by peppering her faces with kisses before she giggles loudly.

"daaa shtop it." she says shoving his face away with her tiny hands. he twirls her pigtails with his fingers, pouting at his failed attempt at making his daughter's hair.

"it's okay, uncle felix said they look cute this way. but can you please make me a coconut tree tomorrow?" the little girl jumps, shaking her hands excitedly at the thought of her father making her a pigtail so she could show it off at school.

seungmin holds his chin in his hand as if deep in thought.

"hmmm. i dont know? can i?"

"oh please pretty pretty please please pleeaaase." your daughter gives her father the biggest puppy eyes she could muster as he kisses her nose.

"of course you can sweetheart. i'll be happy to."

the little girl gives her father a little dance of joy at that. "thank you." she whispers.

seungmin stands up and guides her hand into his before laughing at how it didn't quite fit. his entire palm could probably fit in both her hands in them. instead he holds out his pinky for her to grab onto. she pulls him with her as she runs towards the car. happily grinning at the sight of her father being dragged away by her, seungmin takes a moment to admire her two missing front teeth and the the sparkle in her eyes.

he wouldn't change a thing.

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madaqueue · 5 months ago

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TEAR MY FLESH, HOLD MY HAND, FEEL MY WARMTH

the weight that lies in a pinky promise

pairing: suguru geto x gn!reader

themes/content: curse/canon au. fluff, angst. mentions of fights/difficult childhood. (wk: 3.2k)

a/n: this was originally gonna be for flufftober but it got a lil angsty teehee so here we are :) also the mouse on my computer stopped working so i did all this formatting on my phone bc i'm that dedicated to serving you guys this fic

Suguru was a soft child. Chubby hands, round cheeks, gentle steps.

He was sweet in all the ways a child ought to be, at least according to your parents - sweet in all the ways you weren’t.

You, on the other hand, were loud, jarring, unreserved. “A handful,” you were always described as by those who attempted to care for you. Perhaps that’s why they allowed you such a great extent of freedom, tugging against the length of a leash they tried to place around you, but they’d need stronger chains to tie you down.

And yet, you and Suguru found your similarities - you were both unencumbered by expectations. I am who I am. In spite of everyone, in spite of the ways they tried to dig their tight hands around you and force you into something you weren’t. You are who you are.

The first time you met him, all you saw were tiny feet kicking the air, unable to reach the ground from where he perched upon the park bench. He was the only one not screaming, something you appreciated, something novel. Your life had held such chaos, constant arguments, slamming doors. The peace that wrapped around his small frame seemed to exude a comfort you craved, even if it couldn’t be articulated by your six-year-old mind, you were drawn to it. To him.

“Hi,” you chirped, lifting yourself next to him.

“Hi.”

When you grinned widely at him, he returned a thin-lipped smile, as though he had been trained by wild dogs who took eagerness as a threat, who wouldn’t dare snarl unless as a warning.

(He noticed your absence of fear immediately - how could you approach him so easily? Had you not been taught to be wary?)

(You had been taught. “Avoid strangers, they’ll hurt you.” But you would never choose the harm of the monsters you knew. Better to take your chances in the wild.)

Averting your gaze, your dirtied fingernails began absentmindedly picking at the green paint coating the wood beneath your legs. Your eyes landed on his knees, scuffed and bloody.

“Did that hurt?”

Without looking at you, he shakes his head. “No, I’m just clumsy. I fell off my bike.”

“That’s okay,” you hum, “I get bruises all the time. You must be pretty tough if it didn’t hurt.”

And this time, he giggles, crooked teeth poking through. “Anyone can get hurt, it doesn’t make me tough.”

Leaves rustle overhead as you let out a thoughtful sigh, allowing the sounds of the breeze to fill the silence. It’s comfortable, you realize, no tension hanging in the air like there always seems to be at home, no threat looming around the other side of the kitchen counter.

You tug with all the strength your muscles can muster at a large strip of paint. With a final pull, your palm catches along the fraying wood, splinters digging under your flesh as you let out a choked cry.

Immediately, the boy’s small hands wrap around your wrist, pulling it to his face. Worried eyes inspect the wound. “Are you okay?” he asks without looking up.

A small whimper falls from your throat, lower lip trembling as you hold back tears. “Y-yeah,” your voice wobbles.

You’re lying. He knows you’re lying - you aren’t particularly hard to read, he grows to learn, somehow always wearing your heart on your sleeve. It’s a trait he admires (perhaps because he’s never quite able to place his there so visibly).

When he frowns, you almost giggle at the sight - no child should frown like that. It’s endearing, the way his eyebrows furrow, mouth tugged downward.

“Can I make it better?”

It takes very little to make you trust him, but you believe he wouldn’t hurt you. Just as animals seem able to sense intent, an implicit knowledge that the human freeing them from a cage won’t inflict additional pain, you know that his stubby fingers won’t dig at your flesh and make you bleed.

So, you nod.

Determined eyes turn from your visibly pained face to your aching palm. Slowly, he removes the shards of wood from your skin. When you wince, he pauses immediately, waiting for your shoulders to relax before he continues. By the time he’s finished, your bottom lip is red from biting into it but the pain isn’t even noticeable, not when every nerve in your body seems focused on the warmth coming from his fingertips still lingering on your wrist.

“There,” he breathes through the softest smile, “all done.”

“Thanks,” and you can’t help but grin back.

“And see!” He’s beaming now. “You were very tough!”

Your laugh is brighter than the sun, more calming than the birds chirping overhead, a sound he can’t help but mirror. His desire to cheer you up, to comfort you through it all, makes your cheeks warm.

“I’m Suguru, by the way.”

He opens up easily to you, an honor you don’t quite understand yet. When you introduce yourself, he repeats your name back slowly, the vowels sweet like the flowers blooming nearby. It sounds good in his voice.

A whistle cuts through the humidity, immediately drawing Suguru’s attention.

“I gotta go,” his face draws into that adorable pout again.

“Oh.” Dropping your attention, it falls to your freshly healed hands resting in your lap. “Can you do me a favor?”

Expectant eyes meet yours.

“Promise me I’ll see you again?”

This time, he smiles so wide his cheeks push up into his eyes, crinkling at the corners. Holding out a hand, he gently grasps yours as he intertwines your fingers.

“Pinky promise,” he grins, linking them together with a shake.

Through a giggle, you mimic, “pinky promise.”

He shuffles off the bench, clumsy feet landing on the ground before he hobbles off to the waiting arms of a parent who seems to love him. Your heart aches for a moment before it stills - you’re happy he has someone to take care of him, to pull the splinters from his hands and clean off the scrapes on his knees.

It’s a miracle when you both get placed at Jujutsu Tech. It takes very little for you to abandon the place you called home, having jumped at the first chance to leave your childhood behind, but having Suguru there makes it even easier when you get approached by a strange man with dark hair and glasses who touts himself as the principal of some elusive school a few hours away. They’ll pay for your housing, your food, anything you need to survive for the next four years so long as you agree to train and work for them. It was an easy yes - you would have done more for less.

And of course, there was your so-called “power.” The two of you had danced around the subject for years, hesitantly testing each other’s experiences to not unload worry onto the other. That was the thing about Suguru - he was always looking out for you, and you, him. He never needed to ask if you were thirsty, he’d just bring you tea; you never had to ask if he was lonely, you’d just find him sitting alone on the same park bench.

It was Suguru who finally broke on his thirteenth birthday while the two of you made your way through town, snowflakes hanging in the air.

“Do you ever…see things?” he asked, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket in a futile search for warmth.

From the corner of your vision, you caught the faintest glimmer of fear in his eyes. And you understood immediately.

“Yes.”

His shoulders visibly relaxed, hot breath puffing into the air. “Thank god,” he murmured.

Again, it wasn’t a surprise, per se - the two of you had shared everything. It only seemed natural that you would share this ability to see curses, the monsters hiding in the shadows.

“Do they ever…scare you?” Your voice felt small as you asked - you hadn’t yet reached relief, or at the very least, neutrality towards these things.

And he sees it in you, too - the dread he felt when he first saw them, the pang of terror that shoots up his spine when he catches one moving in the dark. He’s grown more accustomed to their presence, but there’s still that thread of fear lingering, choking him when he gets tangled in it.

“Yes.”

Cold fingers lace through yours, squeezing your hand reassuringly.

“But I’ll always keep you safe,” he smiles that sweet, soft smile, “pinky promise.”

The training wasn’t easy. You hadn’t expected it to be, obviously, but fuck was it hard.

Suguru excelled initially, as he did with everything. The others in your small class also show great potential, Satoru in particular, but Shoko’s abilities develop in her own way, too.

It’s nice to finally feel like you have a place where you belong, to have people to return to, people who care about you, who love you. It’s nice to be here, even if it pushes you to your limits everyday, because you know you’ll always have someone to come home to - to know you’ll always have Suguru to come home to.

It hits you on a sunny day in October when you’re watching him spar with Satoru. Fists fly, a mix of black and white flashing across the grass. When Gojo lands a particularly well-timed punch, Suguru’s body lands with a thud in the dirt.

You’re on your feet in less than a second, shoving Satoru out of the way as you stand over the dazed boy on the ground. He looks beautiful like this, you think - his hair splayed out around him, blood trickling from his nose, lips tugged into an awestruck smirk - before you shake the thought aside.

“Are you okay?”

Panicked hands run over his torso, checking for injuries before they land on his face. Cupping his jaw, he can’t help but breathe a laugh at the worry painted across your features. His palms come to rest along your wrists, dark eyes meeting yours.

“I’m okay,” he sighs. Now that you’re here. “I’m tough, remember?”

Every muscle in your body releases tension just at hearing his voice, his calming aura once again blanketing you, bringing you under the warmth of his peace.

With a playful punch to his shoulder, he feigns a dramatic wince. “Just don’t get hurt again, okay?”

He knows it’s impossible - it’s the nature of the job, of the responsibilities he holds. He will be hit and bruised and battered and brought to the brink of death again and again, but right now, that’s not what you need to hear. Because you know it’s impossible too; and you also know Suguru is strong.

“I pinky promise,” he halfheartedly grins. He promises to at least try. For you.

Wrapping your finger around his, you let the heat of your bodies fill the air, vibrating in tune with the cicadas lining the trees. His hand is soft in yours. It feels like coming home - the familiar walk up the steps, the paint on the front door cracking from where palms had rubbed against it time and time again as the handle turned. The wooden floors are worn in with the path you take through each other’s lives, from the kitchen to the living room to the windows, gazing over the backyard.

Suguru had a swingset, you remember. You figured out how to use it the first time you ever sat on the sun-worn rubber, going higher and higher and higher until the toes of your shoes scraped the sky. But Suguru always struggled - he couldn’t quite move his body in the right way to grant him flight. He would get frustrated with it rather easily, until your small hands rested against his back. With a firm push, you set him free into the air, his feet kicking perfectly with all the momentum a child’s body could hold.

Maybe gravity was discovered by children on the playground. There had to be a reason they couldn’t swing forever; there had to be a reason they couldn’t reach the sun.

The problem is, though, that a star’s heat dissipates with distance. It can’t always warm you, not when your feet land back on the ground.

Over the next year, Satoru began going on more missions alone, and Shoko stayed behind to hone her healing, leaving you and Suguru in the purgatory between power and nothingness. And most days, you feel closer to nothing.

It’s eating at him, you realize. The missions, the responsibility, the whole fucking thing is taking bites out of his soul with sharpened teeth and leaving nothing behind but a bloodied mess of torn expectations. It makes him smaller and smaller, pulling pieces of him until there’s nothing left.

You can see it in the way his clothes hang loose on his body. His shoulders slump forward, the shadows beneath his eyes growing darker each night he spends with his gaze locked on the ceiling.

The foundation of his soul is crumbling, the front door barricaded closed. The windows are boarded up. You can’t see your childhood anymore. All the grass in the front yard is dead.

You miss when the sun’s rays shone through him.

You miss when he was warm.

Finding him resting on one of the old benches in the school’s courtyard, it creaks beneath your weight as you sit, the only sound breaking the stagnant silence of the summer air. That’s another thing you’ve noticed - sometimes, Suguru is so quiet you aren’t even sure he exists. If you weren’t here watching his chest rise and fall, could you even prove he was breathing?

He says nothing when you rest your head on his shoulder, not that he needs to, of course. He hasn’t said much lately, mostly responding to everyone else’s overflowing conversations with empty smiles and sad eyes.

You aren’t sure how much longer you can take it.

“Suguru?”

His body doesn’t even shift in response to hearing his name, but you feel his eyes on you even though you can’t see them, your gaze instead focused on your hands resting in his lap. Picking at the skin along your nails, you continue.

“Are you okay?”

He’s grateful you can’t hear the way his heartbeat stutters (because then you’d already have the answer to your question).

“Mhm,” he hums, his lips never parting. You miss the way they used to curl into that childlike grin, it’s been so long since you’ve seen it.

You know he’s lying, but unfortunately, you want to believe him. You want to believe him so badly it feels like you’re trapped underground, buried under your love for him, banging on the floorboards overhead, but there’s no one around to hear. There’s dirt in your lungs and you can’t breathe. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

Silently, you hold your hand in front of him, pinky raised in a question.

Would you promise?

On instinct, his own hand lifts from his side. It hovers just inches from yours, but he hesitates. The gap between them grows farther with each second they don’t intertwine, stars pushing one another apart, unable to collide. The steadiness in him wavers for a moment as you watch his fingers shake.

He can’t.

When he collapses into you, everything falls apart. Arms wrap around your frame, hands grabbing fistfuls of your uniform. He clings to you like a lifeline, the only thing keeping him from drowning. Because as a child, no one ever taught him how to swim - maybe they didn’t see the point in learning such a useless skill, or maybe they thought they were protecting him. But now, he’s been thrown into relentless waves of grief and with each breath more briney water fills his chest and he’s gasping and scared and he doesn’t know what to do except hold you. The tears falling from his eyes taste like the sea and they burn his throat, but at least for a moment his legs can stop kicking. For a moment, he has someone who can keep him afloat.

Your palms rub slow circles into his back as he cries. The sound is sharp and painful, carving into the still-beating flesh of your heart, but at least it exists. At least he’s here. At least he’s alive.

Placing your lips to the top of his head, you let them rest there as his body shakes.

“It’ll be okay, I’ve got you,” you whisper into his skin, surrounded by small strands of hair pulled loose and warm from the sun. “I promise.”

As things tend to do, they eventually get easier.

You and Suguru talk to the higher ups about changing his schedule, only going on missions with at least one other sorcerer so he’s not doing all the work by himself. They bargain and ultimately even agree to grant him dedicated days off to rest. And finally, you feel as though you’ve been granted your miracle, the scales of fate begrudgingly tipping in your favor.

(If all your pain meant that Suguru’s would be lessened for even a moment you would do it over again a million times. If all your suffering meant that Suguru wouldn’t have to endure it for a second longer, you would suffer for eternity.)

Even as fall returns and the sun shines through the sky less and less, things feel brighter. The two of you find yourselves in the school’s cafeteria making tea every night, and he learns he sleeps better with you in his arms.

When the four of you gather around a picnic table outside to recap your recent assignments, you tell some stupid joke, one that makes Satoru groan and Shoko roll her eyes through a smirk, and you hear it: Suguru laughs. And for a moment, the world stops spinning.

You all exchange glances before turning to face him, his cheeks pushed up and pink, eyes closed in bliss. You can’t contain yourselves as you join him, fits of giggles lilting through the crisp air.

That night, he welcomes you into bed with open arms waiting beneath the covers. His lips are curved into a grin as he places a gentle kiss to your forehead, a newer part of your routine, one that makes your entire body vibrate.

Snuggling against him, the warmth of his chest radiates into your skin, each beat of his heart a welcome melody.

“Hey Suguru?” you murmur.

His voice is laced with sleep as he answers into the darkness, “Yeah?”

“You’re really strong, y’know that?”

Letting out an airy chuckle, he rolls his eyes. ��I’m nothing compared to Satoru-”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

You can hear the air entering his lungs with each breath. He takes in three before he responds. “I know.”

Long fingers trace circles into the bare skin of your arm.

“Suguru?”

You know what you have to tell him - you’ve been holding it for years, keeping it close to you, carrying its weight through each day until you barely notice it anymore. Maybe it’s the change of the seasons, a different density to the air, but suddenly it has begun to feel heavy in your hands.

“Yeah?”

His hands make their way up your neck until they rest along your cheek, guiding your gaze to him through the dark.

Three breaths in, three breaths out.

“I love you.”

You can’t see him smile, but you feel it. The warmth of his palm leaves your face for a moment until you feel it again along your hand. He intertwines his pinky with yours. “I love you, too.”

#not 100% happy with this one but i've been editing it for a week and if i don't post it now i never will!!!!!!#q writes #oneshot #suguru geto #geto suguru #suguru geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #suguru x reader #geto x reader #jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff #jjk geto #geto fluff

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tb3ih · 1 year ago

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midnight snack ⨳ nanami kento

[ HUSBAND!kento takes care of both his girls ] fluff + smut!

the clock has just changed to read 3:29 am when nanami kento hears the slight creaking of his bedroom door swing open oh-so-carefully. the light padding of tiny feet come gently before they stop just at his bedside, tiny hands feeling for the comforter which he had pulled over his body.

"otōsan?" her voice is just above a whisper as her hand finds nanami's face, to which the man shifts just a little to look his little girl. eyes the same hue as yours, her long, blonde hair is a little mussed from sleep but she looks unharmed.

nanami sighs quietly, arm moving the covers slightly to allow her to crawl in, but she simply shakes her head, little hands moving to grab his hand and tug him a little as if to beckon him from the bed. "tummy hurts," she pouts.

careful not to wake your sleeping figure from the other side of the bed, he stands from the bed slowly. arms outstretched for his daughter, nanami catches her in his arms and hoists her onto his hip before exiting the bedroom soundlessly.

"alright, princess," nanami sighs, tired eyes adjusting to the light warm light of the kitchen before he sets her down on the counter. "are you hungry?"

the little girl nods her head, eyes watching as he moves to the pantry to make her something quick. nanami returns with a household favorite, biscoff cookies, and a jar of nutella. "choccy!"

nanami brings a finger to his lips, smiling a little at her enthusiasm before telling her she has to keep quiet so as not to wake anyone up. "this has to be a secret between you and daddy," he explains in a low voice, "no one can know i let you have these."

his daughter nods with a grin, pinkie finger coming to link with his just as another voice joins the room.

"let her have what?" nanami's eyes find yours at the entrance of the kitchen from the hallway, your arms crossed and your body leaning against the frame. "what's the secret, kento?"

your eyes are almost taunting when you walk over to stand by his side, the tips of your fingers grazing the bare skin of his back so lightly nanami has to assure himself he felt it. you bring your hand to tuck a stray lock behind your daughter's ear, her giggle ringing out softly as you poke her cheek. "bubba, didn't we talk about waking daddy up for snacks?"

your daughter pouts a little, muttering a small sorry as she lowers her head a little, looking up at you through blonde lashes. you sigh, "three more cookies and then off to bed with you."

"yay!" she cheers, pumping her little fist up in the air, earning a low chuckle from your husband beside you and an exasperated but amused sigh from you. "thank you!"

you watch with your husband as she finishes, hopping off the counter with a little 'oomph' coming back to hug you two good night, offering a little smooch of gratitude before nanami walks back with her hand in his to her bedroom.

you've just put the food away are wiping the counter down of crumbs when your husband re-enters the kitchen. "i'm sorry i woke you, sweetheart," he apologizes, arms wrapping around your waist as you dry the counter with a towel. "i tried not to."

letting go of the towel, you turn and offer him a smile, your hands holding his face as you bring your lips to his temple. you pause, lips lingering for just a moment. "don't apologize," you start, "you must be exhausted, kento."

he simply nods, sinking into you the moment you let a hand tangle in his hair and your other travel the strong lines of his back. "i just..." nanami breathes deeply and you feel as though the weight of his body lessens just slightly. "i hope you might be able to forgive me for my work schedule..."

you pull away to look at him, brows furrowed as your eyes search his. the lines under his eyes are deep and you can see how the overtime has pulled at the lines of his smile. "no, don't even say that," you say, "we'll always be here, no matter the time of the day. you just make sure you come home to us, okay?"

he presses a soft kiss to your lips, almost as if to seal the promise. "okay."

[n]sfw under the cut!

warning(s) — oral & fingering (f!receiving), use of 'sweetheart', absolute brainrot.

there is a moment of silence before he speaks up once more. "since we're out here for a midnight snack, you wouldn't mind being mine?"

"kento—!" you can't finish your sentence because his lips are on yours, strong hands holding your hips as he places you on the counter swiftly but carefully, the warmth of his torso pressing against you as he leans into you. "kento, please—"

"shh," your hands come to hold his face against yours, fingers pressed against the strong lines of his jaw when you feel his tongue swipe your bottom lip. "let's not wake our little girl, hm?"

a whimper escapes you when your bottom lips gets caught between his teeth, the small moment of pain leaving a burning in your veins. nanami runs his hands up your seated thighs, the tips of his fingers teasing at the waistband of your sleeping garments. he lingers there, a small smile forming at your lips when you look him in the eyes. "may i?"

you nod slowly, never letting your eyes leave his as his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama bottoms. his pace is achingly slow, tugging the silk material down your legs and folding it before letting it sit on the counter beside you. nanami's fingertips are gentle as they trace up your thighs and stop to hold your hips in place, his lips moving from yours to kiss down your throat.

he is a murmuring mess of 'you are so beautiful' and curses as he trails down your chest. you allow him to to guide you into a laying position, your back relaxing against the countertop as he makes his way down your chest. your husband takes a moment to press a chaste kiss on your lower abdomen, his eyes relishing the way your stomach caves in with shaky breaths.

hooking a finger in the band of your underwear, nanami teases the skin just beneath the material, leaving you to squirm a little where you lay. "please," you whimper, your fingers finding his hair and instinctively tangling in the blonde locks.

"hm?" his voice is a low and gravelly against the soft of your skin, every consonant of his resonating through your nerves at the moment. "if you're asking something of me, sweetheart, i'll need you to use your words."

his thumbs rubs slowly, achingly against your clit through the cloth of your undergarment, waves of heat spilling from between your thighs and washing over the rest of your body. "p-please just... make me feel good."

"with pleasure," nanami replies lowly, not a second later tugging any remaining material away from you, discarding it on the folded pile near you. his large hands are warm when you feel them against the back of your thighs, and they're gentler still as they push until your thighs are comfortably pressed against your stomach.

his lips start at your clit, offering a ghost of a kiss before you feel his tongue swirl around it and leave your needy body shuddering. though you can't see his face, you know your husband well enough to know it's taking everything in him from devouring you right then and there.

warm breath against your sex leaving you craving more, you nearly gasp at the feeling of his warm muscle dipping between your folds. he is cautious and exploratory at first, making sure you're fully relaxed before delving in all the way, the flexing of his tongue against your walls has your spine arching unintentionally off the wood of the counter.

you hear him groan into you as you involuntarily clench, his tongue continuing to work skillfully to leave your core completely undone. it's the combination of the occasional grazing of his nose against your sensitive bud and the grip of his hands on the back of your thighs when you squirm under him. "i'll never get enough of you," nanami mumbles, one of his hands coming to press into your soaked entrance. "i'm only using my lips and already you're a mess."

rather than tantalizing, his voice is observant, softer around the edges to reassure you that he would be gentle. nanami lets his finger sink into you, eyes lighting in satisfaction as he watches the way you sigh when he starts to finger you. he adds a second finger, his mouth attentive to your clit in a way that has you mewling, fingers pulling harder at his hair. your husband quickens his pace, adding a second finger and curling them, causing waves of ecstasy to wash through your nerves.

you whine his name, voice shaking as you feel the knot in your stomach untying, pleasure blinding your vision. "w-wait! i can't--"

"of course you can, sweetheart," nanami soothes, pulling you closer to his face from where you scooted up to in a feeble attempt to escape him. "you just do what you do best, and i'll take care of the rest."

and finish with a silenced cry, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel the tension in your lower abdomen snap. your thighs close around your husband's head, though he doesn't stop his movements, sinking his face deeper into you and curling his fingers in a deliciously deliberate pace.

you are a panting mess when nanami finally comes to stand over you, amusement tugging at the corner of his slick-covered lips. one of his hands is massaging your hip to ease the spasming of your frame and the other he brings to his face. you watch as he cleans your mess from his fingers, a sigh escaping from his lips at the sight of you on the counter.

leaning down, he lets his lips fall to the crevice where your shoulder meets your neck, his incisors suddenly latching on and leaving you to gasp at the sudden sting of pain. "kento, she's sleeping!" your voice is an urgent whisper, though you know it's ineffective when he lets up to look you in the eye.

in his eyes burns the emotion of a man starved, and you're starting to wonder whether you'll even make it to the morning. it isn't until he pulls your legs to rest on his shoulders that you know for sure you're a goner.

kissing the inside of your leg, he confesses, "i never wanted just a snack, sweetheart."

#xx tb3ih #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu nanami #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu sorcerer #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk smut #nanami smut #nanami #nanami kento #nanami kento smut #nanami fluff #nanami kento fluff #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff

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irisintheafterglow · 6 months ago

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can i put in my two cents on girldad!bakugo whose daughter got mom's quirk

cw: prohero!bkg, swearing, fem!reader, fluff and crack with a small side of angst

"yer mom's gonna fuckin' kill me if we don't get this out," he mumbles, furiously scrubbing at the splotches of rainbow paint covering his three-year-old daughter's previously white dress.

"fuckin!" his daughter echoes and he flinches.

"no, no, no. we can't say that," he says softly, kneeling down on the tile of the laundry room where she was watching him work. "mama's gonna kick my ass if she hears you swear, so we can't say that word...yet. m'kay sweetheart?"

"kick ass!" she laughs innocently, giggling as his face contorts into a mix of horror, shock, and joy. "dada, you funny," she babbles, reaching up to grab at his face. he fights the instinct to pull away, afraid of how she'd react if she looked too closely at the scars covering his face. you'd talked him through it numerous times before, but he was still scared she would be scared of all the battles etched into his skin. it was his own anxiety talking, he knew, and she must have received her empathy from you because she reached up toward her dad anyway. her little eyebrows pinch and her stubby fingers brush over the rough, discolored tissue. "dada ouchie?"

"dada ouchie long time ago, bubs," he murmurs, taking her hand and kissing her tiny nails. "but mama saved dada. and now," he lifts her from the floor and positions her comfortably on his hip, her head leaning against his shoulder, "baby needs to help save dada from mama."

"mama angry?" his daughter frowns and he nods, staring frustratedly at the pastel stains on the white fabric. "what dada do?"

"oi! it's not always my fault," he protests, leaning closer as his daughter tries to tug his hair. "though, i do admit, this is my shit to clean up."

"shit!" she repeats brightly, grinning up at him as he fondly rolls his eyes.

"i think you're doing this on purpose, you gremlin," he grunts and she smiles up at him mischievously.

"gremlin!" it's the same smirk he does, the only difference being her eyes match yours instead of his.

"you got yer dada's dirty mouth. mama's not gonna be happy, but i," he pecks a kiss on her forehead, "am ecstatic." his daughter's eyes temporarily flash emerald green and she points to the front door.

"zuzu," she informs him. he groans and bites back another curse, throwing the stained dress into a basket and hoping for the best.

"that dumbass isn't supposed to be here until six," bakugo grumbles. he adjusts his daughter and moves into the living room in time to catch a car pulling up at the curb of the house.

"dumbass!" he doesn't have time to scold her because, unfortunately, her quirk isn't done yet. while he hurries to kick any toys under the couch and wipe the faded paint off his hands, her eyes flash pink, red, and yellow a split second before a knock at the front door.

"mimi! eiji!" his daughter squeals in excitement. he sets her down so she can rush to the door, opening it to reveal a half-dozen pro heroes squished onto the front porch. she jumps straight into kirishima's open arms, a string of drool dripping from her wide smile.

"you're early," bakugo deadpans while his high school friends toe off their shoes. "wasn't expecting her to alert for another half hour." his daughter transfers from kirishima to mina, who throws her up into the air like a beach ball. "oi, watch it with her, pinky. don't be giving her a concussion."

"lighten up, bakugo," mina replies without missing a beat, tossing the squealing child again. "what's got your panties in a twist?"

"did her flight get delayed or something?" denki asks, taking the baby from mina and flying her around the room while making racecar noises. bakugo watches his daughter like a hawk, never more than five feet away from her. he won't admit that he trusts his friends, but he also knows he could never be too careful.

"nah," he frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. "i jus' fucked up, is all."

"how so?" bakugo mindlessly unpacks the various packages of chips and soda, organizing them on the kitchen counter and punching a stray balloon out of his way.

"accidentally sent her to school with the wrong dress on," he grimaces. "thought it was a different white one, but it was supposed to be the one for today." he disappears momentarily into the laundry room, re-entering with the stained white dress in his hand. "she was screamin' and cryin' about not having anything to wear for her school's paint-a-thon thing, so i just put this on her without checkin..."

"yeesh, she really did a number on this, didn't she?" kirishima says, examining the various spots of pink, blue, and green. "her mom say anything about what she was supposed to wear?"

"i didn't wanna bother her," he mumbles in shame. "you know how important this gig was for her." his friends nod, wracking their brains for how to improve the situation. it was mina's idea, originally, to host a welcome home party after you'd been overseas for a reconnaissance mission, which was why they'd all congregated at your house.

"if it means anything, i think it looks even better," she assures him with a pat on his shoulder. "the colors are nice."

"thanks, pinky. i'm just not good at this shit."

"what, being a dad? like it's hard?" kirishima clicks his tongue, lightly slapping denki on the back of his head.

"dad of a girl," bakugo corrects with a scowl, "you got sons, pikachu. don't even try me."

"i think what he means," kirishima gently interrupts after shooting denki a look, "is that you should be a little easier on yourself."

"she's just got her mom's quirk, y'know? i don't want her to grow up with a shitty dad that doesn't know how to help her develop her quirk." though your daughter could only track up to six people and locate them when they're within 100 feet, your ability to track up to 65 people and locate them on a country-wide scale made you highly desirable to agencies around the globe. with you gone, it was up to bakugo to take care of his daughter and keep the house in order, but he found himself struggling to know what decisions were the right ones.

"you're learning, bakubro, and so is she." denki gestures to your daughter sitting on the living room floor, concentrating on stacking wooden ice cream pieces. "she doesn't know what a 'bad dad' is. she just knows you, and i don't think you're a terrible dad at all." bakugo nods in lieu of answering, his cheeks heating as the rest of his friends echo their agreement.

"if this little ball of spunk is any indication of how much of you she's got in her," mina says with a fond smile, "then she's gonna be just fine." any further thoughts are halted by the front door swinging open again.

"i got the cake! we gotta put it in the fridge, though, since it might've been smushed during travel," deku announces, handing off a stack of gift boxes and catering platters to denki. "now where's my favorite girl?"

"zuzu!" on cue, she comes waddling around the corner of the couch and helps herself to her favorite uncle's shoulders, finding two fistfuls of green hair as handles.

"you better not drop my fuckin' daughter, izuku," bakugo warns. "i'll blast your ass to mercury."

"do you always swear this much with her around?"

"fuckin!"

"that's exactly what i don't think should happen," kirishima states, unsurprised. "have you been teaching her that stuff?"

"she's a smart girl. picks up on things quick, like her mama," he dodges. "speaking of, you got eyes on mama yet, baby?"

"no mama, dada," she replies. "mama home soon?"

"yeah, mama home soon, so we gotta get you ready." he's about to take his daughter off deku's shoulders when he hears mina gasp. he'd known her long enough to know that sound meant she had an idea, and those ideas weren't necessarily good ones. "you got somethin' to say, pinky?"

"let me get her ready, and i'll fix your little dress problem for you," she says cryptically. bakugo doesn't have much time to protest as his daughter is already stretching from his arms to mina's, giggling while they disappear down the hallway.

---

forty-five minutes and a handful of inflated balloons later, his daughter's eyes flash neon orange, the same color your eyes flash for him. she doesn't know any other color to assign me, you theorized one night as you laid together in comfortable darkness. i guess she just associates me with you.

"welcome home!" denki excitedly opens the confetti shooter while kirishima bombards you with a sizable flower bouquet. you're standing speechless in the doorway and he watches your eyeline; it scans the room and its many shimmering balloons, paper streamers, and hero friends until it lands on him and your daughter, holding tightly to his pinky by the kitchen table. when the glitter settles, he gives her a nod, an okay to let her run to you.

"hi, my darling!" you beam, picking her up to hold her close and meet your husband's eyes over her shoulder. "and hello, my love," you murmur as his hands find your waist, pulling you close and pressing his lips to your forehead.

"missed you," he hums, his breathing finally returning to a steady rhythm for the first time in weeks. "she's been a handful."

"i'm sure she has." katsuki's expression is soft, only reserved for you and the child in your arms.

"how was the job?"

"a lot," you admit, allowing yourself to decompress now that you're home. "i can't tell if my head hurts from my quirk or the ten-hour flight," you smile tiredly.

"you got enough in the tank to entertain our friends? or do you need me to kick 'em out?"

"if it's these guys," you say, looking at the rowdy group of guests passing around plates and flatware, "of course i can."

"i guess we got more incoming," katsuki observes as another carload full of his friends arrive. "can we get you some food? baby and i will handle being welcome committee."

"well, do you, uh," you chuckle, finally acknowledging the pink-splattered elephant between you two. "do you wanna tell me why your shirt looks like you hugged a rainbow? and why her dress' stains look older?"

"oh, right. this." he looks down at his previously white button-down, now colored various shades of orange, blue, yellow, and pink to match his daughter's dress. you raise your eyebrows knowingly, already amused even before he answers.

"yeah," you smirk. "that." he shrugs, snaking a hand behind your back and leading you to the platters of dinner on the counter.

"it was paint-a-thon day."

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! commissions and nsfw requests can be sent through my fiverr! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

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voitier · 22 hours ago

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𝒾𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝒸𝒽... your angel of a boyfriend always respected your wishes and boundaries. but what happens when you feel your resolutions slowly crumble to the ground?

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈... [smut!] teasing, making out, mentions of dry humping, fingering, reader's first time, softdom!gguk × inexperienced!reader, gentle sex, mentions of discomfort during penetration.

▸ 𝓔𝓷𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓱 𝓲𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓪𝓰𝓮

▸ 𝔀.𝓬: 2𝓴 +

There were certain things you absolutely loved about your boyfriend, like the way his eyes lit up in excitement when you cooked him his favourite meal, or the way his natural non-toxic masculine energy immediately put you at ease, making you slide into your soft feminine energy naturally. This was probably one of the first things you noticed even before you got together, slowly becoming aware of how well you fit into a balanced dynamic that you both felt comfortable in.

But, most of all, you loved the way he never pushed you to do things you weren't keen on doing, never made you feel like you had to something for him "because he said so", never forced anything. Always treated you so well, so gently, so lovingly. He held you at night tight enough like he was afraid you would slip from his arms, but also so delicately like he was scared he could break you if he made a tiny mistake, the same way glass shatters to the ground if you're not careful enough.

So it shouldn't have been a surprise when you told him you weren't ready to have sex just yet, tears striking down your face in fear he would leave you right then and there, and he didn't even appear to be annoyed by that. If anything, he ran you a warm bubble bath, hugging you from behind while cuddling you and whispering sweet nothings to reassure you that no, he wouldn't leave you for that and yes, he would wait as long as you needed.

"Thank you," you had whispered, sniffling softly as the sobs finally subdued. Jungkook gathered the bubbles in the palm of his hand, blowing them in your face. His expression visibly relaxed as you giggled, wiping the scented bubbles that landed on the tip of your nose.

"Princess, I don't want you to feel pressured about doing anything with me, got that? I could never leave you, I love you too much. Also, your cute little face got me wrapped around your pinky."

A few months had passed from that moment, and he had kept his promise. This doesn’t mean that you never shared moments of intimacy, but rather that you both opted for things that you liked and were comfortable in, like grinding while making out, or giving and receiving oral. And you always felt so at ease, so sure that he would never take advantage of you in any way or form.

But as time went on, you felt your resolutions slowly crumble to the ground: it all started with following him on set, watching mesmerized as he posed for the camera. He was magnificent in his expressions, in his demeanor, in the way he rocked the outfits given by the CK company. He was confident, alluring, his muscles moving in a way that made you feel tingly all over. His eyes caught yours, crouched on the chair behind the camera, trying to be invisible to the eyes of all the professionals that hurriedly walked around you. You watched as a weird glint sparkled in his eyes, his lips curling in a knowing smirk briefly before he snapped back into character, leaving you a flustered, breathless mess. You weren’t entirely sure, but after that it looked like he posed even sexier for the camera, manipulating his body so that it could allure you in the same way a siren’s song allures pirates before devouring them. and god, did it work…

You shifted around uncomfortably, fiddling with your phone, looking around at anything to tear your eyes from your boyfriend, trying to ignore the wetness pooling between your legs. and Jungkook took notice of every effort you made to hide your need, quite amused by it all. Soon after, the director called for the end of the day, screaming loud enough for everyone to hear “good job, guys, see you tomorrow!”, clapping his hands and stopping by the photographer to discuss something about the lightning of some photos.

Jungkook shrugged his shoulders, stretching his body to relax his tensed limbs before making his way to you, chuckling darkly when he noticed you acting like you weren’t paying any attention to him. he leaned over you, trapping you between his arms as his lips hovered your ear. “What's wrong, princess?” he purred, nibbling softly your earlobe. Your breath struck in your throat at his sultry tone, and you prayed he couldn’t hear your heart thrumming in your chest, or your hands shaking by your side. You felt like you were floating in a bubble where nothing mattered aside from his presence, and his musky cologne that clouded your senses and made your head dizzy. You closed your eyes breathing it in, parting your lips slightly to let out a soft breath.

Jungkook hummed pleased at your responsiveness, cupping your jaw with his warm hand. He traced your bottom lip with his thumb, staring at it almost as if hypnotised by his own action, pulling it down softly before murmuring “let’s go home, princess”, a tinge of urgency lacing his words.

The drive home was probably the quickest you’ve ever been in, with Jungkook’s foot slamming the pedal to the ground, one hand grabbing possessively your thigh and fingers touching where you most need him with featherlight pressure. As soon as the car pulled into the driveway Jungkook was quick to pick you up and bring you inside, pushing your back against the door as soon as it closed behind you.

His lips immediately found yours, pulling you into a desperate kiss. He gently pulled your hair at the back of your neck, angling your face better in order to deepen the kiss. You moaned, the sound swallowed by your boyfriend’s lips, hands tugging at his shirt to take it off. Jungkook pulled back slightly, groaning at the sight of your swollen red lips and hooded eyes. “Bedroom?” he asked, throwing his shirt on the ground.

“Yes, please” you whispered, following him around the house as more kissing and more stripping occurred, ending up in the bedroom already half naked and even more worked up than before. You wiggled out of the shirt that covered your chest and your panties-clad bottom, straddling your boyfriend’s lap as he sat against the headboard.

“C’mon, princess, you know what to do” he said, hands holding your thighs firmly while you rocked back and forth, whimpering as his still clothed boner provided the perfect friction against your aching clit. “Want… more,” you cried out, hips rutting desperately. Jungkook’s lips latched on your skin, sucking deep purple spots all over your neck and collarbones. “Yeah?” he asked against your flesh, “what is it that you want, princess?”

Your cheeks burned at the embarrassment, yet it didn’t stop you from whimpering “want you inside me”. You felt your boyfriend’s body tense beneath you, his kissing stopping on the spot. His hand cupped your jaw, keeping you in place as his eyes locked with yours. “What did you say, princess?”

If possible, you felt your whole body catch on fire just from his tone alone, trying to divert your gaze as you repeated shyly “want… want you inside me. Please”. You swore you felt his cock throbbing at your words, his pupils completely blown out in lust. The fingers that held your jaw twitched briefly before he asked “you’re sure, princess?”, struggling to hide the restraint in his voice. You nodded, rocking your hips tentatively to spur him on.

He bit his lip, trying to hold back the smile that threatened to break over his face. He failed at that, though, and a happy giggle escaped his lips as he switched your position, letting you fall on the soft pillows, your back landing on the mattress. He showered your face in excited kisses before he finally calmed down, a serious expression on his face. “Promise you’ll tell me if I'm hurting you or if you want to stop”. You smiled, nodding your head. “Pinky promise”. And just like that he was on you again, reaching a hand behind your back to flick your bra off your chest, sighing in pleasure once he cupped your breast in his hand, gently rolling your nipple between his thumb and pointer finger.

“Always looking so pretty,” he purred, reaching a hand down to unzip his pants, trying to take some pressure off his painfully hard member. He groaned, muttering a small “fuck,” before lowering his head on your torso, kissing his way down all the way to your panties. He pressed a hand on your thigh, keeping you spread over in front of his eyes. He smirked pleased at the wet patch on the baby blue fabric of your thong, rubbing his thumb up and down your clothed slit, then pressing his finger on your clit. “Oh fuck- please, Kook,” you moaned, bucking your hips up to gain some more friction.

“Patience, princess,” he whispered, blowing softly on your clothed sex. You gasped at the feeling, trying to press your thighs back together, but you were stopped by Jungkook’s firm grasp that pinned you to the bed. “How sensitive,” he chuckled, teasingly licking a stripe up the drenched fabric. You whimpered, a string of pleas falling repeatedly from your plush lips as you grew progressively more desperate for more.

“Oh I know, I know, princess,” he cooed, hooking his fingers under the waistband of your panties and pulling them down, throwing them somewhere on the floor. “Gonna make you feel so nice,” he continued, stopping to admire your glistening folds, all wet and leaking just for him. He ran his pointer finger between your folds, gathering your moisture before slowly slipping the finger in.

“Oh-” you gasped, closing your eyes as Jungkook’s finger stroked your walls, curling it just right. “Gonna put another one in,” he murmured, slipping another finger in. A loud moan escaped your lips, spurring your boyfriend to move in quicker and deeper movements, his fingers hitting repeatedly your g-spot almost as if in a quest to let you release as many sounds as possible. Slick sounds and ragged breaths filled the room, your mind clouding into a hazy state. The bands in your stomach threatened to snap at any moment now, your walls fluttering around Jungkook’s fingers.

Said man, of course, wanted to toy with you a little longer before giving you the relief you needed, and that’s why he immediately pulled his fingers out, chucking darkly at your disappointed whines. He slipped the same two fingers in his mouth, moaning around them as your juices dripped on his tongue. “Always taste so good,” he groaned, leaning down to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Think you’re ready for me, princess?”

You nodded eagerly, though you couldn’t hide the nervousness pricking at the back of your neck. “Can you just… be gentle? Like, a lot? Pretty please”.

“Of course, princess, you don’t even have to ask. We’re gonna take it nice and slow, yeah?” of course there was no doubt that Jungkook already planned on taking it easy with you, nevertheless the confirmation was much needed for you, helping your nerves ease even a tiny bit.

The man sat back on his knees, taking off his pants and briefs in one go. Even though it wasn’t the first time you had seen him completely naked, you couldn’t help but stare at him mesmerised. He was just that good looking, his body built the same way the greeks carved their most beloved statues. Your mouth ran dry at the sight, and your hands itched to explore every inch of flesh.

Jungkook leaned back down, caging your head between his arms. He stroked your cheek lovingly, kissing you softly before asking “Do you want me to put a condom on?”

You shook your head, whispering “I’m still on the pill, it’s fine. Wanna feel you raw”. Your boyfriend closed his eyes at the confession, your desire of feeling him bare both arousing and touching. “Okay,” his hand reached between your bodies, holding his member in a firm grasp as he ran his almost purplish tip over your folds, gathering your wetness.

“Oh god,” you choked out, your walls clenching around nothing. Finally, Jungkook aligned his cock with your entrance, looking at your face one last time before slowly pushing it in, holding you closer to his chest as you gasped in discomfort. “Kook…ngh, wait…”

“I got you, princess,” he cooed, stopping his motion immediately. He stroked your hair, and he didn’t even wince when you bit his bicep to ignore the discomfort between your hips. “‘s alright, love. I promise it’s gonna feel nice really soon, hold tight for me”.

You nodded, taking a shaky breath in before your boyfriend pushed a couple more inches or so inside you, settling deep before he stilled his movements, waiting for you to give him permission to do anything. Despite the uncomfortable sensation, you couldn’t ignore how full you felt and how good it felt to have him nestled inside your walls completely bare, allowing you to feel even the littlest throb. Meanwhile, your angel of a boyfriend did everything in his hold to distract you, from kissing your lips to nibbling your earlobe, wanting you to feel good yet feeling guilty because he couldn’t do anything to let the pain subside faster.

“Mmh- Kook… I think you can move now,” you croaked out, catching Jungkook’s attention. The man whispered a soft “okay,” then locked your lips in a slow and passionate kiss as he began moving, pulling out almost entirely before pushing back in, over and over again. Soon, you whimpers of discomfort turned into moans of pleasure, and Jungkook followed you by example. Noises of skin slapping skin echoed in the bedroom, almost harmonising with your moans and grunts.

“Princess… can I- fuck, can I go faster?” you nodded again, throwing your head against the pillows as Jungkook’s hips picked up their pace, almost snapping against your body. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, jaw hanging low while your boyfriend got drunk on the sight, hissing as he felt himself approaching his orgasm at light’s speed. His hand reached down, toying with your clit to bring you closer to your finish line. However, he almost lost it all when you let out a loud, almost pornographic, moan, your walls sucking him in greedily.

His brows furrowed in concentration, determined to make you cum before he did. “C’mon, princess, give it to me,” he grunted, applying the right pressure to your clit to make you completely unravel under him, whimpering and shaking as your walls fluttered around his dick. “Fuck!” he exclaimed, pulling out just in time to spill his warm milky white cum on your tummy, decorating your skin in ropes of white.

He laid beside you with a huff, scanning your body with his eyes to check that everything was alright. He took a strand of hair falling onto your eyes and lovingly pushed it behind your ear, smiling at you softly as you opened your eyes back. “Doing alright, love?”

You hummed, feeling too weak to mutter out anything. Your body still shook with the aftershocks of your orgasm, and you felt your sensitive sex still pulsing uncomfortably, but overall you felt great, and your mind wasn’t running miles per hour for once.

Jungkook pulled you in closer, wrapping his arms around you, holding you tight. “C’mon, I’ll run us a bath. You’ve been so good, I love you so much, princess.”

⭒ a.n: first fic on here! let me know what you guys think, I'm so excited!

#© voitier #bts jungkook #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts #bts fic #jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook #jeongguk #jeon jeongguk #jeon jungkook smut #jungkook imagine #jungkook smut #jungkook bts #jung kook #bts smau #bts jk #bts x reader #bts army

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princesseilish · 18 days ago

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i loveee ur billie daughter stories pls pls pls make moreeeee

can you do one about billie being stressed or jealous please?!!! love ur fics smmm

NEGOTIATE

Billie Eilish x Fem!Reader

Warnings: fluff, mom!billie, mom!reader

Synopsis: Billie promised her daughter Disneyland a week prior

Billie was exhausted.

The kind of exhaustion that seeped into her bones, made her eyelids heavy, and turned every sound into a dull hum in the back of her head. The week had been a whirlwind of studio sessions, meetings, and barely-there sleep, and now? Now she was lying flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, barely clinging to consciousness.

And then—bounce.

The mattress dipped.

Then again.

A small giggle.

Billie groaned internally. Here we go.

“Mommy,” Rosie’s tiny, determined voice rang out.

Billie cracked one eye open just in time to see her daughter mid-air, bouncing high before landing on her knees beside her.

“Wake up,” Rosie whined, pressing her tiny hands into Billie’s chest.

Billie sighed, rubbing a hand down her face. “Bug, what’re you doing?”

Rosie’s face lit up, excitement practically vibrating off her small frame. “It’s Disneyland day!” she squealed, bouncing again.

Billie swore she felt her soul leave her body.

Shit.

She had promised, hadn’t she? A whole week ago, when exhaustion wasn’t gripping her like a vice, when the idea of taking a whole day to run around after an overexcited five-year-old didn’t seem like absolute hell.

Now, the mere thought of standing in long lines, pushing through crowds, and making sure Rosie didn’t bolt toward every princess in sight made her want to cry.

Billie groaned, pulling Rosie into her arms to stop the bouncing. “Bug,” she started carefully, rubbing slow circles into her daughter’s back. “Can we… maybe go another day?”

Rosie gasped.

Like, full-on, dramatic, offended gasp.

“But—you pinkie promised,” she whined, holding up her tiny pinkie in betrayal.

Billie winced.

That’s when Y/N walked in, fresh out of the shower, towel wrapped around her body, hair damp. “What’s going on?” she asked, brows raised as she took in the scene.

Rosie whipped around, pointing at Billie with the utmost seriousness. “Mommy’s trying to cancel Disneyland!”

Y/N bit back a smile. “Oh, she is, huh?”

“Not cancel,” Billie grumbled. “Just reschedule.”

Rosie crossed her arms, lips pressing into a stubborn pout. “Same thing.”

Y/N hummed, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I see. But Rosie, you know Mommy’s been working really hard this week, right?”

Rosie frowned, thinking. “Yeah…”

“And don’t you want her to be super awake and not grumpy when we go?” Y/N teased, booping her daughter’s nose.

Rosie giggled, then seemed to consider her options. After a long, dramatic pause, she nodded. “Okay,” she said, sitting up straighter. “But only if we make a deal.”

Billie let out a small, amused huff. “Oh, you wanna negotiate now?”

Rosie nodded, eyes twinkling. “Yep! If we don’t go today, then…” She tapped her chin, thinking hard. Then—“I get two bedtime stories tonight.”

Billie raised a brow. “That’s all?”

“And—” Rosie added quickly, holding up a tiny finger, “—Mommy takes me to get froyo. Just me and Mommy.”

Y/N grinned, nudging Billie. “That sounds fair, don’t you think?”

Billie sighed, defeated but amused. “So let me get this straight—you’re okay with going to Disneyland another day as long as we read you two bedtime stories and Mommy takes you to get froyo?”

Rosie nodded, very pleased with herself.

Billie smirked, pulling her into a hug. “You drive a hard bargain, bug.”

Rosie giggled, snuggling in. “I know.”

Y/N leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Billie’s temple. “See? Problem solved.”

Billie hummed, squeezing Rosie tighter. “Yeah, yeah. But next time, I’m making you do the negotiating.”

Rosie perked up, grinning at Y/N. “Mommy, can we practice now? I wanna be president!”

Billie groaned, while Y/N laughed.

“Baby,” Y/N teased, “if you can convince your mom of anything, I think you will be.”

#princess diary ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚#wlw #wlw fiction #wlw post #billie eilish #lesbian #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish x reader #hmhas billie eilish #hmhas tour #billie eilish fic #billie eilish x y/n

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daisymbin · 3 months ago

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46. "you doodled hearts in my notebook again." with woozi :’)

ah!!!! so cute!!! thank you for requesting!! 🥰

request your own: full prompt list!

check out my masterlist! // jihoon’s m.list

fluff prompt #46: "you doodled hearts in my notebook again."

jihoon flipped open his notebook, ready to show the boys the new lyrics he'd been working on. the practice room was its usual chaos—mingyu rummaging through snack bags, chan tapping out a beat on his knee—but they quieted when jihoon cleared his throat.

“alright, listen to this,” he began, but the words caught in his throat when he looked down.

his notebook, usually filled with meticulous handwriting and carefully crafted lyrics, was now decorated with tiny hearts scattered across the margins.

“oh my god,” mingyu gasped, leaning over before jihoon could close the notebook. “again?”

chan burst into laughter, craning his neck to look. “that’s the third time this month, isn’t it? your notebook’s turning into a scrapbook.”

“it’s cute,” mingyu teased, smirking as he leaned back in his chair. “you know she does it because she loves you, right?”

jihoon sighed, snapping the notebook shut. “can we focus on the lyrics?”

chan grinned, nudging mingyu. “i think he likes it, though. look at him blushing.”

“i’m not blushing,” jihoon shot back, his ears burning as he stuffed the notebook into his bag.

mingyu waved him off with a laugh. “whatever you say, loverboy. now, are you going to play us the song, or are we just here for show-and-tell?”

“the song,” jihoon muttered, trying to suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. no matter how much they teased him, he couldn’t deny how those little hearts made him feel.

later that evening, jihoon walked through the front door of your shared apartment, the soft glow of the living room lights welcoming him home. you were on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, flipping through a book. you looked up when you heard him, your face lighting up.

“you’re home,” you light up, setting the book aside. “how was work today?”

jihoon shrugged off his bag and walked over to join you on the couch. he sat beside you, leaning his head against your shoulder as the rest of his body melts against you. he let out a tired sigh, but there was something warm and soft in his expression.

“it was fine,” he said, glancing up at you. after a beat, a small smile crept onto his face. “you doodled hearts in my notebook again.”

your eyes widened, and you immediately covered your mouth to stifle a laugh. “oh no. did the guys see?”

jihoon nodded, the memory still fresh in his mind. “mingyu wouldn’t shut up about it. chan either.”

“i’m sorry,” you said, though you couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. “i didn’t think they’d notice.”

jihoon shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “they notice everything. but it’s fine.”

you raised an eyebrow. “fine? you didn’t hate it?”

he let out a soft chuckle, leaning his head back against the couch. “hate it? no. i mean... it’s a tiny bit embarrassing, sure, but...”

“but what?” you pressed, leaning closer to him.

he glanced at you, his expression softening. “but it’s nice. it makes me think of you while i’m working.”

your cheeks flushed, and you couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. “so you do like it.”

jihoon rolled his eyes, but the smile didn’t leave his face. “don’t push it.”

“you’re so cute when you’re flustered,” you teased, poking his cheek. “maybe i should add more next time.”

“just don’t cover up my lyrics,” he muttered, though his tone was light.

you let out a laugh, holding out your pinky.

he stared at your pinky for a moment before linking it with his, a small chuckle escaping his lips.

“you know,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter, “those little things you do... they mean a lot. even if mingyu and chan make it their mission to humiliate me over it.”

you leaned your head on his shoulder, your smile softening. “you really think so? i can stop if it makes you uncomfortable.”

jihoon’s eyes widened slightly, and he shook his head quickly. “no, don’t stop. i like it.”

you tilted your head to look at him, surprised by how earnest he sounded. “even if the guys keep teasing you about it?”

he let out a soft chuckle, his fingers brushing against yours. “let them. they can say whatever they want. it doesn’t matter.”

“why not?” you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

jihoon turned his head to meet your gaze, his expression warm and sincere. “because it’s you. and i love everything about you. even your silly little doodles.”

your heart skipped at his words, the quiet affection in his voice making your chest ache in the best way. you smiled, letting your hand slip into his, your fingers intertwining.

“okay,” you murmured, your voice teasing but soft. “i won’t stop, then.”

jihoon smiled back, pressing a light kiss to your temple. “good. because, i dont want you to. & honestly, i think i’d miss them if you did.”

and for a moment, the teasing and chaos of the day faded away, leaving just the two of you in the quiet comfort of home. the hearts you doodled might have been small, but to jihoon, they were reminders of everything he cherished about you—your love, your care, and the way you always managed to brighten his day.

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msriri030 · 2 months ago

Text

Daddy Ren X Mommy reader

“Are you sure, Ren?” you asked weakly, your voice rasping as you fought back a cough. You had recently caught a cold after yesterday’s sudden, unscheduled rainstorm. On your way home from daycare, you had shielded your two-year-old pup, Rumi, with your jacket, leaving yourself completely soaked. Now, with no cough syrup left in the house, your alpha, Ren, was preparing to brave the rain to pick some up.

Rumi, bundled up in layer upon layer of warm clothing, pouted adorably, her tiny body practically swallowed by the extra padding. She wriggled in protest, clearly displeased with the situation.

“I’m sure, Angel,” Ren said gently, adjusting the zipper on his thick jacket. “I’ll take Rumi with me so you can rest.”

You coughed again, your hand instinctively pulling your face mask into place. Meanwhile, Rumi nestled closer against your neck, letting out a soft whimper. You responded by gently nuzzling your chin against her black hair, trying to soothe her by scenting. She loved your scent of Honey covered peaches.

Therefore, Rumi wasn’t the biggest fan of being away from you, a trait that either stemmed from her attachment to you—or, as you sometimes teased Ren, something she had inherited from her equally stubborn father.

Ren smiled at the two of you, a fond but resigned expression on his face. “Rumi, come to Daddy,” he crooned, holding out his arms expectantly.

But Rumi only pouted harder, burying her face into your shoulder as she glared at Ren with all the fierceness her tiny frame could muster. “No, I want Mommy,” she declared firmly.

Ren let out a nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his head. When he tried to lift her from your arms, Rumi clung to your clothes with surprising strength for someone her size.

Ren sighed in mild frustration, though his smile didn’t waver. “You’re making this difficult, sweetheart,” he muttered under his breath.

You couldn’t help but giggle at the scene unfolding in front of you—the playful standoff between your determined husband and your equally determined daughter.

“Good luck,” you teased, your voice still hoarse from the cold.

Ren shot you a mock-offended look. “I don’t need luck,” he quipped, though his tone betrayed his doubts.

As the tug-of-war continued, you gently stroked Rumi’s back, murmuring softly, “Rumi, baby, you can go with Daddy. Mommy just needs to rest for a little while, and then I’ll be here waiting for you, okay?”

Rumi looked up at you with wide, watery eyes, her lips trembling slightly. “Promise?”

“I promise,” you said, holding out your pinky.

After a moment of hesitation, Rumi finally hooked her tiny pinky around yours, sealing the deal. “Okay,” she whispered reluctantly, her pout still intact.

Ren let out a breath of relief as he scooped her up into his arms. This time, she allowed it, though she continued to glance over his shoulder at you as if to make sure you weren’t going anywhere. Before, she rubbed against Ren scent glands, covering herself in a mixture of mahogany and rose.

“You’re raising a stubborn one,” Ren teased, adjusting Rumi’s scarf to ensure she stayed snug.

You gave him a tired smile. “I wonder where she gets it from,” you retorted playfully.

Ren feigned a look of betrayal but quickly recovered, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “We’ll be back soon. Get some rest, Angel.”

As Ren grabbed his umbrella and stepped out into the rain, Rumi waved at you from over his shoulder, her tiny gloved hand flapping against his jacket. “Bye-bye, Mommy!”

“Bye, sweetheart,” you called back, your voice soft but warm. “Be good for Daddy.”

When the door clicked shut, the house fell into a serene quiet. You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, sinking back onto the couch. Even as the chill of the rain lingered in the air, the thought of Ren and Rumi venturing out together to take care of you warmed your heart.

Meanwhile, Ren drove carefully through the rainy streets, the rhythmic patter of raindrops against the car roof filling the silence. Rumi, bundled in her layers of clothing, sat snugly in her car seat, her tiny hands pressed against the cool glass of the window. Her wide eyes tracked a sleek black motorcycle weaving through traffic ahead of them, her small brows knitting in concentration.

Ren noticed her gaze through the rearview mirror and glanced briefly at the motorcyclist before focusing back on the road. “What’s wrong, Rumi?” he asked, his voice calm and curious.

Rumi didn’t immediately turn to him, her focus still locked on the motorcycle speeding through the rain. Finally, she murmured, “It’s Mommy’s boyfriend,” her small voice almost lost amidst the sound of rain tapping against the car.

Ren’s calm demeanor faltered for the briefest second. His eyes twitched at the word boyfriend, though his face remained carefully composed, a pleasant mask for Rumi’s sake. However, his hands betrayed him, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly through his nose to calm the growing frustration bubbling in his chest.

“Oh?” Ren said, his voice light but forced. “Why do you say that, Rumi?”

Rumi hummed thoughtfully, flexing her feet in her little boots as if trying to remember something important. “Because he gives Mommy roses, when we stopped at a red light” she said innocently, looking up at Ren in the mirror with wide, honest eyes.

Ren’s jaw tightened slightly, but he forced a soft chuckle. “Roses, huh?”

“Mhm!” Rumi nodded, her little hands forming a heart shape as she added, “Also sometimes he makes hearts like this too. Mommy said you knew.”

Ren’s grip on the wheel tightened again, the humor in his laugh strained this time. “Mommy said I knew, huh?”

Rumi didn’t notice the edge in his voice, too preoccupied with looking back out the window at the motorcyclist, who had long disappeared from view. She wiggled her feet again and added, “And he likes to call Mommy pretty.”

Ren bit the inside of his cheek, keeping his eyes glued to the road as he silently reeled from his daughter’s innocent words. He knew better than to jump to conclusions—this was a misunderstanding, a child’s misinterpretation of something harmless. Still, the image of some mysterious motorcyclist giving you roses and calling you pretty churned his gut.

He took another deep breath, forcing himself to stay composed. “Rumi,” he began softly, turning his head slightly to glance back at her, “are you sure you didn’t just see a friend of Mommy’s?”

Rumi tilted her head, her tiny face scrunching in thought. “Maybe…” she said slowly, then shrugged. “But he gave Mommy lots of flowers!”

Ren’s lips twitched into a faint, strained smile. “Well, that’s nice of him,” he muttered under his breath, though his tone carried an edge he didn’t intend.

Rumi didn’t notice, already distracted by the raindrops racing down the window.

Ren sighed, running a hand through his hair when they stopped at a red light. He shook his head, silently reminding himself to talk to you about this once he got home. Misunderstanding or not, he wanted answers.

Still, a small part of him couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of you entertaining any so-called boyfriend. As if I’d let that happen, he thought.

“Rumi,” he said, breaking the silence as the light turned green, “how about we get Mommy some flowers too? What do you think?”

Rumi’s face lit up, and she clapped her hands together. “Yes! Pretty ones like the boyfriend gives her!”

Ren winced but laughed softly, his grip on the steering wheel loosening at her excitement. “Sure thing, sweetheart,” he said. Let’s see how these ‘roses’ stack up against mine.

When they arrived at the supermarket, Ren parked the car and sighed, glancing at the gray, rain-soaked world outside. The rhythmic drumming of the rain on the roof continued as he reached back to unbuckle Rumi from her car seat. She wriggled in her layers of clothing, her tiny arms outstretched for him to lift her.

Ren realized that by the time they got home, it would be close to dinner, and soup would be the perfect choice to warm everyone up.

“Alright, Rumi, let’s make this quick,” Ren muttered as he hoisted her into his arms. She snuggled into his jacket, her small hands gripping his collar for warmth and comfort. “We’ll grab what we need for soup, get Mommy’s medicine, and maybe some flowers to cheer her up. Sounds good?”

“Pretty flowers!” Rumi chimed, her eyes lighting up at the idea. Her excitement made Ren smile, despite the lingering irritation from her earlier “boyfriend” comment.

Inside the store, the bright fluorescent lights offered a stark contrast to the rainy gloom outside. Ren maneuvered the cart with one hand while Rumi sat snugly in the child seat, kicking her little feet and gazing around the store with curious wonder.

“What do we need for the soup, Rumi?” Ren asked as they strolled down the produce aisle.

“Um…” Rumi tilted her head in thought, her expression serious as she pondered. “Carrots! And… green stuff!”

Ren chuckled at her enthusiasm, plucking a bunch of fresh carrots from the display and tossing them into the cart. “Good call. The green stuff must be celery, right?” He grabbed a stalk of celery and added it to the growing collection.

“Onions too!” Rumi added, clapping her hands excitedly.

Ren raised a brow. “Since when do you like onions?”

“I don’t,” she admitted with a cheeky giggle. “But Mommy does!”

Ren laughed, shaking his head as he picked up a yellow onion and placed it in the cart. “Smart thinking, kiddo. You’re gonna be a pro chef someday.”

Rumi beamed at the praise, her little legs swinging happily as they made their way to the meat section. Ren grabbed a small pack of chicken thighs, knowing it was your favorite for soup.

As they passed the bakery, Rumi’s eyes lit up like fireworks. “Cookies!” she squealed, pointing at a display of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

Ren sighed, already anticipating the request, but he couldn’t help smiling. “Alright, fine. One pack for you and Mommy. Deal?”

“Deal!” Rumi said with a big grin, watching as he picked up a small box of cookies and placed it in the cart.

Finally, they reached the flower section near the front of the store. Ren scanned the selection, his eyes landing on a vibrant bouquet of red roses. He hesitated, then glanced down at Rumi.

“What do you think, Rumi? Should we get Mommy these?” he asked, holding up the bouquet.

Rumi tilted her head, studying the roses intently like a tiny flower critic. “Hmm… they’re nice,” she said thoughtfully, “but Mommy likes those flowers too.”

Ren raised a brow in surprise. “ huh?” He turned back to the display and spotted a bouquet of delicate red chrysanthemum, which Rumi pointed to. He picked them up, holding them out to her. “So these then?”

Rumi’s eyes sparkled as she nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! They are so pretty! Mommy will love them!”

Ren smiled, adding the red chrysanthemum to the cart. “Good job, Rumi. You’ve got a great memory.”

As they stepped back into the rain, Ren carefully adjusted Rumi’s hood, ensuring she was bundled up tight against the cold drizzle. With one arm securely around his little helper and the other balancing the bags of groceries, he made his way across the parking lot.

That was when he spotted the same sleek black motorcycle from earlier, now parked just a few spaces away. Its rider, likely the mysterious “boyfriend” Rumi had mentioned, was nowhere in sight, having already disappeared into the store.

Ren's lips curled into a faint, humorless smirk as his eyes lingered on the motorcycle. He didn’t slow his pace as he walked by, but when he was within reach, his foot subtly extended to the bike's stand. With a calculated nudge, he tipped it just enough to send it toppling to the wet pavement.

The crash of metal against asphalt was muffled by the rain, but it still echoed satisfyingly in Ren’s ears. He didn’t look back, his expression remaining calm and collected as he adjusted his grip on Rumi and continued toward the car.

“Daddy, what was that noise?” Rumi asked, her little head peeking out from her hood to glance behind them.

“Just the wind, sweetheart,” Ren replied smoothly, his tone light and unaffected. “Let’s get you warm and home to Mommy, okay?”

“Okay!” Rumi chirped, apparently satisfied with the answer as she rested her head against his shoulder.

Ren opened the car door, setting Rumi carefully in her car seat before stowing the groceries in the trunk. His movements were deliberate and unhurried, the satisfaction from his petty act still simmering beneath the surface.

As he settled into the driver’s seat and started the car, Ren glanced at Rumi through the rearview mirror. She was humming again, completely unaware of her father’s momentary lapse in composure.

Ren chuckled softly to himself, gripping the steering wheel as the windshield wipers swished rhythmically. “Mommy’s going to love the flowers,” he muttered under his breath, a faint smile playing on his lips. “And I’m sure she won’t mind if her ‘boyfriend’ has a little bad luck in the rain.”

With that, he pulled out of the parking lot, the faint sound of the fallen motorcycle’s alarm blending into the distance as they made their way home.

After you stepped out of the shower, warm steam followed you into the bedroom. You wrapped a soft towel around your damp hair and reached for a familiar shirt of Ren’s from the dresser. It was one of your favorite things to wear—oversized and soft from years of washing, carrying his comforting scent of mahogany and rose that always made you feel safe. Pairing it with a pair of shorts, you couldn’t help but smile as the fabric fell loosely over your frame, swallowing you in its warmth.

Ren’s shirts were a small indulgence you never felt guilty about, even if he teased you for "stealing his wardrobe." Truth be told, you knew he secretly loved seeing you in his clothes—it was written all over his smug yet fond expression every time.

With your hair still damp and loosely tucked behind your ears, you made your way to the couch, the cozy fabric of Ren’s shirt brushing lightly against your skin. You felt better after the shower, though the lingering effects of your cold left a faint flush on your cheeks, and you still felt a little drained.

Just as you wrapped yourself in the blanket and settled into the couch, the familiar sound of Ren’s car pulling into the driveway reached your ears. Moments later, the door opened, and you could hear Rumi’s excited chatter before Ren’s deep voice called out, “We’re home, Angel!”

Rumi was the first to burst into the living room, her little boots squeaking against the floor as she ran toward you with outstretched arms. “Mommy!” she squealed, her face lighting up like the sun.

You laughed softly, opening your arms to catch her as she practically leaped into your lap. “Hi, my little love,” you murmured, hugging her tightly and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Did you have fun with Daddy?”

Rumi nodded enthusiastically, her black hair slightly damp from the rain. “Uh-huh! We got soup stuff and flowers and cookies!” she announced, her voice filled with pride.

Ren appeared next, carrying the groceries and balancing a bouquet of flowers in his hand. His sharp features softened when his eyes landed on you, his gaze lingering on how effortlessly beautiful you looked in his shirt. A knowing smirk tugged at his lips as he walked over.

“Look at you,” Ren teased, setting the bags down on the counter. “Raiding my closet again, huh?”

You rolled your eyes playfully, brushing Rumi’s hair back as she snuggled against you. “I’d hardly call it raiding when you never even notice they’re gone,” you shot back, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Ren chuckled, shaking his head as he approached with the bouquet of vibrant red chrysanthemums in hand. “Fair enough. Here—these are for you,” he said, his tone softening as he extended the flowers toward you.

Your breath hitched slightly as you took the bouquet, the fresh scent of the blossoms filling your senses. “They’re beautiful, Ren,” you murmured, your fingers grazing his briefly as you accepted the flowers. “Thank you.”

Rumi perked up at your reaction, her little voice chiming in. “I picked them, Mommy!”

You smiled warmly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You did such a good job, sweetie. They’re perfect.”

Ren leaned down, brushing his lips against your lips as he whispered, “Glad you like them.”

He straightened and gave you a pointed look, his smirk returning. “So... about this ‘boyfriend’ of yours,” he began, his voice laced with faux nonchalance, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his amusement.

You froze for a moment, blinking up at him in confusion. “Boyfriend?”

Rumi, oblivious to the subtle tension in Ren’s tone, piped up excitedly. “The motorcycle man! Daddy and I saw him again!”

Ren crossed his arms, tilting his head at you with a raised brow. “Care to explain?” he asked, trying his best to appear stern, but the corners of his mouth twitched with the effort to suppress a grin.

It took you a second to process his expression before laughter bubbled out of you. You clutched your stomach, unable to contain yourself as the realization struck you.

Ren’s attempt at amusement wavered, his brows furrowing as he watched you. His arms dropped to his sides, and a flicker of hurt crossed his face. “Why are you laughing?” he asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with confusion. “Am I a joke to you, Angel?”

When you finally noticed the look of vulnerability in his eyes, you quickly reined in your laughter, a soft smile replacing it as you reached for his hand. “Oh, Ren,” you said, your voice warm with affection. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just... you forgot something important.”

Ren raised a brow, skepticism etched across his face. “And what exactly did I forget?”

You grinned, gently squeezing his hand as you teased, “You love to ride your bike, don’t you?”

His frown deepened as he tilted his head in confusion. “What does that have to do with—” His voice trailed off, and his eyes widened slightly as the pieces began to click into place.

For a moment, Ren stood completely still, and then he let out a soft groan, running a hand through his hair as realization dawned on him. “Wait…” he muttered, almost to himself. “You mean I’m the motorcyclist boyfriend?”

You nodded, biting back a smile as you watched his expression shift from confusion to something resembling disbelief.

Ren blinked, rubbing the back of his neck as he pieced it all together. “I bumped into you and Rumi on the way home that one time,” he said slowly, as if replaying the memory in his mind. “I thought I was being... cute when I made that heart with my hands.”

You snorted, covering your mouth to hide your laughter. “And don’t forget the time you gave me that rose. You wanted to surprise me, but it just so happened that we were both stopped at the same red light.”

Ren groaned again, his hand dragging down his face as a faint blush crept up his neck. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You couldn’t help but tease him. “So, what you’re saying is... you got jealous of yourself?”

Ren let out a long sigh, though his lips twitched with the beginnings of a sheepish grin. “I can’t believe this,” he mumbled. “I really thought...” He trailed off, shaking his head as he looked at you, a mixture of embarrassment and amusement in his gaze. “You could’ve cleared this up earlier, you know.”

“And miss that cute jealous face of yours?” you replied, leaning forward to poke his chest playfully. “No way.”

Ren chuckled despite himself, pulling you into his arms. “You’re impossible, you know that?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“You love it,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his waist.

From across the room, Rumi looked up from where she was playing with her toys, her big eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Mommy, Daddy,” she called, “are we talking about the boyfriend again?”

Ren groaned, burying his face in your shoulder while you burst into laughter once more.

“No, sweetheart,” you said, smiling at her. “Turns out Daddy is Mommy’s boyfriend.”

Rumi tilted her head in thought, then giggled. “Daddy’s so silly!”

Ren let out a defeated sigh, though the warmth in his smile betrayed his true feelings. “Alright, alright,” he said, straightening up. “I’ll take the teasing. But just so we’re clear, Angel...” He leaned down, his voice dropping to a low, playful murmur. “I’m still your only boyfriend.”

“Of course,” you replied with a wink. “But you’ve got some stiff competition. That motorcyclist boyfriend of mine? He’s a real charmer.”

Ren rolled his eyes, but his laughter joined yours as he pulled you in for another kiss, his earlier jealousy melting away into fond affection.

#14dwy vn #14dwy ren #14 days with you #14dwy #14dwy redacted #ren x reader #ren x mc #redacted x reader #yandere vn #visual novel

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boofeine · 2 months ago

Text

New Year's Kiss

pairing: seventeen x reader

genre: headcanons, suggestive

warnings: mdni, kissing, nothing much... it's kinda fluff

a/n: happy new year!!! wishing a wonderful 2025 ahead for you, and i hope all of your resolutions come to reality <3

tags: @huen1ngk4i @aaniag @svteensworld @kooqitas @unlikelysublimekryptonite @kwannibalism

seungcheol runs to a taxi with your hands together, trying to hide from the sudden hard snow. you both sit breathless in the back seat, the air cold and funny as you both giggle around. the tip of your nose pinky that seungcheol finds cute and your plumpy lips way too tempting. "you look so cute" he suddenly bursts out, his palms hugged on gloves cagging your cheeks on an attempt to arm your face; but it just affects your stomach instead, the little butterflies as he stares your eyes and then your mouth. "can i kiss you?" he asks. your mouths connecting with the muffled cheers from outside telling you it's a new year ahead.

jeonghan has been flirting with you shamelessly for hours now. you know, you know this, you watch this happen with your group of friends a lot, you were just never the chosen one. he keeps teasing you, saying absurds and laughing later, you're actually getting frustrated... that's until you know it's a real thing. "thought new years would be a good place to start" he says when the clock is approaching midnight. you ask confused what he means, and he simply adds, "i really like you, would you let me kiss you?" and when the kiss is said and done, jeonghan stares into your eyes and asks you out.

joshua is sweet like the gentleman he is. he hugs you softly, wishing you a happy new year, his smile making his bambi eyes tiny, making it hard not to feel a little in love. he stays in your embrace, a kiss to the top of your head "happy new year, yn-ie" he says, and you reply with your cheeks aching from so much happiness. he breaks the silence after a few minutes "can i make a wish for this year?" he says and you nod on his chest "i hope i get a kiss from you" he concludes. you swallow dry, finally looking up at him "you have to wish something else" you were a little mean, you think, because his whole face twists but you're fast to add "because this one is already coming true" you say coming closer as your lips finally fits together with a air of relief.

jun sees you laying on the door frame by yourself. people are starting to run around, screaming it's close to midnight. you stay there watching the commotion with a vision of the outside, that you don't even realize jun joining you. his low tone catching your attention when he starts to count down as everyone does. you look up smiling to him as he does the same for you, his sight moving up and then back to your face. as you follow his eyes, you can see the mistletoe just above you two on the frame, you can feel your face flushing when he shoots "i guess you own me a kiss" his steps coming closer, the fireworks exploding outside, not even close to your heartbeat as your lips touches his.

soonyoung pulls you up on his arms with a tight hug while the fireworks explode around you. you both smile happily as he twirls you around on his arms, greeting you the new year with warmth and so much happiness. everything happens too fast, your kiss on his cheeks getting on the side of his lips before he drops you down, and everything stops around you, the pinning stare as you both lean to a real kiss this time around.

wonwoo just bumps on you in the middle of the party chaos. that being the first time you two make yourselves known on the place. you stop, greating each other warmly, completely forgetting new year is soon and you both should probably go find your friends and family before midnight. you just keep chatting and updating each other of how your lives are going, the kiss happening so suddenly and naturally. the fireworks startling you both as you just giggles on each others mouths, accepting the new start.

jihoon hates to make you sad, and he knows that chosing to stay alone at home on new years is one way to do it. he stares at the snow going down his window, reminiscing the call that happened just a few minutes ago, with you, and how he wanted to say he was sorry. the bell suddenly rings, and jihoon comes to open the door, with your figure right in front of his eyes, wet hair from the rain as you embrace him in a big hug. "i wouldn't spend new years with anyone else" you say, your lips coming together with his and passion as the clock hits midnight.

seokmin was wanting this for a while now but never was able to gather enough courage. and when he finally does, it's not in the greatest scenario, but he wouldn't lose that one last hope. the loude music and chatting echoes in the room as you both dance beside each other. he suddenly comes closer "can i kiss you when the new year turn" he shouts, and you wonder if you heard it wrong around all that noise. the sudden confection making you flush. your head screams YES!! but you're unable to word it out. but when midnight comes, he will know your answer with your lips pressed on his own.

mingyu is just as clumsy as you. your ways of greeting each other happy new year all over the place. you laugh together when you almost bump heads before the hug fit. the smiles dying down when your heads move to the side together, both with the same idea of landing a sweet cheek kiss that turns into a peck when you reach each other's lips instead. your eyes go big, and your body stiffs, but none of you pull out as you relax on his embrace and just kiss.

minghao is one of those people that you meet without warning, he's a friend of a friend of yours that came along for the year turn. it's been a few hours of conversation, but you're sure he'll be someone to keep for the next year. you can already tell honesty is his cup of tea, and he proves you right when he openly tells you how beautiful and easy to talk you are. "that's been actually the best conversation i've had in ages" he concludes and you want to die in shyness, you feel little butterflies in your stomach and the way his perfect shaped lips move when he's talking makes you want to try it. you go silent and he askes... as he is, you answer honestly "i was just wondering how your lips might taste", "you can try it out" he says and your lips meets more times than the whole year throughout this night, making it not different on midnight.

seungkwan promises to take you home after the new years party you both were. it's just on the door of your apartment that he makes out with you in the back of his car. it comes at a surprise how into it you are and how his hands hug you perfectly as he kisses you. the hot air around you both blurrying the windows as you just see the smug flashing lights from the fireworks that announce you it's a new year. "Happy new years, yn-ie" he says, caressing your cheeks as if you haven't kissed as you were hungry for it minutes before. — (edited from ripe clementines :D)

vernon had joked about it, how "funny" it would be if you get too tipsy on new years and ended up kissing each other. you laugh it out but he looked a bit too serious to be kidding. new years came and none of you were nearly drunk. just chatting and gaming until midnight. when it's close, vernon comes to you "turns out we are not tipsy nor kissing" he plays and you think 'what a shame', either way it's not from neither of your personalities ending up on this scenario. you decide to be bold and reply "is being drunk a requirement?", "to kiss me?" he asks, cleaning nonexistent dust from the tip of his nose while you just hum, looking up at him. "you can kiss me if that's what you asking" he's smiling but you're serious, coming to peck his lips before giving a real kiss that is very much welcomed. as the last seconds of the day ends, another year being gone, you think 'what a happy new year'.

chan spends new years with you every year since you were teens. he's someone you know from a family friend with yours, you both kinda grew with each other in small gatherings like this. night felt particularly different this time around, he grew a lot and suddenly talks and acts like a man, but jokes like a kid as always, has you laughing from literally anything he says. for chan, he knows his ways, he has a eye on you since forever and he finally sees a chance that he wouldn't waste. gathering all the courage to ask you out, he's surprisingly met with your lips on his. you just kiss and say nothing as he melts, feeling like he's in a dream... he will take it as a yes. maybe that's the magic of a new year.

#was wannabelife #seventeen #fanfic #svt scenarios #svt x reader #seventeen scenarios #svt headcanons #svt fanfic #svt fluff #seventeen fluff #seventeen headcanons #seventeen smut #svt smut

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