#slow mutual pining

[celestie0]

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

in holy matriphony ch4. in a mother’s eyes

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

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

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

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

ᰔ chapter. 4/x

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are you married to?” she asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Card.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you say.

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

“Aw,” you comment, “I see, I see.”

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

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

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—” you stutter.

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

“y/n,” he says, “let go.”

“No,” you say stubbornly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh. I see,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yup. That’s exactly what I did.”

You roll your eyes and sigh.

Another awkward silence.

“Can I ask you a question?” you say.

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

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

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

“Just answer me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink up at him with no commentary to add. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go fuck yourself.”

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

“Sign right here for me, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

“Y-You wanna go see her??”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, no, she’s my–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not a manwhor–”

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

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

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

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true.”

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

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

“What? I’m not always rude to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi! How can I help you?” she asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” you snap at him.

“Are you doing okay?”

“Just fine, thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With the lemon tree!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it knocks the wind out of you.

It drops your heart to the center of the earth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s why it hurts.

Because it’s all fake.

It’s phony.

It’s not real.

This arrangement you have with Gojo.

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

Not in the way she believes there will be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“y/n,” he tried to convince you.

You finally look up at him. “Please.”

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

“Okay.”

.

.

.

.

.

[end of chapter 4]

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

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[pendarling]

What Ruins Romance Between Characters

Also keep in mind I’m not a professional writer. This is just a list of things I think absolutely destroys chemistry

Lack of Communication & Proximity: It should be a no-brainer that the two characters in love would also want to be together as much as possible. However, for some authors, what they don't do is just that. Automatically, these characters become more like strangers than people that are dating/married/pining for each other. If you want to build romance start with them actually talking and putting them in situations that demand them to work as partners.

No Show of Physical or Verbal Affection: Another no-brainer. How're you going to want your reader to love them if they don't show it? Even enemies-to-lovers will always figure out a way to make a scene more tense and filled with desire as long as your characters are giving us hints that they want something more than just what they currently are.

One-Sided Pining: Do not have one character doing all the romantic gestures! Readers will think the receiver of the affection is undeserving of their partner. I can assure you, nobody wants to see only one person doing all the heavy-lifting in the relationship. It's boring, sad, and will likely make readers want that character to leave the relationship asap.

Wildly Different Perspectives/Nothing in Common: You're bound for writing a breakup if this is the situation of your characters throughout the entirety of the story. Unless they slowly come to understand one another and meet in the middle, this romance will fail.

Arguing More Than Loving: If your characters are constantly arguing with no intentions to stop it, they are no longer compatible for each other. You are writing a toxic couple that hate one another and forcing them together is unlikely to make the average reader want to continue any further. I've seen some writers do an excellent job of a couple arguing but always trying to be better for their significant other. If you want them to argue solely because this is enemies-to-lovers, some time soon they're going to want to stop being an asshole to the person they like.

Better Romance With Other Characters: If Character A is supposed to be with Character B, but Character C is becoming the ideal, then I'm afraid to tell you the romance will not work between A and B. To avoid this, make them communicate less, have less in common, spend less time together and give more attention to Character B. Take away the roles that make Character C more compatible and give it to B. This doesn't mean you should completely change C, it just means you need to do everything you can to put the focus back on B, and if that's too much then consider ending whatever B and A have.

Too Slow/Fast to Fall in Love: Characters that take 20 seasons and 3 movies to confess is insanely slow. We are starving for the romance that was promised in the story, eventually readers will stop reading because that is not being satisfied. Pacing is incredibly important and you need to take into account the behaviours Character A will have with Character B. Also, don't make them instantly fall in love, I feel everyone in the writers and readers community know this very well. That's not how people work, you actually have to try to know each other first.

Only Together for Sexual Gratification: I don't even have to do a lot of speaking for this. Unless the characters become part of each other's lives outside of the bedroom then the chemistry does not exist.

Lack of Trust/Keeping Secrets: There has to be someone that knows their partner more than anyone else. Keeping secrets will show the readers that Character A does not love their partner enough to trust them with important information. It's fine if they're keeping a few secrets maybe-- major ones-- to protect Character B, but constantly lying and being unwilling to share is the beginning of what we call "falling out of love." Even worse is if Character A went ahead and shared their deepest insecurities with Character C.

Priority is Not The Significant Other/No Sacrifices: All relationships have done something that must be done in order to make the relationship work. If Character A will not give up something that they know upsets their partner/crush then they are not ready to be with someone. In order to love someone you must devote time and have interest in them. If your character chose some external desire over Character B, then this will not work. Their greatest desire should be Character B.

Unrealistic Standards & Expectations: We can't have characters choosing each other for surface-level wants to be satisfied. Readers will end up seeing characters changing their entire personality for their partner and their entire body to fit an image they were not made for. If your readers know Character B very well and it's that Character B would never turn away a friend for example, and suddenly they cut ties with all their friends because Character A doesn't like them, then I'm sorry but this is toxic. You can't change someone's characteristics in the middle of the story to help Character A.

No Conflict: What relationship is truly perfect? There will be arguments and setbacks that need to be explored. This is a fun way at having a deeper level of understanding on why your characters are having a conflict of interest. It's quite stale when everything is happy-go-lucky with no issues, you don't need to make them breakup or anything just a simple disagreement can show a ton for readers on the complexities of Character A and B as people who operate differently together.

Underdeveloped Character with No Goals: Some shows I've watched put time and effort in flushing out one character and completely forget about their life-long partner. Uhm, hello? What's going on?? If you write Character A with their entire lore and family tree or whatnot and then-- oh side note, they also really love Character B-- excuse me, who's Character B? Give us some sign that Character B is capable of thoughts and has dreams of their own. Do not make it revolve around Character A either.

Couple Do Not Interact with Anyone Aside From Each Other/No World Building: Similar to the point above, if these characters only know and see each other, you will lose readers. We are sick and tired of stories where the overarching story has been reduced to two people. If the story is about them, then introduce us to their lives outside of their partner. Can they operate as a functioning creature with thoughts without their partner? Do they have friends and family? Do they go to work and school? Are there fears they have? There's tons of material to choose from, pick anything.

Too Much Interference: Although it's fun to watch two characters do anything to get closer to each other it can become annoying when there's simply way too many characters and situations that separate them. We want all that hard work to be rewarded to Character A when they finally get what they want, Character B. Even a little bit of talking alone, being alone, finally away from the chaotic world is more than enough. Let your characters be alone.

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~~~ MASTERLIST

[sheikfangirl]

A page from my post-Botw Zelink comic. Each chapter covers key moments of my headcanon. I don't think my comic is super revolutionary in terms of story because there is so much fan content out there and im super classic and vanilla... but i dont care. I'm having fun creating my own take on what happened. This project is a time consuming blackhole and I draw it all out of order because I have no discipline whatsoever 😭 😂 It was originally just random black and white pages here and there with no cohesions, like my stand alone illustrations... but the illustrations became pages. The project is basically me fan-servicing my own self. 😂😂

Then it exploded, i've been adding color, cleaning up my panels, pimping the backgrounds.

I still unsure on which platform i will make it available to read. The friends who got my out of my shipping closet are screaming to me to print a fanzine, but i'm lazy hahaha. Might do a patreon eventually, idk.

Oh yeah, this is a panel from the chapter where Zelda and Link go back to Korok forest to put the Master Sword back in it's pedestal... I'm old, i played the old games. One of my BotW nitpics was that it didnt include the classic moment where the sword rests once again, like in ALttP and OoT. I like traditions okay!!!! Cheers!!!

[eureka-its-zico]

Chaos in Their Bones Ch. 2

Ongoing Series

Synopsis: All your life you’d listened to your friend, Usopp spin wild tales about pirates and adventure. Pirates weren’t a thing that came often to Syrup Village, but one straw hat pirate and his crew changed all that the day they arrived. Now, you aren’t so sure if your sleepy little village was always pirate-free or if no one had been paying attention. 

Pairing: Roronoa Zoro x Reader

Genre: friends to lovers, frenemies to lovers, slow burn (I hope y’all like aching) eventual smut

Words: 6k+

A/N: For this chapter, I played with the idea of having Zoro’s POV. It felt necessary for the story progression that I had in mind. This chapter was a tad fun to write, and I hope that translated well into the story. Originally it was going to be longer, but I realized I wanted to save the dinner to go with all the action to end the Episode 3-4 story arc. Thank you guys so much for the love you’ve given this little story. I hope it continues to be one you enjoy 🖤 Much Love, Jenn

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This place is a maze. 

That thought rang true with every hallway you entered and the endless number of rooms within. With every step you took inside Kaya’s large estate, those words kept echoing through your head. How many guest suites could one house possibly hold? But also, why would you ever need so many?

You’d been wandering the halls for what felt like an eternity. Your head poked into each room after a brief knock. Yes, a brief knock before plunging head-first into someone’s private space wasn’t much of a warning but at least you were knocking. 

And all of this just to find Zoro who may or may not help you expose whatever metaphorical skeletons this butler had stuffed in his metaphorical closet. Or an actual closet. The possibilities felt endless. 

You weren’t even sure how you were going to explain to him exactly why you were searching for him without sounding like a creep. You would just have to cross that bridge when you came to it. 

You were about to give up trying to locate him because you were pretty sure you’d just passed that same exact clock for the second time in a row. You let out a raspberry as you placed your hands on your hips. Was it plausible you were lost? Inside a ginormous house like this? Yes, it sure as shit was. Maybe you should’ve been dropping breadcrumbs to find your way back to your own room when this was over. 

Rolling your tongue around your mouth, you looked down to your right and realized there were only two more doors left. What could it hurt just to look? You were already down here anyway. 

With a shrug, you moved towards the second to last door near the end of the hall. You weren’t in a rush to check what was behind either one, but you were also not leaving any stone unturned and all that. If your earlier dozen room checks were any indication of what to expect, you were willing to bet that you were going to find absolutely nothing waiting for you. The joy of joys. 

You were just a few feet from the door when you heard the lock click. The sound caused you to stop dead center, facing the door like an absolutely terrified rabbit caught in the headlights. What were the chances that whoever opened that door was going to be Zoro? And what were the chances that he would be willing to listen to what you had to say? 

The possibility of your questions being answered ebbed the panic in your chest down just a tad. Enough that when the door finally opened and Zoro was, in fact, standing before you, you silently thanked the universe for your suddenly award-winning luck. 

That was until you realized he was just standing there. In a robe. A silk robe with his swords slung over his shoulder and because of his current hold on his swords, said robe in question was flashing a peak of his chest. You immediately wanted to take back your previous thank you letter to the universe. 

This should be illegal. 

The worst part? You were pretty positive from the way Zoro was staring at you - his eyes taking you in from top to bottom lord HELP you - he did not seem as impressed with you as you were of him. Why in the hell couldn’t you say a word? Yes, he was attractive - stupidly so - but he was also just another guy. 

A guy in a thin silk robe and hair still damp from a bath. 

You watched as Zoro’s body began to relax, or relax as much as someone like him could. It was when he let out a sigh as if your very presence was keeping him from something important, that you felt your feet remove themselves from their spot in the carpet and spring you forward. 

There was a split second when Zoro’s eyes registered your movement. His eyebrows raised up in surprise as the almond shape of his eyes widened just a tad before he braced for whatever you were about to do. Zoro was planning on an attack and his body was primed to force you back. Instead of violence, he was met with your hands shoving him back inside his room with your foot kicking the door swiftly closed behind you. 

Once you knew you were both securely back inside the room, you stopped shoving him. You waited for your eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of the room before you looked around. It would be embarrassing if you’d done this and someone else - Nami or Luffy or anyone else really - had been inside with him. The only thing you noticed, however, was his previous clothes strewn across the room. 

When your eyes ventured back to Zoro you found his earlier shock replaced by what you could only guess was his usual stonewall expression. 

“Look,” he began the timber of his voice causing you to jump. “You seem nice and all, if not a little disturbed, but I’m not interested.” 

You looked up at him with your confusion knitting your brow together. 

“Not interested?”

You weren’t sure why it took you that long to realize what he meant, but it was dawning on you at warp speed and your confusion was quickly replaced with horror. 

“Oh my god! No, no! I was not trying to like, do anything to you like that.”

The disbelief in his eyes told you plainly he didn’t believe you, and by the tick in his jaw something was bothering him about your statement. 

Shit! He thinks I’m a perv 

You wanted to crawl under the nearest rock and die there. You followed his eyes as they trailed down his chest to find your hands were very much still attached to him, practically groping him. 

“Then why are your hands still on my chest?”

A small squeak of surprise left you as you dropped your hands down to your sides and shook them like it would be enough to get rid of the feeling of cupping his very pronounced…chest. You took a step back from him in hopes that giving him space would save the entire interaction. 

“Sorry about all the ugh…touching,” you mumbled. “But I did come here to speak to you about something.” 

“This is going to be good. Is it to convince me you weren’t trying to grope me?”

“God, you aren’t going to let it go, are you?” 

Closing your eyes you took in a deep breath and slowly let it out. When you finished, you opened your eyes again and gave him the best smile you could muster. 

“Okay, let’s start this again. I,” you motioned towards yourself, “have come to ask you if you noticed anything weird.” 

Zoro cocked an eyebrow at you. His arms moved to lock his arms across his chest somehow exposing the peek of flesh from the robe even more. 

“You mean weirder than right now?”

You purse your lips together tightly as you try to exhale all the annoyance from gathering in your body. 

“Let’s just move on from this moment, ok,” you began. “I came to talk to you about the butler.”

Without warning, Zoro rolled his eyes and dropped his arms from his chest. His swords clanging against his leg reminding you that he wasn’t making any move to set them down anytime soon. 

“Here we go again about the butler,” he groaned, and the very sound shouldn’t have sounded as enticing as it did.

Focus! 

“Oh, save it!” You snapped. “I saw you, okay? The way you looked at Klahadore before you followed your friends inside. You looked at him like you recognized him. Like you’d seen him before somewhere.” 

Zoro regarded you coolly. The hardness that had disappeared while he’d teased you earlier slid back into place until he was as unreadable as stone. 

“I’ve never seen that butler before in my entire life.” 

“Why are you lying?” 

You couldn’t keep the exasperation from your voice or how your desperation was starting to creep back in. Could you have been wrong about Zoro this whole time? Did you just see what you wanted to see?

No. You know what you saw and you were not going to be called crazy. You took a step towards him and weren’t surprised when he didn’t move back. Instead, he tilted his chin, his full pouty lips still very much pouting, as his eyes carefully watched you. 

“You know, that I know, that you looked at that guy and went, ‘hmph, something’s not right there’.” 

Yeah, that felt like a solid argument. 

You waited under Zoro’s cool gaze for him to reply. For him to show any sign of anything, really. He was literally the most unmoving person you’d ever meet, and you were starting to wonder if he was even real. The shitty part about waiting in silence, besides the uneasy commentary your brain was beginning to make, was the smell of the vanilla and sandalwood that wafted off him in mini waves that assaulted your senses. 

You were so intently transfixed by trying to match his unblinking gaze that when he finally moved his head down to be eye level with you, you’d almost jumped out of your skin. 

“Is everything okay with you? Do you suffer from any brain damage?” 

You wish you could say you handled the next few seconds with grace and poise. Things that all upstanding future doctors did when faced with adversity. However, that was most definitely not you, and you weren’t able to keep an exacerbated yell of frustration from cairning past your lips. 

“Oh! You are literally the most infuriating man I have ever met!”

“And you are the most perverted woman I have ever met,” Zoro shot back, this time taking a step towards you. 

If he was trying to intimidate you, he should’ve tried back when you weren’t ready to tear him limb from limb. 

“I beg your pardon?!”

“Who just pushes a semi-naked man into a room so they can grope him?”

“I wasn’t trying to grope you! I was trying to interrogate you for information!”

God, that sounded so much worse. 

“That sounds a lot worse, actually.”

Of course, Zoro would state the obvious, and was he - was he smirking? Your eyes rapidly blinked as you tried to make sense of what you were seeing because as fast as you’d noticed it, that devilish smirk had disappeared. Now Zoro once again looked as serious as before. You began to move back towards the door with your hands up in mock surrender. 

“You know what - fine! If you don’t want to help me, that’s your choice, but you know I’m right. And I’m going to prove that something is wrong here with or without your help.”

You shot one last look in his direction before turning on your heel and giving him your back. You were at the door, your hand on the doorknob when Zoro surprised you with a question of his own. 

“Why ask me to help you?”

Glancing over your shoulder, you expected to see that smug smirk on his face or to get the cold shoulder. What you found instead were eyes so intent on you - waiting for your response - that it caused your lungs to collapse. A million replies played over through your mind, but only one of them mattered. 

“Because out of everyone here, I thought you would believe me the most.” 

It didn’t matter if it was the answer he’d been looking for or the one you thought would win him over. You meant what you said and you hoped he’d felt your admission genuinely. If Usopp didn’t want to believe you, and if Zoro, who you still believed knew or at least felt something was off here, wasn’t going to be able to help you, you would just have to do it yourself. 

Did you know what that entailed? Hell no, but Naan didn’t raise a quitter, and you weren’t going to roll over and just give up just because it was hard. Not when someone’s very life depended on you. 

——————

After your incredible failure of finding a co-conspirator to help you on your quest for answers failed with flying colors, you weren’t exactly sure what to do with yourself. Usopp no doubt must have snuck in by now to see Kaya - sans your “gift” - and the others were probably in the ridiculous closet looking for dinner attire. While you could’ve gone just to socialize with everyone else, Kaya had sent a dress to your room. 

Sham had looked absolutely miserable dropping it off and that was a joy all on its own. 

You considered heading to the closet just to see Luffy again. Luffy radiated optimism like sunshine; at the moment, that sort of unyielding optimism was the mood booster you needed. 

Unfortunately, you knew Zoro must have made his way there by now and you weren’t necessarily ready to face him again. The disappointment was clinging to you and that’s what you hated the most. You didn’t understand why you’d seemingly put all your eggs inside the Zoro basket. Just because he’d looked at Klahadore weird didn't mean he’d sensed something off. 

Shit, Klahadore was weird and deserved every side-eye glance he got. 

All it meant for you was going back to the drawing board for a new plan. One that was going to be able to get you next to Kaya. At least long enough so you could perform some kind of assessment. 

You rounded the corner to what you hoped was the hallway your room was down. The earlier thought you’d had about getting lost turned into an accurate one. You’d spent just as much time trying to get back to your room to get ready for dinner as you had searching for Zoro. 

Zoro.

Even just thinking about him made your jaw clench with fresh irritation. What was more infuriating than your most recent conversation was the fact you could still feel the strength of him in the hollows of your palms. The sharpness of his jaw and the high sculpt of his cheeks- 

No! Absolutely not, you chastised yourself. 

It was maddening how little he believed you - mocked you - and yet, here you were acting like some lovestruck teenager. He wasn’t that handsome. 

You were lost in your thoughts to the point you weren’t aware of your body's attempt to warn you. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end and a sickening feeling began to rot in your gut and made sure all the imaginary - very imaginary - butterflies disappeared. 

The goosebumps that rose along your exposed skin informed you that the grand hallway, filled with all its riches and fine cherry woods was as ice cold as the dead. Has it always been this cold and you just never noticed? Or the eerie silence that made the manor feel more haunted than alive. 

Your feet involuntarily came to a halt in the middle of the hall. You couldn’t explain the panic that was building in your chest, but it felt like you were being watched. Your heart rate sped up until you could practically feel it thundering against your ribs. 

“You are being silly,” you whispered to yourself. “It’s just an old house.” 

“Old houses do have their quirks, don’t they?”

You wish you could say that when Klahadore spoke from behind you, you’d reacted with grace. With dignity. What actually happened was you screamed sharp enough it could raise the dead. 

The whiplash you gave yourself as you turned to face him was dizzying. You wanted to kill the fear that widened your eyes and pressed your brow into your hairline. Your mouth was painfully dry as you took in his presence and the absolute shit-eating grin he wore. 

He enjoyed seeing you afraid. 

“Oh dear, Doc, did I give you a fright?”

Klahadore gently tipped the frame of his glasses with the edge of his palm. You wanted to smack them off his smug face. 

“What do you want, Klahadore?”

You struggled to regain your composure. You refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you afraid. It was what he wanted after all and didn’t take much to notice. He was already trying to close the few inches your retreat had given you. 

“I was simply wondering why you were wandering around the manor. You’ve been showing highly suspicious behavior ever since you and your friends arrived.” 

Your eyes narrowed in on him and as you held your head high. 

“Have you been following me?”

“Oh, come now, don't be silly. To have someone followed means you’re worried about what they’ll find, and you? You are the last thing I would be worried about.” 

Klahadore dropped his head down until he was eye level with you, but somehow used his size to remain imposing. A thinly veiled threat to remind you exactly what he thought of you; nothing. 

The first time you’d ever received an insult from Klahadore had been just like this. Alone and away from anywhere Kaya could hear him. He’d made sure that Usopp and you were together just so he wouldn’t have to repeat the insult twice. 

“I know you two must feel exceedingly special having Miss Kaya ask for you to come keep her company, but I’m afraid this will be the last time you ever come over unannounced or not. We can’t allow her image to be tarnished from being seen with unwanted children.” “Unwanted?” Usopp had been so confused - he knew he was wanted; wanted by Kaya and you. Klahadore saw in that confusion an opportunity to place doubt in his mind and completely tear him apart.  “Yes - unwanted. So unwanted that your father never returned, and your mother chose death as a final way to be rid of you.” “You son of a bitch!” You’d snarled and snapped. You were only kids.  The world had taught you early on about hardships and fairness; how the world and the people in it could lack kindness. But Naan always made you look for the good in the world, and in the people who sometimes allowed the ugliness of others to warp them into someone they weren’t.  It was a concept child you never understood. Teenage you were barely beginning to grasp it, but when Klahadore spoke those words so full of hate and venom at your best friend: there weren’t enough flames left in hell to cover up your rage.

The memory of that day left a black mark on your soul and you find it replaying at the most inconvenient of times. A harsh reminder of the first time you’d ever considered murder as a means of healing. The world would have to be a better place if someone like Klahadore wasn’t in it. Right? 

Naan, as always, talked you down from doing something rash. From allowing someone like Klahadore to have the last laugh and ruin all the plans you had for your life. 

But Naan wasn’t here to talk you off that ledge or to remind you who she knew you were. Your rage shouldn’t define you. Looking at Klahadore’s retreating back, you weren’t all too sure if it wasn’t you because if he ever showed up needing any form of medical attention, you weren’t so sure if he’d leave on his own two feet. 

A body bag would suit him nicely. 

You watched him until he completely disappeared leaving you alone once more inside the hallway. It felt weird to take those first steps back towards your room. To go inside and see the dress Kaya had sent to your room and know you were going to put it on and share dinner with that man standing in the same room. 

There had to be a way to show everyone here exactly who Klahadore was, and you would spend the whole dinner trying to do just that. 

———————

He’d been searching for a drink since his interaction with you back in his room. Zoro wanted to call you crazy - hell you acted crazy enough, but you’d done something he hadn’t expected. 

You’d surprised him.

He didn’t want to admit it then but he did get a weird vibe from the butler. The minute his eyes landed on Klahadore it had sparked a nagging feeling of a memory he just couldn’t quite place. 

And you’d noticed. 

After you’d left his room, he couldn’t shake the conversation you’d forced him to be a part of. Teasing you had been easy. He’d expected you to be a bleeding heart, but as you’d turned to leave, stomping your feet and spitting back words that stung for just a second, it had been Zoro’s turn to notice something about you. 

It was the fire of your determination that piqued his interest.  

While Zoro wasn’t sure why you held such a stick up your ass exactly about the butler, he was positive you had a reason. Besides the fact he couldn’t seem to pull up a clear memory of why the same butler piqued his own interest, and that was beginning to piss him off. 

What was even more annoying was the fact you’d brought it up enough that he’d asked Nami and Luffy if the butler seemed familiar. He didn’t know why he’d asked. If it had been more for him or for you. 

That pissed him off more. 

You seemed to be good at that. Pissing him off and getting under his skin. 

When he came downstairs, Zoro expected you to be there already. A quick glance around the room informed him you weren’t there, but a row of flutes filled with what he hoped was alcohol most certainly was. 

He carefully set down his strap of swords and moved closer to the drinks. No one else made a move towards them and, for a split second, Zoro was worried maybe the flutes were nonalcoholic. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the delicate crystal and quickly brought it to his lips. 

The smell of the liquor hit him first and his muscles relaxed instantaneously. 

God. This was exactly what he needed. 

“Zoro! You gotta try this!”

Zoro didn’t bother looking because he’d seen the appetizers being served when he came down the stairs. He wasn’t impressed. Plus, if he was going to make it through this evening, he was going to need way more booze than what was inside these little Crystal flutes. 

“I got all I need right here,” he replied and brought the glass up to his lips. 

The first sip erased all the tension that had been binding up his muscles. The next pull from the glass relaxed him completely, and he downed what was left in one giant gulp. He placed the now-empty flute back down on the tray and swiftly grabbed another. 

Zoro was vaguely aware of all the chatting going on around him. The sound of Usopp and Luffy sharing stories and Nami doing whatever it was Nami did during fancy dinner parties. He meant what he said - he did have everything he needed to make it through this dinner inside these glasses. At least, that’s what he thought until the sound of a heel echoing off the step brought his attention to the top of the stairs. 

He was sure the new flute with his latest drink was at his lips. Zoro inhaled the sharp scent of liqueur with every breath he took. He just couldn’t seem to make his elbow bend enough to drop it from his face. 

You were making your way down the staircase, oblivious to the world around you as you came down with a hand carefully placed on the railing. 

The dress you wore was covered in article flowers; all of their small bold colors were bright against the backdrop of black chiffon. The top of the dress left your shoulders exposed, and the style you’d chosen to wear your hair, with beads of pearls intricately placed within each strand, made you seem ethereal. 

You looked like moonlight inside a garden; soft and wild and for the first time Zoro forgot that breathing was important. 

Once you reached the last step, your eyes finally moved up from the safety of your feet. Zoro was vaguely aware the rim of the glass was still resting on his bottom lip, and that he’d yet to take a drink. He felt frozen - helpless - until your eyes found his rooted frame - helplessly waiting - and the smile that curved your lips brightened up the room. 

It was in this second that he realized he was fucked, and the annoyance of that realization was enough for him to finally upend the glass in one large gulp. 

——————

Zoro had looked at you for less than a millisecond before he’d upended the contents of his glass in one large gulp. His disinterest was evident enough throughout his entire body. With one last glance in your direction, he turned back to the waiting tray of glasses. 

Well, that wasn’t the reaction you’d expected. 

The disappointment scraped raw across your chest as you watched Zoro take up another glass. His gaze was steadfast at the wall as he downed whatever was inside. What felt more disappointing was the fact you’d cared. 

For all intents and purposes, Zoro was an asshole. So, it begged the ever-present question: Why did it bother you so much? 

Yes, you’d painstakingly gotten ready around the dress Kaya left inside your suite. Was it your usual taste? You weren’t all that sure, to be honest. It’s not like you’d ever been invited to any fancy dinner parties before. You weren’t sure if this was the proper form of dress or if you’d gone overboard with your hair. 

At least Nami had a feather inside her hair and it looked as if she’d given her blood-orange hair some curls. She looked absolutely gorgeous and you made it your mission to tell her.

“Wow, Doc you look-“ Usopp began. 

You turned beaming towards your friend as you waited for him to acknowledge your hard work. Maybe at least Usopp, of all people, would say something nice. 

“Different.”

You could practically feel your smile deflate at the edges. 

“What did you put in your hair?” Luffy asked around a mouthful of meat. 

“Oh yeah, I was wondering what looked different. It’s the hair,” Usopp confirmed with Luffy. 

The both of them smiled and nodded at one another as if they just solved world hunger. Your tongue rolled around your cheek as you debated on what to say. Maybe you’d expected to much out of a bunch of men. 

“They’re pearls,” you huffed. 

“That’s silly,” Luffy chuckled. “Why would you ever put pearls in your hair?”

“It’s to look nice.”

“I never knew hair needed accessories,” Usopp offered before taking a bit of his appetizer.

“Nami put a feather in her hair,” Luffy offered before taking another bite. “Maybe you guys can talk about putting random stuff in your hair.” 

There was no way this conversation could be real, and yet…

Luffy was still wearing his genuine smile while he and Usopp continued to enjoy the appetizers Sham passed around. This evening was turning out to be the last time you’d ever consider wearing anything like this again. What was even worse was that out of the three of them, Zoro was the only one properly dressed. 

While Usopp went with his usual no shirt underneath his jacket, Luffy was wearing just a petty coat and miraculously found dress slacks that didn’t even reach his ankle. They looked like their usual selves, just dressed in black. 

But Zoro…

No! Absolutely not.

“I’ll go look for Nami so we can discuss…putting things in our hair.”

“That’s great! I’m sure it will make her happy. She seemed frustrated earlier when she asked for help.”

“I can’t imagine why,” you mumbled, as you turned to find Nami speaking to Merry. 

Well, it looked like that was going to be a bust too. Man, she really did look very pretty, though. You were considering what your options were. You weren’t comfortable just injecting yourself into whatever conversation Nami and Merry were having, especially not when she was rubbing his arm like that. 

Luckily for you, the sound of Klahadore announcing Kaya’s entrance kept you from having to go with your final option, which was to get a drink. Next to Zoro. 

You all collectively turned to watch as Klahadore helped Kaya make her way down the stairs. You couldn’t help but smile up at her and her current choice of attire. While she’d made you look like a garden, you could only assume she was the sunshine that hovered above it. The only problem you had with the golden silk material was that it somehow made her sickly pale skin appear paler. 

She must have picked the color in hopes it wouldn’t do that, but all it did was raise the alarm bells in the back of your mind. You’d allowed a pretty dress and a fancy meal to cloud the real reason you’d come in the first place. Instead of being a doctor, you were playing dress-up. 

You were still scolding yourself when Kaya finally made it to the end of the staircase. Her smile was bright and happier than it had been in a long time, as she regarded Nami and the dress she’d chosen. It hadn’t even registered that any of the clothes you currently were wearing belonged to her deceased parents. You made a mental note to make sure to take extra special care not to ruin the dress with any droplets of food. 

“Oh, Doc, I’m so glad I picked this,” Kaya breathed. “You look absolutely magical.” 

You couldn’t help but look down at the dress again. It was an incredibly delicate dress. A work of art to be worn on the body. Maybe that was why you felt like such an imposter wearing it. 

When you looked back at her, you tried to give Kaya a convincing smile. One you could even make yourself believe you felt worthy to have it on. 

“Oh, Kaya you are too nice,” you replied, only for her to shoot you down with a wave of her hand. 

“Nonsense. Usopp is always telling me about all the good you do for everyone. It’s time you let yourself be appreciated.”

Your earlier response to Kaya’s welcoming smile was one of your own, but at the mention of your supposed good deeds, you felt it tighten into a grimace. 

It means nothing if I can’t even help you.

Up close, her color wasn’t pale - it was ashen. The whites of her eyes were devoured with a yellowish tint and - 

Like the parasite he was, Klahadore was there pulling Kaya gently by her elbow to lead her back to the conversation between herself and Merry. Your eyes followed him as he made sure to plant her a few feet in front of you; her back excluding you from following to join. 

Once he made sure she was safely away from you, Klahadore stationed himself a few feet away next to the penguin pillar at the base of the stairs. He thought he was sneaky and that he had stopped your trained eyes from being able to do a quick evaluation.

Unlucky for Klahadore you were quicker than he thought. 

You were getting ready to head over to him when you caught Zoro walking back over to the tray. He was doing his usual of placing down an empty glass only to grab a fresh one, except this time he was talking. To Klahadore. 

What a fucking liar!

You couldn’t think straight as you watched the exchange. The way Klahadore overplayed the flabbergasted victim. You didn’t have to be close to them to know what Zoro was asking him, because just like you’d suspected, he did seem familiar to Zoro. 

It felt like you could breathe fire, you were so pissed. 

At some point, Klahadore ended the conversation by interjecting himself into someone else’s conversation. You didn’t care what it was. They could’ve been discussing flying pigs for all you cared. Your eyes were still honed in on Zoro who regarded you for a split second before he sat back down in the parlor’s middle seat. 

You started making your way towards him when Klahadore called out it was time to eat. You suddenly weren’t hungry. 

Zoro must have sensed you coming for him because in one swift move, he was out of the seat and standing. The strap that held his katana’s back over his shoulder as he followed Sham behind the double doors.

“You son of a-“

“Doc!” Usopp whisper-shouted as he nervously took your hand in his. “Sit next to me. Please.” 

You were still seeing metaphorical red. Your brain firing rapidly on only one main thought and that was to get a hold of Zoro and throttle him. 

It wasn’t Usopp’s fault that Zoro was a dick, and he looked genuinely terrified. Stuffing your current bad mood as far down as you could muster (you were about to see said moss-haired reason for your fowl mood in t-minus two seconds), you planted on a smile and gently took Usopp’s hand. 

“What kind of wingman would I be if I didn’t?”

“Oh, thank god,” he laughed. 

The both of you followed closely behind Merry and the others as you were all escorted inside the dining room. Merry quickly took his seat at the end of the table, and you noticed rather quickly Zoro had claimed the seat closest to the door. 

Without thinking, you took the seat beside him and motioned for Usopp to take the last one. The one directly beside Kaya. For a moment, Usopp looked at you wide-eyed and uncertain. You did your best to make him comfortable. 

“You got this, Usopp,” you whispered. “Don’t overthink it.”

His response came in a small nod that did little to erase the terror that shined in his eyes. You gave his arm a light squeeze for reassurance before you straightened up in the chair. Glancing over, you watched as Zoro poured what looked like a freshly opened bottle of wine into a glass. 

You waited patiently for him to finish and when he went to set the bottle down you made your move. With a slight lean to your right, you swiped your hand out to grab a hold of the glass. Zoro caught the movement too late, but you now had his full attention. His nostrils flaring the only indication that he was irritated by your sudden drink stealing. 

Good. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” He questioned. 

His dark eyes never left your face as he waited for you to answer. 

“Being petty.”

To bring the point home, you tilted the glass in his direction in a silent salute. You made sure he watched as you brought it to your lips and took a sip of the blood-red wine within. 

Zoro’s jaw ticked in irritation as you gave him a devious smirk, and when Sham came by Zoro waved her over. 

“I need a new glass.”

Now the smile that graced your lips was genuine and you made sure Zoro was aware of it. It was time to have a little fun of your own and that included hogging as much of his alcohol as humanly possible. 

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

As always, thank you for reading. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.

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If I missed tagging anyone please let me know!

[to-the-stars8]

The Waynes' Nanny Chapters

Batfamily and Reader, Bruce Wayne x Reader

Ao3

Summary: One day, after getting fired from your job by your ex, you somehow ended up in Wayne Manor as the family's new nanny. Working with six kids is tough enough, but the handsome, rich, and emotionally confused father, billionaire Bruce Wayne, who is just too charming makes it a bit more difficult as your feelings for him confuse you. Nonetheless, you love the job and the kids, but soon enough you realize that maybe you're falling in love with the boss, too.

The Pilot Pt. 1 The Pilot Pt. 2 9 to 5 (Metaphorically) The Talk Plus One Take Your Nanny to Work Day The Night Time Routine Nanny In the Attic

[aventurineswife]

Hello ^^ How about i request something about reader being like aven in a way that they have walls too (yes, we're usually sweet to him in the established relationships). But like, i'm curious how it'd be for two people with difficulty admitting their own feelings.

Basically: mutual pining with aven and no one is admitting anything because it'd take a lot to admit it. Not in an enemies way, but just because they both think they don't deserve the other. "i think theyre just being nice to me bc i always hangout with them" kind of oblivious but others would think you're both dating. Until someone like topaz or ratio got fed up with it lol. I'd love to see your take on this.

Thank you! Please do whatever you can with this description, I believe in you ♪

“Don't you want me like I want you, baby? Don't you need me like I need you now?”

Summary: You and Aventurine, despite your deep feelings for one another, have built emotional walls that keep you from confessing. Both of you believe the other is just being nice, too oblivious to realize you're mutually pining. That is, until Topaz and Ratio grow tired of watching the two of you dance around your feelings and step in to smack some sense into you.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Confession in the Rain, Fluff, Emotional Vulnerability, Topaz & Ratio Being Matchmakers, Subtle Romantic Gestures, Light Angst with a Happy Ending.

Warnings: Minor self-doubt and insecurity from both characters

A/N: THIS IS SUCH A CUTE PROMPT!! 😭 AND I CAN TOTALLY SEE THIS!! ESPECIALLY BEFORE AVENTURINE AND YOU WOULD GET INTO A RELATIONSHIP, THIS SUITS SO WELL!! THANK YOU FOR THIS PROMPT AND BELIEVING IN ME!!🤭🫶💖 I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!

(Ifyk the title yk🤭)

Keep sending those requests y'all, I love reading and writing about them 🫶🤭💖

The click of glasses clinking echoed through the room as a sea of gold and velvet flowed around you. The IPC’s high-profile event had you standing at the corner of the lavish hall, drink in hand, stealing glances at Aventurine across the room. He was his usual self, smiling that easy, carefree grin while chatting up the attendees, his sandy-blond hair perfectly styled, magenta and cyan eyes gleaming.

You sighed softly, feeling the familiar tightness in your chest.

It was so obvious to everyone else—the stolen glances, the shared moments of quiet company, the lingering touches that could be dismissed as nothing. To you, though, it was an enigma. You couldn’t fathom that Aventurine, with his charm and confidence, could actually feel something for you. No, he was just being nice, right? He was always kind to those close to him.

But maybe that’s all you were—a close friend. A confidante.

"Of course, he doesn't feel anything more..." you muttered, running a hand through your hair, as if the action would sweep away the doubt.

Unbeknownst to you, Aventurine was having a similar struggle. Even as he entertained the crowd, his mind was on you. He hadn’t been able to shake that tightening in his chest every time your gazes met across the room. He knew you were kind, gentle even, but surely, you were just being nice because of how often you spent time together. And he? He certainly didn’t deserve you. Not with the walls he kept up.

His fingers played with the roulette-detailing on his sleeve as he watched you from the corner of his eye. ‘How could someone so warm even look my way?’ Aventurine thought. The idea of confessing, of breaking the silence, seemed too daunting—too risky, even for someone like him who played with fate itself.

It was a strange dance, this oblivious pining. And everyone around you was done watching it.

“Are you serious?” Topaz’s voice cut through the polite conversation with the sharpness of a blade. She stood there, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in an almost imperious arch as she sized you and Aventurine up.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, trying to play dumb.

Topaz narrowed her eyes. “You and Aventurine. Everyone in the IPC knows. Heck, even Numby knows.”

Ratio, standing beside her, shook his head, clearly exasperated. “It’s painful to watch, honestly. You two are practically dating without even realizing it. How much longer are you both going to keep this up?”

A flush crept up your cheeks, and you felt your heart stumble over itself. “W-what? No. We’re not—”

“Oh, please,” Topaz interjected, rolling her eyes. “Don’t even try that excuse. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s like you’re the only one in the room. And don’t even get me started on how you gaze at him when you think no one’s watching.”

You were stunned into silence, and Ratio sighed, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Don’t overthink it. Just… talk to him. He’s probably thinking the same things you are.”

As if on cue, you spotted Aventurine making his way to the exit, slipping away unnoticed by the crowd. The sky outside had turned stormy, and you felt something twist in your chest, urging you to follow.

The rain poured down in a steady rhythm as you caught up to Aventurine, his overcoat already soaked, but he didn’t seem to mind. His back was to you as he stood under the awning, staring out into the storm.

“Hey,” you called out, breathless from both the rush and the nerves building inside you. “Aventurine, wait!”

He turned at the sound of your voice, and for a moment, his expression was unreadable. You felt the words stick in your throat, the intensity of the moment hanging heavy between you.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, his voice softer than usual.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering as you took a step closer. “I… needed to talk to you.”

His eyes flickered with something—hope, maybe? But also a hint of wariness. “What about?”

Taking a deep breath, you searched for the right words, every inch of you trembling with nerves. “Topaz and Ratio—they think we’re dating. And, well, I… I didn’t know what to say.”

Aventurine stiffened slightly, his gaze dropping to the ground. “Oh...” was all he managed, voice unusually quiet.

You hurried to fill the silence. “They said we’ve been acting like we’re… more than friends, but I didn’t think you’d—”

His gaze snapped back to yours, a flash of emotion crossing his face before he schooled it into that familiar smile. “And what do you think?” he asked, but his voice was a little too casual, too light.

“I think…” you hesitated, your walls creeping back up, fighting the vulnerability of the moment. “I think I’ve been lying to myself.”

That caught his attention, and he straightened, the air between you charged with tension. The rain drummed softly around you, a perfect backdrop to the storm of emotions swirling within.

“I’ve been telling myself you were just being kind to me. Because I was around, or because I was useful, I don’t know. I thought I didn’t deserve you.” you admitted, the weight of the confession making your chest tighten.

Aventurine stared at you, stunned into silence. His smile faltered, and in its place, something softer, more raw, slipped through. “You thought you didn’t deserve me?” he murmured, incredulity coloring his tone. “All this time…”

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it—just a deep, aching understanding. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. That you were just being nice because I was there. That maybe I didn’t deserve someone like you.”

Your heart clenched at the vulnerability in his voice, the real him peeking through.

He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face, the rain still falling around you both. “I thought… if I let myself hope for more, I’d lose you.”

You swallowed hard, overwhelmed by the depth of his words. “I’m not going anywhere.” you whispered, voice trembling.

And then, before either of you could second-guess yourselves, you closed the remaining distance, your lips crashing together in a kiss that was both hesitant and fervent. The rain soaked through your clothes, but you didn’t care—the warmth of the kiss, of finally closing that distance, was all that mattered.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless, Aventurine’s smile was different—softer, more real. “Guess we’ve both been fools, haven’t we?”

You laughed, the tension between you finally breaking as the rain continued to fall. “Yeah, I guess we have.”

From a nearby window, Topaz and Ratio watched with satisfied grins.

“Took them long enough.” Topaz muttered, arms crossed, a smirk on her face.

Ratio nodded. “At least now we can stop pretending we didn’t see all those obvious looks.”

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings // Chapter Index

ONGOING!

read on AO3 💘 read on Wattpad 🦇

Plot: when you find yourself needing a topic for a journalism final, you seek out an interview from Gotham's elusive vigilante: Batman. this proves even more difficult than it already sounds, and tensions rise when you discover an intimate secret—just as Bruce Wayne realizes his own.

Pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

CW: 18+, slow burn, angst (with a happy ending), hurt/comfort, eventual smut, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, forced proximity, fluff, severe mental/physical health issues, canon-typical violence, gritty, multiple POV

Word Count: 182k (ongoing)

↓ chapters ↓

I. “the club within the club”

II. “research”

III. “the alley”

IV. “unmasked”

V. “the interview”

VI. “dinner”

VII. “peaches”

VIII. “as the rain settles”

IX. “goodbye, Gotham”

X. “discernment”

XI. “lying through teeth”

XII. “exceptionally qualified, equally eager”

XIII. “already spoken for”

XIV. “losing grip”

XV. “mutually-assured destruction”

XVI. “sweetener”

XVII. “orientation”

XVIII. “indebted”

XIX. “(im)mortality”

XX. “close call”

XXI. “belonging”

XXII. “gone missing”

XXIII. “desperation”

XXIV. “natural curiosity”

XXV. “Mr. Wayne”

XXVI. “grave responsibility”

XXVII. “tender loving care”

XXVIII. “eleventh hour”

XXIX. “uncanny valley”

XXX. “gut feeling”

XXXI. “deflection”

XXXII. “superglue”

XXXIII. “night light”

XXXIV. “the affliction of pity”

XXXV. “bittersuite domesticity”

XXXVI. “whiplash”

XXXVII. “Luminol”

XXXVIII. “for love”

[liillyliilly]

Halo

oikawa tooru x reader words; 10249 synopsis; He'd always been in love with her, it just took her a long time to feel the same.

When Oikawa was sixteen, she was eighteen.

“I swear you have a halo, just look at the way the sun curls itself around the edges of your hair. You have a halo around you.” She sat next to Oikawa and used her hands to create an imitation of a camera or frame that focused on how the sun backlit Oikawa.

The greenery of the hill they were pausing at, resting from a walk, was vibrant. The breeze filtered through the blades of grass and made a scent of earth linger around them. A setting sun was the backdrop of their conversation, she used it to flatter him.

He was so annoyed with her when she did that, his ambition was overwhelming for those around him but it never scared her off from him.

He wonders when that would change. It was a thought that remained; when would he cross a line and she would view his hunger as repulsive instead of laudable?

Oikawa scoffs, “You may think I’m an angel, but in reality, I’m just a drop in the ocean. Nothing special. One amongst many.”

“But just being counted among those many is still special. If the ocean didn’t have millions of small drops contributing and doing their part it wouldn’t exist in the first place.”

He bites his tongue. His deflections never worked on her.

She was older than him by two years, and she was best friends with his older sister. Oikawa also claimed her as a best friend.

Despite her being the younger of the duo, she was an outstanding example of poise and maturity in contrast to his older sister who was more like him, rash and immature. Oikawa could care less for his older sister’s other friends, but he loved it when she would come around. She could turn any moment into something special and memorable for him.

The halo moment with her happened when he started high school, while she was beginning the end of her journey in high school as a third-year student. His sister had already moved out and was living with her fiance.

While it was annoying that the older Oikawa sibling had asked her to watch over him, he didn’t mind her walking him to school in the mornings and her waiting at his volleyball practices to take him back home. She would always do homework or sit outside the gym and read with her headphones on.

“Let’s keep going, your mom is making katsu curry tonight.” She brushes off some grass from her school uniform, reaching out a hand for Oikawa to take so she can pull him up from the ground. He did have a halo in her eyes.

He tugs her back down, so she’s almost in his lap, “Ten more minutes.”

He likes it when she’s close to him. He’s sixteen, but he hopes that she could see beyond that. He hopes she doesn’t make this year the year she gets a boyfriend. She’s gone on dates with younger guys before, albeit, only one year younger than her. Maybe she’d make an exception for a two-year gap.

She takes her hand back from him and shoves him playfully. “You have five minutes and then we need to go.” He nods his head, staring at the mountain range that sits nearby.

She sighed, and laid back onto the ground, hands behind her head and legs crossed over each other. Her eyes were closed and she was soaking in the way the air cooled down slowly but surely as each second passed and night overtook day.

Oikawa tilted his head, resting his temple against folded arms that were lying on his knees that he had pulled up close to his chest. He just watched her.

When he was seven, she was nine. He’d felt ill when he heard that she’d be going camping instead of coming over to his house to spend time with his sister for an entire week. Just the thought of her being gone was agonizing.

That’s why during family dinner he declares a plan.

“I’m going to ask her to run away with me. It’s the only solution.” His face is covered in food and his mouth is full of mashed potatoes.

The older sister spits out her apple juice and laughs loudly. The mom chuckles from behind her napkin. She reaches over and touches Oikawa’s arm, “Honey, she’ll be gone for a week, and then back to keep playing for the rest of the summer break.”

Oikawa drags his hand down his face and complains. “That’s too long.”

His sister perks up and starts picking a fight with him, “You just want her not to leave so you can keep staring at her when she comes over here.” She makes a kissing face and puts her hands on her cheeks.

He turns red, calling for his mom to see what his sister is doing to him. Oikawa’s mom spent most of that week counting down the days until the soothing presence of a nine-year-old girl returned from camping in the woods.

Oikawa had spiraled down to the depths of volleyball sooner rather than later.

If he wanted to be the best, then he’d need to work harder than everyone else. Hours poured into practice, studying, focusing his lens on only volleyball.

In his second year of high school, he sustained a knee injury. He bottled it in. For a sport that was meant to be so much fun, he was in agony over his incapabilities at that moment. You play a sport for fun, you enjoy something for the love of it. If that was the case then why did he feel so utterly destroyed?

It wouldn’t be a problem, but when his mom took him to the doctor, the doctor said it was a stress fracture. He’d been playing too intensively for too long and would need a few months of recovery if he wanted to play the rest of the season. The antiseptic environment struck him as unloving. Medicine never understood the reality of sports, the deep driving passion that wasn’t bound by science.

Even if he couldn’t do serves or jumps, he could still run. He could still stay up late watching games of his opponents. He could still linger around practices and work on his tosses. He broke some rules and did receiving practices as well. But he made sure to take Mondays off, he only did low-intensive workouts on Mondays, long walks, and extensive stretching.

Maybe it was his fault for being addicted to volleyball.

His mom called her over one night when he refused to respond to his mom’s requests for him to go to sleep. She was at college now, her first year. She enjoyed what she was studying, and she liked that she had freedom. There was still a sense of responsibility for Oikawa Tooru that she carried.

Her best friend was married now and had given birth to Takeru who was growing up faster than expected.

When she got the call asking if there was anything she could do or say to get Oikawa out of his funk, she drove over and told the worried mom to go to bed, and that she could handle it.

Could she handle him, could she mitigate the tension in his soul? She knew that Oikawa loved volleyball and that his injury had made him bitter. When his actions began to worry others though, she drew a line there. Nothing was worth the hurt of worrying.

She knocked on his door, but he didn’t respond. She opened the door, and saw him at his desk, pen in hand taking notes of a volleyball video. It was of him playing against a rival school, each time he saw something he didn’t like he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and gritted his teeth.

She picked up his desk clock. Lightly beginning her approach to tell him to back down from his focus, “You never seem to look at the clock anymore, it’s nearly two in the morning. Tooru, you’re going to make yourself sick with all the time you spend watching those videos.” She tried to get him to look at the timekeeper in her hand. He pushed it away and she set it back on the counter.

The prodding she performed struck a cord in him.

“I can’t practice? I can’t analyze games? Do you want me to be a bad volleyball player?” Oikawa set the pen down, rubbing his eyes which felt dry and strained. The words he intended to come out as inquisitive came out accusingly instead.

“That’s not what I’m saying at all. You need to incorporate more moderation into your life. This obsessive hyperfixation on the gap between your dreams and current reality is driving you to the brink.” She rubbed a hand on his shoulder, trying to lull him away from the desk and towards his bed.

There was no use in focusing so intensely on the gaps between desire and truth. She thought he would see reason. She wanted him to understand that he needed to recover more fully before diving back into volleyball. There was nothing more important to her than helping him find out that life isn’t built upon strenuous achievement to get to the end, because the goal line was always being moved. How could Oikawa expect to get anything accomplished if the footing he was gaining would keep changing?

Oikawa slinks away, pulling his chair closer to the desk, and his face closer to the screen, “It’s the dreamer and reality face-off. And I’m losing. I’m losing and you can’t see it.”

She leans over and shuts his laptop, he spins around to her with a scowl. She puts her hands on each of the arms on his chair, boxing him in with her surrounding him from all sides.

“You are losing. You’re losing yourself. Tooru, you’re losing because you aren’t taking a step back to enjoy life right now. You think you’re losing, but no one else is playing this game with you.” She moves a hand and points to his bed, “Get out of this chair and go to bed, you dumbass.”

He feels bad that she’s here instead of in her bed sleeping. Her hair was messy and riddled with tiredness, her clothes were pajamas with a jacket over the top.

She was wearing the sandals that she got during a trip his family had taken that she went along with. When she was busy splashing around in the ocean with his big sister, he sat on a towel watching the way the water made her glow from the sun’s reflection on her skin. If only he’d gotten in the water instead of playing by himself and tossing volleyballs into the air, trying to reach the sunlight from his place in the sand.

He mumbles an agreement to her request, going to his bathroom to brush his teeth while she watches from the doorframe.

Clambering into his bed, Oikawa wraps himself in his blankets and ignores the way his body tenses up at first, but slowly eases into laying down on his bed.

There wasn’t a move from her to leave his room quite yet, but she was yawning. When she made a step forward, she stumbled a little.

He leaned up and spoke, “Can you even drive?”

Swallowing, she replies, “I’ll probably just sleep in my car, I thought I wasn’t that tired when I drove over here.” Another yawn she tries to muffle is released.

Oikawa grabs a pillow that was wedged in between his bed and the wall that it was against. He moves closer to the wall, trying to make room for her.

“Just stay.” With me.

She purses her lips. He’s still a child. He may be seventeen but he’s a child and he doesn’t know what he wants, that was her thought process. She was nineteen, she had to be the realistic one, a girl who didn’t give any kind of fake chance or inclination that would reciprocate feelings.

“I’ll see you later, Tooru. Don’t cause any more problems for your mom.”

She leaves, and he’s sitting up in his bed, hands curled up in his sheets, watching her leave.

It’s almost like she’s always the one to leave, she’s the one who puts the distance that he despises. He feels reduced to a kid. Like he’s a child that needs to be coddled and watched over. Although, he supposes his behavior did warrant a need for a babysitter.

When he was fourteen, she was sixteen. Blossoming into a young woman might have gone under the radar when it was his sister, but when it was her, he couldn’t think of anything else.

How could he think of anything else when she was right there sitting on the sidewalk making chalk drawings in a tank top and shorts? Her thighs had streaks of blue over them, and the legs of her shorts had handprints from where she rubbed off the excess chalk dust.

“Oi, Tooru! Come look at this!” She waved her hand so he’d move from his place on the porch to where she was sitting on the pavement. That’s when he noticed she’d accidentally gotten chalk handprints on the sides of her chest, standing out against the black spaghetti strap tank top. After he saw the chalk marks, naturally his eyes scanned the rest of her chest.

He almost chokes on his saliva, sticking his feet onto the panels of the front porch. “I, um, I’m good right where I am actually.” Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead and he silently prayed that his body would relax instead of shooting hot rushing blood through his body. He leaned back into the bench, trying to sink into it.

His sister knew better than that though, “Oh really? But she really wants you.” His sister had to have been pure evil, “She wants you to come over.” The slight pause between ‘come’ and ‘over’ went unnoticed by her but Oikawa hung onto the words like monkey bars.

“No, I’m sure I’m good.” He lets out a blase whistle, trying to think of anything but her body.

She throws him a thumbs up, “Sounds good.” When she goes back to drawing, her best friend leans into her ear. The laugh Oikawa’s sister lets out shocks his focus back to the pair of them.

Her eyes were darting anywhere but him and she was using a hand to slightly cover her face, using her other hand to bring the front of her top up a little more. He could’ve passed away from mortification right then and there.

When the pair of friends finally came back into the house, and Oikawa was playing video games with Iwaizumi who had come over, his ears were burning. She leaned into the living room to see what game they were playing, giving her input on the game, “Mario Kart is the best.” Her little chuckles at the way Iwaizumi was goading Oikawa had him addicted.

She laughed when Oikawa spun out of the track from spending just a little too much time looking at her rather than the screen.

Iwaizumi had left the house after an hour or so, and Oikawa’s sister was taking her turn in the tub. She was staying the night for a sleepover, waiting in the living room. Oikawa had forgotten to clean up the controllers so his mom told him to go clean up the TV area, only to be faced with her playing on her flip phone in the center of the couch.

He tried to pivot to avoid any more embarrassing exchanges between the two of them, but she told him to freeze where he was.

“Sit down.” She patted the space next to her.

Sitting down, he attempted to leave a huge canyon width of space.

She cleared her throat, “It’s okay that you think I’m attractive. Don’t be ashamed at all, it's perfectly fine and natural. As much as your sister does tease you, don’t let it make you feel gross or anything.”

He covered his face with his hands and groaned a little. The fact that they were even having this conversation made him want to go back in time and tell his parents to never have kids.

“You’re cute.” She ruffled his hair.

He blinked a few times and felt confidence flood in. “You think I’m cute?”

“Sure, you got pretty eyes and your hair is always super soft.” She crossed her legs, still messing with his hair as he slowly reclined on the couch.

Oikawa figures he’d been teased enough for one day, so it wouldn’t hurt to be just a little flirty back. “I think you should always have your hands in my hair. Feels like heaven.”

Her laughs run around his head before settling into his heart. “I’ll see what I can do about that then.”

“Great, that way I don’t have to ask you. You can just see me and know I want you to run your hands through my soft hair by default.” He wiggled his head a little from side to side, amplifying his attempt at charisma.

She just smiled at him in response.

Repressed feelings and self-loathing were most likely why his next fit was so soon after she had first pried him away from his screen during his second year. It was now nearing the end of his second year, and his injury had mostly recovered, it would never be the same knee, but it would function close to regularly again.

Much too late at night, once again, she’s knocking on his bedroom door, and he’s watching volleyball. Her voice is scratchy from a concert she attended the day before, with some guy who liked the same music as her. Oikawa never understood why people would want to date those who had the same music tastes. Maybe it was because he didn’t care all that much for music.

Iwaizumi was a music lover, and Oikawa just listened to whatever Iwaizumi played. Oikawa liked her music though. It was usually the sad kind of piano music. Her other favorite type of music was the kind of music that screams out into the universe and declares, no, demands, a presence.

She sounded scared. “Tooru. Open the door. I can hear your counterclock ticking. I’m listening to the ticking of the clock and I can’t hear you at all.” She wonders if he had escaped out the window to make stupid and rash teenage mistakes.

He sighed deeply, hoping she would hear that. She does. Oikawa had failed to make it to Nationals yet again, he had spent too much time this year working for his team to make it.

Ushijima had gone up to him and told him that Oikawa would have a better chance at making it further if he’d joined a different school. Ushijima knew nothing. Oikawa knew he was a good player, but why did every attempt to advance become reduced to another failure? Oikawa wanted to win with his team, with Iwaizumi, Takahiro, and Matsukawa. They were his team and Oikawa wanted to provide them an opportunity unlike any other.

It was an insult that Ushijima presented. The conditional offer to conceptualize the fact that Oikawa was not enough to bring his team through the games to a victory. That he couldn’t magically make a chance for them to fight on the main stage at Nationals. Ushijima had essentially told Oikawa that Oikawa was a talentless, worthless player, and if he wanted to win then he would’ve needed to join a team that could win with or without him. Oikawa was an inconsequential factor in the game of volleyball.

At least, that was how Oikawa interpreted the discussion with Ushijima after the tournament.

He’d have to work harder, he reasoned.

The door isn’t locked, so she finally enters. It isn’t quite as late as midnight, but it’s dark outside and the shadows slink into his room through the window. The moon casts a light in the center of his room.

He’s not sure if he’s crying or not. He’s cross-legged on his bed.

“Hey.” She scrutinizes his face, she can’t determine if she sees tears or if it's just the reminiscence of fear on his face. He makes a noise of acknowledgment. She sits on the corner of his bed.

He pours out his thoughts. The conversation with Ushijima, the way he feels his team looked at him, the way he hated his knee for being a physical reminder of his lack of talent.

She puts a hand on his face, guiding him to look at her.

“Do I see tears? Or is it just that the fear dwelling within you is making an annoying appearance again?” He shakes his head and uses his hand to wipe away at his face in case there are tears. Her thumb traces the bridge of his nose.

Anyone could tell that he seemed scared. But it was a deeper worry than just scared, it was a deep-rooted fear of lacking the abilities to be a good volleyball player. The ego he held close to his lungs was shattering and leaving shards, affecting his breathing.

He knew his internal locus of control wasn’t enough. He wanted to control more than was within his ability. Oikawa wanted the world on his shoulders, but he could barely balance it with open hands.

His chest starts to heave again, and his bottom lip wavers. She tries to shush him, but he lets out a strangled sob. Pulling him into her, she runs a hand on his head, soothing him by running her hand through his hair. She just keeps saying his name, pressing light kisses to the top of his head. The front of her shirt was covered in wet spots from how he had his face in her neck.

Shakily, he brings her into his lap, wraps his arms around her, and hugs her tightly.

“I’m sorry.” He kisses her with his whole heart, bumping their noses into each other. He kisses with too much force, but it conveys all the feelings he has. Love, pain, turmoil, affection.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He leans in again, but she puts a hand on his chest, putting space between them.

Patting his head, she tells him that she has to go back home. She thought that he just needed to get the kiss out of his system and that it didn’t mean anything.

When she pulls out of the driveway he yells into his pillow. His mom comes into his room and sees him hugging himself. Oikawa’s mom decides to leave well enough alone. She had only come to check on him again because Oikawa’s mom had asked, but it was all dependent on Oikawa and how he took what she said or did.

They never talk about the kiss in person. Oikawa thinks about it every day. It crosses her mind frequently enough to warrant a quick rant to Oikawa’s sister, replacing Oikawa with a differently named seventeen-year-old boy who used her as an emotional crutch.

In response to the rant, Oikawa’s sister had told her to let the boy off gently and to ghost him.

How could she ghost Oikawa Tooru though? Especially when he texted her and kept saying he was sorry for what he did and that all he wants is for them to be friends again.

She devours her pride and accepts his offer. They could be friends. Oikawa didn’t want just friendliness, he wanted love. He wanted her love.

When he was fifteen, she was seventeen. A third year in middle school, Oikawa had settled into the personality that he crafted. He wanted to be everything that a girl would like, charming, suave, and flippant. He wanted to be everything he thought she would like.

If it wasn’t for that annoying first-year genius, then Oikawa definitely would have had a chance to see if he could finally have a shot with her. Not necessarily ready to date her, but sensing if he at least was on a roster list for her.

She came to most of the games if she wasn’t busy with her part-time job or with schoolwork. He recalls how he had tossed her one of his backup Kitagawa Daiichi jerseys, with the captain’s mark and a shining number one on the front and back. He told her that if she was going to come to the games, she might as well show off who she was going to watch play.

She had said that the jersey would make it seem like she attended the junior high instead of her actual high school, he shrugged and said it didn’t matter. But each game that she went to, her wearing that jersey demonstrated how much it did matter to him. Beaming at her when he finally caught her eyes in the stands.

Oftentimes, Oikawa’s mom needed her to pick up Oikawa after practice since his older sister was out with her boyfriend. She didn’t mind going to Kitagawa Daiichi to pick him up since she liked the route to drive there. Covered in trees and a smooth straight road where she could go just a little over the speed limit and no cops cared enough to make her slow down.

Waiting at the entrance, she saw Oikawa cleaning up the gym. A black-haired boy had turned the corner and bumped into her.

“Ah, sorry.” He stood awkwardly like there was a ruler against his back preventing him from slouching at all.

“It’s all good!” She noticed his uniform, “You’re on this team aren’t you? What position are you?”

“I’m a setter.” Instinctively, the boy tries out a smile, it doesn’t look quite legitimate, but she dismisses the strangeness of it. He gives her his name, Kageyama Tobio. He questions her, “Who are you?”

She explains her relationship to Oikawa, being his older sister’s best friend. “Although, I’m another sister to him at this point.”

“A sister?” Kageyama makes a slightly bitter face, “You’re not blood-related though right?”

“No, no, just friends. But I’ve known him since he was in diapers.”

“Ahh, that’s why he was talking to Iwaizumi-san about what to get you for White Day.”

Furrowing an eyebrow, she thinks out loud, “I didn’t get him anything for Valentine’s Day this year though?”

Oikawa had rushed over once he saw Kageyama with her, shoving the mop into the closet and quickly getting to them. The floor was still wet though, so when she heard a thud and a string of curses, turning her head she saw Oikawa rubbing his back with a scrunched-up face.

She waved Kageyama off, going to Oikawa and crouching down next to him.

“Tooru, I think the floor is still wet.”

“No, really?” The words are laced with sarcasm. She giggles a little before giving him a hand, he takes it and stands up, still rubbing his backside.

As they made their way to her car, an old beater car that she had made into her dream car of sorts, she asked Oikawa what he was going to do on March 14th. Checking her review mirrors, and messing with the keychains she had hanging from the mirror, she backed the car up so she could get onto the main road.

“March 14th?” Oikawa faked dumb. “Nothing is happening on March 14th.” He folds his arms and settles into his seat. He wonders what Kageyama had told her during their conversation and if that had anything to do with her questioning his White Day plans.

“Okay good, I’ll be with Ito that day, so don’t have anything in mind.”

Oikawa grimaced. Ito Yuuta went to a different school than Aoba Johsai but was still way too involved in her life for Oikawa’s liking. His sister had shown Oikawa photos of Ito and her together at various hangouts.

“Ito Yuuta? The one that smells like he drowned in a forest?”

“Is that what she said he smells like? Yes, he does smell like evergreens. However, you betcha I love the smell of trees. He’s yummy.” She didn’t realize that she had begun to discuss someone she was interested in with someone who was extremely interested in her. “And his hair? Ugh, the way he gels it has me nearly weak in the knees.”

She pulled into his driveway, waiting for Oikawa to hop out. He didn’t.

“Tooru, we’re at your house?”

“Don’t leave yet, I have something for you.” Oikawa exits the car but keeps the door open so she can’t reverse.

He tossed a small box at her, and she barely caught it in her hands. She tugged at the small white ribbon on top of the blue box. “Wait!” She looked at him, “Don’t open it yet. Open it when you get home, okay?”

After he shut her car door and went to his room, he bounced his knee and waited for a text message from her.

Inside the white box was a card of course, but also a bracelet. It was a thin chain, with several charms attached to it. She picked up the card, and on the front was a legend of sorts, describing what each charm was for.

A key represented his wish for her to always have security and safety. A book charm was to show that he thought she was super smart. Her favorite charm though was the star, because he intended for it to mean how much she shined in his eyes.

The inside contents of the card were short, just about how glad he was to have her in his life. The other drafts of the card had been continually vetoed by Iwaizumi. Stealing poetry from Shakespeare would not have gotten the right emotion across. And confessing that he thought about her all the time would’ve come off as too stalker-ish. The best option Iwaizumi said was to go with the K.I.S.S method. And the K.I.S.S methodology went as follows, ‘Keep it simple, stupid.’

(tooru, thank you for the present.)

He saw that she was typing, and another message was loading.

(it’s sweet that you thought of getting me this for white day.)

He bit at the inside of his mouth. She had sent a photo of her holding up a peace sign, her wrist had the the bracelet on display.

(love you! 💛)

He sighed, falling back onto his bed. He wondered how embarrassing it would be if anyone knew he was fifteen and still kicked his feet a little to physically convey his blend of elation and how much fondness he had for her.

He hadn’t officially given her a White Day present, because he gave her the gift on March 12th. Which he thought was probably better than any sort of White Day gift. His present was special because of his simple desire to get her something rather than the bracelet being for a yearning for her to reciprocate something like a White Day confession.

The third year of high school was supposed to be his year. He bounced back from his second-year depression, using the time off of school to hone his skills, to practice being perfect. He felt as if he was close to attaining the perfection he aimed for. He still loses out on a chance to get to the Nationals. Losing to Karasuno in a devastatingly close game.

During the game, she saw him land on his bad knee and she almost jumped out of her seat. After the game, and watching how all the third years were struggling to hold back their tears, or the way that Oikawa harshly slapped Iwaizumi’s back to get him to line up, she appreciated volleyball just a little more.

When Oikawa threw his white kneepad into a garbage bin unceremoniously, she held back any comments or questions. His kneepad being thrown away was the end of a chapter for him. His mom got after him for throwing away a perfectly good kneepad, but she just gently put a hand on Oikawa’s mom’s shoulder and made an expression to not push the kneepad incident further. It’s not until a month after that loss to Karasuno that Oikawa and her get into an argument.

At the dinner party his parents throw annually Oikawa sneaks a glass of beer and sips it outside on the balcony. People chatter inside the house, talking about how much Takeru has grown up and what a lovely couple Oikawa’s sister and her husband are.

She comes out to the balcony to escape the adults asking her about her life. Too many questions about boys, books, and her future for her to have a settled stomach. Outdoor air always calmed her stomach down.

“Tooru, being naughty are you?” She puts a finger on the rim of his red plastic cup. He turns his head away to hide his blush. She just laughs a little in response.

“Are you ready to be done with high school?” She asks. Leaning over the railing, her hands clasp onto each other. Elbows splayed out on the metal railing, and Oikawa copies her so that his elbow is touching hers.

“I think so.” He answers. Oikawa takes a drink from his cup, the starchiness coating his throat uncomfortably. “I’ll be going away after graduation. Argentina.”

He wants her to ask him to not go.

“That’s amazing! Tooru, I’m so glad that you’ve found a path to follow.” Her smile betrays the way her stomach can hardly take the news. She’s just the friend of his older sister, she’s just someone who watches out for him. Why would he, a brilliant person, ever halt his destiny for her?

“Yeah, I’ll be playing for a team that I think could be fun.”

She forces another smile.

He forces a smile back. But then he gets upset. Why should he have to pretend like everything is fine? He thinks she deserves to know how he feels.

“You know, I’d be more fun if you were there too. With me.”

“You’re funny, did you know that?” She fakes a laugh, “Me in Argentina? I hate summers here, imagine how I’d react to the weather in Argentina.”

“You’d adapt. You always do.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

He turns to her, putting the hand that wasn’t holding his drink on her hip. She tries to detach from him, but he just grips her tighter, linking a finger through her jean loop and tugging her into him closer. He loves it when she’s close to him. She relaxes into the hold he has on her.

“I want to offer you so much more than just kindness.”

Biting on her lip, it was her turn to move her face away from his stare, hiding the way her eyes kept flickering across his face and landing on his lips.

She wasn’t unaware that Oikawa felt something towards her, but she diminished his feelings as a crush that kids have on older girls. Each time they met, she realized that that wasn’t the truth. He saw her and she didn’t appreciate the way that he would look at her. He looked at her like she was his lifeline.

“I think your sister is calling for me.” Oikawa’s sister was in her old room putting her son to sleep.

Oikawa kept pulling her into him, their hips fully touching now. He ran a hand over her arm, from her elbow to her wrist. “You can’t keep avoiding me.” It’s a tone that is lightly sing-song but also carries a grittiness.

She hadn’t been around his house as frequently as of late. Using school or work as an excuse to not watch movies or let him try to teach her volleyball again.

“I’m not avoiding you.” She wriggled, trying to escape him but not putting much effort into her withdrawal.

“Don’t lie.” His tone now balances on the edge of a knife, one side was a typical cheeky silly tone, and the other was an abrasively tormented tone.

“I’m not interested in you like that, Tooru.” It was a last-ditch attempt to see how far he was willing to go. How close he was going to come to ripping apart their fragile friendship. She didn’t have any sewing materials left in store to repair what was going to occur.

He swallows thickly, eyes searing into hers. “You’re being mean.” His tone had fallen over and landed flat on the tormented side.

He lets the words sting her, not softening their blow. Oikawa wonders if she’s lying or telling the truth. It was a fine line between whether he should urge the issue to finally crack her shell or if she was being honest and she was totally out of his reach.

Managing to finally break away from the way Oikawa lured her in, she went into the main kitchen that opened into the living room where everyone was making conversation. He downs the rest of his alcohol and tosses the plastic cup into the outdoor trash can.

Oikawa doesn’t know how many more drinks he steals from the kitchen, watching her talk to people and gently touch shoulders in acknowledgment and understanding.

The moment Oikawa accidentally and drunkenly breaks a vase with zinnias, primroses, and calla lilies, his parents shut down the party. His sister heads out, asking her best friend if she needs a ride home. She says that she’s good, she’ll enjoy the February blossoms on a walk home.

Oikawa’s mom asks if she’ll check on Oikawa before she leaves. She says she doesn’t know if that would be a good idea, but Oikawa’s mom begs to differ. As it turns out, when she was outside the house, talking to her best friend, Oikawa hit his hand against the concrete wall of his house. His mom had bandaged most of the scrapes, but she couldn’t do anything about the way his eyes seemed empty.

She wonders if his aversion to her right now had anything to do with his earlier confession and her adamant rejection. Or if his anger is all due to his volleyball woes. She reasons that it ultimately has to be the loss to Karasuno.

“You’re letting yourself get bothered? You’re letting this moment tick you off and you go and punch a wall?” She’s knocking harder on his door. “Get off your ass and face me.”

“Go away.”

“You’re falling down a path that I can’t save you from. Tooru, listen to me please.” He doesn’t respond. She hears the ticking of the clock in his room from where she sits outside his bedroom door, her head resting against the wood.

On the other side of the door, he’s hugging his legs on his bed, his face on top of his knees as he glares at the doorknob where the lock is turned. His stubborn, obstinate, unyielding pride prevents him from getting up and opening the door so he can cry everything out and so she can hold him. He just wants her to hold him.

This fit isn’t about volleyball anymore, it’s about them. She knows it. The way that he sealed her into his life and now that she wants to be unstitched. He feels wounded.

She investigates. “Are you ready for whatever you’ll go through throughout your life? People will probe you, instigate you, and deride you infinitely worse than what I’ve ever said to you.” People will be able to say they love you and I can’t.

He opens the door, “No one will ever hurt me more than you hurt me. You hold so much more power over me than anyone else,” He waves his hand that’s wrapped in white cloth to emphasize his point. “You make me feel like this. Like every emotion is dialed to one hundred.”

“I can’t choose how you feel. I can’t make you feel anything.” She pokes him in the chest. “You’re a child and you’re acting like it too, get over your facade and get over your surface-level crush on me. You don’t know me and don’t you ever pretend like you do.”

He raises his hand, she reacts with a flinch. He finished the motion, he was going to run his hand through his hair. His stomach drops and he realizes that she just thought he was going to slap her.

It's a whisper of, “I’d never hurt you.”

He backs into his room, wanting to disappear from the exchange. The argument ended there.

“I know, I just reacted, it’s okay.” Hearing his barely audible whimpers, she crosses the threshold of his door. A suitcase is half-filled in the corner, with clothes hanging out of the case. A book on speaking Spanish is on top of his laptop.

The silence is cut with the shuffles of their feet on his carpet and intermittent sniffles.

His chest tightens, short releases of air paired with overzealous inhales. “I miss you even when you’re around. How is that possible?”

“I don’t know.” She sits on his bed, and he curls into her side, rubbing his nose on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. My words failed me, I’m a liar. Tooru, you know me better than my family does.”

He kisses her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her neck. Hot breath is on the side of her face.

“I need you to let me go. I’m not your person.” She wishes she was, but she felt like she just wasn’t.

Oikawa can’t help the crack in his voice, “Why do you get to decide that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers.”

“To me you do, you have all my answers.”

They begin to cry at the same time.

He replicates what he remembers her doing to him so many times. Caressing her hair and pressing his lips to the top of her head repeatedly. She seems so much smaller than him nowadays. He’s been six feet tall for a while now but only when she began to seem removed did he realize that he’s bigger than her.

“Tooru.”

He mutters in response. They had begun to lay in his bed, with Oikawa pulling blankets up to cover the both of them, his arm encasing her waist and keeping her close to him. His ceiling fan kept spinning overhead. He had his head on the pillow and wanted her to just release the stiffness in her body and soften into his touch.

“Tooru?” She tries to sit up, but he’s tired of that and refuses to let her go. She faces him, twisting around in the embrace. Both their heads are on pillows now, he keeps his eyes closed. “I want you to know that I do love you.”

He raises his eyebrows in wariness, unsure of where she’s taking her words.

“I love you but I can’t be what you want. I can be a sister figure, I can be a best friend, I can be someone you can talk to, but I cannot be a lover.”

Oikawa wanted to hug her tighter, but he was already leaving imprints on her waist that were sure to leave light bruises and tenderness the next day. All he can say in response is a hum.

As soon as Oikawa had fallen asleep, she left.

The dreamer and reality face-off was Oikawa’s least favorite thing. The way that he could dream all he wanted, but reality failed to match those expectations. People always say that the future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams, but where’s the beauty in knowing that your future is sullied because of being born in the wrong year? For being born in the wrong life this time. For being born as the person she wasn’t going to end up with.

The spring after his graduation, Oikawa was messing around with her. He had to have been. Their fight at the dinner party weighed on them, but more so on her.

She wonders if she made the right choice. Her feelings had flipped on her and she knew it. Instead of pushing him away due to her unease about the age difference, she pushed him away because she was afraid of how deeply she would fall.

All the times her friends had teased her about being a cradle-robber, or a cougar for having such a smitten boy around her, she had let those comments get to her. It was ironic, the same hyperfixation that Oikawa had for volleyball was matched in her hyperfixation on the way she was older than him and tried to always act like it too.

Oikawa decided to stay persistent. He knew that she still appreciated that quality about him. He wanted to put his ambition to good use.

He lounged without a shirt around his sister’s place when she was there to visit. He’d caught her looking at him once, or three times, and the way he could see her begin to play with her fingers, wringing them out was more than enough for him to embrace a level of confidence he hadn’t shown to her before. He was on the older end of eighteen, she was on the cusp of twenty into twenty-one.

She had been looking at pictures, trying to avoid where Oikawa took up space in the living room. It had been ten minutes since his sister had left and she hadn’t said anything to him, not even a greeting. He did not appreciate that.

If she was so insistent on being anything to him but a lover, then he would treat her like that.

Wrapping arms around her may have been the breaking point, but he committed to the final blow, “Hey best friend.” She rattled out a titter, but any move she made would result in her brushing against the bare skin of his arms, or his chest, or worst-case his stomach.

He rests his chin on her shoulder, “Oh wait, you wanted to be called sister yeah?”

She gritted her teeth, still trying to decode a breakaway moment. Oikawa’s sister was stuck in traffic from picking up some fast food. Takeru was at daycare, the husband was at work. It would be just Oikawa and her for another twenty minutes or so. She hoped he wouldn’t be so insistent to keep touching her for the entire duration until his older sister returned.

“My name works perfectly fine Oikawa.”

He turns her around, still grasping her, “Oikawa?” He tisks, sliding his hands from her back to her waist. “That doesn’t sound right to me.”

Within her shoes, she kept wiggling her toes uncomfortably.

“I know your name, and you know mine,” He lowers his voice, “So use my name.”

Shaking her head she closes her eyes.

“C’mon, it’s just two syllables. Too-ru. Your turn.”

Adamantly she leaned away from where she could feel his breath, increasing the span between them.

“Sisters and brothers use each other's given names.” He tightens his hold, one hand on the small of her back and the other on her waist still. He leveraged his lack of a shirt to see how close he could get, knowing she didn’t want to touch him. She’d let him get away with slipping around her while she stayed frozen in place.

“Stop it! We are not related!” She opened her eyes and stomped her foot a little. Her jaw was clenched and her eyes were wide.

“Good. Never wanted you as a sister anyway.” He wanted her in extremely not sisterly ways.

“Tooru quit it.”

“Why? Isn’t this what best friends do? They tease, they taunt, they play.” Oikawa grips her face, smushing it gently in his left hand. He smiles at her. His grip was so delicate but his touch was heated.

The best response had to have been dishing up what he was serving. So she slid her hand over his chest, resting on his pectoral. He could feel the vein in his neck pulsing. He drops his hold on her and takes a step back, his calf hitting the coffee table. Her step forward to him is calculated.

He wishes he was wearing his shirt now.

“We can play whatever you want Tooru.”

He stutters.

“How cute.” She pinches his cheek, then puts her hand back on his chest.

The door handle turns and she drops her hand, fixing her shirt a little from where Oikawa had grabbed at her. Oikawa doesn’t even notice her move to pick up a book and scan through the pages in the far corner of the living room.

Oikawa’s sister had bags of greasy food and she jutted out her hip, “I got the good stuff.” His sister scans the room, “Put a shirt on. Is it too hot in here? You’re red from the ears down.”

“I’m good.”

“Weirdo.” Oikawa’s sister rolls her eyes at him, “Now, let’s eat.”

Their dynamic bounced between them. Oikawa pushing and pulling in various directions, while she tried her best to stay still. He did settle down, calming his nerves.

Could say he did everything if he didn’t give one last attempt for her heart?

He’s twenty now, and she’s twenty-two. He asked if she would go on a car ride with him. She agreed. Piling snacks and drinks into her passenger side, she asked where they would be going. He sidetracks.

They end up at a beach, far along the coastline. There’s a rocky platform, but they crawl down to the sandy area, where the water laps up the seashells trying to bring them home to the cold ocean.

He postponed Argentina for two years. One month was left on his pause before going where he knew he needed to be. His club would only wait so long for him before his spot would be filled.

He sits on the large towel he brought. She’s picking through seashells, squatting by the water.

An idea runs through his head. He doesn’t let it die out. He’s just a kid after all.

He pushes her into the water with a laugh, she splashes him by lifting her cupped hands and dumping salty water over his head. He catches her by the torso, but she manages an escape and starts going further into the water, he just follows after her.

They shiver as they stand both waist-deep in the ocean. His hair is sticking to his forehead, and her teeth chatter but it doesn’t detract from the way she’s smiling.

Oikawa swims closer to her. There’s maybe an inch between them. He lays all his cards on the table when he holds her face in his hands. Goosebumps riddle the expanse of their bodies.

“Since I can’t have you in this life, I want just one more memory with you.” A shiver runs through her. Oikawa continues, “So before I leave, I need you to promise that we’ll find each other in the next life regardless of who we are?”

“We’ll find each other, in every life. Just like how we found each other in this one.” She’s quiet, but he can hear her perfectly. She’s trying to make herself seem older with her words, more mature. She grasping onto straws making it seem like she isn’t wrecked by what he’s asking.

She moves her fingers through the water, he takes his hands away from her face so he can position her hands onto his shoulders. He goes back to cupping her face. She wraps her arms around his neck and lets their bodies mold against each other.

Their clothes are soaked through, her long sleeve is getting stretched out from the waves. Sweatpants absorb the icy water and stick to their legs. His shirt is clinging to him and leaving an exact outline of his torso.

Oikawa’s a little choked up but he wants her to know what he’s thinking so he gets the words out. “Promise we’ll end up together in the next life?” He moves his head so their foreheads are touching.

“How we are right now, again?” She splays her fingers, intertwining the hair at his nape between each finger, he shudders from the contact.

“No. Like we were meant to be. Like we were made for each other. I want to find us as lovers.”

She lets the weight of her head fall into his hands and he lets out a short muted sigh of relief at how the tip of her nose hits his.

“Okay.”

His eyes flicker to her lips, she notices. He brings his head down a little, “Just once? Once where you kiss back?”

She’s softer with how she kisses than he is. She’s more experienced, but she goes slower than Oikawa expects. It’s just pecks, and he wants more. When he licks her bottom lip, it’s salty from the ocean, but he thinks she tastes perfect. He can’t help the way that he moans into the kiss or the way he grabs her thighs and makes them wrap around his hips.

It’s all in the way she’s the first one to slide her tongue into his mouth slightly.

He wants to consume each noise she makes. He hardly notices the way he runs out of breath when he starts moving from her lips to her jaw and then back to her mouth. When she backs her head away, his head keeps coming to follow hers, trailing her lips with his.

Pressing a hand right below his neck, her fingers touching his shoulderbone, she makes distance between them so she can force Oikawa to pause and get some air.

“I lied.” Oikawa’s eyes are blown out, pupils dark and filling in his irises. She purses her lips, and she goes to loosen the way her legs are around him, but he holds her where he wants her. Legs still around him. “I lied because I know I can’t wait until our next life. I need you in this life, and all the other ones.”

She goes to speak, but he keeps going. “I’ll make it work, I’ll make everything work out the way it should. I just want you to say yes. I want you to want to say yes. I need you to say yes to me because I don’t think my soul could take anything less than your entirety.”

He pauses and she opens her mouth again, Oikawa doesn’t know when to stop and the words rush out, “One more- I’ll be quick.” He steals an open-mouthed kiss, running his tongue over hers.

She rolls her eyes, and Oikawa steals another peck on her lips.

“Okay, two more.” He shrugs a little, “I’m not any sort of genius, yet, but I know that I was meant to be yours. Maybe I knew it when I was seven, maybe I knew it when you shoved that stupid counterclock in my asinine face and told me to go to bed. But I know it.”

The sun officially setting made the water so much colder, so she tucked her head into his neck, “I love everything you’re saying right now but I’m freezing.”

“You love what I’m saying?”

“I’m cold Tooru. Focus please.” He lets out a sound of understanding. It’s cute how she waddles out of the water, but he realizes he’s probably doing the same side to side penguin walk.

He picks up the towel and waves it out so the sand gets off the fibers, then he wraps it around her shoulders. He’s hugging her from behind and pressing small kisses to the side of her face. Attempting to get back up to the car with him attached like a koala is difficult but not impossible.

The engine of the car is running, and he fidgets with the heater. He has a tic where he’ll mess with the amount of air blowing, then the level of heat, and then go back to the amount of air. Each knob he twists changes the temperature until he finally settles on a lull of heat.

Her head is resting against the window, getting slightly rocked by the movement of the car on the road. The towel was still wrapped around her. Oikawa had found another one in the trunk and had it wrapped around his waist, he had forgone a shirt since the heater was working just right and he didn’t want a wet t-shirt on anymore.

“I meant what I said you know.” Oikawa had one hand on the wheel and one hand on her armrest. “I’m going to make everything work out the way it needs to work out.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I’m yours now.” Oikawa lets his smug smile roam on his face.

“Mine? No title? Not boyfriend?”

Oikawa moves the hand from the armrest onto her thigh, “The title I’m settling for is husband or soulmate. Take your pick. I’ll propose soon, don’t worry angel.”

She tilts her head up and laughs. He rubs his thumb over her knee.

In contrast to the way his hair had a halo in the sun, she had a halo made of stars and the moon. Instead of creating an outline of her hair, the night sky embedded itself and adorned her. Rather than trying to amplify her, the moon and stars realized she naturally had a halo around her and wanted to say congratulations by shining through her rather than on her.

Although she declines the first four proposals, she accepts the one right before he leaves. Oikawa would never tell her but he was relieved that she accepted, he couldn’t handle the idea of him not being around and her getting moved in on by some other guy- despite her telling him consistently that she would turn other guys down.

The ring didn’t act like a perfect deterrent, but it made him feel secure. He liked that she wore all the stuff he got her on the same hand, his ring and his bracelet from way long ago.

Oikawa sends her a new jersey almost every month, with his signature across the front near his player number. He also sends all sorts of knick-knacks he finds in Argentina. He makes a point of calling when she’s eating lunch, and he’s about to go to bed so that she doesn’t have to stay awake to answer his calls. His mom and sister get annoyed that he spends hours talking to her but only minutes talking to them. He tells them that true love takes precedence over family.

She has to chastise him to get him to actually stay on call with his mom for longer than thirty minutes.

They fight a few times about where to live. He wins the argument and she moves to Argentina once she officially graduates college.

An apartment filled with her stuff and his stuff side by side makes him giddy. But he especially gets excited with the fact that he gets the side of the bed closest to the bedroom door, and she gets the side furthest away from the bedroom door.

Sometimes he’ll stay up much too late, his back against the headboard of their bed watching volleyball videos.

“Tooru, go to bed.” She nuzzles against her pillow a little more, her back towards him as she tries to avoid the light of the laptop screen on his legs.

“One more video.” He clicks on a replay of a match that goes all the way to five sets with commentary during each timeout instead of the video cutting to the next play.

When he chuckles a little, she turns over and shuts the laptop. “Bedtime.” She makes a fake sleeping sound. Oikawa sets the laptop on his side table, turning the table light off.

She lifts her head so Oikawa can put his arm under her head. She presses a kiss to his bicep.

“What’s the clock say?”

He slings his leg over her torso and puts his other arm across her stomach.

“It’s not even midnight yet.” She clicks her tongue and he fixes his response. “It’s 23:14.”

He kisses the corner of her mouth. When she doesn’t say anything, he gives her a real kiss. Still no response and he licks the length of her jaw to her chin. She lets out a small din of disgust.

“Fine! Goodnight Tooru.”

He whines a little.

She groans. She sits up a little and leans over him, ruining the positioning she had spent minutes working on. She rests the length of her arms on either side of his head, her face right above his.

One of her hands begins to play with his hair, which begins to twirl around her fingers, softly grazing her palm. He uses his arm to force her back down so that her chest is pressed to his, he lets out a coo to express gratification when her weight is on top of him.

“I love you, my pretty boy.” She kisses his cheek, “Handsome, intelligent, angelic, slightly egotistical-” He nips her bottom lip. “I love you, goodnight, I’ll be here in the morning.”

He’s living his dream. There’s no difference between his dreams and reality now. No gaps to fight against. Only a pair of invisible halos for the rest of their lives.

[lizard-on-a-window-pane]

5 times you and Miguel walked away from each other and 1 time you didn't

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x reader notes: brother'sbestfriend!Miguel, soccerplayer!Miguel, college au, slow burn, somewhat mutual pining but written from reader's perspective more exclusively, SFW - only slightly suggestive (worst thing is probably a boner), fem reader (pretty neutral though), saying soccer instead of football felt so dirty but oh well, thank you for reading!! word count: 5.9k

You’re having your first lazy day in forever. It’s the first day in recent memory that you didn’t have something to do or somewhere to be. You’re just going to hang out in your apartment and watch your favorite shows or read for fun for once or whatever else you feel like doing. Because you don’t have to go anywhere, you don’t even take a shower, opting to stay in your comfy pajamas, not bothering with any makeup or hair effort, as you lounge around. 

You have the place to yourself now, but you share it with your twin brother Alex, the two of you lucky enough to go to the same university. 

When you eventually hear his keys scratching at the door, you’re sprawled on the couch reading a novel you’d left half-finished for ages despite actually really enjoying it. School really had a way of making you not read. Or at least never full books. 

As Alex opens the door, you’re surprised to hear him talking to someone else. You see his unexpected guest a moment later from your spot on the couch, your college apartment rather small after all. And you’re mortified. Miguel. Alex’s best friend, university soccer team superstar, ridiculously attractive Miguel. 

God, why did Alex not warn you he was bringing someone over? All it took was a quick message, for fuck’s sake. And Miguel of all people? Ugh. Well, it wasn’t like you could tell him. “Hey, brother dear, I have a huge crush on your best friend, so can I please get a warning next time he’ll be around? You know, especially so I’m not looking like a total mess when he shows up?”

He’d been coming over a lot recently actually. He and Alex were both on the soccer team and happened to share a few classes too, so their schedules really lined up. Usually, it was nice to get to see him. It’s not like either of them paid that much attention to you when they were hanging out, but Miguel was nice to look at. Even now, they seemed like they were coming back from a casual soccer match or something, and he still looked amazing. His thick, dark hair was messy in the way that made you want to run your hands through it; his t-shirt hugged his unreasonably broad chest and shoulders perfectly, and his sweatpants — fuck, his sweatpants — his ass looked miraculous as he turned to put his gym bag down.

Miguel’s looking at you as he and Alex step into the living room. “It’s Saturday, Y/N, and the weather’s finally fucking nice. Why’re you reading a book? You’re such a nerd,” Alex snaps as he plops onto the couch next you, pushing your legs off to make room. 

“I’m a nerd because I’m reading a book? Am I am tomboy because I’m not wearing a dress, too, or are we keeping it to one stupid superficial stereotype?” 

Miguel chuckles as he sits on Alex’s other side. “Cut him some slack, Y/N, he took a soccer ball to the head today. Might be making him even more of an idiot than usual.” 

You can’t help but worry; you love the idiot after all. 

“You okay? Was it bad?” you’re asking as you run your hand over his head looking for bumps. “I’m fine, mom,” he mocks, pushing you away. “And you? You asshole,” he accuses Miguel playfully. “‘Took a ball to the head’?” he repeats, then turning to you adds, “It was him that kicked it!” Miguel starts laughing.

“It was the perfect setup, man. Not my fault you were distracted.” “Whatever,” Alex says as he reaches for the video game remotes. Knowing them, it was time for FIFA.

You’re eager to hide with how you look right now anyway, so you get up to head into your room. “We didn’t mean to kick you out,” Miguel starts kindly. “ You don’t have to go; you were clearly comfortable here.” “Clearly comfortable”? God that sounded bad in your head. He was “super hot”; you were “clearly comfortable.”

“Thanks, Miguel. It’s fine. I was going to —“ but you don’t finish your excuse as you trip on the remote’s charging wire as you step across, falling unceremoniously to your face right in front of them. 

“Mierda!” Miguel yells.

Alex immediately asks, “You okay?,” but it’s Miguel who’s up and over you in the same instant.

“You alright?” he asks softly as his hands grab your hips to help you up. 

His hands on you were the last thing you needed right now. So much for composure. “Fine. Really,” you say, your breath shaky. You’re kneeling on your living room floor; Miguel’s squatting in front of you, close; his hands haven’t left your body even though you’re no longer prone. He just watches you closely, eyes beautiful and concerned. You stare back into them, and after a couple more shaky breaths finally manage to stand up and step away, looking anywhere but at him. “‘M fine,” you repeat. You turn away hurriedly and go the few steps to your room. Once safely behind closed doors, your face scrunches and your stomach sinks at the sheer embarrassment. 

~

It’s been days since Miguel was at your apartment, and part of you is happy for the lack of pressure but another part of you still gets a funky feeling in her gut at the idea that the last memory of you he had was of a clumsy mess. He and Alex have a game today, and pretending to convince yourself that you just felt like it today, you make yourself up more than usual for it. You’re actually pretty happy with your look as you head out to meet some friends at the match. 

They win. Miguel scores. Twice. Alex’s defense is probably the main reason for their clean sheet. 

So, hyped up on adrenaline and victory, they’re laughing and messing around with their teammates as a bunch of people approach the sidelines to congratulate them. Alex spots you and makes a goofy face, always so playful when he’s happy. He jogs over to you and gives you a huge hug.

“Stop, you’re so sweaty!” you squeal. He just holds you tighter and rubs his sweaty hair on you, laughing. When he finally pulls away, Miguel is standing right next to him, smiling at the two of you. “Do I get a hug too?” he teases. “I scored two more goals than he did!” 

You’re not sure if he’s kidding, and you’re sure the chuckle you give in response is somewhat tense.

But, stepping toward him, you just say, “Congratulations,” and wrap your arms around his shoulders without getting too close. Damn, they were like boulders. Miguel wraps his arms around your waist and closes the distance you’d maintained, giving you a surprisingly intimate embrace. You’re struck by the feeling of him around you. He’s sweaty, too, and you can smell his musk, but instead of off-putting, you find it incredibly arousing. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing where your chest is flush with his. He’s so warm, and you just want to breathe him in and trace every ridge of his body. But the hug is already lingering too long to be normal, and you pull back a bit awkwardly. Miguel is still looking at you, a subtle smile on his face. 

He seems about to say something when a high pitched squeal right next to you startles you. 

“Miguel!” a very pretty girl yells at him as she approaches, unabashedly jumping onto his back. She’s in a cheer uniform. “Oh my god, you were so good!” Miguel’s so sturdy, her jumping on him didn’t throw him off physically, but his face looks a little flustered. “Uh, thanks,” he says politely, putting her down. She just giggles and grabs his arm as she compliments him again. 

You feel so awkward watching this, so you just turn around and walk away. You don’t see Miguel looking after you.

~

You’re at the after party with a couple of your friends. The soccer team was quite popular, and the victory parties tended to be good. You’re mostly having fun, but you can’t help but keep looking over to where Miguel is. Man of the match and man with that face, he was obviously the center of attention. People were coming up to congratulate him left and right. He handled it all so graciously. It shocked you how there was no arrogance in his demeanor; he was just the easygoing life of the party. 

You wanted to go talk to him too, but you’d already congratulated him and didn’t know what else you would say. The last thing you wanted was to embarrass yourself again. You could go talk to your brother, who was right next to him, but he was busy flirting, and you didn’t want to ruin it for him. 

A bunch of people are dancing in the open space between you and Miguel, and the chaos lets you sneak long looks at him without his noticing. But when your friend leans over and asks, “Who do you keep looking at?,” you realize you have to be less obvious. “No one, just curious who Alex is flirting with,” you lie, proud of how quick you were with it. 

“You a jealous, protective sister type?” she laughs. 

“No, just curious.” “Is he?” “What?” “Protective?”

“Um, sometimes, depends. Why?”

“Because that guy over there keeps checking you out.” She nods toward an okay-looking guy chatting with someone on the edge of the dance floor. A second later, he was indeed looking over at you. “You should go talk to him!” “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not so interested.” “Why not? He’s hot! I’m pretty sure he’s on the team too. You don’t have to marry him, Y/N, just go dance! You’ve been weirdly tense all night.”

You look over again, and your eyes meet. Before you can do anything else, he makes the decision for you, walking over to you.

“Hey.” “Um, hi.” You exchange names and pleasantries, and he asks you if you want to dance. Without thinking about it, you glance toward the person you really wish you were dancing with. To your surprise, Miguel is already looking toward you. He looks less happy than before. You look back at this guy quickly, hoping neither of them noticed. 

You feel slightly bad thinking this, using this guy you weren’t super interested in, but you couldn’t help but feel it’d be nice if Miguel saw a side of you that might make him think of you differently, not just as Alex’s sister. It’s just a dance anyway, so, you accept the offer and head to the dance floor. 

You fall into a rhythm with the music, with the guy. The dancing is fun; the guy is fine. Your back is to Miguel, and you can’t resist spinning to catch another glimpse, doing it seamlessly as you keep dancing. Your breath catches when your eyes meet his. 

Miguel watching you from across the room is doing much more to turn you on than anything your current dance partner is doing, but you channel your new energy into your movements. It’s not a well thought out decision, though in the back of your mind you know who it’s for, but you start moving a bit more suggestively. You let your hips follow the music, let your hands come up to your hair as your body rolls rhythmically. Feeling especially bold, you even manage to meander closer to where Miguel is, giving him a better view. 

Unbeknownst to you, this unfortunately also makes Alex, now unoccupied, notice you for the first time. You don’t hear him leaning over to Miguel and saying, “Gross. I hate seeing my sister with random guys. Let’s go get more drinks.” He drags him away, and Miguel, unable to come up with a good reason not to follow, does. 

The next time you spin, all you catch is the backs of their heads.

~

The following week, you’re coming home from classes, and all you can think about is eating. You’d had to skip lunch to finish an assignment and couldn’t wait for dinner. 

When you enter your apartment, you find Miguel sitting on your couch. 

“Hey,” he greets. “Hi.” He’s sitting on the edge of the sofa closest to you, and he adorably shifts over to make room, as if you couldn’t just go around. You weren’t planning on sitting anyway, but now that he’s wordlessly extended an invitation, you do. “Where’s Alex?”

“Went to take a shower. We’re gonna play a couple games when he’s done.” He gestures toward the video game console. “Are the remotes charged?” you joke. “I hear it’s a hazard to have the wires across the living room floor.” Miguel chuckles lightly at your self-deprecating humor. He’s turned toward you, sitting in the middle of the couch, his elbow on the backrest as he occasionally messes with his luscious hair. “I felt so bad that day. Taking over your space and tripping you. When you looked so peaceful when we got here.”

“Don’t feel bad,” you laugh, amused but also masking your stirring feelings at the fact that he had thought about it at all. “I was just a mess that day. And I wouldn’t call my pyjamas peaceful, just comfortable. In my defense, though, I wasn’t expecting company.”

“I liked your pyjamas,” he teases, and you roll your eyes. “What? I did! I’m all for comfy clothing; have you not noticed 90% of my wardrobe is gym clothes?”

“Yes, well, you can get away with it. You’re a guy, and you look like that,” you say, gesturing at his body before you really realize what you’re saying. You tense as soon as you do. It just slipped out, the conversation getting weirdly easy and comfortable with him. “Like what?” he asks, but he’s smirking, knowing what you meant. You just roll your eyes again. “No, c’mon, chula, like what?” He lifts his eyebrows in challenge, mirth in his eyes. You’re too busy reeling from the pet name to have mental energy to come up with a retort. You’re grateful for what would’ve otherwise been embarrassing: your stomach grumbling. Miguel looks at your stomach and giggles. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” you say, taking the escape route and walking to the adjoining kitchen. He follows. “You can get away with it too, you know,” he says nonchalantly. You think you know what he means but look back at him questioningly. “The clothes. You always look good.” 

You’re glad you’re not facing him, your expression probably revealing your excitement. “Thanks.” “You’re welcome.” He leans on your counter. “So what are you having?” “I don’t know, whatever we have. Haven’t had time to go to the store.” You’re rummaging through your cabinets. “I can make you something,” he offers. You stop and look at him. “What? I’m a great cook,” he shrugs defensively. “Have you never had my tamales?”

“It’s not about you being good or not,” you giggle. “There’s no reason you should have to cook when you’re just here to hang out.” 

He just shrugs again, but there’s a tinge of shyness in his typically confident facade. 

You turn to open your fridge, and he comes up right next to you. “Oh shit, you guys have jarritos. Can I steal one?”

“Yeah, of course,” you laugh. “Grab whatever you want.”

You didn’t think he would immediately… As you bend over to grab something from the drawers, Miguel reaches up to grab the soda, leaning forward. Both of you moving simultaneously, your ass presses firmly against his crotch. You both freeze in panic, prolonging the position, before you jump up at the accidental contact. His and your “sorry”’s and “I didn’t mean to”’s get jumbled together in the colossally awkward moment. Miguel looks down, then back up again looking startled. He scurries around to the other side of the counter, it now separating you. “Jesus, Miguel, I didn’t do it on purpose! You don’t have to put a barricade between us; it’s not like I’m gonna jump you!” “No, no, it’s not that! Fuck, it’s, uh, fuck…” He looks lost for words. His hand comes to his face, covering it in resigned embarrassment. His voice is a mumble through his obstructing hand, “I’ve a bd’ve uh sitch-ation.”

“What?” He uncovers his face with an exasperated sigh. “I have… a bit of a… situation,” he whispers, looking down.

“Oh… oh!” you say, realization hitting you. Probably largely because of the awkward tension, at least partially at the idea of you giving Miguel O’Hara a boner, you start cracking up. He just stares at you, deadpan, his hands coming to his hips. “It’s not funny.” “It’s a little funny.” His glare cracks the tiniest bit. 

“Okay, maybe it’s a little funny. But it’s your fault!”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Didn’t mean to what?” Alex asks nonchalantly, coming out of his room, lazily drying his hair.

“Nothing!” you and Miguel say simultaneously.

“Okay… should I just pretend that wasn’t really suspicious?” 

“Yes,” you tell him. “It’s nothing, really. Just me being clumsy again.”

His eyes are still skeptical, but Alex just chuckles and nods, letting it go at the look on your face. He heads to the couch with an easy “C’mon, man” at Miguel. Miguel follows, giving you a sideways glance and tense smile. When he sits, he immediately puts a cushion on his lap. You grab the first thing that looks edible in your fridge and head to your room. 

~

Two weekends later finds you at another soccer team party. They’d lost this time, 2-1. Miguel scored their sole goal, and the other team’s second had been a sketchy penalty. If the victory parties were good, the defeat ones were wild. Most of the players, Miguel and Alex among them, were drowning their sorrows, especially after such a disheartening defeat.

You weren’t a player, but you had your own sorrows to drown, and you weren’t stopping yourself from doing just that. You’d hardly seen Miguel in almost two weeks, and the few times you had, he’d been cold, keeping interactions mainly to greetings and goodbyes. You didn’t know if you’d done something wrong, if he was still caught up with your little awkward encounter, or if you were just making it up, your feelings for him needing some outlet. Making up stories by constantly obsessing about him was as good as outlet as you could get sometimes. Alcohol was a better one now. 

A while into the party, you’re at the bar for your… you lost count… numberth tequila shot. You down it, lick the salt off your hand, and stick the lime in your mouth, cringing. 

Your eyes are still closed when you feel a hand on your shoulder. You open them and see Miguel standing beside you. “Maybe switch to water, huh, guapa?” he tells you.

“Why? M’fine,” you slur. 

“Maybe, but you won’t be if you keep this pace up.” “And how would you know?” 

“Just noticed,” he shrugs. 

You squint your eyes accusingly at him. You didn’t know what you’d feel next time you talked to him, but you hadn’t expected to feel this angry. 

“You notice me enough to watch how much I drink but not to say more than two words at a time to me for weeks?” He looks surprised. “Y/N…” 

You cross your arms and lift your eyebrows in an implied “what?”

When he doesn’t say anything, you just walk past him. You end up walking through the dance floor, and though it wasn’t your plan, you kind of like moving to the music. You’re drunk enough to the lack the inhibitions to just dance alone. You’re enjoying yourself, not even bothering to look back and see if Miguel was still there. A bit later though, you startle as you feel a hand on your ass. You turn and find a random guy you’ve never met before, smiling at you disgustingly drunkenly. You’re taken aback, your mind already a bit slow from the alcohol, so you haven’t decided yet how to tell him to fuck off by the time Miguel is in front of you shoving him away. He’s not overly aggressive but, even drunk, easily moves the guy away from you with an angry “What the hell, man?” 

The other guy looks seriously scared and just lifts his hands with a pathetic “sorry, Miguel.” 

“Fucking better be, what the hell is wrong with you?” The other guy stumbles away. Miguel turns towards you, and his expression melts from frightening anger to warm concern in two seconds. “You okay?” he asks, his hands carefully grazing your shoulders. You nod and lean into him. At your seeming comfortable, he lets his arms come around you. 

“Thanks,” you whisper in his ear.

“Of course,” he whispers in yours, and it sends a shiver down your entire body. You stare into his eyes, your hands resting on his chest. 

“Miguel?” 

“Yeah?”

“Wanna dance with me?” 

They don’t call it “liquid courage” for nothing. 

Miguel considers you for a moment, but a soft smirk is whispered across is sharp features. He nods slowly, and his hands move slightly further down your back. You close your eyes at the sensation of his hands running along your body. You run your hands up his chest slowly and wrap your arms around his neck. When you open your eyes, you see his crimson ones boring into you. 

You start moving a bit more as you focus on the music to relieve some of the tension you’re feeling. He follows your lead, and soon you’re dancing together much more easily. As a couple of songs go by, you’re both moving freely, staying close to each other the whole time.

You’re so exhilarated, and he seems as enveloped in you as you are in him, so the next time the beat calls for it, you let your body twist rhythmically in his grasp. Your back is now flush with his chest, your ass on his crotch, your hand reaching behind you on his neck, in his hair. His hands are firm on your hips, and when you roll them against him, you hear his whispered “Fuck, mami” in your ear and feel his arm come around your middle, pulling you into him. His hips move in rhythm with yours. You’ve probably never been so turned on in your entire life. You keep this up for a delicious while. You can feel Miguel is hard through his jeans, but he makes no sign of being embarrassed, just continuing to dance with you with expert hip movements that make your imagination go wild. Of course he’d be an amazing dancer. Of course you’d imagine what else his hips could do. 

You twist back in his embrace, coming to face him. He holds you close, and you bring a hand to his face. He leans into your touch. You move your face up slightly, and he seems to be following, moving his down. You’re so close, even think you feel your lips graze his, when someone bumps up against you, making you stumble. 

Miguel’s strong arms catch you, but the moment is gone, and a second later, he looks startled.

“You okay?” he asks, stepping back a bit, speaking loudly to keep his distance. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you assure, but he seems off. 

“Let’s get some air, huh?” 

You follow him outside, the sudden change in ambience making your head spin a little. You lean against the wall, and he puts his hand on your shoulder. 

“Sure you’re okay?” You nod but don’t say anything, maybe a bit drunker than you thought, trying to ground yourself. He leans on the wall next to you. His body is warm where it grazes your side. You can feel his gaze intermittently on you. You get a little dizzy again, and you lean onto his shoulder. He just lets you, and you stand like that for a while. 

His fingers graze the back of your hand.

“Want me to take you home?”

You nod into his body. He wraps a firm arm around your shoulders and leads you away from the party. 

You’re home before you know it, the whole journey a blur dominated by his warmth by your side. When you reach your front door, you lean on it and look up at him. His subtle smile elicits your full one. “Thanks,” you whisper. “’S no problem,” he shrugs. “You’ll be okay?” “Yeah,” you nod. You’re already sobering up. “You?”

He chuckles and nods. 

“I wasn’t the one downing tequila shots like water,” he teases. Your cheeks warm, and you look down as you chuckle. 

“Wasn’t that many…” 

He laughs.

“It was, cariño.” Again with the pet names. 

“I’m still surprised you noticed.” “I always notice you,” he responds without missing a beat. Your eyes snap up to his, and you see the longing there. 

You stare at each other for a heavy moment, then, drunk more on the sensations of your earlier almost-kiss than on alcohol, chasing that feeling, you lean up to try again. Your lips are a breath away from his when he looks down, effectively rejecting your advance. You pull away, mortified. 

“Sorry, I… sorry,” you stutter as you scramble for your keys. You turn to your door. “Y/N,” he whispers, his hand holding your wrist softly. “It’s okay,” you say, looking back him, wiping tears from your eyes. “You don’t have to say anything; sorry I misunderstood.” 

You quickly go inside and close the door. You lean on it, crying. Miguel, eyes closed, fists clenched, rests his forehead on the opposite side. 

~

Miguel doesn’t come around for a while. Even as days pass, you can’t stop thinking about your night together. Confusion, sadness, embarrassment — all mixing together into a terrible cocktail.

Another match day rolls around, and you can’t stomach the idea of watching Miguel play, of potentially having to talk to him after. You tell Alex you’re really sorry to not support him this time, but that you’re not feeling well. He worries over you a while, unhelpfully but adorably emptying your medicine cabinet onto the kitchen counter, looking through stuff, suggesting this and that, telling you to text him anything you needed that he could bring you after. 

A while later, you’ve just slumped down onto the couch, when your stomach sinks at the sight you’re met with. There, at the corner of the room, lie his cleats. He’d been cleaning them the night before and had clearly forgotten to put them back in his gym bag. 

“Fuck.” 

You lift yourself up, grab them, and head over to the stadium. 

When you get there, you pound at the locker room door, and it opens — of course, you couldn’t catch a fucking break — to Miguel O’Hara’s gorgeous face. Though he looks at you intently, you can’t quite read his expression. Then he yells over his shoulder, “Ale!” 

Alex jogs over and, upon seeing you, lets out the biggest sigh of relief. 

“Oh, thank God. I fucking love you.” He reaches for the cleats you’re holding up to him and gives you a  bear hug. “Saved my fucking life, Y/N/N. Thank you.” He kisses your forehead. “You don’t look as sick. You’ll be okay?” He’s clearly in a rush to get back but wants to make sure you’re alright. 

You nod and playfully shove his chest, pushing him back into the locker room. “You’re the best!” he yells over his shoulder as he saunters back. Miguel is still just standing there, all geared up for the match. It crosses your sick mind how good the uniform looks on him. 

“You’re sick?” he asks. 

“Nothing I won’t get over.” You offer him a weak smile. He’s nodding slowly, considering. 

“Stay for the match?”

“Miguel, I —“ “Please.” You’ve never heard him plead before. You’re head is nodding before your mind can catch up. He just nods too. “I’ll find you after.” And with that, he jogs back into the locker room. 

You’d never known ninety minutes could drag on for eternity, with a half-time’s worth of eternity in between. You’re sure you’re heartbeat was elevated the entire time, your mind and emotions reeling. What was Miguel going to say to you after the match? You had absolutely no read on him during your short interaction before. Then again, apparently you weren’t always great at reading him. 

Minute after minute trickles by. At the end of the second half, your team up a goal (yes, Miguel’s), the ref announces an unusually large number of minutes. You moan with everyone else, for your own reasons. What was a potential leveler compared to the leveling of your heart?

Slowly, the minutes pass. The other team builds a mounting attack; they get a good attempt; they miss. The whistle blows; the crowd cheers, and you, you’re frozen in place. 

You thaw yourself slowly as the players shake hands, go to their respective huddles. By the time they’re roaming the sidelines freely, you’ve only just managed to leave your seat. 

As you descend the bleachers stairs, you catch sight of Miguel. He’s obviously searching, halfheartedly ignoring the congratulations coming from all sides. His eyes eventually meet yours, and as soon as they do, he’s running over to you, meeting you much closer to the bleachers than the field. 

He comes to a stop right in front of you and just watches you. You just watch him. “Congratulations,” you say. He chuckles, lightly shaking his head.

“Thanks.” 

He takes a step closer to you. “Y/N…” “Yeah?” “I…” “Miguel!” you’re interrupted. “Congratulations! Way to pull it out!” “Thanks, yeah, thank you,” he says hurriedly, looking back over to you. “Listen, I just, I wanted to clear things up after how we left them.” You nod, worrying your bottom lip, your arms wrapping around you defensively.

“I didn’t want you to think that —“

“Congratulations, Miguel! Did it again, man!” And a slap on the back.

“Uh-huh, yeah, thank you,” Miguel responds, turning away, approaching rudeness. “For fuck’s sake,” he says, much more softly. “C’mere.” He grabs your arm and drags you around the bleachers, stopping when you have a semblance of cover. He’s looking around to make sure no one else is about to talk to him, and his worried looks right after he’s just won makes you laugh. The sound draws his attention fully back to you. He smiles at seeing you smiling. 

“Where can a guy get a little privacy, huh?” he jokes. “Probably not still by the field where he just scored the winning goal, I’m guessing,” you tease. He chuckles. Then he takes a deep, sobering breath. “Listen, Y/N…” 

His tone sounds apologetic, and it makes you immediately think the worst. He probably just didn’t want you to be embarrassed. Wanted to fix things so they wouldn’t be awkward if he hung around, which he’d obviously want to do given Alex was his best friend. 

Already fighting back tears, wanting to beat him to the punch to save face in whatever way you could at this point, you cut him off. “Miguel, you don’t have to explain anything or anything. I’m sorry I made more out of a good time than I should have. Please don’t let me keep you from hanging out with my brother even if I’m around, and I hope we can still be friends.” “What? No, that’s not… This isn’t about Alex. I mean, well it is a little bit.” He’s looking unsure. “Just keep things how they were before. It’s all fine.” “Is that what you want?” He looks serious. “What do you mean?” “Is that what you want? To keep things how they were before? To still be friends?”

“I… well… it’s what you want, isn’t it?” “I never said that.” “You didn’t have to. I tried to kiss you, and you pretty much said no to that. Twice.”

“I didn’t. Well, once, yeah I did, but it was only because I was worried you were too drunk. I didn’t want to take advantage of you. And, also, maybe a little bit because I panicked, okay?” He sounds more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard him yet. “I was worried it’d be weird with Alex or that I’d fuck it up with you, and I just, I don’t know, I panicked. And the other time wasn’t my fault. I was going to kiss you if you hadn’t stumbled.” “Someone bumped into me!” “I’m not blaming you! I just, it just, it made me remember you were drunk, and I didn’t want to be like that idiot guy I’d had to push away a while earlier.” “You’re nothing like that guy,” you say sternly. “I…” He’s started to look frustrated, unable to find the words. He runs his hand over his face, takes another deep breath. “What if you try now?” “What?” “I don’t know how to tell you. So maybe I can just show you. Try again, and no one will bump into you. I won’t panic, and I won’t think of all the things that could go wrong. I’ll think of how I’ve been feeling since that night. Absolutely fucking miserable. It’s been eating away at me; all I could think about was making it right with you, but I didn’t know how, didn’t know if I should. But I can’t take it anymore, and if you feel the same way, then, fuck, let’s just stop getting in our own way.” 

“Miguel…” “Yeah?” “That was pretty good for not knowing how to tell me.” Your face forms the slightest teasing smirk, your eyes lighting up at the realization of what he’s telling you. “Shut up and kiss me already,” he says, rolling his eyes, unable to help his bright smile, pulling your body to his and bringing his lips onto yours. 

You pull him into you, reciprocating eagerly. He moans into your mouth, and you feel his towering body sink onto yours. His arms are tight around you, one hand cupping your head, bringing you close. His kiss is fervent, desperate but concentrated. 

You run your hands in his hair, and he chuckles gruffly, the sound muffled by your chasing mouth. You lose yourself in his embrace. You grip him tightly, breaching into his mouth, wanting to kiss him as much as wanting to be kissed by him. You could feel the beginning of a beautiful push and pull as your mouths move together, your bodies mold into each other’s. 

You want to kiss him forever, but some loud cheering nearby startles you slightly apart. Miguel is looking deeply into your eyes. He kisses you again, lets his forehead rest on yours when he pulls back. You’re smiling when you say, “You should probably get back. I’m sure people are looking for you.” He groans dramatically and hides in the crook of your neck. He kisses it before saying, “I just want to be with you.” 

You giggle, nuzzling his face with yours, holding him close, your hand in his hair.

“Yeah, me too.” He hums into your neck. He plants another kiss there, and one on your cheek on his way up, as he lifts his head again. His rough hands caress your face tenderly. 

“This is good,” he says simply. You laugh and nod. “Fuck ‘em. I’ll go over there at some point. Let’s just stay here a little while longer.”

“Okay,” you smile. 

Miguel leans back into you, kissing you and kissing you and kissing you. 

[hairmetal666]

Steve and Eddie don't like each other at first. Or, no, that's not quite right. They're still bonded from everything. They're friends, sort of, but they don't spend time together outside the group, have trouble talking one-on-one.

Steve doesn't think about it much. So, he and Eddie won't ever be real friends, okay. He's a little disappointed, but mostly he doesn't understand how he feels about the other guy. He's always anxious when Eddie's around, clumsy and stuttering, infected with Robin's tendency to nervous chatter. It doesn't make sense. It's just Eddie. But that's the thing. It's Eddie and Steve doesn't know how to act around him.

And Eddie? Well, he spends a lot of time avoiding Steve because the fucking cascade of butterflies he gets every time Harrington is around. He knows what it means, knows even he isn't immune to the Harrington charm, but he needs to be. He needs to keep his heart safe. So, he keeps his distance because Steve Harrington is not for him and never will be.

It changes during movie nights. First it's teasing Dustin and Mike, mocking whatever horrible movie the kids put on, and then it's inside jokes, and playful bickering, and evenings with just the two of them drinking beer and sharing joints.

Then it's August. It's too hot everywhere and Steve's parents are home, so they're in Steve's car, driving with no destination, a couple joints in Eddie's jacket pocket and a six-pack in the trunk. They're listening to a mixtape Eddie made Steve, a bunch of metal. Steve still doesn't get it but there are a couple of songs he enjoys. Rainbow in the Dark starts--this is one Steve likes, reminds him of Eddie and not just because it's Dio. Sun filters through foliage and into the car windows, backlighting Eddie's curls like he's some kind of deity, beautiful and ethereal, not part of this world.

Steve starts singing along to the music, can't help himself. His friend throws him a beaming smile, big enough that Steve thinks his heart stops. He smiles back. He and Eddie sing the rest of the song together, and Steve is...he's content. He's happy. He hasn't felt this way since--well fuck--since 1983. Their eyes meet again, gazes linger, warmth pools in Steve's chest and low in his stomach.

Oh. He thinks. That's what this is. It settles something inside him, the knowing.

Time passes, they get closer, share a bed most nights. Doesn't matter where as long as they're together. Sleep better this way, both of them.

They're at the trailer when it happens, sharing a joint, loosely tucked against each other in bed.

"I've never had a friend like you," Eddie says. His eyes stay fixed on the smoke he exhaled. "I know you and Robin are--like, I get it. But you're--for me--"

"Yeah," Steve agrees. He flushes from his chest to forehead. "For me too."

It's enough, they both think. They're standing on the edge of more have been for months, but this? This is good. There's no need to push, to force. They're hurt, Steve thinks. They're healing. And they have time.

Corroded Coffin plays their first show back at the Hideout in December. Steve's never seen Eddie like this, performing. His shirt is cropped and artfully torn, his jeans more rip than pants. He's wearing eyeliner and his hair is wild. And the way he moves, sinuous and sleek, hips thrusting in a tantalizing rhythm as he shreds on the guitar. Steve wants so badly he feels it in his teeth.

He finds Eddie smoking behind the Hideout after the set. His eye are too bright, his smile manic, the adrenaline keying him up to the highest setting of Eddie. Steve knows he matches the energy, can't help it.

Eddie throws himself into Steve's arms, wrapping around him tight enough that no space lingers. The musician presses his face into Steve's neck, nuzzling, lips pressing against his pulse point. They touch always, share a bed and cuddle, but never like this; nothing like this. Steve pulls Eddie closer, and groans at the mutual swivel of their hips.

Eddie's breath comes in panting bursts, and Steve thinks, "here it is, finally, finally," but the door next to them bangs open and they jump apart at the noise.

Their friends and the rest of the Corroded Coffin guys come out, frolicking and shouting, complimenting Eddie on the show. If anyone noticed them embracing, notices the way they both adjust their clothing to hide their matching arousal, they don't say anything.

Steve wakes early the next morning, early enough that Eddie doesn't even stir beside him, hair wild and eyeliner smeared.

He gets out of bed, starts breakfast, chocolate chip pancakes and bacon, Eddie's favorite. He's so intent on cooking that he doesn't hear the other man come up behind him, doesn't realize he's even awake until a warm body presses to his back, long-fingered hands slipping under his t-shirt, tracing the scars on his stomach. He leans into it without a thought. They touch all the time, but they don't touch like this.

"Watcha making, sweetheart?" Eddie whispers.

"Your favorite," Steve answers.

Eddie makes a little sound, almost a whimper, and presses his face to Steve's neck. Steve lifts his chin, leaning into Eddie and offering more. Warm lips press against his jaw, down to the moles on his throat. A moan slips from his lips as he grinds his ass into Eddie's hardness. The other man groans, grabbing at Steve's hips.

Somewhere in the press of their bodies, Steve has the presence of mind to turn. He lifts his hands, cups Eddie's jaw, thumbs caressing the stubbled, scarred skin of his cheeks. "Okay?" He asks. His voice shakes.

Eddie's eyes are wide, shining, and he swallows hard. Steve knows he's overwhelmed, knows that the words won't come. Instead, Eddie nods, and finally finally they kiss.

Steve is flying. His blood soars in his veins, his heart lifts off. It was always supposed to be this. Always supposed to be them.

It was slow. It was easy. It was small jokes, and long looks, and little touches, and singing in cars and best friends and sharing beds.

His heart belonged to Eddie Munson for months. It will belong to him forever.

[cherrycherrylady2024]

Christmas with the Grimes'

(Dilf! Rick Grimes x reader) Word count: 2,675

Warnings: 18+ for real. NSFW, some angst, fingering, hickeys, grinding, light choking/hair pulling? I need Rick Grimes so bad

Chapter 3: In your dreams

“So then Martian Man defeats the evil robot, except the robot was actually his half-brother the whole time, so he gets really sad at the end of issue #4. Then in #5 he-” Carl was giving you the entire lore behind his new comic book, and you put on your best listening face, while Judith tapped on her phone, having already heard this. Except you weren’t really listening whatsoever. Your mind was in a frenzy of activity. Did he see? Does he know? Who are you kidding, of course he knows. Your face was still red with embarrassment since the incident half an hour ago. If only Carl and Judith weren’t expecting you, you’d have hidden under Rick’s blanket for the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of winter break, but who’s to say?

You wanted to punch him in his stupid handsome face for making you feel like this. Either punch or kiss. Maybe both. That look Rick gave you, you couldn’t get it out of your head. It was nearly a smirk, but more subtle and prideful. Like he knew what he would catch you doing. He knew how you felt. You were petrified to see him again. “...and I haven’t read the new comic yet, but I heard it’s supposed to be pretty good! Do ya wanna borrow it when I'm done?” Carl questioned. You snapped out of your daze. “Oh! Yes, totally. Thanks,” You replied. Judith got up from Carl’s twin bed, where she lounged, “Alright Carl, it’s my turn with y/n. You read your new comic til dinner.” With the word ‘dinner’ you felt your stomach twist unpleasantly, your mind on the verge of implosion. With a whine of “Alriiight,” Carl sat down at his little desk and began poring over the pages. 

Judith led you down the opposite hallway towards her bedroom. As you followed, you passed the only other bedroom in the house. The door was slightly ajar. You heard the floorboards creak underneath him as he padded around the room. Rick was putting away laundry, sloppily folding pants and shirts, and didn’t notice your quick passing. Or at least he didn’t show it. You had lingered back just slightly, but thankfully Judith didn’t notice as you caught right back up with her. “Okay, so I’m right down the hall from you if you need anything. It’ll be weird not sharing a room, right?” she said as she entered her bedroom. “Oh yeah, super weird. What am I going to do without your snoring lulling me to sleep?” you mocked. “You know you love it,” she said, plopping on her bed. Judith's room was adorned with fading pink floral wallpaper, posters, sports trophies, books, and photos. “Anyways this is my room, it clearly hasn't been updated since 2010 but it’s still a vibe,” Judith said. You picked up a photo from her bookshelf. It appeared to be from a high school dance, as Judith wore what could only be considered the ugliest, most ruffled, unflattering dress in the world, and was holding hands with a gawky teenage boy. Both Judith and the boy awkwardly smiled for the photo, turning out more like grimaces with mouths full of braces. “It is totally still a vibe,” you said turning back to her with the picture, containing your laughter. “Fuck off!” she cried, jumping up and snatching the photo from you as you burst out in giggles, “We all make mistakes, it was sophomore year for god's sake,” she said. “I am begging you. Please bring that back to the dorms with us. Please! It can be my Christmas present” you choked out in between laughter, sitting at her desk. Judith gazed at the photo, “I can’t believe I made out with him that night” she said. “Oh god, please no” you responded in horror. “I think our braces got stuck together” she pondered. “PLEASE you’re gonna make me sick” you laughed, covering your ears. Judith snorted and placed it back on the shelf, “Hold on, you’re gonna die when you see this. I think I have it in here,” she said, as she looked hurriedly through her bookshelf. She pulled out a photo album, “Here!” she exclaimed, flipping through the pages. She landed on one and handed it to you, “Talk about bad Prom pictures.”

It was another prom photo, but it appeared to be from the late 80s/early 90s. A tall thin brunette woman grinned widely, almost painfully, at the camera, her dress clearly a hand-me-down from the mid-80s. She held awkwardly at arm's length a man who looked a year or two older. He wore a suit with a ruffle on the collar, which also screamed hand-me-downs. If it weren’t for those eyes, you wouldn't have even recognized Rick Grimes. He looked much less self-assured, maybe even nervous, and probably 10 years younger than the photo you had seen of him in the hallway. “The fucking posing gets me every time, look at my mom's face” Judith laughed. Your stomach started to hurt. “That's your mom?” you questioned. “Yeah,” Judith replied, “The whole photo album’s pictures of her. We made it right after she died as like a commemorative therapy type-thing. Flip through it,” She suggested as she began unzipping her suitcase. You turned the pages slowly. Rick was in many of the photos, but most prominently featured was Mrs. Grimes. You didn’t even know her name. Judiths mom. Ricks wife. The anxious knots in your stomach seemed to tighten more and more. “I’m gonna go lay down.” You stated, hurriedly standing, leaving the photo album on the desk. Judith looked up at you from her suitcase with a hint of concern. “I’m just – tired. I’ll let you unpack,” you added. “Okay,” Judith shrugged. You began to leave, “Oh and I think dinner’s at 7!” she mentioned. Your stomach did flips, but you gritted your teeth, “Okay!”

You shut your bedroom door behind you and climbed into bed, wrapping the covers around yourself. The clock on your nightstand read 5 pm. Your mind was racing. You felt sick with anxiety. Were you a bad person? Are you imagining this all? Every look, or brush of the hands. Were you convincing yourself of something that isn't really there? He's a grown married man. What about Judith? Were you going to ruin the best friendship you’d ever had? Have you already ruined it? Rick knew. He must think you’re a freak. A nuisance. What is wrong with you? What is wrong with you? What is wrong with you? You couldn’t stop the tornado of thoughts in your mind as you drifted off into a fretful slumber.

~~~

You chopped the large bar of dark chocolate into messy chunks, sneaking a few slivers into your mouth now and then. The kitchen around you was endless, spanning into a vague sea of warm glowing nothingness. In fact, there really was no kitchen at all. Just the kitchen island, where you stood, chopping the chocolate bar. Perhaps you were making cookies. Yes, that's what it was: you were chopping the chocolate bar to put into chocolate chunk cookies. You were content, humming to yourself. Maybe this is all you ever did. It was bright and beautiful and heavenly familiar. Two arms snaked their way around your waist, another familiar feeling, Rick's hips to your back as he held you tightly. You breathed deeply at the sensation, lolling your head back to rest on his chest. He stole a tiny piece of chocolate from your cutting board and slipped it into his mouth. You could feel his belt buckle pressing against your skin, leaving an indentation. His heartbeat reverberated through your body as if you were one, the warmth of his chest against your cheek. Wordlessly he dipped his head down, so close you felt his breath against your neck, you could smell the chocolate, his beard slightly scratching you. You dropped your knife and gripped the counter tightly as you felt his lips ever-so-slightly brush against your throat, neck, and ear sequentially. Almost like he was inhaling you. Searching for the right spot. He hesitated, making you wait. His hands gripped you tightly to him. Almost possessive, like you were his. One slowly traveled completely around your waist to the other side, pinning you to him while the other slid down. His palm was stretched wide, his fingertips brushing past where your thigh connects to your hips. The proximity of his hand to where you wanted so badly to be touched was enough to make you let out a little whine. His grip settles on your pelvis bone as he pulls you to him somehow even tighter. You communicated without words, begging him for more. Anything. He slowly lowered his lips to the side of your neck, leaving a feather-light kiss that sent shivers through your body. You pressed your hips back into him impatiently, needing more. He held your hips in place, his grasp verging on slightly painful. But it felt so good. He lightly kissed your neck again, near your jaw. Then, very slowly he moved near your ear, kissing you again. It was like he had all the time in the world to make you unravel.

He trailed down your neck towards your collarbone, his kisses becoming deeper, his lips parting more and more as if to taste you. You craned your head for more access. More, more, more. He groaned against your neck, grinding his hips into yours. His hands began to move over your body, groping and squeezing. One of your hands ran through his hair, pushing his head, his mouth, closer to your skin. The other hand was on top of his, leading his fingers down, down, down. A nearly pornographic sound escaped your lips when he finally cupped his warm hand in between your legs, his fingers applying just the right pressure to your clothed clit. You felt him smile against your throat, before resuming his languid assault on your neck. You moved your hips against his hand as he continued massaging your aching cunt incredibly slowly. “Please Rick” you begged. He was silent, but his fingers sped up incrementally. His other hand squeezed your breast, tracing your hardened nipple through your shirt. He hummed in your ear, clearly enjoying seeing you like this. You rutted your hips into his hand, the pleasure building in your core. Like a rubber band about to snap. He moved his other hand swiftly from your breast to your throat, slowing you down. He gripped it solidly, making you lose your breath. He turned your head to face him as his fingers sped up. You looked up at him, drunk on pleasure, and panting in his face. He smiled down at you, making eye contact that couldn’t be broken even if you tried. You were reaching your climax and he could tell. He stroked your neck, still looking down at you, then ran his fingers past the nape of your neck and through your hair. He gripped a fistful and pulled gently from the roots, forcing you to twist your head and shoulders even more towards him, cocking your head back. He gazed down at you through lidded eyes, studying your face. Your neck was now more exposed to him and he began kissing and sucking marks into your skin, his fingers never stopping, his other hand still pulling your head back. It was all too much for you. You were going to come. “R-rick-” you stuttered. He kissed a trail up your neck, reaching your mouth but keeping his centimeters apart. You breathed in each other's air and you writhed needily, wanting his lips on yours. You were moments away from coming, and let a choked moan escape. He swallowed it down when he finally connected your lips in the most filthy, needy, sloppy kiss. The rubber band snapped and you came hard. Waves of euphoric pleasure racked your body and you moaned into his mouth as he deepened the kiss even more. You could taste the hint of chocolate on his lips as you rode out your climax on his hand, your hips stuttering. He pulled away suddenly, right after your peak, and you opened your eyes in surprise.

You were met with the walls of your dark bedroom surrounding you, and Rick's blanket between your legs.

One of your hands was beneath your raised shirt, and the other was gripping Rick's blanket with an iron fist. Your legs still shook from your orgasm as you gained your bearings. It was a dream. You swore you could still taste a hint of the phantom chocolate. Even though no one had seen, you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed at your… wet dream? Sex dream? Whatever it was. Your subconscious sleeping state had been grinding against Rick Grimes’ blanket as you slept. The dream had felt so real it was unnerving, and you were having difficulty returning to reality. But you also oddly felt better. Maybe it was all out of your system now, and things could just be normal. You were refreshed. Except for the fact that you were extremely thirsty. All that sex dreaming, your brain chimed in. You reached for your phone on the nightstand, but accidentally knocked it off in the dark.

The dark.

Dinner.

What time was it? How long have you been asleep? Sex dreaming, you mentally corrected yourself. You scrabbled for your phone on the ground, flipping it over. The screen lit up, reading 2:12 AM. You had slept through dinner to dream about a fuck-fest with your best friends dad. Woof. While you were still slightly ashamed, you couldn't dispute the fact that it was fucking hot. You kept replaying the dream in your mind. It felt so real. You got out of bed, removed the bundled-up blanket from between your legs, and headed downstairs for some water. The way his lips felt on your neck. His facial hair tickling at your skin. His hands on your body. You knew it was wrong but you wished so badly it was real. Your body clearly did too, as you felt that familiar tingling sensation return in your belly. It made you want to get back in bed and touch yourself until sunrise. Get a grip. You reached the living room and began crossing through to get to the kitchen. 

“Y/n?” came a dark voice from the couch.

You nearly jumped out of your skin, letting out a little gasp in surprise. You could make out a figure in the dark, now sitting up. A sliver of snowy moonlight caught his face and you recognized Rick, holding a half-drunk glass of whiskey. “You missed dinner,” he drawled with a smile, taking a sip of whiskey. You were still frozen in the doorway, unsure if this was even real or not. What was he doing awake? “I- sorry. I don’t know what happened. I didn’t mean to sleep so long…” you say. He waved his hand in dismissal, “It’s fine, I know you girls had a long day,” he said, placing his whiskey on the glass coffee table with a clink. “Plus I’ve never been much of a chef. We ended up gettin’ Chinese food,” he added. Your stomach grumbled hungrily at the mention of food, and you clapped a hand over it in embarrassment. Rick chortled, “I can heat some up for you if ‘ya like. We can’t have you starvin’ to death.” He stood, picked up his glass, and walked towards the kitchen. You trailed behind him, “It’s okay, I can do it. You don’t have to” you pestered. “I want to,” he stated, looking at you briefly as he retrieved a container from the fridge. That shut you up. You sat at the kitchen island, your mind wandering back to your dream. If you weren't definitely, totally, over him, this would be pretty nerve-wracking you thought. Good thing I'm all better now. He opened the box of fried rice and, oddly, got out a pan and put it on the stove. Was he reheating it for you on the actual stove? “I really don’t mind, you can just microwave it. I don’t want you to go to any trouble,” you offer nervously. He dumped the fried rice into the pan with a sizzle, and looked over to you with a smile, 

“I want to, honey. Just let me take care of 'ya.”

...

Sooo, actually you lied. You needed this man more than ever before. Fuck it.

***

notes: tee hee hee, i was giggling and kicking my feet writing this. anyways thx for waiting the past few days I hope this is satisfactory, there's a lot more to come! Literally. PS I've never written a sexy scene before so lmk what u think <3

[celestie0]

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

in holy matriphony ch3. domestic encounters

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

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

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

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

ᰔ chapter. 3/x (probably 10)

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

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

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

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

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

“Wha–” you stutter, “what?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But we have a sexless marriage.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m tryna watch CNN,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that in your hand?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you going?” he asks. 

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

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

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

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

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“W-What??” you exasperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y…yeeeeesss…” you say awkwardly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel pissed off at that.

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

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

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

You blink at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” he easily agrees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

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

Pet around at nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. I shan't.”

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

“It appears I am frozen.”

“Are your knees okay?”

“I believe so.”

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

“How do you do that?”

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

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

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

“Are you sure you can fix it?”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“How long has this been an issue?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he says to you, impatiently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

“.........shark with sharp teeth.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. Now it’s fixed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A small smile makes its way onto your face. 

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

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

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

“Ah yes. During the Great Depression.”

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

“Back in the 1800s.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What!! I wanna know,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, we’ll see her tomorrow.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re most welcome.”

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

“Yes?”

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

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

“Okay…” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s up,” you say.

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

“I can watch her,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ohhh I see, I see! It suits you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you disinfect it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Sure. Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, it’s like…crazy? He went crazy?”

She giggles at the thought.

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can learn a lot about a person based on what the inside of their fridge looks like. You’re surprised to find the inside of his looks…sparkly? That was the only way you knew how to describe it. With clean shelves that reflect the bright lighting off the plastic, plastic that looks as mirror sheen as glass. As your eyes take in the contents inside, you notice he has some leftover thai food at the front, most likely leftovers from as recent as last night. One of the produce drawers is filled to the brim while the other is mostly empty, and you notice he separates them by leafy stuff vs. veggies. The leafy stuff is the drawer that’s filled to the brim, and you just know he’s stressed out over how to use all of it up before it starts wilting. Must’ve been on sale, you think to yourself. To the right of the fridge, there are an insane amount of orange juice cartons, and you notice he drinks the same one as you–pulp free with the added vitamins and calcium that’s made for kids. Although maybe he has an excuse for it, since he has a five-year-old niece. There’s a few containers of meal prep stacked up at the back of the fridge that look like some sort of arrangement of quinoa, chicken and Mediterranean vegetables. And then there’s just a bunch of assorted cans of beer throughout the fridge, which you assume are to appease the diverse preferences of his friends whenever he has them over. 

You grab a couple of eggs from the egg carton, placing them on the counter along with a stick of butter plus a half-full carton of milk, and peer deep into the fridge past the wall of condiments to eye for any fresh fruit such as berries, but you don’t see any. You try the freezer and are relieved when you see he has some frozen blueberries in there.

“Okay!” you shut the fridge. “Just need to grab a few more things from the pantry room and then I’ll make you your pancakes, okay?” 

Juno nods enthusiastically. “Um. Can I get my backpack?”

“Sure.” You pick her up off the bar stool to set her down on the ground and she runs to the coffee table in front of the TV to grab her things as you head to the pantry room. 

Flour, sugar, baking powder, all tucked in your elbows as you carry the ingredients back to the kitchen before dropping them onto the counter and picking Juno up to place her on the barstool again. She starts to lay out her glittery pens and pristinely sharpened pencils in front of her as well as a packet of papers. 

“I can’t believe they’re giving Kindergarteners homework these days…” you mutter under your breath as you grab a bowl. “Juno, wanna help me crack the eggs?”

“Yes!”

“Let’s go wash our hands then.”

As you mix all your ingredients together and Juno continues to stare at her papers with her face awfully close to them (does she need glasses?), you think to yourself what a nice little life this is. Although you haven’t been able to spend the day at your house like you were hoping you would, since you could finally have it for yourself, it was nice to spend it at Gojo’s. It was something different, something refreshing, something grounding. An escape that you needed. 

“Um. Auntie y/n?” Juno calls from behind you as you flip a pancake at the stove.

“Yes sweetheart.”

“How is mommy?”

“Hmm?” you hum. “My mommy?”

“Yes!”

“Oh you are just the sweetest thing. She’s doing okay. She’s just a little sick still.”

“When I’m sick,” Juno speaks up with a childlike enthusiasm in her voice, “my mommy gives me grape soor–...stir–” she struggles with the word, “shrup, ah, syrup! Grape syrup. It makes me better.”

“Ohhh honey, I know,” you coo as you try to match her enthusiasm, placing two little pancakes onto a plate for her. “When you get the sniffles, right?”

“Yes! Maybe your mommy will be better too if I give her some of my grape syoorup?”

You stop in your tracks, staring down at the food you were just plating.

The innocence of a child. It was hard to stay strong in the face of it. When you were younger, you probably would’ve thought that a magical potion would make your mom all better, too.

You turn around to face her. “Well,” you say, clearing your throat a little to fight the knot that you find is twisting it, “I think,” and now you’re blinking away the faint sheer of tears as you press your lips into a thin smile, your soft soft above a whisper, “that that is a wonderful idea.”

Juno gobbles up her blubbery pancakes with the extra maple syrup on them and you watch her take every bite. There was something satisfying about seeing a little kid eat so well. The sight made you feel well-fed on their behalf.

“Alright,” you say with a small grunt as you pick Juno up and set her down onto the ground, then take her hand to lead her over to the carpeted family room. “Let me take a look at this scrape of yours.”

Juno’s hand tugs slightly when you try to pull on it, so you turn around to see that she has stopped in her tracks halfway through the trek to the other room.

“What’s wrong?” you ask her.

“I don’t want you to see it…”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s ugly.”

“Juno,” you tug on her hand a little, “I have to see it so that I can clean it. Otherwise you might get sick. A type of sick that even grape syrup can’t fix.”

She looks up at you with curious eyes, not fearful ones. 

“There is sick like that?” she asks you.

“Yes. Now give me your arm.”

Juno follows you to the family room and stands still, the front of her jutting out slightly as she pouts, a display of her remaining disapproval for you taking a look at her scrape. You get down onto your knees and slowly undo the bandages, unwrapping the layers one-by-one before the end falls off and you’re staring at a 4x2cm superficial abrasion on her arm, and when your thumb lightly swipes at the skin underneath it, Juno winces from the pain.

You also notice she has a bruise on her left upper thigh, right below where the hem of her shorts end.

“You…only fell onto your right side, right?” you ask her.

“Mhm,” she nods.

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“How come you have a bruise on your left thigh then?”

Her eyes widen slightly with shock and her head quickly snaps down to look at her thigh. “Um. Um. I don’t know. Um. Um.”

“Juno,” you say, trying to muster up a strict tone, but she refuses to make eye contact with you anymore as she stares at the carpet beneath her. You gently grab a hold of both of her wrists. “Sweetheart. Look at me.” Her eyes slowly lift up to meet yours. “I want to help you, but I can't help you unless you’re honest with me.”

Her big eyes blink at you slowly and her bottom lip quivers slightly.

“How did you really hurt yourself?”

She immediately starts bawling. Full on sobs that echo throughout the room and startle you slightly as the tears freely fall down her cheeks and she struggles to wipe them off with her left arm, but they only drip down her elbow.

“Oh–” you stutter, holding her by her shoulders, “Juno–”

She sniffles. “They–” she hiccups, “they pushed me…they always push me.”

“Who pushed you?? Who always pushes you??”

She sucks in a deep breath as she continues to cry and you struggle to wipe at her tears for her with the pad of your thumb. “The–hic–girls at school. They’re so–hic–...wahhh…they’re so mean.”

“They pushed you on the playground and that’s how you got this scrape and bruise?” you ask her.

She nods as she slowly begins to come down from her outburst, her remnant sniffles and short sharp inhales showing that she was struggling to breath. You run to grab some tissues and then come back, holding them to her nose before she blows into them.

“Oh sweetheart…I’m so sorry,” you say to her.

She suddenly runs into you, hugging you tightly, and you’re momentarily surprised before wrapping an arm around her too and then gently patting at her back.

“How long has this been going on?” you ask her.

“Mm…ever since I–hic–ever since I got on T-ball team…but they couldn’t get on.”

“Oh…” you coo, gently rubbing her back now. You’re not a mom, you’ve got no fucking clue how to navigate this sort of situation. But you can try your best to give some advice. “Juno, you have every right to feel happy and safe at school.” You gently pull her away from the hug so that you can look at her face. “And it’s okay to stand up for yourself and against anyone that is being mean to you. Don’t let them take that power away from you.”

She nods slowly, her lip quivering slightly again.

You sigh slowly before giving her another hug. “And we’ll work out something with your mom too, okay? She can talk to the teachers.”

“No!” Juno shrieks, pulling away from you suddenly. You blink at her. “No. Please don’t tell my mommy.”

“W-Why not??”

“Because–” she stutters, “um…I want to tell her myself. Because I lied, and mommy always says to me to not tell lies. So I have to fix it myself.”

You tilt your head at her, frowning slightly. You’re not exactly sure how much autonomy over such things you should be granting a five-year-old, but you decide to give her the choice. You hold your pinky finger out to her, “you have to promise me you’ll tell her though, okay?”

She nods and wraps her pinky around yours. 

After getting her scrape cleaned up and tended to, Juno spends the next hour or so watching My Little Pony on the TV as you clean up the mess you made in the kitchen. And as you’re staring out into the backyard while wiping down the cutting board, the sound of the doorbell ringing makes you jump with a startle and breaks you out of your trance.

You were prepared to open the door to find Sana standing at the entrance, but instead you’re met with the sight of a different woman.

Much older, and with all the same features, it doesn’t really take you long to figure out who she is.

“Ah! There she is!” the woman chirps out. “I’m—”

“Juno’s grandmother,” you finish the statement for her.

“—Satoru’s mother,” she instead says.

You both blink at one another.

“Well,” she chirps, “I’m both!”

Gojo’s mother appears to be a kind woman, and it’s evident that being gorgeous must run in the family. Although she has aged features, they’re still beautiful in a graceful way, where people would take a look at her and think of aging as a privilege and not a curse. Her eyes are somewhat feline, different from the roundness of those you’ve seen in her family, and her hair is a shimmering silver all around with a pretty silk press layered hair style that flatters her frail jaw. She was wearing a French-style button up dress with a rather gaudy belt around her waist, and you catch the scent of her lilac perfume even while she’s standing three feet away.

She puts her hands on her hips and has a forced smile on her face. “My son gets married and he doesn’t even tell me a peep about it, or introduce me to his new wife! I have to come all the way over here myself!” she exclaims, and her tone is like she’s trying to play it off with nonchalance but the stiffness of her features makes it look like she’s losing her mind. “Well,” she clicks her tongue, “he’s always had the penchant for never sharing anything he ever does with me.”

“Ah…I’m so sorry, Mrs. Gojo,” you say to her, unsure why you’re apologizing, but there was this energy to her that made you realize she had a skill for making people feel apologetic in her presence.

“No worries! Not your fault. I’ll deal with him later,” she says, her smile growing to where it almost fully crescents her eyes in a frightening way that almost sends a shiver down your spine, “anywhoooo,” she takes both of your hands into hers, “you’re very beautiful, and you have a very lucky-looking nose!”

“Lucky?”

“Yes, yes. You will bring luck to our family.”

“Thanks?” you say, trying to manage a smile.

She takes a step closer to you. “Tell me, what do your parents do for a living?”

“Oh! Um, well, my mom is retired, but she used to be an art teacher. My dad is in the food business, but uh, I haven’t spoken to him in years ever since my parents got divorced.”

“Ah,” she says curtly, her face blank as if she couldn’t think of a single thing to follow up with after that. She peers past your shoulder. “Where’s the little princess?”

“She’s just inside grabbing her things.” You gently slip your hands out of her hold and turn around to face the inside of the house. “Juno!! Do you need help?”

“No!!” she calls from the kitchen.

“Say, my dear,” Gojo’s mother speaks up, “why don’t you and Satoru come by for dinner this weekend? Jun and Sana apparently have some important news they’d like to share with the family, and I offered that we all hear it together over a meal. This way you can meet your father-in-law too!”

You take a deep breath in, realizing that this fake marriage agreement involves a lot more deceit than you ever thought it would. “Sure. Yes. I’d love that. Let me know if I can bring anything.”

“Wonderful!” she exclaims, just in time for when you feel Juno brush past you towards her grandma, hunching over slightly with her backpack’s weight. Gojo’s mother pulls you in for a hug which entirely startles you and you slowly wrap your arms around her as well. “It’s so lovely to have a daughter-in-law. Oh, I am just so happy to have you in our family.”

She lets go of you but still keeps you close by a delicate hold of your elbows, a gleeful smile on her face as she looks you up and down slowly.

“Bye, auntie y/n!!” Juno squeaks out, hugging your leg, and you pat at the top of her head. Her grandmother finally lets go of you and takes Juno’s tiny hand in her frail one, and you see them off to the car.

By the time you make it back inside the house, you let out a deep slow breath, one that you didn’t know you were holding in, as you lay your weight back on the front door. You feel a pressure in your head from your dwindling social battery and all these tricky encounters.

So, you’re part of a whole other family, now?

That. Is. Frightening.

.

.

.

[end of chapter 3]

a/n. ah!! hope you enjoyed this ihm chapter :’’) sorry if it seemed like a bunch of random scenes lolol i swear it’s all set up for stuff that will happen down the lineee. i just be yappin so the word count ends up kinda high. hope to see you in the next one!! <3 love u all. also it’s my frank ocean anons bday today so i dedicate this chapter to themm 🫶🏼💕 manifesting dilf gojo for u bb for anyone curious about why reader is a bit paranoid w potentially being busted for her fake marriage, i had another reader that was curious about this too so i answered them here if you'd like to check it out :)

➸ take me to chapter four!

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

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note: please let me know in the replies if your taglist preferences change!

taglist is currently closed (consider subscribing to the story on my ao3 for email updates if you’d like! :0)

[jjkyaoi]

LOVE ships that are best friends first and lovers second. childhood friends to lovers is my absolute shit. i know everyone loves enemies to lovers rivals to lovers whatever but i love people who just know each other inside and out. who, when they’re together, are still silly and friendly first and foremost. the type of relationship that can have slap fights and know every single intimate detail about each other. who are constantly glued together and sometimes speak at the same time like freaky twins in a horror movie. i love friendship as a deep aspect of love u bitches js don’t get it

[sweetteainthesummerx]

THE LOVE LASTS SO LONG (14)

In which we visit the homeland...

series masterlist

I PROMISE THE SLOWBURN WILL FAST BURN SOON!!

Notes: ty for sticking w me and indulging me in my slow updates hehe

let me know if you want to be added to the taglist or if you have any feedback!

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

charles_leclerc posted

charles_leclerc famiglia 🇮🇹

liked by olliebearman, carlos_sainz55 and 75,092 others

view all comments

charles_leclercfannie just a man with his son, his sons gf, who is also his gf's gf

-- user1 family tree goes hard

-- user2 the two cutest couples on the grid fr

scuderiaferrari the motherland 🇮🇹

-- charles_leclerc ❤️

oscarpiastri was the spaghetti good

-- olliebearman it was very

carlos_sainz55 where was my invite

-- alexandrasaintmleux group trip w beck next break!!

gridfandom THE GIRLS ARE SO MOTHERRRR like do u need a family dog other than Leo I can bark

aubreyyang posted on their story

caption: gelato and espresso 🍨☕️

tagged: alexandrasaintmleux

macecoronel replied to your story

you look hot

seen

Aubrey frowned at the notification. Maybe it was time to finally block him. Ollie, now wearing her sunglasses as they boarded the yacht they'd rented out for the afternoon, leaned down to wrap her up in her arms.

"What's wrong?" he set his chin on her shoulder.

"My ex." she chewed her lip and showed him the text.

He took the phone gently, deleting the reply, "You're here to have a good time, love. Let's get you a drink and some sun."

She just about melted into a puddle.

She let Ollie press the block button and slip the phone into her purse, and let him hand her a fruity cocktail, and let him rub sunscreen onto her neck and back.

aubreyyang posted

aubreyyang you're golden like daylight

liked by olliebearman, aubreyday1 and 75,092 others

aubreyday1 mama y papa

-- user1 new parents alert!!

-- user2 waiting for them to be official that has to be ollie

olliebearman cool rocks

-- aubreyyang almost lost my life climbing them

-- charles_leclerc but you got a great photo TAKEN BY ME

-- f1fankinnie lmaooo hes so fed up with not being credited

user3 PLEASE ONE CHANCE RESPECTFULLY I AM LOOKING

dior.n.goodjohn I am no better than a man 🤤

-- alexandrasaintmleux same

-- charles_leclerc ???

user4 OLLIE COMMENTING? THE CHAOS OF ALEX? THE BEAUTIFUL HAIR??

"He's staring." Alex giggled from where the girls were tanning on the boat. The boys were a few meters off, talking with the captain and trying to convince the older, stern man to let them have a go at driving the boat.

"Your boyfriend of two years? I would hope he's staring at you." Aubrey rolled her eyes.

"No, your boyfriend of..."

"No, not-" she started, but Alex rolled her eyes so hard that Aubrey thought they would fall out of her head.

"He told you that your more to him than that and he thinks your better than any fame. I know these things, ma petite. That is a man in love."

"He is not-"

"Speak of the devil."

"Hey, guys." Ollie was approaching them, a mischievous look on his boyish face, and Aubrey immediately knew what he was going to do.

"No, no!" she tried to scramble up and away, but he was too fast. Quickly, he picked her up like she weighed nothing and jumped into the sun-warmed ocean, twisting so he hit the water first.

She climbed onto his waist, legs wrapped around him. He smiled proudly as she spluttered, wiping her hair away.

"Oliver! That was so uncalled for." she scolded, but she herself could even hear the laugh in her warning.

"You looked pretty. Wanted to get up close."

"And personal?" she snorted as he laughed.

His nose bumped hers, and the warmth that always seemed to bubble up when he was near resurfaced.

"Always."

olliebearman posted

olliebearman italia :)

liked by olliebearmanfanart, aubreyyang and 61,382 others

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landonorris nice view

-- olliebearman mate

-- georgerusselstance21 OH THEYRE TOGETHER TOGETHER HUH

olliebearmanfanart my parents fr they're adorable

user1 his old gf was better tbh...

-- aubersfan1 get tf out. they're clearly happier together and dont ruin it because ur an incel.

-- user2 OH WORDDD

alexalbon cool hat

-- aubreyyang why ty I bought one for lily u can steal it

-- lilymhe MY WIFEEE

-- alexalbon im literally right here like 🧍🏻‍♂️

aubreyyang ❤️

-- user 3 STAWPP THEURE JJQWEFIJ SOO CUTE

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

Taglist: @callsignwidow @iloveyou3000morgan @honethatty12 @taygrls @destinyg237 @ilivbullyingjeongin @eiaaasamantha @1uvsptnik @yla-aira

© sweetteainthesummerx.tumblr. all rights reserved. unauthorized copying, translation, or claiming of my writing or any works as your own is strictly prohibited.

[panakoui]

^^❀

[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

Danny Phantom x DC crossover

Regent!Jazz, Vigilante!Jazz AU

Jazz Fenton/Jason Todd (Anger management or Hardcover ship)

Main Masterlist AO3

Original prompt

Part 1: What’s lost can be found

Part 2: Let the world know

Part 3: If you could’ve seen

Part 4: Show me those issues

Part 5: Dare not preach

Part 6: From the top of my lungs

Part 7: Running from a crucifixion

Part 8: Dressed in all black

Part 9: Left its seeds while I was sleeping

Part 10: Keep me from my grave

Part 11: A thousand candles burn into the night

Part 12: It was just for fools

Part 13: Goddamn when you're young

Part 14: Taking these wounds to their grave

Part 15: We’re all misunderstood

Part 16: But I know where to start

Part 17: The stars are shining their brightest light

Part 18: I'm anything but tame

Part 19: Wrapped in your regret

Part 20: I speak in tongues

Part 21: All the ashes in my way

Part 22: The future is a foreign land

Part 23: Never as lost

Part 24:

Part 25:

Memes: #1 #2 #3. #4 Social Media Time: #1 #2 #3 #4 #5

The Regent & Red Hood Official Spotify Playlist (Title songs) The Regent & Red Hood UN-Official Spotify Playlist (Inspiration songs)