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punkshort · 3 months

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somewhere to run | 13. the trial pt.2

Pairing: sheriff!Joel x f!reader

Chapter Summary: The trial comes to an end and you go back to your life before.

Chapter Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, smut (18+ MDNI), bath sex, piv (somewhat) unprotected sex, breeding kink?, language, dirty talk, parental emotional abuse, oral sex (f receiving)

WC: 11.9K

A/N: Beginning was inspired by this anon ask a while back - thank you! Also, please excuse my shitty law expertise. I have no idea if what I'm writing is actually factual because I got my law degree from movies and TV.

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Joel's entire body ached.

Under normal circumstances, he hated testifying in court. It was a long process, the benches were always uncomfortable, and by the end of the day his back was screaming at him. But this time, it was worse. His muscles were tense all day, twitching just underneath his shirt as he had to listen to every excruciating detail of what that monster put you through. By the time Madeline called him to the stand, he thought he would snap in half from the pressure. He remained tense throughout her questioning, but he was experienced enough to not allow his stress to show. He knew that it was too important and he needed to be the best possible witness he could be. He even made a point of trying to rein in his accent so he sounded more professional to the jury.

But all of that flew out the window when Beckett fucking Kennedy began his line of questioning.

Sheriff, have you ever had sex with the plaintiff?

Madeline leapt up from her chair, yelling objections at the judge while her and Beckett argued over the relevance of his question. Joel stared straight ahead, patiently waiting for the argument to settle. He knew this might happen, and they prepared for it.

"You better be going somewhere with this," the judge had warned Beckett before allowing Joel to answer.

"Yes," he had replied through gritted teeth.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw members of the jury shift in their chairs and a murmur ripple through the crowd. The judge tapped his gavel, reminding the room to be silent, before nodding at Beckett to continue.

"When was the first time?" Beckett asked, his eyes bright, knowing he had Joel right where he wanted him.

Joel hesitated, trying to remind himself to give as little information as possible, but it was going to sound bad any way he sliced it.

"The evening the plaintiff gave her statement."

Beckett raised his eyebrows at Joel and gave the jury a disbelieving look.

"The same evening she had all these injuries you've accused my client of inflicting?"

They didn't prepare for that. No, Maddy certainly didn't expect this sleazeball to accuse Joel of inflicting any type of harm on you, and something in him snapped.

"Are you tryin' to say I did that-" he pointed at the now blank monitor, "to her? I wouldn't lay a finger on her!" His voice was too loud. His blood was boiling. He was seeing red and he knew he was losing control. You had curled your hand into a fist and pressed it anxiously against your mouth. Madeline caught his attention and narrowed her eyes and he took a deep breath.

"But you did. You just admitted to having sex with her that evening, so by definition you laid a finger on her," Beckett said, clearly pleased he was getting under Joel's skin. Luckily, before Joel could reply, the judge intervened.

"Move on, counselor."

Beckett slowly paced in front of his own table. Patrick sat back in his chair with a stupid smirk plastered across his face while Beckett readied his next question.

"Can you describe the nature of your sexual relations that night?"

"Objection!" Madeline yelled, standing up from her chair.

"Sustained," the judge said, frowning at Beckett.

"I'll rephrase," he said, and Joel could feel his blood pressure rising. "Did you have what could be considered rough sex with the plaintiff?"

A few women behind the benches gasped quietly to themselves, as well as a few jurors at the unexpected, and inappropriate, question.

"No."

"Are you sure about that, sheriff?"

"Yes, I was there. I'm sure." Joel said, staring daggers at Beckett now.

Beckett hummed and continued to pace thoughtfully, purposely dragging out the questions so it would annoy him. And it was working.

"Are you currently in a relationship with the plaintiff?"

Joel swallowed and ticked his jaw to the side. "No."

"Really?" Beckett asked, raising his eyebrows curiously as he paused in front of the bench. "When was the last time you had sex with the plaintiff?"

Joel sighed and couldn't help but meet your gaze. He could see the anguish all over your face, the tears welling up in your eyes, knowing he was going to have to answer honestly and what it could mean for you both.

"A month or so ago."

Madeline glared at him over her glasses and he knew she was already planning on giving him an earful for not warning her, but he didn't care. He just needed to get this over with.

"Sounds like a relationship to me," Beckett said.

"Objection."

"Sustained."

Another excruciating fifteen minutes crawled by where Beckett lobbed question after question at Joel, building up an image of him in front of the jury as a man who wielded his power as town sheriff to target his client so that he could run off with his wife. Joel did the best he could, but he felt like he was failing. Once Beckett sat down, announcing he was through, Madeline stood up.

"Redirect, your honor."

The judge nodded and Madeline stood in front of him once again, staring him down.

"The evening the defendant was arrested for being drunk and disorderly, who swung first?"

"The defendant did."

"Was the plaintiff there at the time?" Madeline asked, and Joel shook his head.

"No, ma'am."

"Did you have any idea at that point in time what the defendant had allegedly done to the plaintiff?"

"No, ma'am."

"So it sounds to me like you were just doing your job, is that correct, sheriff?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"No further questions," Madeline said, then turned on her heel to sit back down beside you.

He could feel Michelle's eyes on him when he stood up from the stand and it made him want to squirm. He could only imagine the shit she had to say about all this. She had tried to stop him after court adjourned for the day, but he was too pissed off. He stormed out of the courtroom, not even bothering to wait for you or Madeline.

He regretted leaving you the moment he stepped foot outside, but he knew he couldn't be seen with you. Not in that room. Not after the line of questioning Beckett pummeled him with. So instead, he found himself all alone in the nearest drugstore, picking up a box of Epsom salts and a bottle of extra strength Tylenol. The hotel was a short distance away on foot, but his back and hips were killing him after everything he had been through. Every step felt like torture. His head pounded so loudly he could hardly focus, his jaw clenched so tightly he thought he would crack a tooth. It was times like this he wished he was more of a drinker.

He quickly shed his jacket and belt and headed into the bathroom, running the water as hot as his skin would allow and pouring in a generous amount of Epsom salts before taking off the rest of his clothes and leaving them in a wrinkled pile on the floor. He slipped into the bath with a groan, instantly finding some relief from the heat, and closed his eyes.

He had brought his phone into the bathroom, but it sat silently on the tile floor next to the tub. He couldn't imagine you or Madeline or Michelle or anybody would want to reach out to him at that moment, but just in case you did want to talk, or if Sarah needed something, he kept it close by.

He took a deep breath, his eyes still closed as he let his mind wander and allowed the bath to relax his aching body. What he wouldn't give to have you there with him right now. He just wanted to be with you so badly, even if you weren't doing anything, even if you were just in the same room, that's all he wanted. Just to be breathing the same air as you would be more than enough.

His tired mind heard a click, then the shuffling of feet on carpet. His eyes cracked open just as the door slowly swung into the room, and relief flooded his veins when he saw your face.

"How'd you get in here?" he asked with a lazy smile, his eyes raking up and down your body. You grinned down at him but didn't say a word, just took a hesitant step towards him with your perfect lower lip tucked between your teeth. "You walked around the hotel wearin' just that?" he asked, eyeing the short, white silk teddy you were wearing.

"Mhm," you hummed, kneeling down in front of the tub and dipping your hand into the water. "Feels nice."

"You wanna get in?"

"Yes," you said breathlessly, standing up to lift the teddy over your head, revealing your naked body to him, and he groaned.

"Fuck, you're so perfect," he mumbled, reaching his hands up to steady you as you stepped carefully into the tub to join him.

"It was such a hard day," you cooed, your hands drifting up his arms, fingers sending goosebumps all over his skin, and he nodded. "Can I help you relax?"

"Yes," he whispered, tilting his head back with a sigh when your hand dipped below the water, slowly dragging down his stomach before reaching his cock. He moaned softly when your delicate little fingers wrapped around him and began to pump him leisurely under the water.

You shifted so your thighs straddled his lap, your hand never leaving his throbbing length, and slowly sank yourself down onto him.

"Ohmygod," you whined, your hands gripping the sides of his head now, water dripping down his cheeks while you slowly began to rock your hips against him. His hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you close and squeezing your ass.

"I love you," he moaned, not caring anymore. "I love you so much, I'll do anythin' for you," he rambled as you sped up, the both of you beginning to pant for air.

"I know. I love you too, Joel," you told him, your fingers creeping up to get tangled in his hair. He nuzzled his face against your neck, basking in your touch as you continued to bounce up and down, bringing him closer and closer.

"Nothin' can keep us apart, you hear me?" he mumbled into your skin. "Wanna be with you forever. Wanna make you mine. Wanna give you a baby." He groaned when you whimpered and gave his hair a firm tug. "Would you like that? Want me to fuck you so good you have my baby?"

"Yes!" you cried out as you clenched around him, little moans falling from those perfect lips as he continued to fuck up into you, muttering praise in your ear until he came so hard and so fast it made him lightheaded.

But when he opened his eyes, you vanished. He was still alone in the bath, surrounded by lukewarm water and his fist gripping his softening cock as his breathing began to stabilize. With a grimace, he turned the knob to drain the tub and stood up, snatching a towel off the bar and wiping himself down quickly before stepping out.

He leaned over the sink, staring at his reflection in the foggy mirror. His eyes looked tired. He felt tired. His shoulders sagged but his head and muscles felt marginally better.

He would never forgive himself if he ruined this for you. He fucking knew better. Everyone warned him but he actually convinced himself no one would find out, and now everything was out in the open. Everything was on the record.

He didn't even want to think what this would mean for his own legal trouble with Patrick. Dan said it could cost him his job, and he didn't really believe it until today. He felt the panic begin to swell in his chest and he pushed away from the sink, disgusted and unable to look at himself anymore. Grabbing his phone, he strolled out of the bathroom with only a towel around his waist before flopping tiredly on the bed.

He wanted to call you. He needed to hear your voice. He wanted you to make him feel better, but he couldn't bring himself to call. He was too ashamed of himself. Ashamed for letting his feelings get in the way of something so fucking important to you. Ashamed for the way he behaved in court. Ashamed for the way he left you.

He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve to have you soothe him. He fucking knew better. He should have put a stop to this thing with you. He never should have started it in the first place. Not when so much was at stake. But he just couldn't control himself. He couldn't fucking stop.

As he laid there, clad in only a towel while the TV droned on in the background, he wondered what you were doing. Were you upset? Were you mad at him? Fuck, he should really call you. Not to ease his own mind but to make sure you were okay. But when he picked up his phone, it rang in his hand. And when he saw Maddy's name pop up, he couldn't help but think she must have somehow known what he was about to do and she was putting a stop to it.

"Hey," he said into the phone, bracing himself for the lecture. He deserved it. He wasn't going to hide from it. "I know you're pissed, and I'm sorry. I should've told you-"

"I'm not calling about that, although I will kick your ass for that later, mark my words," she scolded, and he sat up on the bed, his interest piqued. "Are you sitting down?"

"Yes," he said, his heart beginning to thrum faster in his chest.

"Guess who I just got a call from?"

"Who?"

"Nina fucking Hoffman," she said triumphantly on the other end. Joel's lips parted in surprise and his eyes darted around the room, trying to catch up with what that meant.

"What'd she say?" he asked nervously.

"She said she's changed her mind and she spoke to the other girls, and while not all of them are willing to come forward, she did manage to convince three others," Madeline said hurriedly, and he could hear the excitement in her voice.

"H-how did she find the others? I didn't share their information with her, Maddy, I swear-"

"The Trojan horse himself, Officer Bates, reached out to a few of the girls and tried to help us out," she said, and he could tell she was grinning.

Officer Bates. A man who worked in the same precinct as Patrick and witnessed what he had been doing, had contacted Madeline to inform her there's been other girls, which prompted Madeline to call Joel that sent him on a wild goose chase in Philadelphia that he thought ended up being a lost cause, but apparently not.

"You know what the best part is?" she asked excitedly. Madeline never acted like this. She was always matter of fact and level headed. Whatever was happening was huge, and Joel began to feel the weight being lifted from his chest.

"What?"

"There's video evidence, Joel. Fucking video! I'm looking at it right now. Time stamped and everything. Faces clear as day... apparently one of these girls had a nanny cam in her apartment."

Joel sucked in a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Tell me we got 'em, Maddy."

"We got him, Joel."

He let out a shaky breath, his heart hammering like crazy now. He didn't fuck everything up. You're going to win and, most importantly, you'll be safe. His hands were trembling so badly that he had to set his phone down and put it on speaker.

"What's the next move?" he asked, standing up to get fresh clothes. "What d'you need me to do?"

"Nothing," she said, and he heard her tapping on her keyboard in the background. "I'm going to use this as leverage. I'm waiting for Kennedy to call me back and I'm going to try to strike a deal and end this."

"A deal?" Joel repeated, standing up from his suitcase, which was spread open on the floor.

"Yes, a deal. Don't you want this to end or do you really want me to put her up on the stand tomorrow? After you couldn't keep your dick in your pants? You really want that asshole to put on a repeat performance?" she snapped.

He winced, but knew he deserved it, so he remained silent.

"Besides, it's a miracle these other women are willing to go on the record as it is. Putting them up on the stand will just traumatize them further."

"Does she know?" he asked.

"No! And don't you go telling her until I know this is wrapped up. If this doesn't work, I can't have her getting her hopes up," she said sternly.

After he hung up with Maddy, he finally started to feel some relief. Maybe he actually made a difference going to Philadelphia. But ultimately he knew all of this wouldn't even be happening without the one cop in Patrick's whole precinct who had a fucking conscience. He knew the officer preferred to remain as anonymous as possible for obvious reasons, but he really had to find a way to thank him.

He stared at his phone for a moment, chewing on his lower lip, his foot tapping anxiously on the carpet. Glancing at the clock to make sure it wasn't too late, he snatched up his phone and tapped on your number. He wasn't going to tell you the news, but he still wanted to talk to you. He needed to make sure you were okay.

"Hello?"

"Hey," he said, a little breathlessly. He was still too excited about the news Madeline had just shared, so he tried to tone it down. "Just wanted to check on you. You doin' okay?"

He heard you shift around and your TV muted in the background.

"I guess so."

"I'm sorry I didn't walk out with you," he began, and he heard you suck in a breath over the phone. "After all that shit, I didn't wanna give them more ammo, y'know?"

You didn't say anything for a moment and his ears strained to read your silence.

"That's it?" you asked.

"What'dya mean?"

"You didn't leave because..." you trailed off and he furrowed his brow.

"Because what?" he urged.

"Because you're rethinking this? Rethinking us?" you asked, and he could hear the tremble in your voice.

"Oh god, baby, no," he breathed. "No, never. Don't think that." He heard you breathe a sigh of relief, but you remained silent. "I'm sorry. I was pissed off, I should've-"

"It's okay," you told him. "It was just a shitty day."

"Yeah," he agreed, rubbing his eyes.

"I'm a little freaked out about tomorrow," you admitted, and he could hear it in your voice: the anxiety and fear that always came out whenever you spoke about Patrick, and some dark part of him wished he could wrap his fingers around that motherfucker's throat to make sure he could never hurt you again.

"It'll be okay," he told you, and now he fully understood why Maddy was going for a deal over a potentially stronger sentence a jury could dole out. You didn't deserve to go through every excruciating detail again, especially in front of a room full of people. People who would just look at you with pity, or judge you for sticking around as long as you did. "Remember what I told you, you just look right at me, okay?"

"But if I do that, won't that make things worse? The jury will see-"

"No, it'll be fine. They won't be able to tell," he said, and he wasn't sure if that was even true, but he just needed to put you at ease. He listened to you breathing on the other end, not saying a word, and it took all his willpower to not knock down every door in the hotel until he found you and scooped you up into his arms.

"But then you have your lawsuit-"

"I told you not to worry 'bout that," he said, his eyebrows pinching together.

"Patrick told me Nikki is going to testify against you, Joel," you told him, and his lips parted in surprise.

"What?"

"He told me this morning. He said she would testify that your feelings for me caused you to approach him at the bar that night."

"That's bullshit," Joel scoffed. "Hank's already stated on the record that he wanted me to escort Patrick outta the bar, and he was the only sober one in the goddamn place. Nikki's not a reliable witness, she was drunk, they're graspin' at straws," he continued as he tried to tamp down the anger growing in his belly.

"I'm so sorry I caused all of this, Joel," you said softly, and when he heard you sniffle, it broke his heart.

"You didn't do anythin', please stop blamin' yourself. None of this is your fault."

"Maybe my mom's right. Maybe if I -"

"Stop right there," Joel said, sitting up straighter now and clenching his jaw. "Nothin' that woman's ever said is right. Get that outta your head right now. Don't let her manipulate you like that. Don't you see you deserve better? You deserve so much more than what these people have given you, and -"

He stopped short, biting the inside of his cheek, trying to hold himself back.

"And what?" you asked after a few moments.

"And... I'm gonna do my best to give you everythin' you deserve," he said, leaving out those three little words that kept jumping to the tip of his tongue.

He heard you let out a shaky breath and readjust on your bed. Fuck, he wished he was there with you right now. He could help you feel better. You were so close, too, but after the day you both had, he couldn't risk making things worse.

"I should probably go," you finally said, your voice sounding so small. "I want to study the questions Madeline's going to ask me once more."

"Okay," he replied, and he could tell he hadn't done much to help your nerves, but he gave it one more shot. "It's gonna be okay. I promise you, this'll all be over soon and we can put this behind us."

"I know," you said, "thank you, Joel. For everything. I know today was really hard."

"It's worth it," he said, and he meant it, but for your sake he really hoped Maddy was striking a deal with Patrick's lawyer at that very same moment.

You had hardly slept and it showed.

It was far too late in the night when you considered taking a sleeping pill, so you just put on the TV and hoped you would get some sleep, but at best you got two hours. Your nerves were a mess. Your stomach was churning so badly that you didn't even trust yourself to eat or drink anything other than water that morning, and to make matters worse, Madeline and Joel were nowhere to be found. So, you found yourself sitting alone at the plaintiff's table, and as the court room began to fill up, you kept turning around in the hopes of seeing one or both of the faces you were looking for. One of those times, your eyes locked with your mother and you quickly turned back around in your seat. It was a good thing you didn't eat anything because you were fairly confident at this point, you would have thrown up all over your hideous blouse.

You: where are you??

You stared down at your unanswered text to Joel. What the hell was going on? You had really hoped today, of all days, they would be there early so you could go over some last minute tips before taking the stand.

You could hear the crowds of people murmuring behind you amongst themselves as the clock ticked closer to nine. The room had gotten too full now, so you stopped looking at the door. It was becoming too embarrassing and you really didn't want to catch your mother's eye again, but you had noticed at least Michelle didn't show up this time.

The door swung open but you remained still, staring down at your list of questions and mentally rehearsing your answers, double checking your notes in the column for certain inflections or physical actions you wanted to take at specific points when you finally heard Joel's voice behind you.

"Hey, sorry I'm late," he said breathlessly, and you swiveled around in your seat.

"Where's Madeline?" you hissed, but he didn't pick up on your agitation. Or if he did, he didn't care because he was grinning. Fucking grinning as you were on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"She'll be here in a minute," he assured you, crouching down in front of the railing so he could keep your conversation private.

"In a minute? The trial's about to start! What do I do-"

"No, it's not," he said, his brown eyes sparkling as his smile stretched even wider.

"What do you mean?" you asked nervously, your eyes darting around the room at the people patiently waiting.

"It's -"

He was cut off when Madeline swung open the doors to the courtroom, followed closely by Beckett Kennedy, a confident smile sprawled across her face. Beckett dropped his briefcase on his table, and if you didn't know any better, he seemed annoyed. You ignored the bailiff in the corner of the room who ducked back behind the judge's bench to escort Patrick out from his holding cell, joining his lawyer at his table and looking distraught.

"What's going on?" you asked her when she sat down.

"It's over," she told you. You just stared at her, stunned.

"What do you mean?"

"He struck a deal. He's about to change his plea to guilty when the judge arrives. It's all over, hun," Madeline said, squeezing your shoulder. Your jaw dropped and your eyes widened as you looked back and forth between her and Joel, each of them looking elated.

"H-how?" you stammered, and your adrenaline finally caught up with you. Your hands began to shake and your heart slammed in your chest as you waited for an explanation that you were sure you would only absorb half of because you were far too emotional to focus.

"The other girls. A few came forward and gave their statements, and one in particular had video evidence. I presented all of this to Kennedy last night, and he had to review it with his client this morning but they took a deal," Madeline said hurriedly, knowing she was running out of time. "Six years in some cushy cop prison back up north, one of those years mandatory rehab. And," she said, triumphantly pulling a thick stack of papers out of her briefcase, "he signed your divorce papers. You're no longer married."

You gasped, eyes wide as you stared at the papers she dropped onto the desk. You finally tore your gaze away and looked at Joel, tears welling up in your eyes so quickly that you couldn't even read his expression.

"Oh my god," you whispered, turning back to Madeline and shakily covering your mouth with your palm.

"All rise!"

Somehow, you managed to stand on trembling legs and blink back most of your tears until the judge entered the courtroom and sat down, allowing the rest of the room to follow except for Beckett, who remained standing.

"Your honor, may I approach?"

You watched in a daze, trying to take deep breaths to calm yourself down as Patrick's lawyer walked up to the bench, murmured something to the judge, then sat back down. It was all a blur, but the judge announced there would be a change in plea, causing Patrick to stand and say the word you've been waiting to hear for years.

"Guilty."

You clapped your hands over your mouth and the tears began to flow. Madeline's arms wrapped around you as the judge tapped on his gavel, silencing the crowd behind you, and then dismissed the jury.

The bailiff led Patrick away, back into the room he emerged from moments ago, but you didn't notice. Your face was buried in Madeline's shoulder, sobbing your thanks over and over, knowing it would never be enough. Then you turned to Joel, reaching over the railing to wrap your arms around his neck. He squeezed you tightly around your ribs as you breathed in his familiar, comforting scent and you felt some of his own tears getting trapped against your neck.

"It's over," you whispered into his ear, "it's finally over."

By the time you finally collected yourself, most of the room had emptied out into the hallway, carrying with them their shocked murmurs and speculations as to what caused the sudden change in plea. Your eyes were still glimmering with tears as you walked out with Madeline. Joel trailed behind, pausing briefly to shake hands with the bailiff and exchange a few friendly words, before following you out into the hallway. You were dabbing at your cheeks with a tissue Madeline had procured from her purse, your mouth still stretched into a huge smile when he locked eyes with you, his own smile matching yours until he glanced over your shoulder. You could see the subtle change in his expression even from a distance, and your face fell a moment before you heard your mother call out your name.

You swiveled around, your heart getting stuck in your throat as you took her in. Her frail frame stood a few feet away, clutching her purse in front of her. Her makeup was perfectly done, not a hair out of place as she cleared her throat and asked to speak to you privately. By now, Joel had caught up with you. You glanced at Madeline first and then him. He tried to express his support with a small furrow of his brow and a quick nod: I'm here, I'm not going anywhere.

Turning back to your mother, you forced a tight smile and said sure before following her down the hall, out of earshot but still within range so you could still see Madeline and Joel over her shoulder.

"I'm sorry things didn't work out with you and Patrick," she said, her eyes briefly raking up and down your body, examining you up close now.

You didn't know what to say. The first words that popped into your head were I'm not, but you knew there would be no point, so you kept your mouth shut and just nodded.

An awkward silence passed as people filed past you, talking amongst themselves with ease and you wondered why it was always so hard to have a conversation with your own mother. And a few months ago, you blamed yourself, but today you finally felt like you could see clearly for the first time. It wasn't your fault. It never was your fault.

"I'm going to see if I can change my flight, I'd like to minimize my time spent in this godawful state as much as possible," she said, raising her chin in the air as she scrutinized a couple young women passing by. "When can we expect you back?"

Your eyes widened as you stared at her, gobsmacked.

"W-what?" you stammered, and her eyes dragged back to you.

"Back home, dear. When will you be coming back? I assume now that you've done what you came out here to do, you'll be coming back home."

You blinked rapidly and shook your head.

"What I came out here to do?" you repeated, and she sighed, looking at you as if to say drop the act.

"Yes. You wrangled some poor soul and managed to get him all twisted around in your drama so he could get you out of this mess," she said, waving over her shoulder in Joel's general direction. "So now that you got what you wanted from him, I can presume you'll be moving on."

Any other time, you would have crumpled at her words. You would have cried and bit your tongue. But not today. Today, you were free, and not just free from your ex-husband. Free from everybody who ever treated you like you weren't worthy. Like you were always the problem, like you deserved what happened to you.

"How dare you," you snarled, your eyes narrowing. "You might think you know everything about me, but you don't. I don't treat people like they're disposable. I'm not like you or Patrick. I don't hurt the people I love and take for granted that they'll forgive me," you said, the anger rising in your chest, and over her shoulder you could see Joel's body stiffen. He was watching, unable to hear you but your body language was telling him everything he needed to know.

Your mother scoffed and opened up her purse, rifling around for her compact with a little smirk.

"So this is how you're telling me you're in love with another man? Already? My god, has the ink even dried on your divorce papers?" she snickered, then flipped open the mirror to check her hair, avoiding your gaze. Your jaw tensed and you reached out, snatching the compact away and snapping it shut so she was forced to look you in the eye.

"So what?" you said, your voice getting louder and catching the attention of people passing by. "He's treated me better than Patrick or anyone else ever has. He's shown me-" you paused and looked over her shoulder, making eye contact with Joel, who looked nervous and concerned as he watched you from down the hall. "He's shown me what love is really supposed to be like," you said, your voice softening as you continued to hold his gaze. "He's been there for me through everything, good and bad. He would do anything for me, and I would do anything for him," you continued, dragging your eyes off of Joel and back to your mother. "And I deserve that. I deserve better."

Your mother regarded you for a moment, seemingly at a loss for words before she scoffed and plucked the compact out of your hand and dropped it back into her purse.

"Your father is going to hate him."

"I don't give a shit," you snapped, making her look up at you in surprise. "I'm not bringing him to Pennsylvania, Dad will never meet him because I'm not coming back," you said, looking at Joel once again. "This is my home now."

She looked around with her hands turned up towards the sky, a sarcastic smile on her face before looking back at you.

"This? This is what you consider home? Come on, be realistic," she said, dropping her hands.

"There's nothing wrong with Texas, so stop acting like there is," you told her with a frown. "I love it here. I love the people here. So, I'm staying."

Your mother opened her mouth to say more, but you held up your hand as you took a step forward.

"Have a safe flight," you said to her over your shoulder as you walked back towards Madeline and Joel. And you didn't look back once.

Madeline had insisted on taking you and Joel out to dinner to celebrate, and you excitedly agreed. In fact, you even decided to have a couple glasses of wine, something you rarely indulged in since Patrick managed to ruin the idea of alcohol for you, but you were determined not to let him influence your decisions any longer.

You didn't want to know much, but Madeline did share with you some of the details of Patrick's sentence. She told you he was cocky and arrogant when she announced there were other girls that came forward, then how stricken he looked when she played the video. He had asked for a specific prison up north, one that he knew of that was soft on cops, and in exchange he agreed to drop the charges against Joel and plead guilty to the rest of the charges for a reasonable sentence.

It only took one glass of wine for your muscles to relax and your lips to loosen up. You told the two of them over appetizers what your mother had said, leaving out some of the specifics and focusing on how you stood up for yourself, instead. And when Madeline excused herself to use the restroom, Joel gripped your hand and brought your knuckles up to his lips, his dark eyes shiny and his cheeks a little pink from the wine and he murmured how fucking proud he was of you, and you told him you never could have done it without him. He shook his head, about to say you were wrong, that you had it in you all along, but you stopped him and held his gaze.

"I mean it," you said, swallowing the lump in your throat. "You changed my life, Joel."

And if it weren't for the public setting, if it weren't for Madeline walking back over to your table, he would have said it. But the timing wasn't right, so he let the moment pass.

After dinner and a reminder from Madeline to stop by her office the next day to finalize some paperwork before heading back home, Joel walked you back to the hotel. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and it took a few minutes before you realized you didn't need to hide anymore. You wrapped your hand around his bicep, pulling yourself closer into his side and he smiled, then freed his hand so he could wrap his arm around your shoulders and kissed the top of your head.

"Which floor?" he asked after getting onto the elevator.

"Five," you replied, swaying slightly when the car lifted from the ground floor, the wine still coursing through your veins, making you feel loose and relaxed.

"Same as me," he said, leaning against the wall opposite you as his eyes leisurely roamed down your body, and you could tell by the playful smirk on his face that the wine had gotten to him, too.

"What a coincidence," you said, biting back a grin before carefully stepping out of the elevator when the doors opened. He followed behind you in silence. He didn't need to say anything. You could feel it. His eyes that were glued to your back, the heat that was radiating off of him, the heavy fall of his step behind you all sent a shiver down your spine.

You unlocked your door and pushed it open before turning back to Joel, who was leaning up against the wall, his hands shoved into his pockets again as he smiled at you lazily.

"See you tomorrow, then," he said, and you hummed before reaching out to fiddle with his tie, His eyes fell to your hand and watched as your fingers wrapped around the strip of material and tugged him forward. His mouth crashed against yours with a groan while his hands quickly found a home on your hips. He backed you into the room, letting the door swing shut with a quiet click, and he didn't stop until the backs of your legs hit the bed. You pulled away from his mouth breathlessly and gave his chest a gentle shove, pushing him back so you could have some room to reach around and unzip the hideous skirt you had been wearing.

"I told you I can't stand these clothes," you said softly, and he grinned as he patiently watched you strip, but once you were down to your underwear his body crowded yours once again. His hands were everywhere. Your shoulders, your back, your ass, then your face, holding you still so his tongue could delve deeper into your mouth. Your hands came to rest on his belt, fingertips tucking behind his waistband, ensuring he remained as close as possible because now that you finally had him, you didn't want to ever let him go.

One of his hands dropped from your jaw and skirted around the edge of your underwear, then he dipped an experimental finger past the fabric. When your kisses became more feverish and your hands flew up to his shoulders, he added a second finger, then slowly tugged on the material. Your legs pressed together so you could wiggle out of your panties, letting them fall to the floor around your ankles. Joel smirked against your mouth, his fingers gliding down and when they slipped easily between your folds, the smirk fell from his face. You were so wet and so warm and it was all for him.

He quickly pulled his hand out from between your legs, making you whine until he wrapped his hands around your thighs, his mouth still relentless against yours, stealing all the breath from your lungs. He lifted you up, just enough so you were seated on the bed, then crawled forward, pushing you backwards until your back was flush with the mattress and your legs dangled over the edge.

He sat back, breaking the kiss, and you sucked in deep gulps of air, watching as he fell to his knees and yanked your hips closer. Your legs fell open while his palms slid up the inside of your thighs. His thumbs parted your folds and his eyes glazed over when he saw what was waiting for him.

"Fuck," he whispered, his eyes sliding closed for a moment, trying to collect himself before they snapped open again. "Can I taste you, baby? I really wanna taste you again," he breathed, then dragged his mouth up your leg, his beard tickling your skin and making you squirm.

"Yes," you squeaked, then gasped when you felt his tongue, hot and firm, slide over your clit, then dipped lower, licking at you greedily, scooping up your arousal with a moan, as if he enjoyed it as much as you did. Your hands immediately found his hair, clutching his curls between your fingers as he eagerly licked into you, his own fingers holding you against him and gripping your thighs so tightly that his nail beds turned white.

"Oh god, Joel, I... I-" you stammered, your head tossing back and forth as you struggled to breathe. You tugged harshly on his hair when his teeth grazed against your clit and he growled, his eyes flashing up to yours, watching your face as you lost all control, his chest swelling with pride that he was the one who got to do that to you, he was the only one who got to see you come undone.

He was relentless. He refused to hold back, having spent so many painstaking months already holding back, all he wanted to do now was make up for lost time. His jaw ached from the amount of pressure he was applying between your legs, his tongue cramped from how feverishly he licked, his lips were growing numb from how aggressively he sucked on your clit but if he were to die right then and there, he would die a happy man.

Your back arched underneath him, your body thrashed in his firm hold as you whined and whimpered his name. The slow spread of heat low in your belly came rushing up your entire body in an instant, causing your thighs to tighten around his head so hard, they trembled unsteadily when you finally relaxed.

He kissed your legs tenderly, spreading your slick over your skin with his lips as he listened to you catch your breath. Your muscles twitched under his fingers and your scent filled his nostrils and something about having you so soft and pliant under his touch made him feel animalistic.

He stood up suddenly, making you jump a little in surprise and turned your head as you groggily as you watched him tear off his tie and belt. You inched up the bed so your head rested on the pillow, making room for him while he hurriedly pulled off his shirt and pants, leaving his boxers for last. He caught your eye before tugging them down and your lips parted as you watched his cock bob free.

You eagerly spread your legs and motioned for him to join you on the bed. He shot you a smirk as he bent forward and crawled on top of you, his hips falling against yours, grinding into your sensitive core. Your eyelids fluttered rapidly and a small noise slipped past your lips but his mouth quickly captured yours, giving you a heady taste of yourself with his tongue.

Your body jolted underneath him every time his hips rubbed up against your clit, little electric currents shot through your limbs, and you gasped softly each time, your senses in overdrive, your skin tingling with each gentle touch from his hand and each playful bite from his mouth as he made his way down your neck.

His tip kept catching on your opening every time he rolled his hips back, and each time you became more and more frustrated.

"Joel, please," you whined, but his focus was entirely on your chest, his mouth drifting back and forth over your breasts, which were comically pushed up by the bra he had tugged down. He reached behind you and you arched your back so he could unhook it, and he slid it down your arms before tossing it to the side, his mouth barely leaving your skin.

Deciding to take matters into your own hands, you reached down between your bodies and lined him up at your entrance. His hips paused and he glanced up at you from your chest.

"Please," you tried again, your eyes momentarily fluttering shut. "It's been so long, I've missed you so much, please, Joel," you begged, not caring how pathetic you sounded.

In the blink of an eye, his mouth left your breast and was once again hovering over your own as he gazed down at you, his dark eyes shifting back and forth, examining you closely.

"I've missed you, too," he murmured, brushing a stray piece of hair away from your face. Then something in his expression shifted as he stared down at you heatedly. "And now you're finally all mine," he said, and as he spoke, he slowly began to sink into you, making your jaw drop and your eyes roll to the back of your head. He paused for a moment, allowing your body a chance to relax and adjust around him before pushing in further. A deep groan tumbled from his lips when he finally found himself fully sheathed inside your wet heat, then he nibbled tenderly at your chin, patiently waiting to move until you stopped writhing and whimpering.

Your hands slid up past his shoulders and got lost in his messy hair, pulling him down the last little bit so your lips connected once again. Your lips were raw and swollen from his beard but it just made you crave him even more. As your tongue slipped past his teeth, you hooked one leg around his waist and began to rock your hips up, encouraging him to move.

"I'm so proud of you," he whispered, dragging his lips across your cheek while he slowly began to thrust in and out, savoring every single second. "You did so good, my brave girl," he continued, and you felt yourself flush from the praise. Your eyes slid shut, heart swelling with joy and pride and something else that you felt inching its way to the surface. With each rut of his hips, you felt the words being pushed closer and closer to the tip of your tongue.

"Joel," you gasped, his lips finding a sensitive spot on your throat while his hand gripped the meaty part of your hip, pressing and tugging you as close to him as possible. Your bodies began to stick together, the noise from your skin and sweat adding to the little grunts and moans coming from each of you.

His touch was too gentle, his kisses too soft, words too sweet. It was making your mind hazy and muddled, to the point where you were worried you were babbling something you didn't intend to share just yet, so you bit down on your lip to keep the words inside, safe and sound.

"Are you okay?" he panted in your ear, slowing down when he noticed your prolonged silence. You blinked back the tears before he could see and you nodded.

"Yes," you whispered, your fingers slipping through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. "Faster," you mumbled, and you felt his fingers dig a little harder into your hip at the request.

He did as you asked, hips snapping faster now, because he could never say no to you. Not that he would want to, anyway. But to him, anything you ever wanted would be yours.

You deserved someone who would treat you right, someone who would make up for all those horrible years you had to endure. Someone who would worship the ground you walked on during the day and kneel at the altar between your legs at night.

How did he get so lucky? How was he the person you chose? He didn't dare ask, not wanting to risk you coming to your senses because if you did, he was fairly certain he would never recover. His heart would surely never heal.

"Tell me you're mine," he groaned into your neck, his eyebrows pinched together and his eyes screwed shut as he listened to the air getting punched out of your lungs with each thrust. "Need to hear it. Need to-"

"I'm yours," you moaned, cutting him off, tipping your head back and exposing your neck.

"Say it again," he said through clenched teeth, hot air puffing from his nose in rhythm with his hips.

"I'm yours, I'm all yours," you rambled, your head rolling back and forth as you felt yourself begin to lose control. The white hot heat pooling low in your belly once again. "Of course I'm yours, I lo-, I'm yours, Joel," you continued to babble, hoping he didn't notice the words that almost slipped out.

He let go of your hip so he could wrap both arms around your ribs, holding you as close as he could with both your legs tightly squeezing around his waist. He felt so heavy, inside and on top of you, the pressure from both sending you careening towards the edge. You frantically grabbed at his hair as if you needed something to hold onto, and maybe you did because when your orgasm finally hit you, it felt like you might float away. Your back arched up into him, pressing your sweaty chest into his while he pulled his head back, just a little, so he could watch your face. He kissed one of the two small tears that trickled down from your eyes, all dark and wide. Your mouth hung open as you struggled to drag in air around his name. He would never tire of it. He was certain, now, more than ever.

"You got no idea what you do to me," he said huskily, recklessly chasing his own high now. Your body sagged under him, but your shaky legs still managed to pull him in, your heel pressing into his back, urging him forward. "God, I-I want you so much... all the time... all I think 'bout," he rambled, his vision going spotty. "Oh, fuck, I'm gonna come," he gritted out, slamming his hips into you until his body stilled and he let out a filthy moan, one you did you best to memorize before he dropped his head against your heaving chest.

"Oh my god," you whispered after a few minutes of silence, the two of you trying to catch your breath. He hummed tiredly into your skin, and you could feel it reverberating through your chest, right to your heart. You took a deep breath and summoned up what little courage you had left for the day.

"Joel?"

"Hmm?"

But when you looked down at his face, eyes closed and jaw relaxed, you could tell he was moments away from falling into a deep sleep.

"Nothing. I'll tell you tomorrow," you said, kissing the top of his head. His arms loosened ever so slightly around you, your sweaty skin there finally being exposed to the cool air of the room, making you shiver. And even though you couldn't reach the sheets, you were still warm because you were surrounded by him, and that was enough.

"If we're late, I am telling Madeline it was all your fault," you told him, grinning like a fool at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Your hands were busy trying to make your hair look somewhat presentable, but his hands were busy roaming up and down your body. His chest pressed against your back and his chin tucked into the crook of your neck made your task even more difficult, but you didn't dare squirm away.

"That's fine. She's mad at me, anyway," he said, planting chaste kisses against your shoulder.

You finally resigned yourself to pulling your hair into a low ponytail and then turned around in his arms. His lips immediately found yours and you couldn't stop the smile from spreading across your face.

"Joel, c'mon," you whined, but your hands drifted up his chest, contradicting your tone. "You still need to go back to your room and clean up. I wanna hit the road right after this meeting," you said, pressing a kiss against his neck. "I wanna go home."

He sighed and gave you one more kiss before dropping his hands and pulling away.

"Fine," he said, trying to sound cross but you could see right through him. "Lemme go change and pack, I'll meet you down in the lobby in half an hour."

"You're going to need longer than that, you need to shower," you said, scrunching up your nose as you watched him button up his wrinkled shirt from the day before.

He just caught your eye and winked, making you giggle, before walking towards your door.

"Thirty minutes."

As it turned out, you were right on time. Somehow.

This time, when you both walked into the lobby and gave the same young and pretty receptionist your name, you didn't feel your stomach twist when she batted her eyelashes at Joel. And he didn't seem to notice her, either. His eyes were fixed entirely on you and as you sat down, you began to realize you were always so caught up in your own insecurities that you never noticed the way he looked at you. His eyes were filled with a mix of admiration, playfulness, and devotion. How on earth couldn't you see that before?

The only thing that pulled your gaze off him now was Madeline's familiar voice calling out your name. You shot her a wide smile and stood up, Joel trailing after you, and followed her down the path to her office.

"Will this take very long? I was hoping to be back home by lunch," you asked, and you felt Joel's fingers brush delicately against your lower back as you walked behind her. You hadn't really figured out what your relationship was quite yet, and the instinct to still hide it was strong. Especially from Madeline, considering how angry she was when he took the stand.

"No more than an hour," she said over her shoulder, but when her hand came to rest on her doorknob, she paused and turned back to you. "I have a little surprise for you, if that's okay," she said, and you glanced over at Joel briefly before giving her a shrug. "I have someone here who wanted to talk to you."

Your eyes went wide as a few guesses flitted through your brain, but when she opened the door and revealed a clean shaven younger man with a buzz cut, wearing dark jeans and a flannel, you realized none of your guesses were correct.

Madeline ushered you both in and shut the door behind you, and you stood in the middle of the room, your eyes examining him, trying to place him but failing. When Madeline took a few steps forward and reached an arm in his direction and introduced him as Officer Tyler Bates, your lips parted in surprise.

"Don't you work with Patrick?" you asked in disbelief, swallowing down your nerves. He gave you a sad smile and a brief nod.

"Yes, ma'am."

His voice was deeper than you expected, but so far nothing was really going as you expected. You blinked at Madeline, confused, and then Joel's hand was on your lower back again. Reassuring. Firm. He stretched an arm out and shook his hand.

"Nice to finally meet you," Joel said to him.

"Same to you, sir," Tyler said, his jaw firm. Joel looked back at your confused expression and glanced at Madeline before explaining.

"Few weeks back, Madeline got a call from Officer Bates here," he began, and Tyler went back to standing rigidly against the wall, his hands linked behind his back. "He heard 'bout your case and he wanted to help. He knew about the other victims, the girls Patrick coerced into silence, just like you," Joel said, bringing his hand up to your shoulder now. "He put us in touch with these girls. That's why I went up to Philly - because of the information he risked his neck to share," he said, looking at Tyler again. "We're forever grateful to you, Officer," Joel said earnestly.

"It's the least I could do," he replied, glancing at you with shame. "I'm so sorry, ma'am," he said, his voice cracking a bit. "I should have done more. I saw what was happening and I -" he bit his lip and turned away for a moment, and you felt the tears begin to burn in the backs of your eyes. "I stood by and did nothing. I was a rookie back then and... it's no excuse, but I just didn't know what to do," he said, meeting your gaze again, his blue eyes wet with tears. He looked down at his feet and sniffled before continuing. "I just hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me-"

You lunged forward and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, surprising just about everybody in the room. You could feel his body stiffen under your touch, but then his arms shifted to gently embrace your midsection.

"Thank you," you whispered in his ear, your voice thick with emotion, and you felt him nod against your shoulder.

Stepping away, you wiped a few stray tears with the back of your hand and looked at Joel, whose eyes looked just as misty as Tyler's. His throat bobbed before meeting Tyler's gaze again.

"You ever find yourself in need of a job and you happen to yearn for the excitement of a podunk town," Joel joked with a grin, and pulled his card out of his coat pocket. "You give me a call."

Tyler took the card and flipped it over in his hand before putting it in his wallet.

"I will, sir. You never know. Change of scenery may be nice."

"Well, I mean it. Don't hesitate, okay?" Joel said, holding his gaze for a moment, and Tyler nodded before looking back at you.

"Thank you both," he said, his eyes drifting between you and Joel. "I appreciate you meeting with me and hearing me out."

After Officer Bates left, Madeline explained he had come down for the trial but, for obvious reasons, preferred to not let Patrick or the other cops who had been called to his defense see him. And for maybe the first time in your life, you realized you were actually losing count of how many people you had in your corner.

It was an incredibly draining day and it was barely ten in the morning but you finally wrapped everything up with Madeline and gave her a tight hug with the promise of staying in touch. But of course, just as you were letting your guard down, a knock came on the door when you were gathering your things and Michelle, of all people, poked her head in.

Your breath caught in your throat and you immediately looked away after giving her a shy smile. You wanted to look at Joel, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it. Just in case he looked at her the same way he looked at you, your heart wouldn't be able to take it. But had you found the courage to look at him, all you would have seen was a stony expression and a clenched jaw as she entered the room.

"I hear congratulations are in order," she said, clapping her hands. Madeline chuckled and nodded and you dragged your eyes back up to Michelle.

"Thank you again," you said weakly, and she waved you off like it was nothing.

"We're so happy to help," she said, still grinning when she locked eyes with Joel. "How have you been, Joel?"

"Alright," he said gruffly, and you could see the tension in his broad shoulders.

You thought her smile might have faltered a bit at his tone, but she still asked "do you have a second to talk?"

His eyes flicked over to you and you gave him a tight smile before turning to Madeline.

"Do you want to walk me out? You can tell me all about that cruise you're taking with your wife," you said, tilting your head towards the door, and she nodded as she rounded the desk.

"We're going to the Caribbean, we've never been," she said excitedly, pulling out her phone. "Take a look at the cabin we booked, isn't it just gorgeous?"

Joel's eyes followed you until you reached the hallway and disappeared, your voice fading, leaving him alone with Michelle.

"It's been a while," she said awkwardly, and he grunted while he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Didn't even know you worked here."

"Just over a year now," she said, her fingers tangling nervously in front of her. "They offered me partner, great benefits, sign on bonus... I couldn't say no."

"Congratulations," he said softly, and finally forced himself to look at her. "Why'd you tell her you picked this case as a favor to me? You know that ain't true. It made her feel bad."

She sighed and glanced at the open door. "It kind of was a favor for you, Joel."

"I didn't even talk to you 'bout it, I didn't even know you worked here," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, but Victor told me you spoke to him and I may have pushed her case a little during some executive meetings," Michelle said with a shrug. Joel chewed on the inside of his cheek as he mulled over what she said.

"Why?"

She scoffed and dropped her hands to her sides in defeat. "You really need me to spell it out for you?"

"Yeah, I think I do," he said, crossing his arms defensively. She rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath before answering.

"Because I wanted to see you again," she said, her voice trembling. "Because I missed you-"

"We didn't work out for a reason, Michelle," he reminded her. "And we are standing right in the fuckin' middle of that reason. Look around," he said, waving his hand in the air. "You got what you wanted. You made partner before you were forty. I'm sure you have a beautiful house or apartment and a fancy car-"

"But I was wrong," she said, cutting him off. "I thought those things would make me happy, but... I was wrong."

Joel stared at her for a moment, feeling something stirring in his chest - pity. Pity for the woman he once loved, who made the wrong choice and was full of regret.

"You're more than welcome to get together with Sarah," he said after a moment. "She's still got the same number. Maybe you should get lunch with her. Before you know it, she'll be off to college."

Michelle nodded and dropped her chin to her chest, trying to blink back tears, but Joel still noticed. He looked away, trying to give her a moment to collect herself.

"You love her, don't you?"

His eyes shot back over to her in surprise.

"Sarah?"

"No," Michelle said, sounding exasperated. She pointed to the open door. "Her."

He took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah."

She smiled. A sad, strangled smile, then looked at him with glistening eyes.

"Makes sense now, why you did so much for her," she said, biting her lip and looking out the window.

Guilt began to creep up as he watched Michelle struggle with what to say. "Can't thank you enough for doin' what you did," he said, his eyebrows pinching together. "You helped out someone who really needed it. You did a good thing."

"For selfish reasons," she said with a chuckle.

"Doesn't matter," he told her. Michelle met his gaze and nodded slowly, then let out a sigh and clapped her hands together. In an instant, the sadness disappeared and a resilient lawyer once again stood before him.

"I'll give Sarah a call," she said, turning towards the door, and he followed.

"She'd like that."

When they reached the hallway, she looked at him once more, a soft look that once upon a time, he would have killed to see, but now no longer wanted. "Take care, Joel."

"You, too," he replied with a small smile, then turned on his heel and headed towards the lobby.

One Week Later

"Are you switchin' me to decaf?"

You feigned offense from behind the counter of the diner, your hand coming up to clutch your invisible pearls.

"What ever do you mean?"

"I heard you and Sarah whisperin' on Saturday before the movie," he said, wagging a finger at you.

"She was just telling me about a boy she liked," you said, leaning against the counter and watching his face contort.

"What?"

You giggled and filled up a glass of water. "She's a teenager, Joel. She's going to be interested in dating."

"Over my dead body," he grumbled before taking a sip of coffee and wincing. "I swear, this don't taste right."

"Try this instead," you told him, placing the glass of water in front of his nearly empty plate.

He eyed you suspiciously but picked up the glass and drank half, earning him one of the most beautiful smiles he'd ever seen and suddenly he felt like he could drink an ocean if he got to see that smile again. He leaned forward, his arms bent over the counter, as his eyes raked up and down your body.

"Still comin' over tonight?" he asked, but your eyes went wide and you shushed him, glancing to the side where Margaret, Nikki's mother, was seated. "Oh, come on, who cares?" he said, scowling in her direction even though she wasn't even looking.

"I know, I know," you replied, picking up a rag and wiping down the counter. He watched you fidget nervously before glancing at his watch and standing up.

"Better head back," he said, shrugging his blazer over his shoulders.

"Okay," you said sweetly, and you both paused, fighting the urge to kiss goodbye. You glanced around the dining room and looked back at him. You were about to say something when Maria waved you down.

"Can you grab table three?" she asked as Tommy sauntered out of the kitchen with a rag over his shoulder. He nodded in Joel's direction before grabbing Maria's chin and giving her a deep kiss. You felt your stomach clench, wishing more than anything Joel would do that very same thing to you, but your relationship was still so fresh and you were both trying to figure out how to act. In such a small town, you knew news like that would ripple through the streets in minutes, and neither of you seemed ready to deal with the fallout just yet.

"I'll see you later," you told him, and he took a deep breath.

"Seeya."

You grabbed your pad of paper and pen and headed over to table three while Joel walked toward the front door, tapping the hostess stand to break up Maria and Tommy and wave goodbye before he left.

You felt your heart clench when the door swung shut behind him. It always did. Whenever he left, you felt like a piece of you went with him. To distract yourself, you focused your attention on your table.

"Hi, Mr. Connor," you said with a cheery smile.

"How're doin', sweetheart? How's that car treatin' ya? Get you back and forth to Austin okay?"

Most of the town already knew about the finer details of your trial, courtesy of Betty. When you got back, you had explained to her the real reason for your divorce and why it required so much time off, and before you knew it, you were being overwhelmed with well-wishers.

"It did, thank you," you said with a smile.

"Well bring it by the garage, I'll rotate the tires and do a tune-up, on the house. You've been through enough as it is, don't need that car crappin' out on ya."

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the front door swing open.

"Really? Thank you so much!" you said, taken aback at his generosity. Mr. Connor nodded and smiled, then curiously looked past you towards the front door. You followed his gaze and saw Joel, his eyes landing on you at the exact same time. Your lips parted in surprise as he marched towards you, his face determined and shoulders squared.

"Did you forget something?"

"Yeah," he said, then reached out and cupped your jaw with both hands, pulling you firmly against his mouth and stealing all the air from your lungs. You dropped your pen and paper to the ground and wrapped your arms around his neck, and you faintly registered the whistles and scattered applause from the remaining guests in the diner, but your focus was entirely on him. His lips gently massaged yours and his thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of your cheeks and you couldn't think about anything else. Only him. Only ever him.

"Finally!" Betty exclaimed from a table nearby.

He pulled back with a grin, his hands still cupping your face.

"I love you."

A smile stretched across your face as tears instantly sprung to your eyes from hearing those words for the first time.

"I love you, too."

He laughed in disbelief and pulled you back in for one more quick kiss, both of you still grinning from ear to ear.

"I'll call you later," he said, dropping his hands.

"Okay," you replied, biting your lip and watching him back away, keeping his eyes on you until he reached the hostess stand, where Tommy and Maria were smirking, but he didn't look. All he could see was you. Only ever you.

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stevie-petey · 28 days

Text

episode two: the mall rats

Steve lazily drapes an arm over you, which Dustin narrows his eyes at. “Yeah, I mean. Sure. It’s not really a good idea for me, though. I gotta keep in shape for the ladies.” “Ugh,” you scoff in disgust at Steve’s words and shrug his arm off of you before scooting away from him. Sometimes you forget how much of an idiot he can be. That he used to wear the crown of King Steve. You turn slightly away from him and finish eating your ice cream, annoyed and slightly hurt, though you know you have no right to be. It’s not like you’re with Steve, anyways.

Summary: dreams are weird, billy is a hitchhiker, and hopper flirts with joyce in front of you (youre not sure which is scarier), somehow robin knows russian and has genius ears, you get caught in an awkward breakup showdown, and you shamefully are shocked when you discover that hawkins is anything but normal. you would think youd be a pro at this already, but at least steve is hot and really good at sneaking through windows.

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: swearing, allusions to violence, fem!reader, use of y/n

Words: 13.2k

Before you swing in: hello !!! new chapter, i am so sorry for the wait :/ the end of the semester has been killer and ive been super busy with my lab job (i present at a conference friday ... pray for me). heres chapter 2, she somehow ended up being 13k words but lets ignore that for my own sanity !

There are dandelions all around you.

Their puffs of white surround you as the seeds dance in the air and settle atop of your head and tickle your cheek. They’re soft, reminiscent of the snow that encases you every winter in Hawkins and the days you used to chase Jonathan around in his backyard.

You’re barefoot in a field that you can’t quite place. The grass below you skims against your ankles as the dandelion seeds float towards the tops of the green. It’s a familiar landscape, something tells you that you’ve been here before, and the thought is almost reassuring to you.

The sun is warm against you and there’s someone in the distance. You open your mouth to call out to them, they feel as familiar as the landscape before you does, but when you try to speak, the dandelion seeds begin to swarm into your mouth. The puffs of white seem to turn into daggers in your throat as they cut your tongue and slice inside you as you struggle to breathe.

You try to scream, but nothing comes out. The dandelions now draw blood as they continue their malicious attack on you. You claw at your mouth and cower in the field, trying to flee from what’s attacking you, but the dandelions only follow as you try to call after the figure you saw in the distance.

Stumbling blindly through the grass, panic stricken and longing for the person who had once been at the top of the hill, your foot catches on a root and suddenly you’re falling. This time, you do scream, and the dandelion seeds spill from your mouth as you fall into an endless abyss.

“Y/N!” Your eyes fly open and your body shoots from your bed; you almost head butt Dustin in the process. He flinches back, startled by your violent reaction, and he puts his hands up in surrender and backs away. “Geesh, I was just trying to wake you up.”

It takes you a few moments to process that you are, in fact, awake. Your heartbeat is still pounding rapidly in your throat. You can still feel the dandelion seeds on your tongue and the millions of little cuts they left behind.

Dustin stares at you with slight concern in his eyes and you clear your throat, trying to rid the memory of your dream. That’s all it was. A dream.

Clearing your throat again, you try to calm yourself down. “Why are you in my room?”

“Like I said, I was trying to wake you up.” Your brother says as if you’re an idiot.

“But why?”

“Did you bang your head or something last night?” He gives you an odd look and you glare at him. “Cerebro caught a Russian code, remember? You promised we’d see Steve today to talk about it!”

You rub your eyes, exhausted. It’s taking longer than usual for your mind to wake up and process everything. “I know, I know… What time is it?”

“Eight, now get up and go get pretty for Steve so we can discuss how to become American heroes.” Dustin crosses his arms, silently daring you to argue.

“There was so much wrong with that sentence,” you groan, but reluctantly throw your blankets off of you and start pulling out random shorts and a t-shirt to wear. “You’re lucky it’s the weekend and I don’t work today.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Dustin mocks you, tossing you a white t-shirt and removing the red one from your hands. “Steve likes you in white, now hurry up.”

Your mouth drops in shock, but your brother simply rolls his eyes at you and leaves your room so that you can get dressed.

“How does he even know that?” You whisper to yourself, now alone in your room.

–

Dustin bikes ahead of you as you make your way to Joyce’s store in Downtown Hawkins. He had complained when you told him that you needed to make a pitstop there before going to the mall.

“I haven’t seen Steve in a month!”

“And Mrs. Byers is close to losing her job at Melvald’s, so you can wait the extra five minute detour it takes to deliver her muffins to cheer her up.”

Your brother had tried to argue some more, but you simply shoved a fresh baked muffin in his mouth and began to bike away.

Now, as the two of you head towards Downtown, the early morning air fills your lungs and slowly wakes you up. It’s quiet, Hawkins isn’t quite awake yet in the early hour. Only the bees buzzing past your ear seem to be lively.

You watch Dustin up ahead and briefly marvel at how much bigger he seems to have gotten in the month he was away at camp. He looks older, more mature, no longer the baby brother your mom brought home fourteen years ago.

As you’re lost in your reminiscence, you almost miss the figure that stumbles along the side of the road.

“Dustin!” You yell at the boy, weary of whoever is up ahead. “Stop!”

He hears the fear in your voice and screeches his bike to a halt. Turning around, he checks to make sure you’re okay. “Did something happen?”

You stop next to him and discreetly point at the figure a few yards away. It seems to be a boy, maybe a teen your age, but he’s walking as if he’s in immense pain. “You see that?”

“Yeah,” Dustin squints and also seems unnerved by the person’s appearance. “Think it’s anything dangerous?”

“I don’t know…” Something feels familiar about the person. Their hair, the way it’s styled, reminds you of someone. You squint as well, your eyes catch on the person’s leather jacket and the expensive brand, there’s a faint outline of cigarettes in the pocket, and the sight fills your nose with the smoke that once choked you last winter. “I think it’s Billy.”

“Why is he walking on the side of the road?” Dustin makes a face. “I know he has a car, the bastard almost ran me and the party over on Halloween.”

You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and try to understand why you feel this tug within you to get closer to the teen. Billy is cruel, he is horrible, and the bruises he left on your neck took weeks to fully fade away. Yet there’s a concern within you as you watch him stumble, as if in some daze, and it's this worry that solidifies your decision. “Stay here.”

“What–” Dustin turns and sees that you’ve gotten back on your bike and are now pedaling towards Billy. “Y/N! Are you insane?”

“Stay here!” You order, not really understanding why you’re doing this either. “Just… Wait for my signal!”

Dustin curses, not at all liking this plan, but he listens. He tightens his grip on his bike’s handlebar and makes sure you never leave his line of sight in case you need him for backup.

As you approach Billy, you make sure to circle widely around him so that he sees you coming, before finally facing in front of him. You brake a few feet away from him, incredibly nervous for how he may react. You haven’t spoken to him since last winter, he had kept his promise to Max to leave you alone.

Billy barely seems to register that you’re in front of him. He stops as if he’s in a trance and blinks slowly at you. You notice the cut on his forehead, how there’s still fresh blood dripping from it, and something within you wants to tend to the wound. Then you notice the grime that covers his face and his jacket, and you begin to worry even more.

As you’re eying his disheveled appearance, Billy opens his mouth, and the action looks as if it takes all the energy within him to do so. “S–sweetheart?”

“Are you okay?” You ignore the nickname he gave you that makes your skin crawl. You’re more worried about his appearance. He’s sweating like crazy, almost as if he’s on drugs, and he’s paler than normal. His California tan is gone, his eyes are glazed over, he looks as if he isn’t really here with you right now.

It scares you. You’ve never seen him like this.

“‘M fine,” Billy slurs. He seems… off. More drawn into himself now, less sure of himself. Scared, even. It’s a strange sight to see: Billy Hargrove, alone and frightened, in the early morning of June. “I… I’m fine.”

His slurred words aren’t reassuring, and a part of you wants to offer him a ride on your bike. You assume he’s heading to the local pool to lifeguard, you know it’s where he spends most of his days, but you have Dustin with you and you’re still nervous around Billy.

The wounds he gave you may have healed, but some nights, when the nightmares are really bad, you wake up to his hands around your throat.

It feels wrong just leaving Billy like this, though. He’s still human, Max has slowly opened up to you about her abusive stepdad and the way he punches her brother. You know that Billy’s actions come from his hurt, but you don’t think you’re ready yet to forgive him. Not now, at least.

Reluctantly, you sigh and wave your hand to indicate to Dustin that he’s fine to start biking over. Billy doesn’t seem like a threat right now in his current state. When you see your brother start to pedal closer, you look back at Billy. “Listen, I know we aren’t… friends.”

Billy stares blankly at you, and you really hope that he can understand what you’re saying right now.

“But if you need anyone to talk to, about anything, come find me, okay?” You tell him, hesitantly placing a hand on his arm as you speak. However, when your skin makes contact with his, you flinch at how cold he is.

Before you can say anything else, Dustin finally catches up and brakes softly next to you. He looks nervously between you and Billy. “So… Uh. Ready to go, Y/N?”

“Yeah…” You pull away from Billy, your fingers almost numb from his cold skin, and spare him one last glance as you start to bike away. “Remember what I said, okay?”

Billy doesn’t say anything.

You and Dustin leave him stranded on the side of the road.

Neither one of you talk about this.

–

As usual, Downtown Hawkins is deserted when you and Dustin arrive at Melvald’s. The only two cars parked in front of the rundown store belong to Joyce and Hopper.

You hop off your bike and park it in the bike rack before carefully untying the container of muffins from the back. Dustin is slumped on top of his bike, silently complaining, and you wave a stern finger at him. “Wait here, okay? This will only take five minutes, I promise.”

“I’m telling Steve that you’re cheating on him with Mrs. Byers.”

“Not cheating if we aren’t together,” you quip, before opening the door to the store.

When you step inside the store, you’re greeted with Hopper obnoxiously yelling and jumping around as Joyce laughs and claps for him. Curious, you carefully side step the grown man and make your way over to the woman.

“Y/N!” Joyce lights up even more when she sees you, and then lets out a small cheer when she sees that you’re holding one of your signature baked goods containers. “Are those for me?”

“Always, Mrs. Byers.” You grin at her and set the container down. “They’re the muffins you really liked last week, thought I’d bake a special batch just for you.”

Hopper now joins you at the store’s counter in front of Joyce. He’s practically vibrating with his excited energy, so much so that he even smiles at you and claps a hand behind your back. “Kid, it’s like you knew we’d be celebrating a monumental occasion today.”

“What, did Jonathan finally wash his bedsheets?”

Joyce shakes her head and Hopper claps again, now grasping your shoulders and shakes you around. “No, even better! I got Mike out of my house!”

Through Joyce, you had learned all about Hopper’s utter disdain of Mike’s relationship with El. He has spent every day at their cabin since getting together, and even you have had to pry the girl away from Mike a few times to hang out with her. It’s hard bonding with El when Mike is breathing down your neck.

You’re all for young love, you think they’re adorable together, but christ. You understand Hopper’s frustration.

“Actually,” you’re still being shaken by the man. “That does sound better. How’d ya do it?”

Hearing your question, Hopper thankfully stops shaking your shoulders and now happily points at Joyce. “It was all her. I’m the puppet, she’s the master. Joyce gave me a brilliant script to say to the kid.”

“So you remembered everything?” Joyce asks, now unwrapping one of your muffins with glee.

“Yeah… well,” Hopper pauses. “I mean, I had to improvise a little bit, you know?”

You wince. “Oh, that’s never good.”

He glares at you but continues to explain. “It turns out that getting to Mike was the key.”

His words only make you wince again, and you look at Joyce. She meets your eye and the two of you silently agree that something doesn’t sound right here. She questions Hopper further. “And you didn’t yell at him?”

Hopper hesitates, which you expected. “I’ll… tell you everything over dinner.”

“Okay!” You step in between the adults and wave your arms out, preventing whatever else is about to be said. “I’m still here, let’s remember that.”

The chief glares at you again and narrows his eyes. “You’re right, you are still here. Why are you still here?”

“Because Mrs. Byers loves me and I baked her delicious muffins.” You deadpan, which Joyce chuckles at. “And while I’m sure whatever she told you to say to Mike was lovely, I have my doubts that you actually listened.”

“She’s got a point, Hop.” Joyce voices.

Hopper sighs at you both. “Okay, maybe I said some things, haven’t told El the whole truth, but what else was I supposed to do?”

“Not lie to kids?” Crossing your arms, you make a face at the man.

“Easy for you to say, little miss Hawkins’ sweetheart.” Hopper scoffs at you. “Got any better advice?”

You roll your eyes at his words. You understand that the man is still grappling with being a father again, he’s never been one to handle feelings any better, so you spare him some pity and try to be honest with him, say what he needs to hear. “Look, all I’m saying is that the best thing my deadbeat father ever did was teach me kindness, and it broke my heart when he was dishonest in the end. Just, don’t be that way with El, okay?”

Hopper is quiet as your words hang in the air.

Joyce is quiet as well, looking between you and the chief with a fondness in her eyes. It’s not often she sees someone render Hopper speechless, and she knows that it’s one of the many things she loves the most about your relationship with him. Though she would never tell you this, she thinks that Hopper secretly has his own fondness for you as well.

When the silence stretches for an uncomfortably long amount of time, you clear your throat and change the subject. “Well! This was fun, happy we did this.”

Hopper snorts, relieved you’re moving on as well. “Get lost, kid.”

“Gladly.” You turn back to Joyce and press a swift kiss to her cheek. “I’ll see you later, Mrs. Byers!”

Joyce says goodbye as well, and when you’ve left the store, she faces Hopper with a slight smirk. “She’s a good kid, Hop.”

“She is,” he agrees, looking down at his shoes. He will never admit this to anyone else, but to Joyce he knows his words are safe. “She’s the best of ‘em.”

–

When you finally get to the mall, Dustin basically dumps his bike in a spot next to a disgruntled older couple and runs before you can even slow down. He’s so lost in his excitement to see Steve as he runs towards Scoops and leaves you to deal with his bike and the couple alone, which you groan at.

“He acts like it’s been a year,” you grumble, finally hopping off your own bike to grab Dustin’s and secure them both to a nearby rack. After mumbling a quick apology to the couple your brother practically threw a bike at, you run after him inside.

By the time you catch up, Dustin has just entered Scoops and is talking to Robin. You approach, curious to see how this event will unfold. Robin hasn’t met your brother yet, and you have a feeling that his abrasive nature will either make her his biggest fan or absolutely hate him.

It’s the Henderson charm, really.

“I’m Dustin,” your brother introduces himself as you come to stand next to him. When he notices your arrival, he motions towards you and winks at Robin. “I’m sure Y/N has told you all about me.”

Robin raises her eyebrows at the kid, and you try to cover a giggle with a cough. “I’m Robin. I’m sure Y/N has told you a lot about me.”

“I probably have,” shrug, knowing you always talk about the people you love. When Robin and Dustin both look at you with confused faces, you quickly clarify, “I’ve talked about you both, I mean.”

“Can we cut the chit chat?” Dustin asks, now annoyed by how long this conversation is taking. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Robin, but uh. Is he here?”

“Is who here?” Robin looks over at you for help, but before you can prepare her for the inevitable storm of Steve’s bizarre and endearing friendship with Dustin, the older teen’s body comes crashing through the backdoor and his sneakers squeak loudly against the tile.

“Hendersons!” Steve raises his arms in the air in greeting, an ecstatic smile on his face when he sees both you and Dustin standing in Scoops Ahoy. You and your brother start to laugh as Steve now dances around, cheering and gleeful. “You’re both here! Little Henderson is back!”

“I’m back!” Dustin cheers. “And you got the job!”

Steve is beaming and his smile is probably one of the happiest you’ve seen cross his pretty face. He had complained about missing Dustin the entire month he had been gone, moaning and groaning about how he was bored at your house now that he didn’t have Dustin to shoo away.

“I got the job!” Steve mimes playing the trumpet before he starts his intricate and dumb handshake with Dustin.

It’s a complicated process, with fist bumps and pretend lightsaber death. They had come up with it during a particularly boring snow day at your house. You watched as they thought up the handshake while you made cocoa for everyone, heart swelling as Steve was so patient with your brother and encouraged his nerdy little habits.

It had taken them almost the entire day to create what they deemed “the perfect handshake”, and as they go through it once more in Scoops Ahoy, you feel the same swelling in your chest as you did the very first time you saw them come up with the handshake.

While you gaze fondly at Dustin and Steve, Robin stands next to you and watches in horror. As Steve pretends to spew his guts everywhere, the girl leans over to you and says, “Is this what you deal with every day?”

“Yeah,” you can’t help but smile softly at the two boys. You missed seeing them together, more than you thought you had.

Robin sees the dreamy look in your eyes as you stare at Steve and she gags. Unhappy with how this day is looking, she turns to him. “How many children are you friends with?”

Steve’s smile falls and he sighs in defeat. Wordlessly he points at Robin as he looks at Dustin and raises his eyebrows in an exasperated manner. He’s had to deal with Robin’s teasing all summer, and Dustin seems to catch onto what he’s trying to tell him, so he quickly changes the subject. “Sorry we got here so late, man. Y/N insisted on gossiping with Mrs. Byers before coming here.”

“I spoke with her for five minutes.” You roll your eyes at him.

“Yeah, five minutes too long.”

“Your breath reeks.”

“You have a pimple on your chin.”

You gasp and quickly cover your face. “I do not–”

“This is fascinating,” Robin whispers as she looks between you and Dustin. “It’s like there’s two Y/Ns.”

Steve, having heard Robin, laughs. His smile had returned to his face as he watched you interact with your brother. “They’re reunited for one day and are already at each other’s throats.”

“Got a month of insults to catch up on,” you flick Steve, who winces and rubs his nose, offended.

Dustin suddenly straightens up. “Speaking of catching up…” He looks at you and tries to subtly motion over at Steve, mouthing “Russians!”, and being everything but discrete.

Steve frowns, unsure what’s happening, but you’re too busy worrying about revealing anything to Robin; she’s scarily good at reading people. Looking wearily at her, you clear your throat and tug at Dustin’s shirt. “C’mon, why don’t we get some ice cream and tell Steve about what you built at camp?”

Again Steve frowns. He had been hoping to share a sundae with you, not talk about boring science stuff with your brother. “Why do I wanna hear about some weird nerd tech–”

“Because you promised me free ice cream last night, when we called.” You interrupt, silently pleading with him to catch onto what you’re saying. “Remember?”

Something shifts within Steve’s eyes and his carefree expression now darkens. He remembers the fear in your voice last night over the phone, how you had asked him to tell you stories to fall asleep to. Clearing his throat, Steve nods and plays along. “Oh, how could I forget? Take Dustin to your booth and I’ll whip up some sundaes.”

You smile at him, thankful as always for how attuned to you he is, before you say a quick goodbye to Robin and tug your brother over to where you normally sit. Once you’re sure Robin isn’t listening, you yank at the boy. “Real subtle back there, doofus.”

“Oh, like Robin would know what Russians could mean.” Dustin grumbles as he slides into your designated booth. His hand catches on something in the seat and he tugs at it, pulling out an old Captain America comic. Holding it up, he narrows his eyes at you. “You really made a home here, huh?”

“Sure did,” you prop your feet up and dig out the Spider-Man comic you had been reading a few days ago. “The ice cream is surprisingly good here.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the ice cream is the reason you’re always here.” Dustin doesn’t even want to imagine how many hours you’ve spent in this cheesy ice cream parlor ogling over Steve. Maybe it’s a good thing he was gone most of the summer.

You flip to the last page you left off on and ignore Dustin’s insinuation. “Hey, free ice cream is free ice cream.”

“Can’t argue with you there.” Steve arrives and places down two giant sundaes onto the table. He slides next to you into the booth with a grand flourish. “Tada!”

Dustin wastes no time digging into his ice cream, making obnoxious noises as he shoves the food into his mouth. You cringe, disgusted that you’re related to him, but Steve kisses your cheek when the kid isn’t looking, and you can’t help but smile. Sneaking your own kiss to his cheek, you thank him. “You’re getting really good at whipping up sundaes, Steve.”

He preens at your praise. “It’s all in the forearms, ya know?” He makes a show out of rolling up his sleeves to show off his arms, which you giggle at with a slight flush on your face. Despite working inside all day, Steve has a nice sun kissed tan, which compliments how long his hair has gotten this summer.

Between his short Scoops Ahoy shorts and his hair streaked with sunlight, summer looks good on Steve.

In between bites of his ice cream, Dustin lifts his head up. “Quit talking about Steve’s arms and flirting in front of me, it’s gross.”

You fling a banana peel at him. “You’re the one too busy devouring his food to talk about anything else.”

“So you admit you’re flirting with me.” Steve teases, winking at you.

Dustin covers his eyes in disgust, forgetting about his ice cream entirely. “Seriously, stop it! You’re my sister, how would you feel if I flirted with Suzie in front of you?”

“I would–” You try to think of a response, but ultimately you deflate, unable to come up with anything. Frustratingly, you realize that the kid has a point; you’d be incredibly grossed out as well. “I would hate it.” You sigh, accepting defeat.

“Who’s Suzie?” Steve asks.

“Dustin’s girlfriend.” You say, popping a cherry into your mouth as you eagerly await the teen’s reaction to the girlfriend news.

As expected, Steve’s jaw drops and turns to your brother. No way the little twerp got a girlfriend before him this summer. “Girlfriend? Since when?”

“Met her at camp,” Dustin smirks at him, proud he’s surprised Steve. “She’s super hot, too. Hotter than Phoebe Cates.”

You roll your eyes at his insistence of referencing Suzie’s appearance, but Steve seems interested, although in disbelief as well. “No, no way. Hotter than Phoebe Cates? No.”

“Why is Phoebe Cates the gold standard?” You ask, unsure when she became everyone’s dream woman. All things considered, she’s incredibly attractive, but it’s weird that every boy you’ve spoken to about this universally finds her attractive. Steve finds her attractive, which you’re choosing not to think about because you don’t look anything like her.

Steve hears the slight bitterness in your tone and shuffles closer to you in the booth. Meanwhile, Dustin takes another bite out of his sundae and nods at him. “Mhm, she’s brilliant, too. She doesn’t even care that my real pearls are still coming in.”

“That’s great, Dustin!” You say, happy that your brother has found a girl who accepts him as he is. It’s sweet, really.

“I know, right?” He sits up straighter in the booth and smiles even wider. “She says kissing is better without teeth.”

You and Steve share a horrified look. Neither of you can believe what you’ve just heard, and you think a part of you died inside. Suddenly, the delicious sundae you’d been eating now turns to cement in your stomach at the thought of your little brother kissing a girl who enjoys his lack of teeth. “Oh, that’s… Yeah.”

“Wow!” Steve tries to mask his own horror and disgust, leaning even closer to you now to try and ground you as well. “Yeah, that’s… That’s great! Proud of you, man. That’s–That’s kinda romantic?”

Dustin basks in Steve’s praise and your disgust slowly melts away. Your brother genuinely seems happy to be with Suzie and even happier to tell Steve about it all. He won’t admit it, but you know he idolizes the teen. Steve’s word is like an oath to him, not even you have this much influence over the boy. If it were anyone else, you’d be offended and hurt, but seeing Steve flash Dustin a wink, you couldn’t have chosen anyone better for your brother to admire.

“So do you really just get to eat as much of this as you want?” Dustin motions towards his half-eaten sundae before turning to you. “How much ice cream have you had this summer?”

“A lot,” you shrug, taking another bite of your own sundae.

Steve lazily drapes an arm over you, which Dustin narrows his eyes at. “Yeah, I mean. Sure. It’s not really a good idea for me, though. I gotta keep in shape for the ladies.”

“Ugh,” you scoff in disgust at Steve’s words and shrug his arm off of you before scooting away from him. Sometimes you forget how much of an idiot he can be. That he used to wear the crown of King Steve. You turn slightly away from him and finish eating your ice cream, annoyed and slightly hurt, though you know you have no right to be.

It’s not like you’re with Steve, anyways.

Robin, from across the parlor, sees your sudden annoyance at Steve and calls out to him, “Yeah, and how’s that working out for you?”

“Ignore her,” Steve groans, not having the energy to deal with Robin’s quips and your anger being directed at him. He turns to you and lowers his voice. “I was kidding, Y/N. You know that–”

“Robin seems cool,” Dustin interrupts, not at all wanting to witness a lover’s feud between you and Steve. He left you two alone for a month, he thought he’d come back to you guys being an old married couple. Instead, he still has to suffer through your weird in between chaos.

You jump at the chance to gush about Robin, all while avoiding Steve’s pleading eyes. “She’s amazing. Genuinely one of the coolest people I know.”

“She’s not.” Steve corrects you, shaking his head. You roll your eyes at him and flick his ear, but as your hand lowers, he catches it with his and intertwines your fingers with a practiced ease. The action makes you blush and look away, still not ready to forgive him just yet. Steve sees the blush and feels your fingers tighten around his and he feels as if he can breathe again. There’s hope, at least. “So, where are the other knuckleheads?”

Dustin sighs. “They ditched me yesterday.”

“No,” Steve can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Y/N, did they really?”

“They… Kinda did.” You wince, absentmindedly placing your other hand on top of the one Steve is holding. He smiles softly at the action, momentarily forgetting about what you've just told him.

“My first day back! Can you believe that shit?” Dustin’s hurt from last night returns, which only makes you feel worse.

Steve leans forward now, invested and equally as offended as the boy. “Seriously?”

“I swear to god,” Dustin pauses to take another bite of ice cream. “They’re gonna regret it, though, big time, when they don’t get to share in my glory.”

You drop your head onto the table and groan. “Is this really how you’re going to segue into the Russian thing?”

“You’re my sister. Why would you expect anything less of me?”

“Touche.” You lift your head back up and continue eating your ice cream. It’s the only thing keeping you going right now. Steve has learned how to make your sundaes perfect, adding the peach ice cream you adore with just the right amount of whipped cream.

Meanwhile, Steve has a confused look on his face as he looks between you and Dustin. “Glory? Russians? Did I miss something?”

Dustin smiles mischievously and lowers his voice as he slides closer to the teen. You roll your eyes at his antics, knowing that the conversation that’s about to unfold will only give you another headache. You missed Steve and Dustin being together, but you didn’t miss the way they seemed to double in stupidity when together.

Looking around to make sure he won’t be heard, Dustin begins to explain. “So, last night, as Y/N and I were trying to get in contact with Suzie…” He pauses, sees that Scoops Ahoy is now filling with more customers, and lowers his voice even more to an almost inaudible whisper and covers his mouth.

You and Steve both lean forward, unable to hear him. The teen asks Dustin to repeat himself while you sit there with slight amazement. You know what Dustin is trying to say, you’re more just surprised the kid can be so quiet. It’s a goddamn miracle, honestly.

Dustin inhales deeply and again tries to discreetly inform Steve of the Russian code, but his whispers are still too low to hear. Taking a final bite of your ice cream, you click your tongue at your brother. “You’re really killing it there, buddy.”

“Dude, just speak louder.” Steve’s curious interest is now more of an annoyance.

“I intercepted a secret Russian communication!” Dustin all but shouts, which causes you to practically throw yourself over the table to cover his mouth.

“Jesus fuck!” You look around and see everyone’s eyes on you, and with your hand still clamped firmly over your brother’s mouth, you clear your throat and laugh nervously. “I mean, haha. Pardon me.” The customers give you a weird look but turn away, though Robin continues to stare at you.

Steve gently removes your hand from Dustin’s mouth and once again intertwines his fingers with yours. “Jeez, okay. Yeah. That’s what I thought you said.”

“Did you have to yell?” You sneer at Dustin, still looking around nervously to make sure no one is paying too much attention to the three of you. While Hawkin’s Lab was overrun by Demodogs and every scientist within it died, you’re still terrified that they still have allies watching your every move.

Not that you think the Lab is responsible for Russians, but… Better safe than sorry.

Dustin rolls his eyes at you. “Your boyfriend is the one who couldn’t hear me.”

You’re about to correct him when Steve waves the boy off and goes back to the main topic. “What does any of that mean, though? The Russian code and whatever.”

“It means that we can never catch a break–”

“It means, Steve,” Dustin sends you a dirty look. “That we could be heroes. True American heroes.”

Steve seems into the idea and you want to scream. You hate the way Dustin is explaining all of this. “This could mean danger, guys.”

Dustin rolls his eyes at you and Steve smiles wearily. “I don’t know, Y/N. It doesn’t seem so bad, ya know? We’ve fought Demodogs, how bad could some Russians be?”

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes. “The Demodogs were created by shifty government facilities. Why are we assuming Russia doesn’t have their own?”

“But… American heroes.” Steve looks heartbreakingly pathetic as he says this, and you realize now that his fixation on being seen as some hero stems from the hurt he still feels over his father. He hadn’t turned into who had expected to become, something that you know his father reminds him of every time he comes back from some business trip. You wish you could convince Steve that he’s more than what his father could ever expect him to be, but you know he wouldn’t listen.

With Steve’s pleading eyes looking at you, lost and hopeless, you can’t argue with him. Sighing, you accept that this is something he has to take part in, if only to rebuild his crumbling confidence. “Tell him what you’re thinking, Dustin.”

“Gladly.” Your brother wastes no time diving in, once more eager and excited to have the attention on him, and it’s only now that you realize he’s doing this for the same reason Steve is: they both feel abandoned and hurt. “We need your help.”

“With what?”

Dustin digs through his backpack and takes out the Russian dictionary he made you steal from work. He holds it up and shows it to Steve. “Translation.”

Steve’s eyes widen and he grabs the book to inspect it. There’s a new spark in his eyes, one that died the day his father told him he wouldn’t attend his graduation. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” you exhale and slump in your seat. There’s no going back now. “I just want you both to know that I hate this plan and your excitement over it, but if I don’t help then you guys will somehow end up in a Russian gulag, and that would just be on me.”

Steve shares a look with Dustin, whose sigh reflects your own. “Glad you have faith in us, Y/N.”

–

It’s Steve's idea to work on the translation in the backroom of Scoops Ahoy, and neither you or Dustin argue. Technically, he’s the only one who has any real responsibilities today with work and all, so it makes sense to stay at Scoops and hide out there.

Dustin sits at the table next to you as he replays the tape recording over and over again. Steve paces the room and eats a banana, claiming he needed “brain food” to focus on the complex Russian language. You sit with your head in your hands, trying desperately to hold onto the bizarre language that floats around the room.

After his tenth time replaying the code, Dustin pauses the recording and looks at you and Steve. “So, what do you guys think?”

“It sounded familiar.” Steve shoves a piece of banana into his mouth. You cringe at the obscene amount of food he tries to chew at once. Seeing your disgust, Steve waves the banana in your face and asks with a mouthful of food, “Wan sum?”

“It’s like you want me to hate you today,” you slap the banana away, which he chuckles at.

Dustin gets both of your attention again with slight annoyance. He didn’t miss the weird flirting between the two of you at all. “Guys, focus. What do you mean the recording sounds familiar?”

“The music,” Steve still speaks with his mouth full. “The music right there at the end.”

“Why are you listening to the music, Steve?” Dustin exclaims, exasperated.

As your brother berates Steve for his lack of Russian translating, you sit up in your seat processing what he’s just previously said. While you hadn’t thought much of it before, now that Steve has pointed it out, the music does sound familiar. You swear you’ve heard it somewhere before, but you can’t remember where or when. It’s a hazy memory, distant in your mind, yet right in front of you. It’s incredibly frustrating.

“I think Steve is onto something,” you say, but the two boys are too busy fighting to hear you.

“I’m trying to listen to the Russian but there’s music–”

Suddenly the back door swings open and Robin appears. She looks agitated after having to man the cash register all by herself while Steve hides out in the breakroom. “Alright, babysitting time is over. You need to get in there.” When she sees that you’ve erased her whiteboard and replaced her “you suck” columns with the Russian alphabet, her agitation only increases. “Hey, my board! That was important data, shitbirds.”

You get up from the table and walk up to the girl, feeling bad. While you aren’t sure what exactly her “you suck” column and tallies were for, it had been her creation that you had erased without thinking to ask. Plus, you really don’t want her seeing the Russian dictionary on the table. “I’m sorry, Robin–”

“Not you, Y/N. You’re not a shitbird,” she points over to Steve and Dustin. “Those two are shitbirds.”

“I guarantee you, what we’re doing is way more important than your data.” Dustin interjects, a smug look on his face that makes you want to scream. He isn’t at all helping the situation.

Robin begins to walk over to the boys and you reluctantly follow. “Yeah? And how do you know these Russians are up to no good anyways?”

Dustin’s jaw drops and Steve almost chokes on his banana. Seeing their stunned reactions of Robin having figured out what you’ve been doing, you sigh in disappointment. They’re such idiots sometimes. They wrote Russian on the whiteboard, out in the open, and have been playing the recording out loud, full volume, on repeat.

Of course Robin caught onto what you were doing.

Which only makes your nervous body tense up even more. You hate that you have to lie to her, you’ve become really close with her during your visits to Scoops, but you don’t want to drag her into anything dangerous. You’re not sure what exactly any of this Russian code means, but Robin has been nothing but kind to you this summer, you truly care about her, and it would kill you if something were to happen because of you.

So, despite knowing how smart Robin is, you try to think of a cover story. “We were just interested in the language. Ya know, a summer hobby.”

“I can hear everything, Y/N.” Robin sees right through your lies. “Your idiotic brother and boyfriend are both extremely loud.”

“Steve isn’t my boyfriend–”

“You three think you have evil Russians plotting against our country, on tape and you’re trying to translate, but haven’t figured out a word because you didn’t realize Russians use an entirely different alphabet than we do.”

You, Steve, and Dustin all look at one another in varying degrees of awe and despair.

Robin, seeing your stunned faces, smiles. “Sound about right?”

“How could you not know about the Russian alphabet, Y/N?” Dustin angrily whispers at you as if somehow it’s your responsibility to know the ins-and-outs of the language.

“Why would I–you know what, no.” You ignore your brother and turn to Robin, trying to alleviate the situation and prevent her from finding out anything else. She’s too fucking smart, it’s both admirable and aggravating. “Look, whatever you think you heard–”

Suddenly Robin lunges for the Russian dictionary on the table, but Steve’s quick reflexes enable him to grab the book before she can. “Woah! What do you think you’re doing?”

“I wanna hear it.” She juts her chin out in defiance, though you see the slightly hurt expression she tries to mask. She hates that you’re purposely excluding her and taking Steve’s side in this.

You wish you could tell her the truth.

“Why?” You ask in unison alongside Steve and Dustin.

“Because maybe I can help. I’m fluent in four languages, ya know.”

Dustin perks up, now more open to the idea of Robin’s involvement. “Russian?”

“Ou-yay are-yay umb-day.”

Steve and Dustin gasp, believing that they’ve just heard Robin say something in Russian, but you know better. One summer, when the party had been especially nosy and insisted on following you and Jonathan around, the two of you had learned pig latin in order to communicate without the twerps eavesdropping.

Learning against the table, you smirk at Robin. “Osay ouyay owknay igpay atinlay.”

“Holy shit!” Dustin gasps and Steve almost falls over with how quickly he looks at you in shock. Both boys stare at you in awe and you almost feel bad for their tiny little brains.

Robin can’t help but smile at you, you somehow always manage to surprise her. “Impressive, Y/N. Didn’t think you knew pig latin either.”

“That was pig latin?” Steve scrunches his face and hits your brother with his banana peel. “Idiot.”

“Steve, please don’t hit my brother with banana peels,” you pinch the bridge of your nose. It’s only noon and you’re already exhausted from today’s events. “But yes, that was pig latin.”

Dustin shoves Steve away from him and focuses on you again. “When did you learn pig latin?”

“The summer you and the party decided to stalk me and Jonathan.” You shrug, though you smile fondly at the memory. It had been a good summer, just the two of you holed up in your room as you quizzed each other on the bizarre language.

Steve, seeing your fondness at the memory, frowns. He doesn’t like the uncomfortable heat that he feels ignite within his stomach at the thought of you still being so fond over Jonathan. He trusts you, he trusts what you have, but he will never feel equal to him.

Robin notices Steve’s brewing insecurity and quickly changes the subject. She doesn’t have time for the usual hormonal drama between the two of you. All she wants right now is to decipher the Russian so that she can catch a break from Erica and her demanding need to try every free sample ever. “Back to the main point: I can speak Spanish and French and Italian, and I’ve been in band for twelve years. My ears are little geniuses, trust me.”

You bite your lip. Truthfully, Robin has the highest chance of unraveling whatever the hell is in the recording. You’re horrible with languages, high school Spanish had nearly killed you, and Steve and Dustin stand no better chance. “Robin…”

“Come on,” she begs. “It’s Steve's turn to sling ice cream and my turn to translate.”

Steve and Dustin turn to you, unanimously agreeing that you’re the leader in this situation; whatever call you make, they’ll listen. Robin sees the conflict on your face and tries one last time. “I don’t even want credit. I’m just bored and wanna hang out with you.”

Your head spins. Robin’s pleading eyes are hard to fight against and you realize that she already knows more than you’d want her to; she’s already a part of it all, whether you like it or not. Sighing, you give in. “Fine, but only if you promise not to ask any questions about whatever we may find.”

“What would I even question?” She asks, unsure why your tone is more foreboding than accepting.

You share a look with Steve and Dustin. The three of you know just how quickly something simple can spiral into chaos in Hawkins. “Just… promise me, okay?”

Robin extends her hand, just happy to finally have something better to do. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

After you shake her hand, she tosses her ice cream scoop to Steve and he hands her the Russian dictionary. Seeing the exchange sends a slight shiver down your spine. You don’t like how much it feels like you’ve just signed Robin’s life away.

–

True to her word, Robin’s ears are little geniuses.

With her helping, you and Dustin are able to speed through the translating as Steve works the register. You’re tasked with writing down the letters that Dustin calls from the whiteboard as Robin listens to the tape over and over again.

“Weird ‘r’ with a hook!” Your brother declares for the last letter.

You write it down and can’t help but frown at the message you’ve seemingly deciphered. Showing the writing to Robin, you ask what she thinks. “Are you sure it was that weird ‘r’ sound?”

“I’m positive,” she says. “C’mon, let’s go tell Steve.”

“Are we sure–” You try to ask her again, but Robin has already made her way to the sliding window and gets Steve’s attention.

“We’ve got our first sentence!”

You make your way over and lean against the window as well. Steve, holding two ice cream cones, seems excited by the news. “Oh, seriously?”

“It’s a hesitant first sentence.” You butt in, still unsure if it’s even correct.

Robin rolls her eyes at you. “Ignore her, I’m right.” Then, clearing her throat, she does an impressive Russian accent. “‘The week is long’.”

Steve’s shoulders slump, clearly having expected something better. “Well that’s thrilling.”

“Told you it was a hesitant first sentence.” Then you turn to Robin. “Nice accent, by the way.”

“Why thank you,” she tips her hat at you before focusing back on Steve. “And I know it isn’t thrilling, but it’s progress!”

And with that, Robin spins around and goes back to the table in the breakroom, eager to decipher more of the code. You’re about to kiss Steve’s cheek and say goodbye, but then your eyes land on a familiar red-haired girl and her friend standing in front of the register. You look down at the ice cream in Steve’s hands and note the familiar order you’ve come to memorize since the mall opened.

“Max? El?” You lean further out the window, pleasantly surprised to see them. “What are you guys doing here? Where’s the rest of the party?”

The girls wave at you and giggle, and you realize now that you’ve never actually seen them alone together before. Normally they’re with Lucas or MIke, so it’s a bit jarring to see them getting along so well without the boys. Jarring, but also very lovely.

“We don’t need those idiots.” Max responds, which makes El giggle even more.

Steve whistles, impressed by Max’s bluntness, and hands them their ice cream. They begin to eat the treat before a thought occurs to him. “Wait a second, are you even allowed to be here?”

You walk through the breakroom and come out the main doors to join Steve at the register. While you’re happy to see Max and El getting along, Steve has a point. Why is El here in such a public space? When you had asked Hopper last month if you could take El to Steve’s graduation, it had taken a whole debate and a fresh batch of cookies in order to convince the old man to let her come.

El is still technically forbidden from being seen in public, and yet here she is: running around Starcourt with Max.

You put your hands on the counter and lean towards the girls. They take a few steps back, now knowing that you’re onto them. “Max, El, what are you up to?”

Their eyes widen while you narrow yours, daring them to lie. Then, quickly glancing at one another, they turn around and run out of Scoops Ahoy, leaving you alone with Steve. You both stand there, dumbfounded.

“I thought I only ever had to worry about the boys.” You whisper, horrified. “The girls were supposed to be the ones I could trust.”

Steve rubs your shoulders and kisses your cheek. “You’re gonna go after them, aren’t you?”

You drop your head and sigh. “Yeah, I am.”

“I’ll tell Robin you had a babysitting emergency.” He presses a kiss to your neck now, which you shiver at, before gently shoving you out from behind the counter. “Good luck, angel.”

Steve’s kisses give you the energy you need to run after Max and El. They’re surprisingly fast as they giggle and trade ice cream cones to share. You call after them as you dodge random people in the mall, but your calls are in vain. They ignore you and continue to skip happily away from you.

“Guys!” When you finally catch up to them, they’re outside standing in front of the bike rack. “Why are you in front of the bikes–oh.”

You see Mike, Lucas, and Will unlocking their bikes from the rack as they bicker over something. Faintly you hear Mike and Lucas arguing about splitting money while Will is silent.

There’s a tension between the girls and boys that you now take note of. Normally El would have already been wrapped around Mike’s arms, but she remains by your side as Max approaches the boys. “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise?”

When Mike sees El, he drops his bike in shock. “What are you doing here?”

“Shopping.” El says as she glares at the boy.

You’ve never seen her so cold towards someone. It’s kind of frightening, honestly. “Oh, Wheeler, what did you do?”

“What did I do? No, what did you do? You’re the one who is letting her walk around Starcourt where everyone can see her!” Mike shrieks, always finding ways to blame you for his own problems.

You scoff. “Hey, I’ve only known about this for like, a second longer than you have.”

“Sure, likely story.”

“Have you ever considered not pissing off your girlfriend?”

“Have you ever considered getting a better boyfriend than Harrington?”

“Okay–”

Max steps in between you and Mike, annoyed. “Both of you shut up!” She waves her hand over El’s outfit and tries to turn the conversation around. “This is El’s new style. What do you think?”

“I think she looks nice–”

Mike cuts you off. “What’s wrong with you? You know she’s not allowed to be here.”

“What is she, your little pet?”

El clenches her jaw. “Yeah. Am I your pet?”

“What? No!” Mike denies, equally as confused as you are.

You’re not quite sure how you ended up in this situation.

“Then why do you treat me like garbage?” El questions the boy.

You frown at this and subtly step towards Lucas, desperately hoping for some clarification. “Did I miss something?”

“It’s a long story.” He sighs, and you now realize that Max must be angry with him, too.

El continues to interrogate Mike, and you almost feel bad for the boy. “You said Nana was sick.”

“She is! She is sick.” Mike lies through his teeth. You think about what Hopper told you earlier, how he had said some things to get Mike away from El, and you suppose now that it had involved some type of lie about the kid’s grandma.

Then Mike shoves at Lucas to get him to play along as well. Reluctantly he echoes his friend, though you know he’s aware that he’s only making this worse for himself. “She’s super sick, that’s why we’re here, actually.”

Mike is quick to follow along. “Yeah, we’re shopping! Not for us, but for her, for Nana.”

You catch Will’s eyes, who has remained silent this entire time, and he shakes his head at you in disappointment. You look back at Mike and Lucas now, unamused. “Nana isn’t sick, is she?”

“She is! But…” Mike fumbles over his words now. “We’re also here to get a gift for El. We just–we couldn’t find anything that suited her and I only have like, $3.50, so it’s hard.”

“It’s expensive… Had we known you were at the mall we would’ve asked you for money.” Lucas mumbles, which you flick his forehead at. “Ow, Y/N!”

El looks between Lucas and Mike, her eyes showing her hurt. “You lie.” When neither boy says anything, her hurt only grows and her voice wavers with tears. “Why do you lie?”

Again, El’s words are met with silence. Mike looks down, too ashamed to meet her eyes, and you shift uncomfortably, feeling even worse for the kid. You hadn’t expected to witness an awkward relationship feud today, and it wasn’t all entirely his fault. You know that Hopper played a role in this.

Later, when you have the time, you’re definitely going to yell at the police chief about this.

As the silence drags on, the local bus that drives everyone in Hawkins to Starcourt now arrives in the parking lot. Hearing its brakes hiss, El looks behind her and seems to make up her mind about something. Her face is stony as she approaches Mike and her words are laced with venom. “I dump your ass.”

You and Max gasp, though yours is more from shock and Max is more from being impressed.

Mike’s face falls and El whips around and begins walking towards the bus. Max follows, waving goodbye to you, and you’re left to deal with the unfortunate outcome of this bizarre situation.

Laughing nervously, you awkwardly pat Mike’s back. “You’ll… Uh, fix this, right?”

Mike slaps your hand away and marches back towards his bike. His shoulders droop and he looks tired from all he’s had to deal with today. Lucas doesn’t look any better and silently follows after his friend. Will is the only one who remains, and he drops his head to your chest and groans. “I just wanted to play DnD today.”

“I know, little bee.” You scratch his head and try to console him. “But sometimes life gets in the way. Right now Mike and Lucas need you, do you think you could help them?”

Will looks up at you. “I don’t know… Maybe, I guess.”

“Do what you can,” you kiss his forehead, wishing you could do more for him. All he’s wanted to do all summer is be a kid again, but his peers are growing older and leaving him behind. It isn’t anyone’s fault. “I gotta go, buddy. But I promise you and I will do something this week, just the two of us, okay?”

He nods, content with this, and you ruffle his hair before heading back inside to Scoops.

–

Hours later, you, Steve, Dustin, and Robin all uncover the rest of the Russian code.

You stand with your back against Steve’s chest as he has his arms draped loosely over you. Robin and Dustin stand to your left as you all face the whiteboard that has the message written on it, reading it out loud.

“‘The week is long. The silver cat feeds when blue meets yellow in the west’.”

There’s a pause as you all take in the bizarre message. You’re extremely doubtful that it’s right. The order of the words is too abstract to possibly be purposeful. It just doesn’t make any sense.

“Are we sure this is right?” You ask the group, knowing no one else will utter the doubt that settles over the room. Steve tightens his arms around you and shrugs.

“It has to be.” Dustin mumbles, though even he looks unsure.

Robin sighs. “Well, whether or not we’re right, dingus and I have to close up shop.”

Steve groans but reluctantly lets go of you so that he can help Robin with closing. While the two teens wash the ice cream scoopers and put away the remaining ice cream, you sit with Dustin at one of the booths.

“Maybe it’s a code?”

“Dustin, we just translated a foreign language. Thinking it’s a code seems like a cop-out, honestly.” You rest your head in your hands and watch Steve count the money in the register. Feeling your eyes on him, he looks up and winks at you. Blushing, you look back at your brother. “We probably just translated it wrong.”

“My ears are right! We didn’t translate anything wrong!” Robin shouts from across the store.

Dustin perks up. “See? We have to assume we’re onto something.”

You bite your lip, still unsure, but leave the topic alone for now. There’s no point arguing with Dustin and Robin because it’s not like any of you can just ask a native Russian speaker who is correct. If it somehow ends up being a hidden code, then you’ll apologize to Robin’s ears later.

It’s quiet in the parlor after that, but when Steve and Robin have finished closing and he pulls the gate down to lock up the store before you all go home, Steve can’t help but bring the subject up again. “I mean–it’s just, it can’t be right.”

“It’s right.” Robin affirms once more, and Dustin nods at her appreciatively.

“Honesty, I think it’s great news.”

Steve walks next to you as the four of you slowly head towards the mall’s exit. It’s late, you’re tired from your long day of translating the Russian language, and you’re ready to go to bed. Then, as if somehow knowing the exhaustion that weighs upon you, you feel Steve slip his hand into yours. His fingers are warm and the touch soothes you as he gently guides the two of you.

“How is this great news?” Steve asks your brother. “I mean, so much for being American heroes. It’s total nonsense.”

“The goal isn’t to be American heroes, dummy.” You chide, tugging at your hands to make sure he looks at you and listens. “We aren’t still going to follow this, are we?”

Dustin rolls his eyes at you both. “It’s not nonsense, it’s too specific and obviously a code. And yes we’re going to keep following this. We’re onto something, I can feel it!”

“All I feel right now is a crippling migraine forming,” you groan, rubbing at your temples.

Steve kisses your head in concern, feeling bad that he’s kept you out so late. However, he also really, really would love to become someone important. Someone worthy of his dad’s favor, so he follows after Dustin, curious despite it all. “What do you mean a code?”

“Like a super secret spy code.”

“That’s a total stretch.”

You snort. “That’s what I said, but no. Why should we ever listen to Y/N? It’s not like she’s always right in the end.”

Robin winces, afraid to annoy you further, but she can’t help but agree with Dustin. “I don’t know, is it really a stretch?”

“No, please don’t tell me you believe my brother.” You’re betrayed, hurt even, that Robin would succumb to Dustin’s fantasies.

Normally you’re all for believing your brother, but Russians in Hawkins leaving a hidden code in a radio frequency that can be accessed by the public? You may have fought alternate dimension monsters and you may know a girl with mind control powers, but even this feels far fetched.

“Listen, just for kicks, let’s entertain the possibility that it is a secret Russian transmission. What’d you think they were gonna say, ‘fire the warhead at noon’?” Robin raises her eyebrows at you.

“Well… no.” You slump your shoulders, knowing that she has a point. “But–”

“Just admit we’re right, Y/N.” Dustin says, annoyed.

Robin turns to you and almost groans when she sees your hand intertwined with Steve’s. Her voice falters for a moment at the sight, but she clears her throat and carries on with the conversation. “And my translation is correct. I know that for sure, so… ‘the silver cat feeds’. Why would anyone talk like that unless they’re trying to mask the meaning of their message?”

Dustin is next to her now, hanging onto her every word as you and Steve lag behind. “Exactly!”

“It is a weird phrase,” you mumble under your breath, and Steve can’t help but chuckle at how endearing you are when you try to play the reasonable role. It’s never any use, you’re everything that hope and optimism embodies; it’s adorable.

Robin sees that you’re close to giving in and begins to ramble now. “Why would anyone mask the true meaning of their message unless the message was somehow sensitive?” Again Dustin agrees with everything she says and Steve shrugs his shoulders while all you do is sigh in defeat. Looking at your brother, Robin concludes, “Guess that confirms your suspicions.”

“Evil Russians.”

“Okay, no.” You step between them now. “What if they’re just, like, really shy Russians who want some privacy? Why do we always jump to the evil conclusion?”

Dustin shoulders you to get you to shut up, and you shove him back, starting a small spat between the two of you. He hits your shoulder, you hit his stomach, and Steve watches with amusement while Robin stares in horror.

“Do we stop them?” She asks the teen.

Steve shakes his head. “I’ve learned that it’s best to just let them fight it out. It’s been a month, they’re behind on their fist fighting schedule.”

“I heard that!” You quickly say to him before yanking Dustin’s shirt to get him off of your back.

Seeing your struggle, Robin forces your brother off of you and holds him by his arms so that he doesn’t jump on you again. Dustin complains, but quickly shuts up at what Robin says. “Focus! I’m trying to tell you that I agree with you, this is totally evil Russians.”

Dustin stops struggling against her, now elated at the idea of defeating evil foreigners. “So how do we crack it?”

You were scared that Robin and Dustin wouldn’t get along, but as you watch them bounce schemes off of one another and plan an evil Russian take down, you’re now terrified of the friendship brewing between them. It’s worse than Steve with Dustin; Robin is just as cunning as your brother is.

She thinks for a moment. “I guess we translate the rest and hopefully a pattern emerges.”

“Have we ever considered a game plan for after poking our noses where they don’t belong?” Dustin and Robin both glare at you and you hold your hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying.”

“Ignore her, Robin. She likes to pretend she’s the rational one in these types of situations.” Dustin whispers to her, which you roll your eyes at. Steve kisses your cheek as a way to console you as your brother continues to speak. “Anyways, maybe the ‘silver cat’ is a meeting place?”

“Or a person.” Robin theorizes.

“Or a weapon.”

As the two of them come up with insane theories about what the code could mean, you notice that Steve is no longer by your side. Turning around, you find him stopped at one of the carousel horses meant for little kids. He’s bent over it, examining it. You frown, unsure what he’s doing, and walk over to him.

Resting a hand against his back, you lean down next to him. “Can I ask what we’re looking at here, honey?” He’s mumbling under his breath and digging through his pockets for something. Now you’re starting to get concerned. “Steve?”

“I need–do you have a quarter?”

“No?” You’re even more concerned now. Placing the back of your hand against his forehead, you check his temperature. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Sure you’re tall enough for that ride?” Robin quips as she and Dustin now join.

“Quarter!” Steve demands, nearly falling over as he tries to catch the one that she tosses him. When he catches it he quickly pushes the coin into the machine’s slot, bringing it to life. Music begins to play as the horse moves back and forth. It’s ominous, almost, in the mall’s dim lighting with no one else around.

Steve listens intently to the music, his face concentrated as if trying to understand something. As the music continues to play, you can’t help but feel that it sounds familiar. It reminds you of something, maybe a distant memory that you can’t quite recall. Wanting to understand more, you lean in close to the machine as well and mirror Steve’s actions. “The music…”

“They’ve both lost it,” Dustin mumbles when he sees that you’re also now analyzing a stupid carousel horse.

“Y/N, you helping little Stevie up onto the ride?” Robin laughs at her own joke, but you swat at her to shush her.

As the song plays once more, it finally clicks. Your mind flashes back to your conversation with him earlier in the break room as you kept replaying the Russian recording over and over again. It’s the same song. With a gasp, you throw your arms around Steve’s neck and begin kissing his face over and over again. “You’re a genius!”

Steve leans into your kisses and smiles at the praise, relieved that you don’t think he’s some idiot. Though his heart is beating wildly, he clears his throat and shrugs as if it isn’t a big deal. “I have my moments.”

“Care to share with the class, dinguses?”

Robin’s voice startles you, having momentarily forgotten where you were. Blushing, you pull away from Steve and clear your throat as well and act as if you weren’t just drowning the boy in kisses. “Listen to the song, guys.”

The seriousness of your tone causes Dustin to finally listen to the music as well. It only takes him a few seconds to piece together what you and Steve already have. “Holy shit. The music.”

“The music.” You confirm with pride, still incredibly amazed that Steve managed to remember such a small yet crucial detail. Since coming to befriend him, you’ve come to admire just how perceptive he is. Sure, he may not be a math whiz, but his emotional and creative intelligence leaves you in awe every time you see it. He’s smarter than anyone gives him credit for.

You wish his father saw this intelligence within him. Honestly, you wish more people did.

Dustin yanks his backpack off of his shoulder and starts rustling through it as he searches for something. When he finds his tape recorder, he starts to play the Russian transmission again. Hearing the audio and carousel play simultaneously side by side, it only confirms what Steve has long since figured out: it’s the same song.

Not being able to help yourself, you again kiss Steve’s cheek, giddy and proud of him. “You’re brilliant.”

He preens while Robin scrunches her nose, unsure why you’re all over the guy because of some song. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s the exact same song on the recording.” Dustin explains to her.

“Maybe they have horses like this in Russia?”

You nod at her. “Maybe? We should look into who produces these machines, it could be our new lead.”

Steve shakes his head. “‘Indiana Flyer’? I don’t… I don’t think so.”

Something seems to shift within his voice and his face now twists with slight fear. He looks as if he’s realized something awful, and you feel your own joy from earlier vanish. A chill runs through you, the same awful feeling of dread that once overwhelmed you when Will originally disappeared now courses through you again.

“What is it?” You softly ask Steve, already bracing yourself for the worst.

He frowns at the apprehension in your voice and the worried crease between his brows makes you want to smooth away the concern. You know he doesn’t want to scare you, that he’s always trying to make things easier for you, so you tilt your head at him and nod slightly; you want him to tell you. Seeing your unspoken permission, he sighs. “This code, it… didn’t come from Russia. It came from here.”

You, Robin, and Dustin all look at one another. Fear settles over the group, you can feel its heavy weight like an old, familiar friend.

“Why does everything happen in Hawkins?” You say to no one in particular, still trying to process what this all means.

Dustin sighs and Steve drops his head.

Somehow, you always end up here.

–

Steve offers to drive you and Dustin home after seeing how shaken up you are by the latest Russian revelation. Tired and exhausted and terrified as usual, you accept.

It takes some trial and error, but eventually he and your brother manage to fit your bikes in the back of the BMW.

The drive to your house is filled with awkward banter between Steve and Dustin. You sit quietly in the passenger seat as the two boys try to make light of the situation, but not even their jokes can lessen the fear that creeps into the car; none of you are sure what to make of all of this.

When Steve pulls up to your house, all that you’ve managed to do the entire car ride is make a mental note to call Jonathan about everything later. It’s not your best plan, you wish that there was more you could do, but at the very least you know that he and Nancy can help.

Dustin scrambles out of the car, desperate to escape the tension within it. “See you tomorrow, Steve!” He calls behind him before slamming the car door shut.

You snort softly at your brother, finally moving to unbuckle your own seatbelt, before Steve places his hand on yours and stops you. He’s noticed how quiet you’ve been the entire car ride and the way your eyes have clouded over with fear. He hates it. “Do me a favor?”

“Yes?” You blink at him, unsure what he could want at this hour. It’s late and your mom expects you home soon.

“Leave your window unlocked for me.” He winks at you, trying to play coy, but you see the genuine concern for you hidden beneath his actions.

You can’t help but smile; it feels as if you can breathe again. “Steve Harrington, why should I leave my window unlocked for you?”

Your smile sends a warmth through Steve’s chest as relief washes over him. He’s doing something right. He’s gotten you to smile. “Because I’m planning on sneaking in after I park my car a few blocks down so your mom won’t see me.”

Though you know what he had been implying, hearing him say the words out loud causes a wild blush to burn across your cheeks and your stomach to swoop. Steve has never done this before, sneaking into your room like some lovestruck teenager late at night, it’s been the one boundary neither of you have crossed before.

“I suppose I can do that.” You say with an air of indifference, which Steve rolls his eyes at. “Strictly friendly, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

You giggle, finally unbuckling your seatbelt, and you exit the car after kissing the boy’s cheek. His face is warm against your lips and you’re coming to memorize the way your nose presses against the indent of his cheek bones.

When you get inside, your mom is knitting on the couch while Tews sits in her lap. She greets you with a smile and you compliment the scarf she’s making. “I’m sure it’ll be perfect for this winter, mom.”

She thanks you and wishes you a good night, noticing the bags underneath your eyes with slight concern. Inside your room, you quickly clear away the scattered pieces of paper on your desk and arrange your bedding so that it isn't strewn across the room. Steve has been in your room a million times now, and yet you can’t help but feel like tonight is different for some reason.

True to his word, within ten minutes Steve is knocking on your window. Hearing the quiet way his knuckles rap against the glass makes your heart jump in your stomach. Your body practically buzzes as you go to open the window, eager to have him close to you.

“Took you long enough,” you tease, opening the window wide enough for him to crawl through.

Steve pulls himself up with ease, his biceps strain against his Scoops Ahoy uniform, and you’ve never been more thankful for corporate policy. “Sorry, angel. Came here as fast as I could.”

You tug at his shirt and the two of you are falling into your bed. He lands on you with a soft thud and your body has long since become accustomed to his weight. As his body settles upon yours, it feels like coming home. You exhale deeply, wrapping your arms around his body, and Steve nuzzles his face into your neck and presses a gentle kiss there.

Everything swirling violently within your head now stills. The constant onslaught of worries and doubts finally quiets, and you know that despite it all, at least you have Steve.

“We’ll figure it out, ya know.” Steve’s lips move against the skin of your neck as he speaks, making you shiver slightly at the sensation.

“I know,” you start to play with his hair, needing something to do with your hands as you speak. “But… How many times are we going to keep doing this? Be the only people in Hawkins aware of what’s going on?”

Steve is silent for a few moments, allowing your words to sink in. He rolls them around in his head, he knows that the question isn’t one that comes from doubt of what he and the others are capable of. You don’t lack faith, you lack the willingness to constantly place the ones you love at risk. It just isn’t in your nature.

“As many times as needed.” He pauses again, unsure how to express to you his certainty that you’re capable of so much with all the love within you. If there’s anyone in this shitty town who is a real American hero, it’s you. “I mean, after everything we’ve been through these last two years, measly Russians are no big deal. We’ve fought worse monsters than Communism.”

You laugh, he always somehow gets you to laugh, and the sound is as angelic to Steve as your eyes are to him. He tightens his arms around you and relishes in the way your body presses against his, how he can feel your body move with every inhale of your laugh.

Then, slowly, your laughter dies down. Reality settles upon you once more and you want to believe Steve, you do, and you try to reassure yourself that he’s right… but something feels off about this. You can’t exactly articulate what it is, but there's this haze of uncertainty that you’ve never quite felt before; a vulnerability that leaves you feeling cold in his arms.

Sensing your fear rising up again, Steve tries to distract you by changing the subject. “Speaking of monsters, I recruited the little heathens to help with your birthday gift.”

The change of subject works. You raise your head and look at the teen. “You mean the party? You got them to help with a gift for me?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, Y/N.” Steve butts his head against your chin playfull. “I can make them listen to me… sometimes.”

You stare at him, knowing he’s full of shit. “Go on, tell me all about how you got them to listen to you.”

He tries to hold your gaze, refusing to back down, but he cracks after only a few seconds. “Okay, fine. It took a lot of pleading and I now owe a bunch of pre-teens money.”

A loud, full body laugh escapes your lips, and Steve laughs with you. The two of you hold one another and feel each other laugh, chests rising with glee. For a moment you feel okay again, forgetting everything else for now. You’re carefree in this moment, feeling like a little kid again, something only Steve can do to you.

When your laughs die down, you and Steve quietly lay together. No other words manage to find their way in the dark of your room, all that needs to be said has been laid to rest. His warm breaths hit the base of your neck as your nails scratch against his scalp. While you feel safe in his arms, there’s still so much that needs to be said.

Staring at the ceiling of your room, you see faint threads and strings and lines that you thought you put to rest that night in Jonathan’s room this winter. Now, they’re back again, only this time it’s a different boy within your arms. Something akin to doubt creeps in.

Steve already has all of you, you told him you’d wait, but what if you’ve missed your chance again with him like you did with Jonathan? When June began, Steve promised that you had all summer together. He calls you angel and tells you stories to fall asleep to on the phone, and yet the threads that glow above you taunt you.

You love him, you do, but you’re terrified that whatever the two of you uncover with the Russians will somehow pry you apart.

Just like Will’s disappearance had pried Jonathan away from you two years ago.

July looms over you and summer is going by faster than you thought it would. The promise of summer, one that usually leaves the nostalgic taste of honey on your tongue, now threatens to choke you.

As if having a mind of their own, your arms tighten even more around Steve, almost as if somehow you can shield what the two of you have from the dangers within Hawkins.

You hope it’s enough.

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#steve harrington x henderson!reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #stranger things #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things rewrite #slowburn #angst #nya #m's writing #this one foreshadows loooooads #like so much #i feel so sneaky

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amomentsescape · 5 months

Note

I love your writing! Could I possibly get a Slasher X reader. One of the Reader ending up in the hospital for whatever reason. It could be over sickness or getting injured/hunt.

Slashers React to Reader Ending Up in the Hospital

Slashers x Reader (Separate)

Warnings: Mentions of injury, illness, and killings

A/N: Thank you so much! Some of the Slashers were written outside of the hospital setting since I don't think all of them would be comfortable stepping out into public. I hope you still enjoy though!

Freddy Krueger

Freddy decided to pay you a visit in the real world when he hadn't heard from you in a few days

It wasn't like you to not say anything, and he was starting to get worried

But when he checked into your bedroom and found you nowhere in sight, he quite literally freaked out

(He may have visited some of your friends that night and threatened them to find out where you were)

When he finally found you in the hospital, he was even more worried

You could barely talk and your eyes were horribly bloodshot

It was only when you began coughing did he realize what was going on

"I haven't been able to close my eyes for more than 20 minutes without coughing" you hoarsely whispered to him

Despite wanting to take you back home with him, he knew better

He wasn't exactly a doctor, and he cared more about you getting better than you visiting him

So he let you be

He did help you with falling asleep though

And he visited you every night until you got better

He killed a couple nurses that he stated weren't taking care of you well enough though

Michael Myers

Yeah, he's pissed

He comes home, and you're not there?

Livid

Mostly at the idea that something happened to you, but he won't admit that the idea of you leaving him may have crossed his mind a couple times

But when he finds a note stating you were going to get yourself checked out at the hospital, he immediately heads out without a second thought

You have no idea how, but he sneaks in without anyone noticing him?

He immediately rips the blanket off of you and scans your body, trying to pinpoint what is wrong

It's only when he sees your bandaged leg that he meets your eyes

"I was trying to clean your knife, and it slipped..." you said like a kid about to be scolded

He shook his head at you and then lifted you into his arms, carrying you out of the room

While walking out, you happen to notice several dead bodies laying on the ground, blood pooling around them

Ah, so that's how he got in

Jason Voorhees

It was after the 5th night of not being able to breathe fully that you gave in, deciding to go to the hospital

You told Jason it would be super quick, but after a few hours, you still hadn't returned

Instead of just waiting a little longer like a normal person, Jason assumed that something terrible had happened and decided to make a public appearance

(Something he doesn't do often)

He headed into town and located the nearest hospital

Luckily, it was late by now, and the hospital wasn't quite as busy as normal

When he stepped inside, he just slammed down a piece of paper with your name on it, the front desk worker frantically typing in the computer

With how Jason looked and the size of his machete in tow, nobody even bothered to question him

When he was finally pointed to your room, he immediately picked you up and walked back out with you

After finding your doctor and making them give him your prescriptions, he was off to take you back home with him

He wouldn't dare spend even a single night without you

Thomas Hewitt

With the amount of meat hooks, knives, and scrapped bones around, it was a surprise you hadn't gotten into an accident sooner

You were a pretty clumsy person in general, so when you stumbled over a little dip in the tile floor of the kitchen, you instinctively reached your hand out to stop yourself

You managed to not hit the ground, but you sacrificed the palm of your hand in the process

A large butcher's knife was sitting on the counter, and it had sliced right into your skin

Thomas was rushing to your side in a hurry, frantically smooshing towels onto your wound to stop the bleeding

Despite his protests, you insisted on going to get looked at in the hospital

You were certain your hand was going to need stitches

While you were out, he just sat on the couch the whole time, staring at the wall

You promised to be back later, and so he trusted you

But there was no way he was going to be productive with you gone

Once were finally back, Thomas was quick to give you princess treatment

He makes you lay in bed while he brings you food, treats, and cuddles

He'll be watching you like a hawk for the weeks to come, that's for sure

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba was quite literally hanging onto your ankles as you tried to make your way through the door

He was blubbering like crazy

But this stomach flu you've been dealing with was making you miserable

You needed some type of medicine to sort yourself out, although Bubba disagreed

You told him you'd be back soon before giving one last shake and running out the door, leaving Bubba whining after you

He was yelling at basically everything and everyone, frantically storming around the house until you came back

He knew he wouldn't be able to go with you, but he hated you going anywhere by yourself

He was only calm again when you walked back through the door a couple hours later, some weird looking pills in hand

He'd be all over you after that, refusing to even let you go to the bathroom by yourself

And unfortunately for him, this attachment to you resulted in him waking up with the same stomach pains you had just a day later

At least you still had some medicine left, right?

Brahms Heelshire

So there's no way in hell Brahms would ever let you go to the hospital

When you accidentally tripped on the stairs, knocking yourself unconscious during the fall, Brahms was going through a mental breakdown

He didn't know how to help you

And despite all the shaking and slaps he could muster, nothing would wake you up

He finally gave up and decided to call 911

When the ambulance showed up, they were met with a grisly surprise

One of the medics was immediately killed upon entry, and the other was held at knife point, forced to call back and say everything was fine

Brahms then forced them to help you, watching their every move

It was only once your eyes fluttered open that his body relaxed

He quickly disposed of the other medic, immediately tending to you

But don't worry, Brahms would deal with the bodies and the ambulance later

He did it for you after all

Norman Bates

It was actually Norman's idea for you to go to the hospital in the first place

It wasn't like you to be dealing with a cold for this long, and he was beginning to get worried

He happily drove you there, patiently sitting in the waiting room as the doctor took you back to check you out

With a couple prescriptions (and a hefty payment) later, you were back at home with him, relaxing in bed

Norman made sure you always had some tea to drink and soup to eat throughout the night

He even ran the bath for you in hopes of opening your sinuses

He just seems like a normal, doting partner

But if the medicine doesn't seem to help soon, Norman supposes he may need to pay the doctor another visit...

Just to talk things over, of course

Billy Loomis

It's just a little cut, why do you need to go to the hospital?

You shouldn't have been playing with his knife in general

He told you it was dangerous

But he can take care of you himself, he's sure of it

But when he finds you gone just a few minutes later, he immediately becomes tense

Great

With a loud sigh and a few curse words later, Billy is out the door and driving after you

When he makes it to the hospital, he just storms inside

He ignores all the calls from staff to "come back" and to "not go in there"

He finds you talking with the doctor, a look of shock on your face

(You're not exactly sure how he knew which room you were in)

"Are we done here?" Billy grumbles

"You shouldn't be back here"

Billy rolls his eyes at the doctor

"Does it look like I give a shit?"

And with that he, grabs your hand and walks you out, being mindful of your bandaged arm

You're still not sure how you haven't received a bill from the hospital yet

In fact, you haven't heard back from the doctor at all in the past few days

Huh, weird

Stu Macher

Nothing about Stu is calm... ever

So the moment he realizes you aren't home at your normal time, he flips

Probably tries to call and text you numerous times

He even calls Billy who's like "how am I supposed to know??"

When you finally send a text back saying that you went to the doctor's, he quickly responds back saying he's coming to get you

He storms into the hospital like he owns the place, immediately asking the staff where you were

If any of them refuse, he gives them a wicked smile that makes them all uncomfortable

They give in quickly

Stu suddenly barges into your room asking "what's wrong" and "who hurt you?"

You almost laugh at his worry since all that happened was you falling due to being clumsy

He just sighs and shakes his head

"You should have called me"

Once you're all ready to go, he just walks out with you with your arm wrapped in his

He says goodbye to all the staff like nothing ever happened, but they all look a bit fearful

Eric Draven

After fighting with the flu for a good week, Eric decides he should take you to get checked out

Despite your protests, he insists he needs to take you and stay with you (just to make sure they hear you out and give you what you need)

Eric wouldn't hurt or threaten any of the hospital staff, but his presence alone is enough to make them feel intimidated

You're practically in and out within just 20 minutes

"That wasn't so bad, right?" he teased

You just give him a little shove

He pretty much dotes on you for the time being until you get better

Unlike most of the Slashers, Eric has no issues with you going to the occasional doctor's visit

He cares a great deal about your health and always wants what's best for you

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withleeknow · 4 months

Text

magnolia.

pairing: minho x reader genre/warnings: established relationship, kinda fluffy, kinda angsty idek, hurt/comfort; unedited and self-indulgent as hell !! word count: 0.4k listen to 🎧: hold my girl - george ezra

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation › masterlist › ko-fi

sometimes, it's crazy just how in tune minho is with you, how he can sense that something's wrong before you even have to say it.

he knows all of your signs - smiles that don't quite reach your eyes; soft, barely audible sighs instead of frustrated ones like when you're angry; talking about insignificant things throughout dinner with a distinct lack of energy just for the sake of holding a conversation and not letting your home fall into a state of depressing silence. an overall aloofness that can't simply be blamed on exhaustion.

when you're upset, you shut down.

minho doesn't need you to justify your defense mechanism, doesn't try to coax you out of your shell because he's the same way. when something is eating away at him, he detaches himself from the world too.

in those instances, the last thing he wants is for someone else to offer unhelpful advice when no one but him knows what's going through his mind.

there are some things that you just have to process on your own, some motions you have go through by yourself.

minho can only be by your side while you deal with your inner turmoil. hold your hand and give you a shoulder to lean on, whatever you need until you're ready to come back to him again.

that's what he does this time too. he doesn't ask you any questions; he just puts on the kettle and lights your favorite vanilla and magnolia scented candle. makes you a steaming mug of tea and peels some oranges, arranging the slices neatly on a plate afterward. then he sits on the couch next to you, a random movie playing on the tv that no one's really watching.

at some point, you move closer to tuck yourself under his arm. minho instantly pulls you to rest against his body, a hand on your shoulder giving you comforting squeezes over your sweatshirt.

just the two of you, the willingness to be there for the other especially when it's hard, and the occasional meows reverberating from somewhere nearby.

when he thinks you might've fallen asleep just like that, you start sniffling. the ache that minho feels in his chest is almost immediate.

even then, all he says is, "i'm here."

you meekly nod in acknowledgment as you continue to cry, painful sobs making you fist the material of his shirt in your hands.

he knows that you'll talk when you want to, when you're ready. he gets that in this moment, you just don't have the capacity to articulate your thoughts and explain your feelings in a way that other people could understand.

so he simply presses a kiss to your forehead and hugs you a little closer. he sits with you until it passes. he loves you enough to wait for you, to hold you through all of the lowest lows.

"i'm here. i love you. i'm right here."

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#stray kids fic #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #skz fic #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz x you #lee know fluff #lee know angst #lee know scenarios #lee know x reader #lee know imagines #lee know x you #lee minho x reader #lee minho x you #stray kids #lee know #lee minho

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lale-txt · 8 months

Text

✱ visiting the cat café with JJK men (pt. 1/?)

a/n: first time writing for JJK aaaa. i should have done this a whole lot sooner! happy to be taking those fine gentlemen out for a date at the cat café hehe. and with the current events in both manga & anime i think it's fair to say we deserve to have a bit of a slice of life delulul moment, right... （πーπ）

❦ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎

“did you roll around in catnip before we got here or…”

Gojo only grins at you before he starts a monologue, something about his natural musk that makes him irresistible to little meow meows, explaining how cats are attracted to cursed energy and how he has a limitless amount of it, yada yada yada…

you aren’t listening anymore, only feeling slightly jealous of how he’s swarmed by cats without any effort, like he didn’t have to go through the whole humbling process of getting to the floor and mumbling pspsps until your mouth is dry only for the cats to ignore you

every single cat in the café is practically begging for his attention and honestly, can you blame them

the cats are in heaven. Gojo is in heaven. the staff is in heaven.

a chonky white Persian cat is extra persistent and secures a spot on Gojo’s shoulder, chewing on his hair and that’s when you know you will be leaving this café either without your boyfriend or with a new cat

in the end Gojo simply ends up buying the cat café (oh to be stupid rich) and treats it as his own personal oasis from there on and you can’t even be mad because you get to see his beautiful bright smile whenever you head there together

❦ 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈

at first, Nanami isn’t too eager when you suggest going to a cat café

the thought of cat hair all over his sandwich doesn’t please him, but he can never resist your pleading eyes and from the reviews he read the food there is supposed to be excellent, so he reluctantly agrees

skeptical at first, he sits down with you, trying to study the menu when an extra curious cat jumps on the table, bumping their tiny head against his chin which makes Nanami frown

“aww, someone likes you”, you croon and try not to laugh at Nanami, hesitantly petting the cat in front of him which starts purring loudly

which attracts even more cats

suddenly you’re swarmed with them and Nanami is doing his very best to give each of them a fair share of his love, even loosening his tie a bit and sleeves rolled up

forget about the food, he’s on a mission now

Nanami will lie awake at night, wondering if owning a cat could fix at least a dozen of his problems (they’re all Gojo related)

❦ 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀

majestic Sukuna, King of Curses, allergic to cat hair

oh, he’s trying. he’s fighting for his life, sitting on the floor and trying to pspsps the cats with four hands at once

but his sneezes are so earth shattering loud that it spooks the kitties and they gather everywhere but in his lap

except for that one deaf and blind cat that’s always drooling a little which happily lets Sukuna pick them up

the King of Curses will look at you triumphantly, like see, I’ve made this peasant cat obey me, but his eyes are tearing too much to even make out the silhouette of you

good for you because it gives you enough time to snap a good hundred photos of him cuddling with the cat, too stubborn to admit that they might be killing him softly

back home (and after stopping by a pharmacy for allergy pills) you’ll see a dozen tabs open in his browser (you taught him how to google), searching for “anti allergy cats”, “if i shave my cat will i stop sneezing”, “cat hair allergy why” and “why cats won’t obey me”

❦ 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐀

local tired lawyer man needs a fucking break

you know how prone your man is to overworking himself, so you make it your own little mission to take him out on small dates during his lunch break

he doesn’t even bat an eye when you suggest a cat café. maybe if he’s surrounded by cats he won’t have to think about the injustice of the whole world, so sure, he’s in

Higuruma feels a sense of calm wash over him the moment he sits down and a kitty rubs their head against his legs, ready to activate their cursed purring technique on him

of course he remembers your favorite drink and orders it for you, something sweet to go along with it as well, and then he’s completely absorbed by the various cats in the café

he’ll point out every kitty that catches his attention and takes lots of photos of them and from you (and he’ll make it his new lockscreen)

kisses you goodbye once you drop him off at the office again and will text you later that he had the most fun in a long time

will also send you the most candid photos he took of you and will smile to himself when you make one your new profile photo, already excited to go back to the cat café with you

#jjk x reader #gojo x reader #nanami x reader #sukuna x reader #higuruma x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x reader #nanami kento x reader #jjk fluff #jjk imagines #jjk scenarios

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borathae · 4 months

Text

“You and your friends celebrate girl’s night at the penthouse. This however, isn’t an excuse for Jungkook not to receive his welcome home kisses. You won’t complain, he’s your cutie after all.”

Pairing: CEO!Jungkook x f.Reader

Genre: married life!AU, Slice of Life Fluff, casual BDSM

Warnings: just girlies being best friends <3, they talk very freely about kink, she shows off her playroom, mentions of sex work & BDSM events, mommy kink, Kookie being her cute Bunnybaby <3

Wordcount: 2.5k

a/n: i reread the caravan chapter of aaol and in it, Koo mentions that she can bring her girl friends over for girl's night whenever she wants to. so i wrote something about that feat. Koo being a cutie. have fun besties 🤎

You had your girls over tonight. It has been ages since you last saw them and it couldn’t be any more exciting to have them stay at your place. You call it your Paradis Girls’ Sleepover. Hyejin brings the snacks, Byulyi the drinks, Yongsun is responsible for the face masks and Wheein brings candles. You offer them your guestrooms to sleep in, comfy pajamas to wear and fluffy socks to show off.

The sleepover started at four. Hyejin and Wheein were the first to arrive. Like always. Yongsun was next and Byulyi came last. You all greeted each other with happy squeals and tight hugs, falling into excited conversation instantly. Your voices overlapped, everyone had something to tell and unsurprisingly, nobody was heard. You giggled about it and then agreed on taking turns telling your stories.

Yongsun and her now-fiancé are currently trying for a baby and are moving apartments. She stopped working at Paradis four months ago. You knew of the last fact of course because you and the others were her emotional support cheerleader in the group chat during the process. She doesn’t miss the work and says that sex with her partner feels so much better all of a sudden.

“That’s what I’m always saying. Sex hits so good when you’re only doing it with your love”, you say, snacking on some salted pretzels.

“Yeah I agree, it hits hard. You’re especially lucky though. Kook’s kinky as fuck”, Yongsun says as she sips on her makgeolli.

“Is Shiwon vanilla?” Wheein asks, “that’s news to me.”

“Oh hell no, not vanilla. Just not as kinky as Kook. You guys have a playroom. That’s so hot.”

“Oh, yes right!” you exclaim, clapping into your hands, “Yongsun, do you still wanna tell us more? Because I just remembered that we redid the toy shelves and you didn’t even see them yet.”

“Okay slay. Please show us”, Hyejin says, “unless you still want to talk, Yongsun. We don’t wanna cut your time short.”

“No, I can still talk during the house tour. I need to see the new shelves.”

“Slay. Let’s do that”, Hyejin says and gets up from the couch.

You and the other girls follow.

“Did you realise that you’ve started saying slay all the time?” Byulyi asks.

“Yes god so annoying”, Hyejin groans, “I’m watching this streamer and she keeps saying slay all the time. I can’t stop doing it because of her. Last night, I literally told one of my customers slay after we finished”, she whines, making your little group chuckle.

“Did he say something?”

“Yeah, he asked me what it meant and I had to explain to him. He said that he didn’t get it and then left. Weirdo, it’s not like he wanted to lick cheese sauce outta my belly button before that.”

Wheein cracks up, you and the others laugh as well. You can clearly imagine how weird that customer was. You had so many of those during your time at Paradis.

You chat about the streamer on the way to the playroom. Hyejin tells you that she really likes her streams and that she always watches them in the evening during dinner and her night routine. She then proceeded to gush about this new rice water moisturiser she is trying, which in return made Byulyi think of how she got a new favourite brand of rice. Conversation shifted to Byulyi and her favourite brand of rice and how she thought of so many recipes already. Wheein asked for them and Byulyi gladly shared them.

You keep the door to the playroom open, turning on the lights.

Your girls gasp and coo in unison, looking around the playroom with sparkling eyes.

“This won’t ever lose its spark”, Yongsun gushes, “it’s so hot. Seriously I’m getting all wet just being here.”

“Totally understand you”, Wheein agrees.

“Wait till you see the upgraded toy drawers. That’ll make your clits throb”, you tell them, leading them to the drawers with a happy skip in your steps.

The ladies follow you happily, looking left and right to really take in everything.

“Is that swing new?”Hyejin asks.

“Mhm? That?” you look at the black leather sex swing, “I think you girls haven’t seen it yet, but we’ve had it for like seven months.”

“Slay. Did you use it already?”

“What do you think?” you say and grin mischievously.

“Huge slay.”

Byulyi laughs because of Hyejin, patting her back sisterly.

“It’s sturdy. Also it gives me a good grip on Kook. I can really go to town on him when he’s in there”, you say.

“I can imagine”, Yongsun says, “pegging in a swing just hits so much harder”

“Yeah definitely”, Wheein agrees.

You nod your head and turn to the drawers, “now look at those drawers.”

You and your girls gather in front of them as you open them and reveal your vibrator collection to them.

“Woow so cool”, they gasp.

“Right? Right? Check out the lighting in there. Helloo? We have drawer lights”, you gush, waving your hands around in the drawer.

“That’s genuinely so fucking cool. And the pillowing too. It makes the toys look so expensive”, Byulyi gushes, poking her finger into the velvety pillowing.

“And now check this out”, you say, pushing the drawer closed. It slides closed carefully, slowing down on the last few inches before closing silently, “they have a fucking automatic break in them. Remember the stupid ass drawers in Room 14?”

“They are still getting stuck each time you close them. Trust me, I’m still struggling”, Wheein says.

“I know right. God”, you groan and open the drawer again just to show off its closing mechanism to them, “look at how smooth that is.”

“This is so cool, seriously. Now stop closing the damn drawers I wanna see the collection”, Byulyi says, making you laugh.

“Okay, okay fine. A girl can’t do anything here”, you joke.

Byulyi chuckles deeply, looking into the drawer with a lopsided smirk on her lips.

And so you show them your new toys and give them a few details about how it is to play with them. You show them your pegging dildo collection and Wheein asks about Jungkook’s progress, which you proudly show them. They react in coos and honest praise and you felt so proud of your husband. There is no better feeling in the world than being able to show off with him.

And there are also no better people to do it to than your friends. You share everything about your sex lives. No topic, kink or fetish is taboo. Conversations about them are normal to you and them and part of the bond you share. You honestly think that if you suddenly stopped being so open with each other, the friendship would feel weird. Sex was what brought you five together, it is what you first bonded over as you had to talk shit about weird customers and even now, when two of your little group stopped working at the club, sex will still be a topic keeping you together. After all, there are many kink events where the five of you and your partners go to together. The shared love for kink and fetish is just part of your identities and a big reason why you loved to be friends.

It is obvious how normal kink conversations are in your friendship, when in the middle of you showing off the sturdiness of your flogging post, Byulyi begins talking about her rice again and you all exchange recipes.

By the time the clock showed eight, Jungkook comes home from work. You and your girls were back in the living room again, but still haven’t started the movie you actually wanted to watch. Conversation was just too good to interrupt it with movies.

Jungkook is a welcome interruption however. You look at the elevator until its doors open and reveal Jungkook in his business attire.

“Hey there!”

“Yuhuu!”

“Welcome home, Kook!”

“Helloo!”

Your girls greet your husband happily, giving him enthusiastic waves.

His eyes light up instantly.

“Hey there, girls”, he greets them, stepping out of the elevator, “hey, my love”. he tells you.

“Hey, Bunny. How was work?”

“Okay. I’ll just quickly take off my outside clothes and then I’ll be with you, okay?”

“Okay.”

Jungkook disappears in the dressing room for a moment.

“He worked later today, didn’t he?”

“No, he went for dinner with a friend. I told him to take his time. I’m surprised he’s home already.”

Jungkook reappears again, making his way to you. He looks so handsome in his grey suit that you can’t stop making heart eyes at him.

“___ says that you went for dinner with a friend?” Wheein asks him.

“Yeah, Tae. We had pork ribs. It was so yummy and I ate way too much. My pants are uncomfy now”, he says, tugging on the hem of them to give his tummy a well-deserved break, “I had to drive home with my pants undone”, he says and makes you laugh.

“I understand you so well”, Wheein says, “it’s kinda nice too though. I like being so full with food ‘cause it means that the food was yummy.”

“Yeah definitely.”

“So why are you home already?” Hyejin asks.

“Actually, funny story. Tae had to hurry home because his daughter suddenly got explosive diarrhea and his wife begged him to help her with it.”

“Eew really?”

“Yeah”, Jungkook laughs, “apparently it went all over the walls?”

“Eeew that’s so nasty eeww”, Hyejin says jokingly, “you sure you wanna get knocked up, unnie?” she teases Yongsun.

“Haha, very funny.”

“You and Shiwon are trying for a baby?” Jungkook asks.

“Yup, at least we’re trying for one. I can’t say that I’m hating the process.”

Jungkook laughs, “I can imagine.”

He finally reaches the couch, scanning his eyes over the snacks and drinks.

“Don’t look at the drinks”, Byulyi says, covering the glasses of makgeolli with her hands.

Jungkook chuckles, “it’s fine. I don’t mind looking at alcohol. You girls enjoy”, he says and closes in on you.

He gets on your lap and hugs you, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. You hug him back instantly, smiling dreamily.

“Hey, Mommy”, he says.

“Hey there, Bunny.”

“How was your day?”

“Good. And yours?”

“Okay. I had too many meetings”, he huffs out air, “so annoying.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry Bunnybaby. But you did it, I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, Mommy”, he giggles happily, “I thought of you during the meetings.”

“You did?”

He nods his head and lifts it so he gazes into your eyes.

“I also have to fly to Shanghai for two nights. I gotta meet with a few business partners”, he says and pouts.

“When are you leaving?”

“Wednesday. I should be home by Friday night again”, he sacks his shoulders, “I’m sorry. I know this is really last-minute, but I only learned about it today.”

“It’s okay, you didn’t know”, you assure him and squeeze his dainty waist, “gosh Bunny, I’ll miss you so much. Like damn.”

“I know. Me too, Mommy”, he whines and hugs you tightly, “we gotta call each night.”

“Of course we gotta”, you say, making him giggle and lift his head so he could look at you again.

He caresses the sides of your neck, scrunching his nose cutely.

“You’re so pretty, Mommy."

“Mhm, Bunny you’re so cute. Come closer and let Mommy have her kisses.”

Jungkook leans in gladly, kissing you deeply and with his hips squirming on your lap unapologetically. You and he only act this way in front of your girls. No one else in your lives, not even family, knows this side of you. There would simply be too many awkward follow up questions and quite frankly, it was more comfortable to keep this part of your relationship private. But not in front of your girls. They know you for who you truly are. Jungkook was shy about it at first, because he never experienced sharing his kinks with people before. But once he realised that he won’t find judgment with your friends – and he visited enough kink events with you and your friends to know they are just as kinky as you – he began opening up more and more. These days, he is not ashamed of acting like Mommy’s best Bunny in front of them and he is most definitely not ashamed to show how much he likes your kisses. Everyone should know that he is Mommy’s happy Bunny when he gets your kisses.

You break the kiss because you didn’t want it to deepen too much. Jungkook will get horny again and you can’t be with him for at least a few more hours.

He smiles at you, licking his lips afterwards. You retort the smile, squeezing his hips.

“That was nice”, he says.

“Yeah, it was so nice.”

“I think I’ll go to my room then. I bet you girls have so much to talk about”, he says, looking at the others.

“It’s okay. We don’t mind the distraction”, Byulyi assures him.

“We saw the size you can take these days. That’s impressive”, Wheein adds.

Jungkook’s face is beet red in an instant. He gawks at you with big eyes.

“You showed them?”

“Of course I did. I gotta show off with my Bunny.”

Jungkook blushes even harder, hiding his face in his own hands as cute giggles leave him.

“Mommy, you’re so mean. Don’t show off with that”, he whines, making you and your girls chuckle fondly.

“Mhm no. I’ll keep showing off with my Bunny.”

“God”, he falls against you, hugging you tightly as he giggles, “this is so embarrassing. You’re so mean, Mommy.”

“Sorry Bunny. You know that I’m proud of you, yeah?” you say, patting his butt gently.

“Yeah, I guess. Hmpf so mean”, he says and straightens up. You give him a little smooch on his cheek and then it is already time for Jungkook to get up from your lap.

He looks at the snacks.

“Mhm snackies. Don’t mind me stealing some”, he says and grabs a handful of salted pretzels. He snacks on them as he leaves the living room, chewing happily, “will you girls stay the night?”

“Yup, we wanna watch a movie later.”

“Uuh movie. Which one?”

“Hereditary.”

“Isn’t that the movie with the car scene?”

“Yeah.”

Jungkook cringes, “well good luck to you girls. ___ showed me the scene and I’m still traumatized”, he says, making your little group laugh.

“Thanks Kook.”

“I’ll be in the gym if you need me. I gotta work off the calories I ate. Mhm those are good pretzels. Damn”, he says and officially disappears out of sight.

You release a dreamy sigh.

“He’s so perfect, you guys. I’m so lucky”, you gush.

“Wah she’s so in love”, Hyejin teases lovingly, making you chuckle.

“I am. It’s getting stronger each day”, you say proudly, sighing adoringly.

696 notes · View notes

leclsrc · 11 months

Text

decent incentives ✴︎ cl16, mv1

genre: this is. Smut, porn W plot, threesome, driver reader

word count: 6.9k

Max can’t even feel his feet on the hardwood floors because you’re on your bed, spread out, wearing one of Charles’ sweaters, two fingers at the apex of your thighs. Or: You’ve been a brat, and only two people know how to mellow you out. title from this

auds here… hi hi hi! scanned my reqs last week, found a max/charles threesome one, and wrote this out in half a day after a friend showed me the challengers trailer (i love tennis and it drove me to write abt a sport that was not, in fact, tennis) also i truly cannot explain the phenomenon behind me finding smut/these kinds of works easier to suss out these days (long form fic i talked abt in the last drabble is not this one fyi) but it’s just ???? like i don’t… i’ve no clue. i hope u enjoy this anyway!!!! love auds :)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, double penetration, sexual tension, masturbation (f), teasing, praise central, reader is a MASSIVE brat, size kink, dirty talk, i don’t want to say brat taming but kinda kinda

Your first time in Max Verstappen’s hotel room happened after a tiring night of media and press, where you spent hours together smoking to calm yourselves down. You’d almost been caught by a manager, stepping on your sticks as soon as the back door swung open and your names were called out to do another interview. This was with ESPN, if you remember right. There’d been a muddled chaos of journalism in the venue, all the jumbled mess of the same questions. As young as you both are, do you feel intimidated by success?

It didn’t—and still doesn’t—help, you suppose, that both you and Max had stared, tight-lipped and deflated brows, and stated, with finality: no.

The afternoon stretched into an entire night, and by the time the clock ticked nine and everything had formally wrapped up, Max mustered up the courage and a half it took to invite you to his hotel room for a cig and half a Cuervo divided into three shots each. The conversation had progressed as he drove, the continuation of an otherwise unorthodox friendship between a Red Bull and Mercedes driver—a fact you’d both acknowledged but opted to ignore.

Drivers are friends all the time, you figure—you’re close with few drivers—but none of them are Max. You had made the lousy small talk, commented on how different the pre- and post-race processes have become since your entrance in 2018, which, back then, had seemed like forever ago. “It would seem like forever to a world champion,” he’d said, and his voice is all teasing and raspy and scruffed up. You had laughed, a scoffy little noise, and told him to shut up.

He obeyed, for two seconds, then added, “Do you mind if we meet someone there?”

The hotel room was what you might expect a high-level athlete to be bestowed with, wide and huge but not as wide and not as huge as yours a few streets over. There’d been a thing of cologne left uncapped on the table by the door, Adidas shoes on the floor next to Nikes, and then a low table housing a still smoking joint that left the entire living room smelling like grass.

Somehow, Max had managed to turn a neutral, sterile hotel room into a boy’s room. The scent of weed mixed with Tom Ford cologne. The rap music blending into the open balcony’s traffic noise. The socks on the floor, two pairs, both white. It’s a strenuous effort, you’d thought—and you were beginning to think this wasn’t the work of Max alone. “We have a guest,” he’d hollered when he managed to fiddle with the key card properly enough to leave the door alone.

No one had answered, or surfaced from the hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom, so you followed Max into the bar area. Bottles of booze in varying states of empty, lemon slices and salt now cold—“Do you not call housekeeping?” You’d asked, amusement concealing curiosity as you accepted a poured-out shot. He said they do—they—and sometimes hotel staff are just a bunch of pricks. He asked more questions. How it felt to win at twenty-one, how it felt to be driving, to be the youngest winner, the first female driver.

Ask me something I don’t hear fucking journalists say all the time, you’d replied back, half-jokingly. The August air nipped at your cheeks, chilling your warm face. He’d laughed, and explained that he re-asked the questions in case you have a more honest answer to give him. The most honesty you could offer is that you’d grown to hate your reputation because it precedes your skill. It’d been silent for a bit then, just the scent of the unclaimed weed. Then Max went, We have a new friend.

You turned to see who he was talking to. Charles was at the doorway, eyes on you already, raising a hand to say a silent hello. “H…” He trailed off. “Hey.”

He was shirtless, Calvins tight on his legs, his free hand scratching absently at his abs. Behind you, you had faintly picked up on Max introducing you and Charles rolled his eyes before replying, clipped, I know who she is, wiseass. He’d taken the weed and almost left, but you spoke next.

“Want to come sit?”

He paused, turned, and blinked. “I’m alright,” he rejected. “We have a meeting tomorrow, don’t forget.”

Then he was back in the bedroom area, leaving behind him a trail of grassy smoke. He was clearly rugged and fresh from sleep, the delicious sleep athletes have all grown familiar with: post-race, overcome with a terrible exhaustion. You’d only ever exchanged a few words with either of these two, and the fact that you were alone with them sent a warm, drawling thrill up your spine.

You were two and a half shots in when Charles reappeared, sans weed. “Any left for me?”

—

If you grouped the grid into years, you would be with Max and Charles—on the younger end, still at the ripe years of your careers. You entered first, though, then Max, thenCharles, which meant you were connected to, and friends with, relatively different people on the paddock. But the 2020 season and your many close calls with Max began the media and manager tirade of constantly lumping you and Max into the same interviews, press conferences, and media days, to maybe somehow elicit a bit of drama out (a tireless and unrelenting effort).

That’s how the rumors started. The rumor that permeates you most is one that asks about you, Max, and Charles. Some say you dated one then the other (a homie hopper, they’d branded you in 2021), others say they dated each other and you butted in. All of them were woefully untrue, in the same way all had some ring of truth to them.

And you suppose that’s what hotwired the beginning of your nights spent at Max’s hotel room, where Charles would nearly always be camped out, then eventually vice versa (Charles’ room, Max camping out; your room, solo, housing them for one night), drinking and/or smoking and/or playing some form of cards. And you suppose again that it was all this that radiated into everything else, all your wins and successes and bad days and near crashes, that just caused the entire universe to topple over, into itself, and creep up onto the three of you in Bahrain that year.

But that year is three years ago, and if you try to detail every last divot of it, you’re going to wind up rubbing a migraine out of your head. And you’re not interested in developing a headache—not when you’re celebrating the fifth race of the 2023 season.

It’s your fourth win this season. It’s all anybody ever talks about, how you had gone and secured a third championship for yourself last year, and how you’re gunning for four, the greatest the sport has seen in years. It’s all anyone can repeat and echo—you’re a fucking legend!—and you know from experience that praise does more than the most dangerous cocktail of drugs to get you high.

The afterparty is full and obnoxiously loud, dark and smoky and low-visibility. You’re wearing a flimsy dress and running a hand through your hair while you nurse a drink, feeling drunk on compliments and confused with certain absences. You can feel the bass through the tiled floor, heels clicking on it as you search, search, and come up short. Neither Max nor Charles have sent you a text, a play they always perform to break a routine you’ve become familiar with. You frown. Hey, somebody says next to you, you’re better than anyone else on the grid right now! You thank them, thinking to yourself—where the fuck is anyone else on the grid anyway? The relevant people, at least?

Half an hour later, you’ve ditched the party and are pounding with your fists at Max’s hotel room door in an effort to get them to open it quicker, after your knuckles didn’t seem to do the work well enough. You half—no, mostly—expect Charles to be the one who pulls it open. He’s more prudent. He gives in easier. He’s nicer and he can spare a thought for the other people on this floor (but the price of this room means there barely are).

“What.” His voice is gritty.

“You told me you would come tonight.” Your voice is steady—you’d chosen not to drink much, and what little you consumed wore off on the ride here. Even with your heels on and even in sleepiness, you notice his presence towers over yours. “You both said.”

“We were tired.”

You scoff and gently push past him into the room, where evidence of their existence rags the furniture. “Every hotel room you ever stay in is turned into a fucking frat house.” Beer bottles, cigs, gifts from fans stored with precarious care but peeking out from suitcases.

“We were sleeping. I am sleepy,” he says behind you, unamused by your sudden appearance. He shuts the door and stands still, looking as disappointed as he can. It’s unlike him. You’re buying time to find out what the problem is.

“Okay, I’ll go,” you say, relenting, running a few fingers over the mess of clothes strewn atop the armrest of the couch. “My driver’s downstairs, anyway. I wanted you there tonight, though.” You look up, meet his eyes. Tired and green and fed up. “Both of you. We could’ve celebrated.”

He pulls his lips tight and stands straighter. “I know, I know.” He softens a little. “I’m sorry, okay? Desolé. Just… tired.” You know he’s tired because his team is shit, and you know it has nothing to do with you, but you’re so wrapped up with everything that your irritance fails to quell.

“Where’s Max?” You ask roughly instead, thumbing at the strap of your minidress. He gestures to the bedroom. You’re quiet but stormy when you walk in, finding him, messy hair and tired eyes notwithstanding, fully awake, unlike what his roomie has been telling you since you arrived; you scoff out loud again. Des-fucking-picable. You sit yourself on the couch, crossing your legs petulantly.

They both stare. They’re mad, it occurs to you, which is weird because they had you in between them on that same bed less than forty-eight hours ago. You’d come thrice and begged for more, but they laughed and said you all needed sleep to get up for race prep. Race prep. Race prep.

“Okay, then.” You throw two hands up in a semi-shrug. “Let’s have it. What’s the matter? No use lying.”

They both look irritated. “Nothing,” Max says.

“Fuck nothing.” You trail a hand over the hem of your dress. “You’re pissed with me, but I didn’t do shit.” You try to rerack the race, but you hadn’t so much as collided with them in the slightest, apart from overtaking them a few times, but they weren’t man children to whine over that. You’d shared the podium with Charles, for Chrissake.

“You’re right. You just went and…” Charles blows a raspberry and makes an explosion gesture, opening his clenched fist. “Shat on us in your post-race interview.”

And there it is.

You huff out a laugh, momentarily losing control over speech, and it’s caught in between itself and a sigh, a breathy noise that makes waves in the quiet room. Okay, you think. I get it. Your eyes flit in-between the two men across you, your shoulders straight and eyebrows raised, posing a challenge. “What, are you jealous?”

They’re silent. And you know silence always means—

Your eyes relax, smug and a little teasing as you elaborate. “Because you know I’m better than both of you?”

—Yes.

Their silence is redeeming and rewarding and permissive and it speaks volumes louder than if they’d actually admitted to it. You stare back at them, eyes narrowed, amused, coy. You’d been joking around in your Sky Sports interview. Sure, you’re a bit of a tease, especially on the high of a win. But they should know that by now.

You know it annoys them more to leave the door wide open as you leave, than to slam it closed.

—

“Will you draw me a tattoo?!”

“I’d love to, but you are going to regret it,” Charles laughs, signing his name off with a heart on the frenzied fan’s outstretched cap. The busy, busy practice day had now worn into night, though nothing seems to be taking his mind off the fact that you’ve been giving him and Max the cold shoulder since last week. And he knows it’s stupid, he knows he and Max were being irrational and pissy—him especially—but now he just finds himself needing to apologize before anything becomes worse.

But his priority is getting to your hotel, which now seems like the journey of his lifetime. His bodyguard is a bulldozer and grips his elbow to traverse them through the sea of people who cheer him on, go Charles have faith in Ferrari and yeah, that’s been getting more and more difficult as the races pass without much good progress. There are flashes all around, noise and laughing and whoops and gifts he tries to receive, but he just—he needs to get to your hotel. Preoccupied, he remembers where he’d seen Max last, just seconds before leaving the paddock for the evening.

You spend a lot of time with a certain pair Ferrari and Mercedes drivers, says the interviewer in Dutch. Charles squints at the subtitles and waits for Max’s reaction.

He’s in the passenger seat, being driven around for a change, and maybe he’s a pessimist and he misses you and Max, or maybe the city he’s in is just. Dreary, so he opts to stare at his phone like every other person. The clip’s been posted by a fan on Twitter, and the caption is something jokey—something about a dream threesome. He can’t help but laugh as he watches. We are close, us three, Max says, nodding. In fact I will be meeting them later.

The media’s always speculated, rumors born out of a few close calls outside clubs where you’re tipsy and giggly and getting into one car. The fans, funny as ever, also make some fun of it—posting pictures of you three captioned with something like polyamory is real or her and the guys she told you not to worry about, but God if any of them knew the real picture, the whole three years of it, all the sex and hickeys and rumors.

He scrolls a bit more. There are a few photos of you leaving the paddock, hand poised atop your face to shield it from the paps. You get loads more of them wherever you are, loads morecompared to anybody else on the grid. You always attract the media, the press. He finds a picture with your face in it, smiling at your result during FP2. Fuck. You’re pretty, hair damp with sweat, lips stretched into a proud grin, suited hand raising a thumbs up.

“Where to?” The driver beside him asks suddenly.

—

“Fairmont,” Max says to his assistant as he pulls out of parking. “I’m hanging up, doei.” He presses the red button and sighs, shutting his eyes and driving the steady, increasingly familiar routes of the city. He’d called you this morning but you didn’t pick up. Last night he’d slept restlessly, which was no different from the nights before, anyway.

He gets to the valet parking of your hotel when purple is just settling into blackness in the sky, the beginnings of a civil discussion at the tip of his tongue as he exits the elevator and finds your room, opening it and finding it unlocked already. Charles must have done the brunt of it, or maybe you’d gotten an assistant of an assistant to pass an extra keycard to him. You always plan around them, thinking ahead. Both on and off track.

Like the hotel rooms he and Charles share or camp out at, your existence is terribly visible. Unlike them, though, it manifests differently.

It smells like your perfume, the pink bottle he’d found you spritzing on once, and everything is neat and tidy and gorgeous. A vase of white peonies on the low table, lipstick on the table by the mirror, even the pack of cigarettes you barely smoke is pretty and unassuming on the sofa. The only thing amiss—a pair of men’s shoes, those ones with stars on them that you bought Charles on a spur-of-the-moment shopping trip. He toes off his own beside them, eyes the alignment, and fixes it lest you scold them for it later.

Anyway. It smells like you. That’s the only thing he cares about right now. It hits him like a tidal wave, after being ignored the whole week and then some. Your perfume, your favorite linen spray—that black and white glass bottle you carry around like a rosary—your favorite lip balm, even. He swears he smells the vanilla, can recall the taste of it from kissing you ditzy.

It’s beginning to rain—it had been drizzling already, en route here—and the noise pelts the windows, an accompaniment to his footsteps down the hall. He’s familiar with the layout of a penthouse suite, but still he tries out the WC door, and then the closet with the ironing board, before finally he figures the bedroom should be at the end of the hall.

He’s reciting it. I’m sorry. Would you stop being a brat? No. No, just say you’re sorry and then he’s standing at the ajar door of your bedroom, pushing it open, and he can’t feel anything. The words have evaporated. So have his warm little sentimental feelings, and so the annoyance he’d come busting in with.

Max can’t even feel his feet on the hardwood floors because you’re on your bed, spread out, wearing one of Charles’ sweaters, two fingers at the apex of your thighs.

He opens his mouth but nothing leaves. His eyes find Charles, standing by the door, propped against the desk, arms crossed and fingers digging into his biceps. Max looks at you again. You have a pretty flush high on your cheeks, a slight sheen of sweat on your exposed collar. He blinks and realizes you’ve been talking.

“I said, you can sit the fuck down.” There’s a couch to his left.

He pulls himself together and stays beside Charles. “I’m good here, thanks.”

You eye the two of them. They look like stupid twins in the same way they look like Republican husbands. You roll your eyes and allow it; anyway, you’re not in the mood to order either of them around too much.

Charles has been watching you for a while now, watched you fake moans and exaggerate whines, feigning pleasure over two of your fingers. It’s almost laughable—he’d allowed a smile, in fact, because he knows better. Once, he’d pulled your hair so hard you teared up, nodding, hand at his wrist, whimpering more, harder, do it. Another time, he and Max had gotten you all riled up and edged for half an hour, so riled that all you could mutter out were please and their names when they finally stuffed you full. You’re evidently playing your games again. You love to play around with them. It’s almost—you could almost call it a hobby.

“I’m not going to stop just ‘cause you’re both here.” Your hand moves, two fingers fucking into yourself, pink lace pushed aside. Your cunt is so pretty, they’re both thinking. “Did you think I would?” When silence greets you, you decide to address them directly. “Max. Did you?”

His voice is thin and tight when he responds, “Yeah, actually—so we could suss this out, at least.”

Your laugh is patronizing. “I prefer it this way. And you know what?”

Max stares. Charles has already been told this, several minutes ago when he found you in the exact same position. It’s not any easier for him to hear it again, chaste and sweet out of your lips. You can’t touch me.

See, they would’ve been content without touching you, if they sit and think about it. Max didn’t walk in here thinking he’d even be kissing you, and he knows Charles thinks the same thing. Maybe touch you—innocently, that kind of way. Sure, they’d been pent up, heady with arousal, but that came second to talking things out. But now you’ve told them they can’t touch, and that’s worsened them to their limit. Charles imagines touching you, the same touch he gives when it’s post-race and he gets you alone, to himself, nobody else’s, quick fucks in a dim closet, whispering some dirty shit in your ear and getting you like putty in his hands.

Max thinks of nearly the same thing. Imagines running his hand over your hair, gentle but firm, the same way he does when he knocks at your hotel room after hours and gets you from high-strung and bratty to begging for more. You notice their eyes, darkened; you realize their minds have wandered. So, they watch hopelessly as the smirk spreads prettily across your flushed face, and they remember the events of a week prior, when childishly, they’d acted out, and think, for a second, that maybe they deserve this.

You all know what it’s like to keep them from touching you.

It was both easier and worse then, in 2020 when everything started—when everything was brand new and thrilling and exciting. Easier, because they were satisfied as soon as they got you to come, maybe kiss them both, and they were content with slow exploration. Worse, because you were all insatiable. It felt like none of you could go minutes without some form of touch, during, in-between, after practice, quali, fuck—it was worse, much worse.

As you all grew older and got accustomed to the drivel of racing, you all got better. It didn’t get much easier.

Charles recalls how insatiable he was—and thinks, with amusement almost, that if he was insatiable then, he’s worse now. Now he knows where, how, for how long to touch you to get you wide-eyed and warm in the face even in the most serious of moments. Max, too. He knows how you taste, bend, tease. They love touching you. Just skin to skin. And you’ve gone and put a great big X mark over that.

“So,” Max says, voice flat, the way it is when he’s unamused with a reporter, “we’re in a time out.”

“You can call it that,” you giggle, and it segues into a huffy whimper when you angle your hand just right. “You were acting childish, anyway.”

Charles sighs, long and deep. “We—fuck.” His eyes can’t unglue themselves from your fingers. He knows he could make you feel so much better, fuck real moans out of you until you’re crying. “We were being childish, oui, and it was—we were just tense. I was unhappy with strategy. I could’ve been P2 but they pitted me at the worst time, putain. I took it out on you, and I’m… I was… I was worn out, and you called us childish in your interview.”

Ever the minx, you only smile. You’d been joking, you clarified that a day later; it was crass, spurred on by team radios of the two of them complaining in the latter half of the race. “It was a joke, Charles.”

“I know, baby, I know.” His lip curls and he breathes steadily, controlling himself. “It was unprompted though. You weren’t even asked about us. And yeah, a joke—but it felt shitty, love. I don’t mind it—we don’t mind it, but—” He needs to think about the phrasing, think about his intentions.

Your eyes are on fire, clearly still angry, but steadily softening.

“But in moderation,” comes Max’s raspy voice. “You’re running your mouth a lot in the media.”

“You’re one to—ah—talk,” you huff back, a futile argument.

“You need to understand that—that when you’re giddy, or angry, you can’t keep turning to interviews to express all that out. You need to sit with it. Just because we’re not…” your boyfriends, Max almost says, “…yours, doesn’t mean you can shit on us then expect us to be okay with it a few hours later. It’s a thing you do. A game you play. And it’s nice, it was nice then, but it’s annoying now, and it’s almost, like, do you even want this to keep going? To work—?”

You recoil. “You seriously think I don’t want th—”

Charles cuts in. “Well, when you play at us like this, yeah. Put in the work. If you’re high off a win, or mad for some other reason, just let it happen. Don’t fucking.” He exhales. “Call us names, then show up at our hotel acting like an angel.”

They’ve always looked out for you like this, known when to scold you or put you in your place for doing too much or not doing enough. They’ve never let personal things cross too much with business, which is a blessing of an ability when you’re three people having regular sex while balancing a ludicrous athletic career. It’s all sussed down to stupid ‘I care for you’ stuff that, frankly, they’re both too horny and angry to get into the grit of right now.

They don’t realize how quiet the room has grown until you eke out a noise, a thoughtful sound of agreement. You’ve pulled your fingers out, both hands playing with a loose thread on the hem of the sweater, rolling it into a ball. Your hair falls in waves. There’s a crease in it from the ponytail you wear when driving.

Your expression is still murderous, but much softer now; you cough, “I—I get what you’re saying. And I know I play… I have these games, or—but, honestly, I could say the same to you both.” You stutter through your totally shit explanation.

“How do you… mean,” deadpans Max.

“I mean, when I’m acting out, you two just take it.” Having them at your mercy like that is satisfying in its own right, but pragmatically, it’s unhealthy. “You don’t ever tell me off. Even now. I need you to tell me… to fucking,” you’re warm and spluttery now. “Fuck's sake, okay? I know I can be annoying. I know I say stupid shit when I don’t finish and I’m way less diplomatic than Mr. Il Predestinato,” you breathe. “But you two just let me be annoying!”

“Then don’t be annoying,” Charles says, diplomatic as ever—his voice rises, though, nearly matching yours.

“Not like that!” You huff, folding your legs and sitting straighter, and they catch a glimpse of your pink panties again. “When I’m out of line, you”—you point to them—“need to correct me.” They’re nearly blindsided by your request to… be told what to do, which is so different from how sex usually works. From how this whole dynamic usually works.

But Max remembers your manager, and Toto, and your teammate Lewis even, and your engineers, who have all, at one point or another, had to talk you down and tell you to calm down and correct your behavior. So he says, “People do that all the time, but it only works for a second.”

“Because th—” You suck in a lungful of air. “They’re not you two, you daft fuckers!” You’re at the centre of the bed now, sweater drooped over your folded thighs, eyes matching the rain outside. “Every time, I need to be talked down, and you never. Do it. So do it. Fucking—do it. I have to tell you everything.”

“You don’t—-”

“Oh, I do.” You say, folding your arms over your chest.

“This is despicable,” Max says. “We need to sort this out properly.”

“So what? This isn’t”—you raise violent air quotes—“putting in the work?”

They glance at each other for a minute. They feel you thinking you’re winning, thinking they’ll grovel and say okay we’ll do that next time, can we fuck you? Like all the other semi-resolved fights before. You’re sitting straight, eyebrows raised, defiant. But for them to do that—you just said it wasn’t what you needed.

And they’d have to be caught dead before not giving you what you need. If you want to be bossed around a bit, then they’ll do it.

“Sit down,” Charles goes. Unmoving.

“What.” You’re deadpanning, eyes narrowed.

“Sit the fuck down,” he repeats. You open your mouth, but he’s quicker. “Don’t make me say it again.”

You pout, leaning against the headboard and unfolding your legs. He rounds the room, sits at the foot of the bed. It’s a big bed, so even if he’s on it, he still needs to reach over a bit to be able to touch you. The distance is good, though, keeps them in control. Max sits opposite him, both of them on either side of you, and they’re so close, so scrutinizing, so handsome.

“Put your fingers in your mouth,” he says. You take a second, spreading your knees and obeying. You find a way, though, to make their little challenge all your own—you make a show of it, peeking your tongue out and licking your bottom lip all shiny before hollowing your cheeks. You stare at them the whole time and you don’t blink. It’s hotter than it has any right to be. “Suck on them.” You continue doing it, lips slightly curled.

“You’re a brat.” You try to conceal the whimper that leaves you but it fails pathetically. Charles presses on. “A spoiled brat.”

He’s the nicer of the two. Your whole threesome situation had began three years ago, and in almost every tryst since then, he’s been nice. In fact, if any of them were to ever ‘tell you off’ like you so desperately wanted, apparently, it would have definitely been Max. He’s firm, yeah, but he’s sweet. And he’d hate to boss you around too much, even if it’s something he wants. So he thinks, and he pretends he’s back to quali day of last week. It was a slow morning because of weather problems, so everyone was in a mood, and you were absolutely no exception. You come off as quiet to the public and to some of the grid, but to your friends, you’re anything but.

In an effort to lift the mood, you’d been mouthing off the entire day to your close circle of driver friends, in particular retelling the story of how you had teased Charles post-DNF in Saudi, and even gotten Lando to laugh about it at the time. What a season starter, you said when you were recounting it. You left out a detail: that night in Saudi, he’d fucked you and refused to let you cum, soaking your pillow with tears and goading a sobbed apology out of you.

Watching you joke about it again, even if it was a fucking joke and even if it was because you were mad at him and Max—got him all red hot, pissed off. Seething.

“Do you remember last race weekend when you joked about my DNF in Saudi?”

Cheeks hollowed, you nod.

“Fucking brat. That whole day. Ignoring me, ignoring Max. Didn’t listen to our apologies. Just noise all day.”

Your brows knit defiantly.

“I’m serious. You weren’t being funny. Just a brat. And if you were bored or pissed, you could’ve said so instead of making me look stupid.” You nod.

He glimpses at Max; the latter speaks next. “Open yourself up.”

You spread your legs out farther and sneak your spit-slick fingers down, pushing the flimsy material aside to rub at your cunt, two fingers sliding right back in. You breathe out shakily and wait for them to talk again. You’re still fussy, high-strung, not totally calm and mellowed down yet.

“When Charles and I aren’t here to fuck you into behaving, who’s going to make sure you’re acting proper?”

“Carlos,” you grit out in between thrusts.

They seethe. “Again,” Charles says, unamused.

“Nat,” you name your manager. “Lewis, or something. Fuck. Lando? I don’t—”

You asked to be told what to do, but you never said, they suppose, that it would be an easy job. “Guess again.”

“Toto.” You look delighted at that last one, knowing the implication. They’ve always been a bit jealous there. You thrive off disobedience, getting your two favorite boys all angry and flushed red with it. You open your mouth to try smartassing your way out of their orders, but Max beats you to it. “If you guess wrong, you’re not cumming. We’ll fuck you tonight, but no cumming.”

You whimper out loud, sinking your fingers farther in, adding a third.

“Don’t add another. Answer Max,” Charles says.

“Fuck,” you seethe, slipping the third out on your next thrust. “Me. I’m supposed to keep myself in check. When I’m mad. When I’m giddy and fuck—yeah. Me. It’s me.”

“Good girl,” he rasps out. “Good girl. You have to practice. How does it feel?”

I know, you mouth, eyes fluttering. You scissor the two fingers you’re thrusting in and out, wet with slick. “Feels good.”

“Not your fingers, love,” Max says. “How’s it feel hearing what we just told you?”

“Good, better,” you say in-between breaths. “I’ll practice. I like it. You’re not… letting me push you around. You’re—you can punish—fuck. Me.”

“Yeah? How, then?”

“Fuck me,” you repeat breathlessly. “Both of you.”

“Add another,” Charles orders, and you nod, quick and pliant, fucking yourself open. They’re both so hard, cocks heavy and uncomfortable in their jeans. You can see the thick shapes of them through the denim, and you thrust harder, a futile attempt to replicate how it feels when they’re fucking you.

“You remember how it feels, having both of us in you?” Max sounds amused.

“Yes,” you moan. Your pathetic imitation of moans and gasps earlier pales in comparison to this, voice dry and thick with pleasure and raw desperation. “Yes, pl—fuck, yes.”

“Why aren’t you feeling it now?” They need to hear you verbalize the reason why, admit it one last time before they give you what you want. You whine, rutting your hips up against your hand, catching your clit on the heel of your palm.

“Because I was being a brat, and I—you were being childish, but I didn’t want to talk things through either—and I’m always taking out my emotions on you guys, and I’m sorry, okay, would you just fuck me already?”

They’re on you immediately, all words and whispers, fingers at your chin turning you both ways to slot kisses on your mouth. Your free hand palms over Max’s bulge; he’s the one to your right. It’s hard and thick and heavy and you need it, need them. Charles’ hand takes over yours, thrusting deep and you’re whimpering into his sweet mouth.

“Feel my cock?” Max asks, “Could make you feel real nice, baby.”

“I know,” you sigh, breathless. “I want it.”

“When's the last time you took us both?” Charles asks, smile wicked. “Little thing like you.”

You grit out a moan, fuzzy and floating, letting them lift you up to straddle—one of them—you open your eyes and see Charles staring up at you, wonder and green eyes. “Got this, love?” You nod, yeah, I��ve got it, you say, little sighs. Both of you. Now.

This space you’re in, where it’s pleasure and fuzz and nothing else, is comparable to the high of winning. And you know you prefer that to sex, at least now, because racing is your life. It’s the slow satisfaction of being the best on the entire grid, despite everything. It’s the cheers, the raised fists when you climb atop your car and bring the crowd to a crescendo. The even louder screams when you pull your helmet and balaclava off and smile, trophy and all, champagne shiny and glowy on your face. All that shit—it’s addictive, and it feels just like this. So similar, in fact, because when you win, you finish on top of Charles and Max, and—

—Max is behind you, jeans tugged just enough for his cock to be pulled free, slick with lube and prodding at your ass—

—it feels just fucking like this.

“Like Max’s cock filling you up?” His cockhead is breaching your tight entrance and you moan out loud.

“I missed it,” you say, muffled by Charles’ free thumb at your lips, swirling it on your tongue. You flip him off for cutting you off and he laughs. “Give it t’me,” you goad, turning slightly. You want it so bad, missed being fed with their cocks. A week is too long. “I need more of it, all of it. In me, fill me up,” you beg, whimpering, desperate.

Max stares at your ass, grabs at the flesh there, at the string of your thong. You suck him in so hungrily, like you’re challenging him to not thrust in fully; you’re canting your hips backward too, and Max has to hike the too-big sweater up to watch the muscles of your back flex to meet his dick.

“So pretty, princess,” Charles says, because with them you really are a princess. Max begins to thrust into you from behind and you’re getting little moans fucked out of you, watching Charles unbuckle his jeans to tug his cock out, thick and pretty and you want—if you could, you would suck on it, let him fuck your throat, but you’re in the business of being filled to the point of blank thoughts right now.

You feel Charles at your cunt then, your slick making the slide easier, and Charles bucks his hips up and you—this is what you needed, to mellow you down, get you all loose and ready for more. “Take it, baby,” Max says, “all of it, all of us.”

“Ah,” you gasp out. “Ah.”

“Come on,” he grits, voice hardening. “You’re ruined. Pretty little girl. Come on.”

“Maxie,” you call out weakly, your fond little nickname for him. You remember Charles whining about how he doesn’t have one, so you save baby for him, had sussed that out on a night where they took turns fucking you. Your hips torn between the two dicks stuffing you, face sweaty and the sweater doesn’t help, gets you hotter; Charles gets the hint, and with effort, pulls it off you. Your skin is shiny underneath, matching bra sticking to your sweaty, sheened out skin.

“Love it,” you say, voice strained. “Split—fuck—me open.” Your holes clench around them and Jesus, they could have you all flushed and pretty and spread out like them, like this, forever. Charles grabs at the flesh of your ass, slaps you once and you’re tightening around them, breath impossibly still, thighs shaking. Max’s hands hold your hips tight, hungrily traveling up, groping at the wire of your bra to press at your tits. You’re pressed against both of them at a delicious angle that gets you dizzy.

“I’m gonna cum, I,” you breathe out, moaning, “I haven’t touched myself since…”

They both moan at that, delirious. Fuck. The thought of you holding it—for them—fuck.

“You’re so perfect, so—fuck—slutty,” Charles says, and you can’t hide the moan fast enough. “Feels good, having us in you, yeah? Getting you all noisy and… fucking—shit. I know how much you needed this, love. I know how much you love it. Us.”

From behind, Max snakes a hand up your abdomen, the column of your throat, and wraps there. You see white from the sensation of it alone.

“Tell me—I can’t—please, I—Charles—Maxie—” You’re increasingly incoherent, slick running down your thighs, twitching vigorously. You try to comprehend everything but you’re losing coherence and they get it, they get it, wiping your tears and sweat and coercing you to cum, yeah, pretty little pussy so fucking wet for us, cum hard, come on, you’ve been so good, baby, the best girl for us.

There’s no way either of them are lasting after that, after watching you fall apart and finish on top of them, stuffed full, stuffed pliant, stuffed fucking docile.

It’s your turn, then, to praise, your favorite boys, always so good for me, thank you for letting me cum, come on, let me taste it—and you’re stained with their release after a few minutes, Max biting on your shoulder, Charles’ thumb indenting your hip.

—

What. A. Podium, ladies and gentlemen! Max Verstappen of Red Bull, from P6 in the last race to a stunning P3 drive—Charles Leclerc, braving the team’s dismal strategy to get P2! What a knockout. Of course the Mercedes legend, gunning for four championships now, had crossed the flag first to claim her fifth P1 of the season.

What a legendary race, absolutely proper podium. They showed us what driving is, real driving.

The season is heating up.

Makes you wonder what happened over the weekend for them to get such good results.

This is F1. I’m sure they keep each other motivated.

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc x reader #max verstappen #max verstappen smut #max verstappen imagines #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader

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jeanbie · 3 months

Text

SWEET UNWIND ★ masterlist.

pairing: levi x reader

warnings: sexual content, unprotected sex, rough sex, creampies, foodplay, grumpy & sunshine, fem!reader, piv sex, silent sex (little dialogue) | wc: 6.1k

note: proudly inspired by the insatiable thoughts i had while watching charles bake his cake and kill people in "the brothers sun". also i got cheated on and felt horny, so turned to my favourite cartoon man for relief

⏤ When Levi's not working, he likes to take things slow, and as of late, he's found that baking desserts is an excellent way to unwind. Yesterday, he made a beautifully sweet strawberry drizzled cake with cream. On today's menu, his personal favourite: cream pie.

Gangnam, Seoul; five to midnight, the city turning in for the night as bold and bright lights flicker to life, the streets lined with neon glows that on the waterfront look like blurry fireworks. While constant lines of traffic come and go, honking and revving at the lights as they hurry to wherever they need to be next, Levi switches off the egg-timer that blares to life loudly and sets it down on the kitchen island.

Behind him, baking in the oven with a warm and golden glow, is the sponge for his lemon drizzle cake. He glances up at the TV screen across the room and watches as one of the contestants drizzles extra veins of lemon curd across a wide canvas of white meringue cream, then looks back at his own display of ingredients.

First, he heads to the oven and using the oven glove, he pulls down the door and extracts his top sponge layer. Immediately, Levi sets it aside to cool — too hot and the dollop of cream that will spread into his smooth centre will melt and dribble off like water.

When Levi’s not working, he likes to take things slow, and as of late, he’s found that making desserts is an excellent way to unwind. It’s a simple step-by-step process where the final product produces something he can feel proud of, and something he can enjoy with a cup of tea or even something stronger.

He’s found over the last three years or so of baking that a hard liquor blends well with cheesecake, one with crumbled biscuits as a garnishing layer. Bailey’s accents any type of chocolate dessert almost too perfectly, and even does well inside of one. Last Christmas, for example, Levi enjoyed a whole chocolate truffle infused with the alcohol all to himself.

Baking takes a level of concentration that actually requires very little of him, and being able to see something he’s made all on his own at the end of it all can often be more rewarding than the stakes in the real world, outside of his entirely too fancy penthouse apartment. His job is often too demanding, too vicious, but coming home with a bag of ingredients that will eventually transform into something beautifully delicious feels like he’s turning a switch and stepping out of one life into another.

Outside, out there in the harsh city, Levi Ackerman is a force to be reckoned with, a danger to those outside of his inner circle. But here, inside his home, his fortress, he doesn’t have to be anybody but himself — Levi Ackerman, the man, the neighbour, the dessert enthusiast.

Now that the sponge has cooled and the decorations have been sliced and prepared, Levi takes to assembling his own version of the British Bake Off lemon drizzle cake. Instead of it being baked as a tray bake, Levi’s followed the same style as Mary Berry herself; circular, smooth and comfortably petite.

He takes the cream he prepared before and slaps it with a wet plop on the bottom layer of sponge, smoothing it out with the flat-knife until he’s satisfied with the coverage. Then, he uses a spiral technique to create a lemony blend to bite into.

He spares a single glance at the swirling iron staircase leading up to the upper floor of his apartment when he hears movement, a simple and quiet rustle of sheets and an equally low-volume groan — a stretch of some kind. Then, he looks back at his cake and sets the top sponge over the finalised inner workings of his cake and gets to work on the pipework and decorations.

It is so easy for him to get lost in the craft. One minute rolls into five and rolls into ten as he perfects the lemon slice arrangement on top of the cake. He even prepared some lemon gratings beforehand and uses them as a powdery layer on top of the smoothed out blanket of cream. Once everything is in place, Levi looks back up at the TV and watches the contestants present their final results to the judges.

Back and forth — his eyes move from their cakes to his. He thinks his cake would have earned him Star Baker that week, that’s for certain.

Even though Levi chooses to bake after work to dispel the tension building up in his bones, he still doesn’t feel completely satisfied with his work today. The cake is as good as he can get, especially when it’s his first real attempt at a lemon drizzle. But an ache lingers in his shoulders, a buzzing feeling of discomfort in every joint and muscle.

Today has just been extra hard. One dessert won’t suffice.

After a long haul of tracking down one of the leaders of a local crime organisation known as the Hannam Tigers, and successfully putting a few of his henchmen in early graves, Levi knows that one small cake won’t be enough to satiate his irritation for the night. In his line of work, things went wrong sometimes, even when they were annoyances he could do without.

The Hannam Tigers operate in a network of highly trained men with highly decorated backgrounds, and even with Levi’s colourful skillset, it can be a challenge to rid them from the world.

Levi rinses his hands under the tap and uses a cloth to dry them, catching the final portion of the competition on TV before tossing the cloth to the side and dumping his utensils into the sink. For now, he focuses his attention on the assortment of ingredients he’s set to the side to make his all time favourite dessert.

But first, he’ll need to head upstairs.

With what he needs in his hands, Levi escapes the kitchen before it swallows him into creating more and more desserts and then climbs the staircase curling up into the upper floor. Up here, there is a study that he barely uses — not because of his incompetence to utilise it, but instead for a general lack of need, considering he prefers a much more physical and hands-on approach to what he sensitively calls his ‘career’ — a small bathroom and his bedroom, which he heads for and catches a glimpse of the glistening city from the window inside, the door ajar.

Inside, he takes a few steps forward and sets his things down, looking up to make out your shape in the swamp of black bedsheets. He can barely see you in the dark, but you groan and make your presence known, sitting up on your elbows to peer at his silhouette cast by the light from the hallway.

“You finished your cake?” you ask, your voice tired but nonetheless sweet, caring, genuinely curious.

Levi makes out your face in the dim light and waits until his vision settles. Once he sees you more clearly and sees the smile on your face, he nods simply and looks back down at his messy pile of ingredients.

You arch up a little higher to see what he’s looking at.

“Bring any for me?”

Levi doesn’t look up. “No.”

“Rude,” you reply, amused and unable to make out what he’s arranging neatly on the ottoman at the bottom of the bed. “I happen to like lemon drizzle.”

He knows. That’s why he picked that episode to watch, those ingredients at the store.

“I don’t,” he replies. Levi’s not a fan of lemon anything, really.

The door behind him creaks ever so slightly, the light widening across the room. You sit up straighter, watching him as he falls into a carefully analysed breakdown of his mystery items.

“Can I have some later?” you ask, filling the silence with conversation. If you strain, you might make out the next episode of Bake Off beginning to play, but you search for Levi’s signature noises instead; his silent yet attentive laughs from his nose, the grunts under his breath, unbothered hums of his attention and or interest.

Levi looks up then, and rolls up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. His blazer is downstairs hanging off one of the bar stools under the kitchen island, his shoes by the door. Now, he’s just dressed in whatever he came home wearing — there hadn’t been time to change, what with you slumbering like a princess in his bedroom.

It’s a good thing he likes you, otherwise the lights would have been on and his work clothes off. Instead, he left you to it, heading for the kitchen when he came home and switching on his complimentary British Bake Off episode to accompany him in his regular routine of baking.

“I only made it for you,” he tells you.

You arch an eyebrow — not that he can see, anyway. “Oh, really?”

He gives you a hum, thoughtless. You rearrange yourself under the sheets.

“I thought the whole point was to eat the dessert yourself after making it,” you say, filling the quiet moment with something as he skims his gaze over the ottoman again.

He doesn’t look up when he says, “Well, I haven’t finished baking yet.”

“Oh?” you reply. “Something else cooking?”

“Yes,” he says. Then, he rounds the bed slightly from the right and whilst looking at you, he climbs up onto the bed with his knees.

“What’re you making?” you question, a grin widening over your face as he looms near. You feel his hand just miss your leg under the sheets as he lays his hands flat on the bed, lifting his weight closer to you all whilst maintaining an unnaturally cool composure.

If you didn’t know him any better, you’d think he was bored by the entire exchange. His face is covered in shadows, and yet you can still see the slipping shift of something in his eyes as they catch in the light from the windows.

Levi’s face reanimates in the city lights, now not far from your own. He curls his fingers around the bedsheet and tugs it down, exposing your legs to the cool shift of temperature in the bedroom. You shudder, leaning your head back until it softly hits the wooden headboard.

“Pie,” Levi says.

“Mmm. I love pie,” you comment.

He grunts, another one of your favourite Levi-sounds.

His hand shifts from the bed to your leg. In the dark, everything feels more pronounced; his ever-so-slightly rough palm smooths across your thigh and down your leg, past the knee and down towards your ankle. Once caught in his grasp, he manages to pull you from your sloped position against the headboard and back down into the pillows. He knows you're wearing nothing else from the waist down — all the more reason to tug you down and snatch a glimpse of what he knows is his.

“What kinda pie?”

Levi finds your eyes again in the dark, and you’re not sure if he planned it, but now you can see his face in a spectrum of light. His expression is flat, toneless, yet intrigue dances across his eyes as they wander across your face, down past your neck, and down to the exposed skin of your chest from underneath one of Levi’s shirts you stole from his drawers.

He says nothing for a moment. Using both hands and releasing your ankle, Levi presses his hands against your abdomen, running them up underneath the shirt until he reaches your sternum, the sloping sphere of your breasts against his fingertips. His eyes flick up to yours as he pushes the shirt all the way up over your breasts, and uses his body to part your legs until your knees are on either side of his hips.

The weight of his gaze makes you squirm slightly.

He blinks. Licks his bottom lip so quickly you almost miss it and says very simply, “Cream.”

Your grin widens.

Levi lowers his face to your stomach, his lips pressing against the skin above your belly button. Immediately, as if practised, your hands jump up to his head of hair, your fingers threading through it as he works his mouth down from your stomach to the damp space between your legs.

A home within a home; a place he loves to push his face into when he’s had a particularly long day.

Levi doesn’t even have to put in any effort anymore. You quite contently lift your calves up over his shoulders, widening them enough to feel his lips circle around your clit, two fingers widening your folds so he can stuff his face with your cunt.

Coating your clit with a layer of wetness, he replaces his lips with his right thumb and moves his fingers, using his tongue to part you down the middle, and making you writhe against the bed with a satisfied moan.

He’ll admit it to nobody but himself — he’s missed you. You’ve missed him, too, and the way it feels when he rubs his thumb against your nub in careful circles and plunges two fingers up your cunt. Levi could fool himself all he liked with the fantasy that baking a cake was enough to relieve his pent up stress from work, but nothing quite works to ease the burden like a face full of his favourite girls’ pussy.

Levi’s left hand drifts from your stomach to your thigh, smoothing over the top before curving down and round to the inner of your legs, his forearm wrapped around you comfortably and effectively locking you in place. He likes to watch the wetness pool between your legs as he gorges himself on your taste, but today he closes his eyes and closes his lips around you, tasting every inch of you like you’re his own slice of dessert, his favourite kind. Topped and served with a string of elated moans, just the way he likes it best.

“Mmf—!” There’s not a lot for you to say, nothing you can conjure up from the air gasping in your throat as Levi’s tongue licks laps around your clit, his thumb just shy to the side as he leaves a wet present for him to massage into your skin, his mouth very quickly preoccupied by the space neglected beneath.

As his fingers curl up inside of you, then widen apart, your calves drop as if you’re trying to pull Levi closer to your body, and in turn he pushes his left arm down on your thigh and drags you with a smooth motion down the bedsheets and closer to his mouth. Your head arches back with the angled slope of your back, reaching up off the mattress in a coordinated performance of pleasure, and Levi finds the time to open his eyes and look up over your stomach and breasts to find your face; mouth agape and lids closed, gasping silently into the dark.

Yeah. Out of all the desserts he could possibly create in his kitchen, he’d probably have to confess that his favourite one was one that could be made in the bedroom.

Your hands take fistfuls of his hair and feeling the hot flatness of his tongue in the space between your clenching hole and your clit, you find your hips grinding up into his mouth, the slight nudge of his teeth making you squirm even harder beneath him. Levi’s no longer phased by the aching tightness of your fingers woven in a knot on his head. Whenever your fingers twitch and the clutch on his hair tightens, Levi knows he’s doing something right.

Every lick and nip against your cunt is matched by a groan, and as you ride the dampness between your legs against his lips, your voice thins out into a raspy nothingness. Your mouth is dry with the air of the bedroom, your eyes forcing themselves to close when they try and open to peer down at the man snug between your thighs.

Levi feels a mixture of wet substances around his mouth and on his chin, but before he can grant you the pleasure of cumming down his throat, he pulls back.

The emptiness of the space between your legs is jarring, and almost immediately you sit up. Your hands drop from his hair and fall onto the bed, which you use to lift up your shaking body to watch as Levi leans back on his knees and retreats to the forgotten ottoman. It is only when he rises to his feet to observe the array of secret items displayed for his eyes only that you realise Levi is still wearing every article of clothing he was before.

“What’re you doing?” you ask him, finally finding your voice as he arches over and fiddles with something that sounds plastic.

You catch the shine of your own arousal on his chin as he scans the catalogue of items.

“Preparing dessert,” he replies.

Your brows quirk, but when Levi stands upright and begins to shake something with his left hand, you feel your heart and its fast beating plunge straight to your stomach. A knot wells and tightens, and you bite a moan back and feel your thighs coming together like a magnet in anticipation.

Levi is shaking a bottle of whipped cream.

It shouldn’t surprise you nor excite you the way that it does. Levi has always had reservations about whipped cream — it should be from a bottle or made in a bowl; exclusively used as a side for a tart or cake slice, as a topping on a pancake, as the twist of sweetness on top of a hot chocolate. Levi doesn’t use whipped cream on his desserts in the same way he does as an accessory to the bake, but today — tonight, it seems as though he has found another valuable use for his generally unused bottle of whipped cream.

“This is new,” you say, feeling your ass lift off the bed as you struggle to contain your writhing excitement. Levi tests the nozzle; a burst of white cream spits out onto his finger, and without looking away he puts his finger in his mouth with all the nonchalance of a chef tasting his dish as he makes it. “I thought you didn’t like bottled cream on your desserts.”

“I like it on some things,” he replies. “First rule of baking is that you never feel afraid of trying something new.”

You hum thoughtfully as he retakes his position on the bed. It should make you laugh with the way he looks down at you while slowly twisting the bottle from left to right, but it doesn’t; it only makes you breathe heavier, your pulse quickening and legs opening as if on automatic and letting him take the space he’s claimed between them.

“They do say that it goes well with pies,” you say finally, watching as he angles the nozzle down on your stomach. The placement, if nothing else, has surprised you, and you suppress a moan of eagerness when he presses down and watches with a newfound intensity as the spiral of white cream pools out onto your skin. He’s cautious with the amount; just a small bud of cream, enough to swallow in just a mouthful.

Levi leans himself forward and pauses just before he can lick the dollop up off your tummy.

“Clue’s in the name,” Levi replies, and with his eyes boring into your own, he presses his lips around the blob of cream and mouths it up off your body. It is entirely too fast, your jaw slacken as he pulls away, as if gauging your reaction. The yearning expression on your face has the nerve to almost look endearing to him.

He swallows. “Sweet.”

He receives from you something sounding like a whimper. Then, his finger is back on the nozzle and using the cream, he creates a trail from where he last was all the way down to your clit.

You feel yourself clench when the cool texture of the cream sits in a melting bundle on your bud, and your teeth bury themselves into the flesh of your lower lip, biting down with extra force when Levi’s mouth shifts down to your clit and in one teasingly slow strip, he licks the trail of sweet cream up from your cunt to the wet spot on your stomach.

With his tongue, your back arches up off the bed, your knees by his shoulders. Levi is uncomfortably aware of the pooling arousal between your legs, his own forming tightness in his trousers. Watching you writhe with a glistening shine getting more and more pronounced so close to his face has proven to be exactly what he needed to unwind today, but he’s still not quite satisfied.

He’s not ignorant to the way your hips meet with the empty space he leaves when he moves away again, as if fucking an imaginary cock or grinding against an invisible set of hips. He uses his right hand to press you back flat against the bed and savours every second of your aroused moaning when he slathers your cunt with the cream, leaving no wet patch untouched.

He watches with only minimal irritation when the cream slips down your folds into a white pool on the sheets — his sheets — but he takes its sliding as a sign to move back in.

Levi licks the cream up as if it isn’t even there; it’s as if he’s taking gulps of you like it’s nothing, licking every inch of the cream and enjoying the wonders of your pleasure as you cry out above him. His nose brushes against the hidden bump of your clit, the feeling of his hot tongue making your toes curl behind his back, your fingers clenching around the sheets.

Ordinarily, you may have laughed at the sight of his lips coated in a white sheen, the cream on the tip of his nose, but today you can find nothing to laugh about. Every unit of energy is devoted to the tightening clench of your cunt, the tingling warmth growing inside of you as Levi wipes his nose and rises off the bed and onto his feet, right where the ottoman stands as a barrier between you.

He lets you play out your imaginary fantasy, rolling your hips into the empty vacuum of space where he was just situated and uses his hands to undo the belt around his waist. His trousers fall with an effortlessness when he undoes the front button, and he compels himself to watch you stare at him with a lustful gaze as he pulls his trousers down to his ankles. He decides he’ll keep his shirt on — it’s only fair, since you’re still wearing his, albeit the fabric is bunched up under your neck in the way he likes it.

He mounts the bed once again and meets you when you moan expectantly, and relishes in the sharp intake of your breath when he takes your right leg and folds it to the side. You look at Levi over your shoulder, your neck to the side as he presses you down with his left hand and uses the right to hold his cock.

You are once again reminded of how truly lucky you are to have a man like Levi; a man who needs nothing but your cunt in his face to get his cock standing rigid against his lower stomach.

You swallow a moan when Levi pokes the tip of his cock against your fluttering entrance, and when his eyes catch yours, the sharpened edge of his grey eyes staring straight into your own, you can’t catch the cry of pleasure that escapes when he pushes himself into you, feeling you wrap around the tip of him like your cunt is a mouth on its own.

Levi watches you gasp as if pained and he rolls his eyes.

“Shut up. You’re wet enough,” he says in a low tone.

“Hmf—!” And then the length of his cock is buried inside of you, only proving his point.

There’s nothing to explain the way it feels when he’s stuffing your hole: it’s as if he was made for you, a perfect fit to make you whole. Even with virtually nothing to ease the slip into your pussy, there’s no agonising stretch, no painful play — just a wholeness that feels as natural as anything else in the world.

Levi’s fucked you so many times that he might as well claim he lives up here, and each time he makes himself at home, he’s welcomed with open arms and a swallowing gulp. He pushes his hips all the way against you, until the underneath of your thigh is squished against his stomach and you feel the slight slap of his balls against your ass.

He’s never quite fucked you from this angle before, but it’s not unwelcome in the slightest. He wraps his wrist around your thigh and holds the front of it with his hand, his left coming to hold the sinking curve of your waist, which he uses to push you further into the mattress.

Every time his dick sinks further inside of you, you let out a moan — he moves in and out so fast it’s as if he’s trying to keep your noise at a constant speed, never wanting to be left in a silence.

Levi looks down at you as he fucks, no longer interested in the way his dick disappears into the dripping darkness of your cunt and instead entirely devoted to mapping out the pleasure on your face. Nothing he hasn’t seen before, but everything he loves to see.

His hips rock against you, his shoulders tensing as you clench furiously around his length. Surely you don’t mean to be coaxing him into an early finish — surely you wouldn’t be rushing him along when he’s trying to enjoy his dessert.

The tip of Levi’s dick kisses your insides, but from this angle and the burning heat pooling in your abdomen, you don’t know if he’s hitting your cervix or deeper into your literal stomach. Levi’s fucked you from all different angles in every corner of his house, but he feels extra large today. The darkened edge of his eyes might be deceiving you, the sticky residue of cream still on your skin.

You’re almost vibrating with pleasure as he fucks you, and all you can do is stay pinned to the bed like a doll and gasp out your praises.

Like most fucks with Levi, he says nothing besides, “Fuck,” in a dragged out, strangled type of way. He likes to make you suffer by dragging it out for as long as humanly possible, just to see you writhe and cry underneath him, your pussy pink and pulsing, begging for him to stop.

Today, however, luck looks to be on your side.

Unlike normal, Levi has little desire to unravel you into a sobbing mess. All he wants today is to fuck the brains out of his girlfriend and watch as her cunt fills with his cum.

Levi’s fingers clench into your skin, and for a second he closes his eyes in an effort to ride it out just a little bit longer before filling you up. When he feels your hand wrap around his wrist like a vice, his eyes fly open to look at you; you’re curled up, sunken in the bed, contorted into his favourite shape.

Levi spares a glance at his cock swallowed up in your hole and watches with pride as he thrusts in and out of the wetness, and after a stuttering sequence of your hips jerking and mouth falling open with the release of some of his all time favourite sounds, Levi devours the sight of white squeezing from around his dick.

He feels his throat catch. He’ll let you have that one.

Around the quivering clenches of his cock, Levi shudders and lets you squeal until you’ve run dry. He runs his fingers across the width of your connection and smooths the cum between his fingers. Then, without giving you the satisfaction of catching your breath, Levi continues his thrusting which gives him the continued pleasure of hearing you squeal and cry, your free hand reaching to the slip of sloping skin above your pussy as if you were trying to suppress the feeling rippling through you.

Long forgotten are the fingertips pressing bruises into your skin, but each thrust of his dick hitting the same spot inside you is met with an exhausted groan. Finally, when you’ve gathered the energy and courage to look up and around your body at his face, Levi lets slip what you think might be a satisfied smile, and he falters.

Ropes of warmth fill your cunt, and you hear Levi moan, loudly, and he unwraps his wrist from your leg and holds the base of his dick with his right hand. Carefully, he pulls himself out, save for the tip which remains snug in your hole, leaving no space untouched by his seed. He watches with wonder at the way your hole gapes around his cock like a mouth, swallowing his cum up until it billows out. Finally, he slips out of you, staring down at the oozing, swollen hole that is pulsing with cum.

For a while, he stares at it, breathing loudly as he waits for all of his cum to squirt out of you; it’s like squeezing a cream doughnut and watching the sickeningly sweet contents slide out.

Levi glances back up at you, amazed that you’ve been bold enough to watch him until the end, and he pats your waist appreciatively before rolling you back so that you’re flat on the sheets, legs apart, cunt wide.

Time to taste.

You watch as his head disappears between your legs, but he leaves no element of mystery. Your body almost jumps up off the mattress when his tongue pushes into your gaping entrance, lapping at the mixture of your cum and his and whatever else he can catch a taste of while he’s savagely licking down there.

Barely having the energy to pretend to stage a protest, you elect for moaning your approval and tiredly rake your hand through his hair again, pushing it from his forehead as you stare half-lidded at the crown of his head.

You lose count of how long Levi remains nestled down there. The only way you notice he’s no longer there is by the way he sweeps his hands down your legs and lays them flat, making note of every twitch and quiver your body makes.

Staring up at Levi and reluctantly forcing your body back up on your elbows, you grin up at him as he licks his top lip and appears thoughtful.

“Yeah,” sighs Levi, sniffing once in the way he does when he’s trying to fall back into his characteristic charade of coolness. “Homemade cream tastes better.”

Unable to argue, you heave out a laugh and meet his gaze.

“You’re fucking greedy,” you say, but that he actually does smile at.

“So what,” he replies, reaching for another one of the items on the ottoman; a cloth from downstairs that he uses to wipe the mess between your thighs, “we both know I like cream pies. I even shared.”

You flinch when he dabs the cloth against your still-sensitive pussy. You take it from him to finish the honour, meanwhile Levi gathers the bottle of cream and whatever else he brought and never used before opting to watch you shift the cloth between your legs, throwing it back at him in a forced huff. He catches it effortlessly.

“Whatever,” you say, very slowly moving across the bed to the floor. The wooden slabs are cold beneath your feet. “I’m sure your lemon drizzle is miles better.”

Levi shakes his head affectionately and moves to meet you face-to-face when you stand on your feet. He hums when he gets there and strokes his finger down your arm, charming his way into your arms and once he’s close enough to your face, he allows a smile to warm over his features.

He dips his head to greet your lips with a kiss, the first of the day since he left you in the morning.

“Trust me when I say,” Levi says when he pulls away, his expression amused as he croons his finger under your chin and quickly leaves another kiss on your mouth, “I very much doubt that.”

#aot #attack on titan #snk #aot imagine #levi aot #levi ackerman #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi smut #levi ackerman smut #attack on titan smut #aot x reader #levi imagine #levi ackerman imagine #attack on titan imagine #levi baker au #jeanbie #ittojean

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mae-gi-writes · 1 year

Text

rile you up | lee Minho (xo kitty)

You’re Minho’s latest form of entertainment and he cannot just get enough of riling you up.

Genre: romcom, slice of life, school!au, minho is a little dick

———

“Fuck you, Minho.”

“What a ray of sunshine you are on this fine day.”

You grit your teeth together, almost grind them to nothing, and repeat the words with even more conviction, “I said fuck you.”

”Watch that tongue sunshine, might fall out if you’re not careful,” Minho’s grin just widens at the way your eyes have narrowed into slights. If looks could kill, he would’ve been shot int he head twice, revived, and shot once again. But thankfully for him, your narrow-eyed stare is nothing scarier than a cute kitten ready to take her claws out.

It’s a boring, rainy and muddy Wednesday afternoon and you really don’t want to be here, in English Lit, listening to professor Lau drone on and on about love and friendship in the verses of Lord Byron’s poems and how, if you read in-between the lines and analyze the intonations, the words, the onomatopieas, you’ll find a much deeper definition of Lord Byron’s feelings.

And Minho sitting right beside you is not making it much easier.

“You’ve got a pimple growing on your left cheek,” Minho squints at your face as you turn away, cupping your face with your hands as your eyes find the lock tick, tick, ticking at the far end of the classroom. Thirty more minutes of this torture.

“Can you just stop hyper-analyzing me like I’m some kind of lab rat?I’m really not in the mood for this right now.” You snap back.

“Woah,” Minho sighs before he shakes his head, “you really did wake up on the wrong side of the bed today.”

“And you, my friend, need to mind your own business.”

“Minho and Y/N.”

Professor Lau’s voice causes both of them to wince, physically, before looking up to see the said old man with bespectacled glasses, the book of poems in his hand and his eyebrows raised as though he expected better.

If you’re being honest, you really do enjoy Professor Lau’s classes, normally. Normally.

But not today. Today, you’re having a completely off day. You woke up late, you couldn’t sleep at all last night, and all the coffee had run out by the time you’d made it to campus. Your grades are suffering and you’re currently trying to ploughing through all the assignments without drowning.

And the worst of it all, you miss home.

You miss your mom. You miss your family, your brother with whom you would fight with at every occasion and play Mario kart with. You missed your grandma, your aunts, the food they cooked, the shared laughter, the smiles…

You’re in so deep in your thought process that you haven’t even registered that Professor Lau is telling you off until he calls for your name that brings you back to attention.

“—yes?” Your eyes flit up to Professor Lau’s and a wave of emotion suddenly takes its toll on you. You try hard to blink back the sudden burn of tears at the corner of your eyes, crawling up your throat.

“I was expecting better of your behaviour, miss Y/N,” he says, pointedly looking between you and Minho with pursed lips, “in my office after class. You’re up for cleaning duty.”

Great. That’s exactly what you need. After everything.

Fucking. Great.

———

“These pretty hands cannot clean,” these are Minho’s first words as the rest of the class files out to leave you two alone on cleaning duty and as you had predicted, there are papers all over the place, test papers and pens and pencils, “I’ve taken care of my hands all these years. I am not ruining it just to clean a classroom.”

“You are so freaking dramatic,” you roll your eyes, standing up to find the cleaning supplies that are stacked at the back of the class, in the storage closet, “let’s just get this over with and we can both move on with our lives and I won’t have to see you again for the rest of this week.”

“What’s up your arse, dude?” Minho follows you, one hand leaning on the doorframe as you start pulling out the duster, the cleaning rags and the shiny new broom that Professor Lau is currently obsessed with, “you’ve been acting really weird.”

“What?” You scoff, proceeding to hand him the broom because you know he’s never going to be the one on his hands and knees cleaning the floors, “I’m not. I’m just tired.”

“No, you’ve been acting off all week. You’re all snappy, your dark circles are so prominent you look like a walking zombie and you keep asking me to go fuck myself,” Minho rolls his eyes, “also, how do you use this?”

“Jesus chri—“ you make a move towards him, grabbing the hand holding the broom while struggling to circle his back and grabbing the other, “you keep that thing steady, then you brush the dirt from this one—“ you grip his hand and shuffle it over the floor in a sweeping motion, “until it goes into the pan. Got it?”

It's only then you realize the warmth emanating from Minho's back. If you move a little closer, you could press your cheek against him. He smells like something citrus and fresh mint and man.

Somehow, it makes goosebumps explode all over your skin. You step back abruptly, noting the heat searing through your palms where you had touched him just as he turns to face you, "you seem to be a natural at this. Why don't you do it?"

"I'm gonna take care of the floors," you're glad for the distraction that comes in the form of the rag, for there's a knot of heat in the middle of your chest and you're not quite sure how to deal with it, "let's just get this over with."

There's a long moment of silence as both of you focus on your tasks, which helps to calm down your nerves. Somehow, the sound of Minho's brush is conforting to hear.

Until he speaks up, "so you're gonna tell me what's wrong?"

"Why should I tell you, of all people?"

"Because there's nobody else around and seeing you all mopey makes me actually feel bad for you."

You wipe off the dusty corner by the teacher's desk, "Do you have any ounce of decency in you somewhere?"

"Not when you're involved," Minho snickers.

You whip around, throw the balled-up rag at him and smirk in satiafaction when it hits him square in the head, "ow--what the fuck, Y/N?!"

Glad that you managed to piss him off, you turn and continue, "oops sorry. My hand slipped."

It's not ultimately Minho's fault that you're more anxious, more easily irritated than usual. So you can't really take it out on him. But he doesn't make it any easier either.

Thankfully, the rest of the cleanup goes smoothly as butter and he parts ways with the excuse that he needs to go find his aupposed lunch date, to which you merely rolles your eyes and headed for the dining hall alone.

It doesn't normally bother you to be alone. On the contrary, you relish in those silent moments of freedom without having to hear an earful from Kitty and Q, or having Yuri complain about yet another one of her life's family miseries.

But as you find a vacant seat by the door, you can't help but suddenly feel a little small in a room full of people who seem to be right where they should be. And something in your heart constricts and clenches so hard it causes a soft sob to die at the back of your throat.

You grip your spoon a little tighter and bite down so hard on your lip that you feel the tangy taste of blood.

It feels lonely.

------

You're kind of sick.

Not physically sick.

Just sick of hearing christmas carols ringing all over campus. Sick of smelling hot chocolate in the air, sick of seeing luggages being dragged on vacation.

Sick of being here.

For an international student, returning home for Christmas was never an option. The airplane ticket is too expensive for your familt to afford, and you wouldn't ever impose that on them. But if you had to admit to that selfish part of you; you wished you were privileged enough to get to fly out at every chance you got.

Alas, that is not the kind of life that you live.

So when the doorbell rings at seven-thirty in the morning on Christmas Eve, you're more than surprised to find none other than Minho standing by your door with his hands in his pockets.

"Wh--Yeah? What do you want?" You frown upon noticing the lack of luggage behind him. Knowing Minho, he packed like a diva.

He hums and peeks inside your flat, causing you to shuffle into his peripheral vision, "what do you want Minho?"

"You're not packed."

"Wise observation, smartass."

He brushes past you and strides inside, taking his shoes off casually by the door, "why not?"

"None of your business."

He throws you an exasperated look, "you gonna keep being like this?"

"I don't know, are you gonna keep annoying the hell out of me?"

He can't help the grin that spreads over his face at that, "you're fun to mess around with."

"Well for your information, it's not fun. Not for me," you don't hesitate to walk over before grabbing onto his arm and tugging over to the door, "really. I'm fine. Now leave."

"I'm surprised you're not going home for Christmas," he continues as you're pushing him out of the door.

It stings, "why?"

"International kids usually do," he folds his arms, proceeds to lean into the open doorway and you got another whiff of his scent, "what? Daddy didn't want to pay for you this time?"

"My dad died. Two years ago."

There's surprise first, that flashes through his eyes. Then realization slowly dawns.

There’s some kind of weight in your chest. Like your heart has just broke.

"What?" You laugh but it's dry and twisted, "cat got your tongue? Too shocked to speak? Poor little Y/N, who doesn't have a father to pay off her credit card bills, right?"

"I didn't know--"

"Of course you didn't. You never asked."

"I'm--" he swallows, looks away, "—sorry."

You scoff, "don't. It's okay. I've been over it for the past two years."

It's not what he says but rather the way he looks at you that makes your insides shrivel up with dread and fear and the idea that he'll never look at you the same way ever again.

Because the thing is, no matter how much Mjnjo teases you, bullies you into oblivion, you do enjoy the attention, the banter. It's almost as if it's better than just being ignored altogether.

And amidst all his teasing and his annoying personaity, there are bite and smidges of Minho's kindness smattered in-between, flecks of tenderness that makes your heart soar, your brrath

To have such a man look down at you, pity you, makes you want to be sick.

"Y/N--" you cut him off before he can even try to make it up to you, "it's fine, Minho. Just drop it--"

"Wha--I said I was sorry, don't give me that look--"

"I said drop it!" You swerve around on him, anger bubbling from deep within your chest as blood pulses through, rushes through you, "for one goddamn second, can you just leave me alone?! I don’t need this—this constant bullying of your part! It’s tiring and it’s just so goddamn frustrating and humiliating so will you just stop?!”

The shocked silence that follows your sudden outburst is heavy. If the tension had been thick before, it’s now so hard you can barely cut it with a knife. You try to regulate your staccato breaths, try not to let your body take over your mind as you focus on breathing in, breathing out, breathing in. Breathing out. Just like that.

Calm. Like water. Like you’re a river that never stops.

“Just go, Minho,” your words are bitter. You can barely look his way, an overwhelming surge of irritation, guilt and hurt swimming through you.

Thankfully, the young man seems just as surprised as you are and leaves without even a backward glance. That’s when you finally cave in and allow your legs to crumble to your floor. Pressing your head against the door, your body instantly gives into the sadness that crumbles through you like used up tissue, soaking in all the tears that are suddenly cascading down your cheeks without restraint.

You cry yourself to sleep that night.

———

“Minho, I’m really sorry about my behaviour.”

You stare.

Your reflection stares back.

Shit. This doesn’t feel right. You close your eyes, exhale a soft breath, and open them once more only to find a set of familiar brown eyes gazing back at you.

It’s just the day after Christmas and though the majority of your friends were still off campus, you’re well aware that a certain Korean young man has decidedly stayed back because of his mother’s offshoot shooting commercial.

However, you still hadn’t gotten the guts to go back and ask him for a formal apology yet. Did you even need one when he’d been the one prodding you with a stick like he would with a nest of aggressive bees?

Oh well. You decided you’d be the bigger person and make the first move. As always.

So you look back to your reflection with renewed determination, take a deep breath before forcing the words out, “I am really sorry for my shitty behaviour, Minho, I should’ve—no,” you shake your head, start again and clasp your hands together for good measure, “I’m really sorry if I offended you in any way, I was hurt—no. God. I sound so pathetic.” You can’t help but curse at the mirror.

Inhale. Exhale. Deep breath. And you try once more, this time adding a small smile.

“I’m really sorry for everything that I said. I was being a bit insensitive and wasn’t in the right headspace—“ you break off with a frustrated snarl, “god! Why is it so hard to apologize to the dude?!”

“The dude’s standing right here.”

Shocked, you swivel around only to find none other than the said question in person leaning against your doorway, eyebrows raised and a semblance of a smirk lining his lips.

“M—Minho,” you feel like slapping yourself for sounding like a stuttering goldfish. Quickly, your hands smooth down your sweater, hiding them in the big bell sleeves as your eyes find everything — anything, to get off his face, “what—what are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you, actually.”

“Why?”

You’re still not looking, deciding that the faint crack in your dorm room is much more interesting.

Minho’s footsteps approach as he strides close, close enough that you get a whiff of his expensive cologne and restrain yourself from sighing out loud.

The bastard smells too good, you feel like crying.

“Why?” He scoffs, “isn’t it obvious?”

“Not really.”

“Alright. Fine,” you’re still not looking at him, which is why you almost jump out of your skin the moment you feel the gentlest graze of his fingertips at your jaw.

“Wha—“ you stutter, eyes flashing up to his on instinct.

Dark brown meets swirls of maroon. You almost lose your breath.

In the mid-morning light with sunshine falling over half of his face, Minho looks like he’d just walked out of some fashion magazine.

“What are you…doing?” You manage to murmur out. Barely.

It’s hard to concentrate when he’s right there, in your personal space, looking a little too dashing for his own good.

“You’re right. I was being a selfish dick to you two days ago,” his grip on your chin is firm, his dark eyes even firmer, “so I’m sorry if you took it the wrong way.”

You laugh, “wait—is Minho actually apologizing? To me?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“But this is a legendary moment,” you fake a mocking gasp at him, “I should record this right now.”

“Don’t make me regret it, Y/N.”

Chuckling, your eyes crinkle up as you allow yourself to roam over his features, “okay okay, I’ll stop.”

Minho fidgets and doesn’t say anything back. Weird, considering that he has a comeback for everything. You feel his hand drop from your chin as he takes a step back, lips pressed together and face looking like he’s uncomfortable being here.

Do you make him uncomfortable? It’s not a sight you’re used to seeing. Something tugs at your heartstrings but you try and ignore it.

“What is it?” You ask instead.

“There is…” his eyes dart away, “something I need to tell you.”

“About?”

His hand drops. Instantly, cold swoops in.

“About me. And you.”

You squint, “Minho I swear, if this is one of your stupid jokes again—“

“I like you.”

You blink.

He gazes back. His eyes. They’re gazing straight at you. Focused. Intense. Hot.

So hot it causes a flame to burst in your chest.

Wait…your mind backtracks, what?

“You—“ your mouth opens. Closes. Opens once more, "I'm sorry--what?"

His eyes answer in his stead. Dark orbs swirling with a depth that makes your skin explode in goosebumps. You realize, all too soon, how close you are, how -- if you want -- you can diminish the space between just with one single step forward.

"I like you," he says it honestly. Somehow, you relish in the way he says it. Clear and transparent. No inside games, no beating around the bush, "maybe more than a little."

You sense a but. "And?"

He rolls his eyes, "and maybe I just don't know how to show it."

"You mean, acting like a five year old boy who bullies his crush for fun because he likes her?"

"Something like that."

"Okay," you drag out the word in hopes that it will hide the way your heart suddenly skips a beat, the way your legs feel weaker at the knees, "so what--what now?"

"Well, that's the part where you tell me you like me back--" Minho catches himself upon seeing you raise a brow at him, "--or not. Your choice, your rules, doll."

Doll? You can feel the flame bursting through your chest and squeezing your heart. It aches so much it hurts, though it seems that your smile can't help tugging at the corners of your lips as you watch him and despite his seeming nonchalance about the whole matter, there's the slightest sheen of pink that gives him away.

Cute. Your brain chants.

"Well," you tilt your chin up in what you hope is a confident manner, "you normally take a girl out to dinner first."

"Is that a yes?" Minho smirks.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, yes I heard alright. Fine," he sighs and crosses his arms over his chest, "tomorrow night. Dinner. Be ready by six. I'll pick you up."

"Tomorrow? But wait I--"

"You better be there, doll."

And with that, he swivels on his feet and walk away while whistling a soft tune, leaving your heart flooded with a tide of mixed emotions that erupt through your chest and butterflies running along your skin.

---

Minho: I'll come pick you up by six. Be ready then. Wear something cute but casual. Nothing fancy.

Y/N: i like how you're telling me how to dress up when you're the one who's supposes to be wooing me.

Minho: oh you don't have to worry about that.

The way he replies so smoothly has goosebumps running along the back of your neck and you squeeze your hands into fists. You're still sitting on your bed, trying to digest all this new information as another flurry of messages burst through your phone, probably fron Kitty's latest reaction your news.

Kitty: what?! Minho?! And you?! He asked you out?!!! Omg how did I not see this coming!!!

Y/N: i thought you were a matchmaker.

Kitty: well YEAH before he went and ruined it!!! Anyway, what are you WEARING?!

Y/N: i have absolutely no idea. He said something cute but casual, so I'm guessing there's not gonna be any fancy dinners or anything.

Kitty: omg!! Minho and casual doesn't sound right. Maybe he really is trying to woo you!!

Y/N: should I wear shorts? Pants? A skirt?

Kitty: definitely no pants. Maybe that cute skater skirt you wore to Yuri's party last semester?

So you do. The skirt's baby blue colour contrasts well with the simple white tshirt you decided to wear with it, and throwing on a beige cardigan and some white sneakers complete the look. You add a small blue bow into your hair to match, and take one last look at yourself in hopes that you're looking exactly how Minho wants you to--

No. That's the wrong way to go about it. Minho likes you. Yes. You. Not the girls he's always so uses to seeing. You don't have to impress him.

That’s how you meet him right outside your door, with your newly-found resolve as you catch the simple white tee and ripped jeans, hair styled just the way he likes it, just enough to make every woman’s heart swoon.

His eyes do a once-over, “not bad, Y/N. You clean up nice.”

“Not bad?” You scoff, “I’m sure there are much better adjectives to use.”

He grins, “we’ll see.”

Minho brings you over to the Han river by electric scooter, with you standing in front and holding on to the handlebars as he guides you across the street even though it’s technically illegal for people to do such a thing. But with the wind in your hair and Minho’s warmth at your back, you don’t find yourself complaining.

“Han river?” You raise a brow at him as he parks and pays for his e-scooter ride, “really? So cliche.”

“The Han River is a classic,” he looks at you pointedly, “and I’ll have you know, I’ve never brought anyone here before.”

“Ooh, does that mean anything?” You wriggle your brows and he scoffs, looks away, “shut up.”

You weren’t expecting him, of all people, to be a fan of romantic gestures such as this. But when he parks his scooter in favor of walking alongside you by the trail — even with his multiple complaints about the dirt being too dirty and people needing to revisit their wardrobe fashion — you can’t help but wonder how much effort he’s putting into just being with you. Because knowing Minho, walking on crushed grass and having his shoes in dirt is quite a big deal.

“Look, do you want to be swooned or not?” He replies when you ask him the question, even looks offended that you’d dared ask such a thing, “I thought girls loved it when boys brought them here.”

“Yes I know that,” your grin is so wide that you’re surprised it hasn’t broken your face in two yet, “and don’t get me wrong. I love it, but I never thought you—of all people — would bring me here, of all places. It’s just not…”

“Not what?” He scowls.

“Just not you,” you confess, and then, seeing that his frown seems to take a permanent fixture on his face, you quickly add, “so the fact that you’re doing it…thanks. It means…something. You know?”

Heat springs through your cheeks at the sudden confession and you quickly look away, anywhere, but not before glancing at Minho to see that he has a faint smile dancing across his lips.

As the evening wears on, you get to talk about everything and anything; from worries about your future and the rigorous routine of adult life, about which game box is better and which restaurant serves the best korean noodles, which Minho argues does not exist, considering that every single noodle joint in Seoul is a pro in making them.

"We're the city of noodles and gimbap, obviously there's more than one good noodle stop."

"You speak like someone who hasn't tasted Uncle Cha's food yet. You know, the snack from across the road to campus."

Minho's nose wrinkles, "nah I'm good--"

"Oh no you don't," you grab onto his arm before he has a chance to run away, "nu-uh. Let's go get them right now, actually."

Surprisingly awed by Cha's cuisine, Minho has no other choice than to grumble out a faint agreement. It's no secret that it makes your day.

"But the environment--" Minho shudders, "I think I saw a cockcroach scuttling about in there."

“Oh yeah,” you let your eyes follow the wall and trail back up to him, pointing at his face, “there’s one.”

Shoving you playfully, he pulls out his tongue in such a childish manner you can’t help but burst out laughing.

You decide to take the walk back along the Han River even if it makes a detour, stopping by a coffee shop to grab some hot chocolate. The city lights now illuminate the city like stars scraping the earth’s surface and you can’t help but feel amazed by how beautiful the scenery is, with the wind trickling through your hair and soft music from busking sessions in the background.

“I’ve never actually walked along the Han River before,” you confess to him as you gaze down at the black waters sloshing against the river edge, “thanks, Minho.”

He has the look of a satisfied five year old child who got a gold star for his best behaviour, “you’re welcome.”

“Who knew you’d be the one to bring me here?” You jostle his shoulder playfully before taking a sip of your hot chocolate.

“What’s that you’re implying?” He frowns.

“That you’ve surprised me and my expectations.”

“And that’s supposed to be a compliment?” He looks horrified and dramatic, “you’re harsh, Y/N. I’ll have you know, I haven’t—“ he stops himself just in time for you to swoop in and push, “yeah? You haven’t what?”

“Nevermind,” he sips his own drink and you notice the way his ears have turned red.

You giggle, “tell me, have you gone on dates before?”

“Wha—of course I have! What kind of question is that?!” You keep on laughing and laughing at his face, shaking your head as you try and muffle your chuckles the best you can, “oh god—oh my god, you never have. It’s written all over your face—“

“You talk too much,” he mutters into his drink and turns away from you, ears as red as a fire engine.

You nudge him, smiling, loving that side of him that he’s never really shown anyone before. Because you all know the cool, confident Minho. But this, this side of Minho is uncharted territory.

And you’re all here for it.

“Why not, though?”

His eyes narrow as he looks back at you, “what?”

“Why haven’t you brought anyone out before?’ You fidget with your cup, glad that it’s warming your hands so you can busy yourself with something, “because I’ve seen you, with different types of girls. All the time—��

“Yeah that didn’t mean anything.”

“But you still went out with them.”

“Is that jealousy I hear in your voice?”

“What?” Heat flushes through you, “no, I just—“

That’s when you feel it. His hand, fluttering up to yours. He pries your hold from your cup gently before bringing it down between you, fingers entangling with yours like they’re meant to be there in the first place.

And when your eyes flutter to lock onto his, there’s liquid warmth in those pools of brown, a tenderness you’ve seldom seen before.

“This is new too,” he murmurs then, “all of this.”

Your heart skips a beat. There are no words to be said.

You swallow thickly, look away, and don’t miss the soft chuckle that falls from his lips as he keeps swinging your hands back and forth between you, his smile a permanent fixture on his face. One that your lips mirror faintly as you keep walking back towards your dorms in comforting silence.

———

“Was that romantic enough for you?”

Minho’s question is met with a chuckle from your part as you finally reach your dormitory. A few stray students are still studying deep into the night, some already asleep on the deep blue couches in the common room as you make your way through, hands still entertained from earlier.

Your heart has been skipping and rollerblading into ecstasy ever since.

“Hmm,” you hum, even tilting your head in thought, “guess so. Though if I had any complaints—“

“You wouldn’t tell me, because there aren’t any,” Minho finishes for you, “right?”

“Oh i have plenty, but I’ll keep it for another time,” you flash him a mischievous smile. You’ve reached your corridor by that time, your words causing Minho to shoot you a suggestive look.

“another time?” He repeats with a cock of his brow.

You bite your lip and look away to avoid the fact that there’s a faint, yet growing smile on your face, “yeah. Maybe.”

The said young man’s lips pulls into a small smile, “I can work with that.” He murmurs, and something warm pools in the middle of your chest.

It’s hard to control yourself around Minho especially when he’s not being a little shit. Because the fact is; he’s very enticingly charming and likable.

“Well, that’s me,” you’ve reached your door then, glad that for once your dorm room is free of activity since both your roommates have gone home for the Christmas season, and turn towards Minho.

“Thanks you, for tonight,” your cheeks are warm with heat but you can’t resist grinning up at him, “I had more fun than expected.”

Minho sucks in a dramatic breath, “wow. I think i finally got a compliment out of your mouth.”

“Trust me, that’s me being nice.”

“I know,” he flashes a grin at you and before you know it, his arm has gone up to press against the doorway, caging you in and suddenly making you feel smaller than you are already. His body heat rolls into you in waves, the scent of his boyish cologne making you dizzy as your body leans into him unconsciously.

“So,” he breathes. He’s so close, so close that if you move just a little, your noses would brush, “since I’ve taken you out on a date, do I get to kiss you now?”

Air stills in your lungs. Your teeth find your lower lip.

“It depends,” your whisper is so soft he barely catches it, too enthralled by the way your mouth curves and moves with the words, “will you take me out again?”

“If her highness wishes,” Minho chuckles, tilting his head so that your noses brush. Electricity zaps through your body, goosebumps raising at the back of your neck, “I’ll take you wherever you want.”

Your eyes lock. There’s warmth, want. Desire swimming through his own pools of brown.

“Sounds like a promise,” you breathe, “so when will that—“

“Y/N.”

The way he says your name has a knot tightening in your stomach. Your body tenses in anticipation.

He’s gazing at you as if he’s only just seeing you. His lips are so close, you can feel his breaths on your lips. Hot against cold. He smells divine.

You’re so lost in your own daydream that you respond a few seconds late, “y-yeah?”

“Do me a favor?”

One hand cradles your cheek. You freeze.

“Hm?”

“Stop talking.”

And before you can do anything else, his mouth presses against yours.

Fireworks explode. Behind your eyelids. Through your body. Blood races and your brain goes fuzzy with want and desire as Minho’s other hand wraps around your waist to tug you in, his other hand clasping your jaw firmly as he kisses you. Once. Twice. He’s a good kisser, yet so gentle and tentative.

You’re taken by surprise for a few seconds, before you finally melt into him and kiss him back. A sigh escapes you as your hands go up to wrap around his neck, and the groan of satisfaction he lets out makes your entire nerves buzz with delight.

Tilting his head to the side to kiss you deeper, longer, you let out a gasp against his mouth as he pulls you even closer still, as if he can’t get enough of you. You haven’t realized you’re pressed to the door until your back meets the hard wood underneath and you yelp softly at the way his tongue swipes over your bottom lip to ask for entrance.

He kisses you softly, yet so firmly as if you’re the only thing keeping him alive, satiated. His hand at your hip moves up, tracing the back of your spine, the side of your rib cage before brushing against the corner of your bra and making you squirm while your hands curl into his hair. You tug, causing a grumble to echo out of Minho’s chest. His tongue darts in and you part for him like melted butter so that he can kiss you and ravage you without restraint.

Everything falls away, with only Minho being your anchor. You smell him, feel him against you, and want nothing else other than the dizzying rush that makes your stomach erupt with fireflies.

Your mouths part with a pop and he takes this chance to nip at your jaw, littering kisses down your neck before suckling on a soft patch of skin. Your body reacts instantly, curving into him as your lips part in a soft, minuscule moan. That’s enough to snap him back to attention.

He gazes up at you, chest heaving and all heavy breaths. His lips are swollen and red and just so beautiful. Hair tousled like he’s just tumbled out of bed and you quickly decide that’s the look you love best on him.

The curfew bell sounds and he curses.

“Minho,” you murmur when he leans in, noses brushing to capture your lips into his once more. You sigh, eyes falling shut as he takes your next set of words away.

It’s almost as if he’s drunk on you, as if he just can’t get enough.

The thought makes you shiver. Your heart swells with emotion.

“Minho,” you murmur once more against his lips. He groans, pulls away onto to bury his face into your neck and humming, “yeah?”

“Curfew’s in two minutes.”

“I know,” he’s pressing open-mouthed kisses over your collarbone and you can’t help but whimper and cradling his head closer to you despite trying to make sense of your thoughts.

“Y—You should go,” you stutter out but it’s almost like you’re talking to yourself. He’s clearly in his own world, suckling onto your skin and leaving purple marks to claim you as his. He pulls away, groaning appreciatively at the sight you make.

“Do I really have to go?” His dark eyes — darker than you’ve ever seen them — flickers over your features. There’s a kind of hunger to them that makes you shiver.

“Yes,” you stammer out, heart almost bursting out of your chest when the boy merely tugs you close before he rests his head atop yours. He holds you, breaths you in, and your eyes close on their own accord, taking in the moment like it’s the last.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” his whisper grazes the shell of your ear and you shiver. He pulls back and there’s the kind of crooked smile that makes your heart tighten, “goodnight, Y/N.”

“Good night, Minho,” you murmur and dropping a last kiss atop your temple, you watch him walk away, raising a salute with his hand as he does so.

———

A/N: GAHHH IDK WHAT I WROTE AND I GAVE UP AT THE END I HOPE IT’S ALRIGHT BUT ANYWAY I’VE BEEN OBSSESSED WITH MINHO THESE DAYS.

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fatuismooches · 11 months

Text

a lesson in cooking.

“There you are, my love!” You exclaimed as you saw Kabukimono coming into sight, holding a few packed bags. You had sent him to pick up some ingredients from your fellow villagers and the small market, as you had begun to run low on some things. You had initially planned to go too, but Kabukimono insisted on you resting while he did all the work. He was rather persistent, and you knew that he had this odd trait of needing to prove himself to you, so you couldn’t bring yourself to decline his request.

You rushed out of the house to his side, hoping to take some of the bags to alleviate him of the weight. But the puppet did not budge, only pouting. “Don’t worry about me, [Name]. I can handle this by myself,” he stated, trying to seem as serious as possible, but his pouting, chubby squeezable cheeks didn’t help his case. You had to settle for supporting his back as he climbed up the stairs to your house and rested the bags on the kitchen table, trying not to chuckle as he not so secretly let out a sigh of relief.

You had decided to teach Kabukimono one of the simplest yet most nutritious and delicious meals - soup. He had been eager lately to learn how to cook lately. Not only to learn more about humans and their activities, but it seems like he wants to help out in the village more. How cute.

After you did all the basic preparations like washing your hands and making space in the kitchen, you spoke. “Alright, the first thing we need to do is wash and cut up the produce we’re going to use,” you instructed, pulling up your sleeves. Kabukimono copied you keenly.

“Let’s do the carrots first.” After you washed and placed the carrots on the cutting board, you pondered on how you were going to do this. You never really taught something like this before… but it shouldn’t be too hard, right? Plus, your lover was an avid learner. Though diced or shaped carrots would be too hard for Kabukimono right now, so you should just go with coined ones.

“Okay, the first thing we have to do is peel the carrot. It can be a little tricky, so just watch me first,” you instructed, showing him how to peel the skin of the vegetable with the knife. The puppet watched intently with immense focus and furrowed eyebrows, and you couldn’t help but smile. “Here, now you try,” you said, handing him the knife. Kabukimono had a determined look on his face as he clumsily tried to peel the carrots, but not much progress was being made, and immediately a pout appeared on his face.

“It’s not working,” he whined, a bit discouraged already from how easily you did it, and yet he was struggling at the first step.

“You’re not going to get it on your first try. It takes practice, just like anything else,” you cooed, reassuring him. “Just keep trying, we have all day. Here, I’ll help you.” At your words, the puppet perked up again and began to repeat the process, this time with your hand gently placed on top of his, helping him use the knife to peel. Kabukimono’s reddened face had gone down by the time all the carrots were peeled.

“Good job, baby. Now, you have to cut the top and bottom part of it, like this. And then cut the whole thing in half. See?” You demonstrated yet again and the puppet followed your actions, a bit awkwardly, but still better than the peeling.

“Now, it’s time for the actual cutting. See, just place the knife above like this, press down, and keep moving along…” you cut the carrots at a slow pace to ensure he’d do the same thing. He soon copied your movements, though it wasn’t perfect - some slices were too thin or thick, but that was alright, you assured. He was trying his best and that was what mattered.

Though you probably shouldn’t have taken your eyes off him, not even a second.

You had come to realize the puppet had no sense of danger. He would stick his hand into a fire and get surprised when it hurt. He would jump into the water and then realize he couldn’t swim. You thought his thirst for new experiences to be cute, but frequently you would worry if he hurt himself on accident. So usually, you took it upon yourself to watch the learning puppet carefully, but even you slipped up sometimes.

So when you turned around to gather some of the other ingredients, and then were greeted by the sight of Kabukimono’s bleeding finger, you mentally kicked yourself.

“Oh Kabukimono… let’s get that cleaned up,” you urged, moving his bleeding finger to a bucket of water and some soap. You begin to clean the wound while Kabukimono looked on guiltily.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized sincerely, giving you those big baby eyes that made your heart squeeze. “I just wanted to be like you, with how you cut them so fast.”

“Is that what you did? Yes, I can cut them quickly because I’ve been doing this for many years. You’ve just started so you need to take it slow,” you gently lectured. Reaching into a cabinet, you then wrapped some gauze around his injured finger. You sighed, placing a soft kiss on it.

“What was that for?” Kabukimono had a faint flush on his face. You raised your eyebrow, sensing a new opportunity for some teasing.

“It’s simply a boo-boo kiss,” you giggled. “I’m just kissing your cut so it can heal faster!” Kabukimono looked astonished and fascinated.

“Does that actually work? Actually, I feel better already!” The puppet cheered with glee.

“Of course it does. Because I love you very, very much, Kabukimono,” you finished your sentence with one more kiss to his bandaged finger and another to his forehead. “But you must take more care of yourself. I don’t want you getting hurt again, understand?” He obediently nodded and you smiled. “Now, would you like to continue or do you want to watch me finish this up?”

“I still want to help you! This is nothing for me,” he declared, puffing out his chest. You smiled and patted his head, and this time carefully supervised him as he cut up the other vegetables, meat, and whatnot.

Kabukimono and you enjoyed an eventful evening of taste testing, mixing, and experimenting. Niwa ended up coming over for some soup as well and loudly called you two an old, married couple, which you would have shouted at him for, but Kabukimono looked so pleased you didn’t have the heart to. You briefly wonder how the puppet would react to actually getting married to you. To be tied to you for eternity. You think he’d be a wonderful husband, and you already felt a deep connection to him. Hell, the two of you were eating dinner and talking about your day together every day. Was that not a prime example of what loving married couples do?

“Is it good, Kabukimono?” You inquired about the taste as the two of you sat at the kitchen table yet again. You knew he didn’t need to eat, but he should still be able to enjoy delicious food like everyone else. Kabukimono eagerly nodded.

“Your food always tastes good, [Name]!”

“It’s not just my food this time. It’s yours too,” you giggled, booping his nose gently as he blushed. “So, do you want me to feed you?” you teased.

His mouth opened and closed, speechless and unsure of what to say, until you clarified you were just joking. The puppet was a mixture of disappointment and relief as he dug into his food.

Well, you ended up having to feed him anyway, since he ended up with a slightly burnt tongue and refused to stop cuddling with you afterward, too embarrassed to face you… You’ll have to start teaching Kabukimono not to eat hot things so quickly.

Maybe you should teach him how to make juice by squeezing fruits? There should be something for Lavender Melons, right? Well, that was for another day. Right now, you had a teary-eyed eccentric to comfort.

lesson 1. lesson 2. lesson 3. lesson 4. lesson 5. lesson 6. lesson 7. lesson 8. lesson 9. lesson 10. bonus lesson.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #kabukimono x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #scaramouche fluff #wanderer fluff #scaramouche #kabukimono #wanderer #kunikuzushi #scaramouche headcanons #scaramouche genshin #wanderer genshin #scaramouche fanfic

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yesihaveaobsession · 2 months

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Helping Hands

Alastor x female reader

Summary; to show your appreciation you decide you wanna cook dinner for everyone. In the process you jab yourself with the knife and Alastors protective instincts kick in

WARNING: cutting, no mentions of blood but al is being adorable.

In the kitchen of the hotel, you were moving swiftly around the said kitchen. Pots clanked and pans sizzled as you diligently prepared dinner for the residents. Tonight, you wanted to cook up something nice for everyone, they had welcomed you into their humble abode a few days ago and wanted to thank them.

You were truly loved from each and every one of them, even Alastor. He adorned you and even grown to become somewhat protective of you. As you chopped vegetables with practiced precision, a familiar voice cut through the din.

"Ah, what do we have here? Cooking up a delectable feast, are we?" His eyes were filled with curiosity, as he ventured further into the kitchen and watched you. You glanced up from your task, offering a warm smile. "Indeed, I thought I'd whip up something special for everyone tonight. "Alastor's wide smile only got bigger. he made a show of sniffing the air dramatically. "Ah, the aroma alone is positively divine Do you require any assistance, my dear?"

You looked up again and only smiled at the Radio Demon, chuckling softly, you shook your head. "No, thank you, Alastor. I've got everything under control." He only raised an eyebrow then found himself leaning onto the counter, reaching for a spice that you were using and taking it in-between two of his fingers and inspecting it. He then he observed your culinary skills with interest. However, fate had other plans in store.

As you deftly sliced through a ripe tomato, your concentration wavered for a moment, and the blade nicked your finger. It was a tiny cut, barely a scratch, but the sudden sting made you hiss in surprise. Before you could react, Alastor was by your side in an instant, his expression a mix of concern and urgency. But still had his crescent smile "Goodness gracious, are you alright?"

You couldn't help but let out a chuckle at how he was reacting it was sweet, but you've been through a lot worse than a messily cut. "I'm fine, Alastor, really. It's just a little cut." But Alastor wasn't convinced, surprisingly with gentle assistance which you were fine and didn't need. Alastor gently helped you sit on a chair, holding your wrist up to his level, he moved his monocle and squinted slightly inspecting your cut. You tried to stifle a laugh. His movements surprisingly tender as he inspected the minor injury.

"It may be minor, my dear, but it still requires attention," he murmured, retrieving a first aid kit from a nearby cabinet.You watched in amusement as he cleaned up and bandaged your cut. Once he was satisfied with his handiwork, Alastor straightened up, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "There we are all patched up. Now, allow me to take over the cooking duties while you rest."

You were going to argue, and he knew you well enough to cut you off. "And don't argue with me dear." He pointed his finger at you still smiling. You only sighed and said "Fine" That's all he needed to hear, he was zooming all around the kitchen humming a tune. You couldn't help but smile at his genuine concern, touched by his unexpected act of kindness. "Thank you, Alastor. I appreciate it."

"Of course, my darling."

#alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor x you #the radio demon #hazbin alastor #alastor imagine #i have an obsession

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thetriumphantpanda · 2 months

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i don't really wanna fight, 'cause nobody's gonna win | javier peña

Take The Weight Off His Shoulders - Chapter Eight

Chapter Summary | A little slice of domesticity wasn't ever going to be enough to cover the stress of the story unfolding on your desk, but it was worth a shot right?

Chapter Warnings | Mentions of drugs and the drug trade, work frustrations, explicit smut, fingering, unprotected PiV smut, creampie, dirty talk, we ride this man like our LIFE depends on it and some ANGST (I'm sorry, it had to happen sometime.)

Pairing | dbf!Javier Peña x F!Reader

Word Count | 3.2k

Authors Note | OOOOOF okay we're back with these two. Real life has been kicking my ass so I'm sorry this took so long - but we're moving into the tail end of this now so prepare yourselves for even more drama! Thank you for being so patient with me and waiting for this - I hope you enjoy it. If you are enjoying this then reblogs and comments really do help and if you’d like to support me further, please consider a donation to my Ko-Fi.

I no longer use taglists. Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs to be notified of new updates.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi | Series Playlist

The words on the deed to the drug den in town are all forming into one - you’re not actually sure they’re in the English language anymore. You’ve been staring at the pages for what feels like a full week, even if you’d only spread them out for reading on your desk this morning. You don’t know what to do. There is, of course, the obvious option, of walking right up to their front door and asking what the hell is going on, but the more you dig, the more you think there’s something bigger going on here.

You pour over your notes, trying to make sense of it all. It was nothing to do with Tyler Johnson, but it had something to do with his family, that was for sure. There’s no way that this whole thing would have been brushed under the rug and dealt with by the police saying ‘oh well, we don’t know’ if there wasn’t something incriminating behind it all. You tried not to think about that possibly meaning your dad was implicated somewhere along the line.

Instead of sitting around and feeling useless, considering the words on the page weren’t leading you anywhere at all, you tidy up your desk, stick your head around your managers door to tell her you were heading out for the story, and you get in your car and drive.

They lead such dull lives, is all you can really think at this point. The sun is setting and it’s finally starting to cool a little. The thought process had been simple, if you weren’t going to catch them in the act on paper, you would have to catch them in the act for real - whatever that act might be.

You’d started with Tyler’s dad, following behind him as he went about mayoral business, driving from his office to some meeting in town and then back again. You’d waited an hour in the parking lot to see if he moved again, but gave up after a while. Deciding on following Tyler’s brother instead - but he’d been more of the same. You’d found him getting into his car at work once the day was done, driving to the grocery store and then going home. That was it. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Thinking about it, what would you even do if you did find them doing something? Tyler’s brother getting a package handed to him down a dark alley - there’s no way to get any proof, you don’t have a camera, and no-one’s going to believe you against them. The more you sit there, the more you think maybe you should have taken the story at face value, published it and moved on.

You suppose that these kinds of operations take time and patience - two things you were running seriously low on by now. You’re thinking of all the time’s Javi must have needed to do this - sitting around in a car waiting to catch someone doing something and wondered how he’d lasted so long. You weren’t made for this kind of work.

Sighing to yourself, you turn the key in the ignition and head home, trying not to let the frustration bubble over. You just had to wait. Bide your time. Surely somewhere along the line you’d catch someone doing something.

“You look stressed.”

You look at Javi through your eyelashes, taking a sip from the glass of wine in front of you on the counter. Your parents were taking their two week annual vacation - some place near the coast in Florida. You remember going when you were little, playing in the sand and swimming. They’d invited you this year but now you were older, it didn’t hold quite the same amount of charm as it used to, so you’d opted to stay at home.

The upside to not getting to lounge in the sun for two weeks was definitely this though. Javier Peña, hunched over the hob, sleeves of his shirt rolled up, cooking dinner for you. It was dangerous to think about how domestic it was, but you couldn’t deny how nice it felt. There was no-one to lie to about why you were late home from work for now, no need to rush through whatever it was that the two of you were doing.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t need to be sorry,” He smiles at you, picking up his beer bottle to drink from, “You want to talk about it?”

You shake your head, “It’s alright, just stuff at work.”

“In all my years of working with journalists,” He speaks, stirring the pot of sauce in front of him, “I don’t think any of them were ever as stressed as you.”

“I just care about my work.”

“So did they,” He counters, picking a strand of spaghetti from the pot to test to see if it’s cooked, “Just trying to say there isn’t a story out there worth getting this worked up over.”

“I appreciate it,” You mumble, “But can we not talk about work?”

He holds his hands up in surrender, focusing his attention on dishing up the food - spaghetti with tomato sauce. It’s simple and you know it’s probably the limit of his cooking ability outside of being able to grill meat on fire, but it’s the thought that counts. You sit at the dining table and eat together, talking about nothing really, just enough to fill the silence. Even though he cooked, he insists on clearing up and packaging the leftovers for you to eat tomorrow.

You sit and watch TV on the couch and when it gets late enough and your head starts to rest on his shoulder, Javi asks if you want to go to bed.

“I do,” You answer, “But not to sleep.”

So he slowly leads you up the stairs and into your room, softly closing the door behind him. You settle yourself under your sheets, pushing them back on the other side for him as he takes off everything he’s wearing apart from his underwear and gets into bed with you. He shuffles you around so your back in pressed to his front, his big hands wandering from your hips up to your chest, where he gently cups one of your tits in his hands over the shirt you’re wearing.

You can feel his mouth trailing kissing up your shoulder until he reaches the delicate skin behind your ear, the tickle of his facial hair there making goosebumps rise on your skin, regardless of how warm it is under your sheets.

“What do you want?” He whispers softly, snaking his free arm under your neck so the side of your face is pillowed against it.

You don’t answer, you just take hold of his wrist, dragging his hand from your chest to the waistband of your shorts. You let his hand go then, feeling his big palm cup you through the material, “Like this?” He asks, teeth nipping at your ear lobe.

“No,” You shake your head, “Under.”

That big hand drags up just a little, fingers finding the waistband again, dipping below this time. He tuts into your ear when he finds you bare, having not bothered with underwear when you’d changed out of your work clothes.

His hand is warm against your skin as it envelops you again, fingers dipping ever so slightly between the folds of your pussy to find you already wet, it doesn’t take much at all when he’s around.

Fingers dragging through the slick, up to circle your clit, he speaks again, “Like this?” He asks, feather-light touches of his fingers making you gasp.

“Y-yeah,” You choke out, “Just like that.”

So that’s what he does - let’s you rest your head against his arm, lazily rolling his finger across that bundle of nerves like he has all the time in the world for making you feel good. It’s slow, the only punctuation to his fingers are the moans he lets out into your ear whenever he pushes his hips against the plush of your ass, his bulge prominent against the clothes that are separating you.

“I want you to come for me,” He whispers gently a little while later, teeth biting gently into the skin of your shoulder, “Can you be a good girl and do that for me?”

You nod your head, unable to speak through the short, sharp gasps that the friction between your legs is drawing out from you. He speeds up a little, lets his finger add more pressure there. He lets you roll your hips, chasing at the high that is just there, coiling in your tummy. Your body starts to shake, thighs clamping down on his hands as he brings you over the edge.

“Fuck yeah,” He rasps into your ear, “So fucking pretty when you come for me, mi querida.”

Through the haze of pleasure, you can feel him rolling you over, pressing your back into the sheets. He’s settling between your thighs, pulling your shorts off altogether, but you don’t want it like this, so you press a palm to his warm chest to stop him.

“I want…” You trail off, “I think I want to be on top.”

You watch his eyebrows raise a little but he doesn’t protest, because of course he doesn’t, he simply lies himself back down on his side of the bed and waits for you. You let yourself straddle his thighs, marvelling just a little at the bulge of his underwear, before you’re hooking your fingers into the waistband to drag them just far enough down his thighs to let his cock spring free, resting on his lower stomach.

Shuffling up his thighs a little, you lower yourself, letting your soaked folds drag across his length whilst your mouth moves up to suckle at the skin of his neck. You can feel his hands on the globes of your ass, helping to drag you up and down his cock.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” He asks as you moan when the head of his cock brushes against your still-sensitive clit.

You don’t have any words, so you press yourself up, palms against his chest as you lift your hips just enough for him to reach between you, base of his cock fisted in his hand, to nudge at the weeping hole of your cunt. He holds it there for you as you slowly start to sink down onto him, moaning with your head thrown back at the stretch of taking him inside. When you reach the bottom, feeling him sucked right into the depths of you, you stay still, rolling your hips a little, feeling him so deep inside you.

Javi brings his hands to your hips, looking up at you as he guides your movements, slow forwards movements matched with even slower movements backwards, until the two of you are panting together.

You push yourself back, letting your arms fall behind you onto his knees, which have come up to rest against your backside, slowly starting to lift off him until he’s almost all the way out of the tight heat of your cunt, then you slide back down onto him, finding a rhythm of bouncing up and down on his cock.

Javi moves one of his hands from your hips, letting the flat palm run up your stomach, through the valley of your tits to lightly grip at the base of your neck. He doesn’t add any pressure, just holds his hand there, but you can feel the effect it has on you, pussy clenching around his length as you continue to bounce up and down on him.

“Look so fucking pretty like this,” He manages to choke out between moans, “Like you were made to be right here bouncing on my cock.”

“I-I think I’m g-gonna come again.” You hiss, feeling that familiar tightening in your tummy.

“Yeah?” He goads, but not unkindly, “You gonna come around my cock for me?”

To help you get there, Javi starts to thrust up into you, hand still at the base of your neck, hitting into your perfectly on your downward motion to fill you right to your depths, making your orgasm hit you head on. You feel yourself tighten around him, body collapsing forward to rest against his chest as he fucks you through the aftershocks of your climax, gripping onto your ass to keep you spread so he can find his own high, thrusting a handful of times before he’s stilling inside you, spilling himself inside with moans right into your ear.

He slips out of you as he softens, shifting you so you’re led down, both catching your breath.

“Sorry, I should have asked about that.” He mumbles, and it takes you a minute to realise he’s talking about coming inside you.

“It’s okay,” You say, turning your head to smile at him, “Although it does mean I have to go to the bathroom now.”

You drag yourself up onto all fours onto your bed, dragging yourself to the door to cover yourself in your robe before you leave Javi in your room to head to the bathroom.

He doesn’t know why he does it. In hindsight, it was out of order, but when you close the door behind you, he can’t help himself. He stands up, pulls his underwear back up and puts the rest of his clothes back on. Then he sits down on your edge of the bed and gingerly opens the top drawer of your bedside table.

There’s nothing much of note in there, a few lip balms and an old notebook, but that’s it. He opens the bottom one next, which is much more full, mainly with notebooks and sheets of paper. He knows he shouldn’t, but he reaches in and picks the first up, flicking it open to a random page somewhere in the middle, running his thumb across a loose sheet of paper before his eyes circle in on what the paper actually is.

It’s a newspaper article, reporting on Escobar’s death. When Javi looks underneath the paper there are notes written in your handwriting, detailing parts of the story that are interesting. He flicks to another page, another article about Escobar dying, with more of your handwritten notes. He can feel the panic rising in his chest, threatening to take hold of his throat.

He puts that notebook on the bed, reaches in and picks another up, flicking through to find more of the same - articles about the entire Escobar case, more handwritten notes - some written in red ink that only ever say his name with a question mark, like you’re asking yourself if he was responsible for the ill-reported heroics. Javi is too caught up in flicking through that he forgets about your return, letting you catch him red-handed when you come back through the door.

“What are you doing?” You ask, making him look up.

Your eyes are wide, like you’re shocked to find him with your notebooks in his lap.

“What’s all this?” He asks, instead of answering your question.

You surge forward, grabbing the notebook from his lap, slapping it shut, picking up the other one and then shoving them back in the drawer, “Did you go through my things?” He can tell from your tone that you’re worked up.

“Why do you have all of that?” Javi asks, standing up from the bed to take some steps away from you.

“It’s not what you think.”

“Well then tell me what it is.” He’s getting more annoyed as the moments go past.

“It was for my degree,” You say, shifting from foot-to-foot, “I don’t understand what the problem is?”

“The problem is, it’s all fucking lies!” He runs a hand over his face, more annoyed at himself for shouting at you than anything else, “It’s all fucking lies and you believe it.”

He watches as your face drops, he can see the glassing over of your eyes, “I-” You try to speak, “I’m sorry?” It’s more of an offering, like you don’t know what else to do.

“All of that shit?” He asks, pointing to the now closed drawer, “Fucking propaganda for this country to seem like it had control, when all it fucking did was make everything worse.”

“Javi, please,” You beg now, taking a step towards him with your hands open in surrender, “Why don’t you sit down and take a breath?”

He can feel himself shaking his head, stepping backwards until he can feel the handle of your door, twisting it to open. He thinks he’s saying sorry, telling you that he’s sorry, but he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he has to get out of there and away from you, almost running from the house and into his truck.

It’s not until he’s halfway to home that he can feel that panic take over, pulling over on the side of the road, knuckles turning white as he grips the steering wheel. He takes some deep breaths, trying to understand why his brain has gone from 0-100 so quickly, and all he can think of is that you’re just like everyone else in this damn town, thinking that he was a hero, that he’d played his part properly, correctly, in bringing that bastard down. I’d the wondering about what you’d think of him if you knew what he’d really done, the amount of blood actually on his hands, the fact he wasn’t here there when Murphy shot the bastard.

It’s that feeling of inadequacy that haunt him in bed that night, led against the pillows, other side cold and empty when all he wishes is that he’d stayed, let you curl into him so that he could get at least a few hours of rest. Even though he never stays the night, always leaving you with a press of lips to your head, the small hours of the morning where you’re sleeping against him are the most peaceful he thinks he’s ever had.

So, staring at his ceiling, red numbers from his clock staring him down as the hours pass, all he can think about it what the fuck he’s going to do, how he’s going to explain that this has nothing to do with you and what it had to do with your degree, and everything to do with the way he thinks if you knew exactly what had happened, outside of what the American press has told you, you’d probably hate him.

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shibaraki · 2 years

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FILL MY LITTLE WORLD (RIGHT UP) ┊ AIZAWA SHOUTA

synopsis: you are employed by aizawa shouta to nanny for his vulnerable adoptive daughter eri while he’s at work. as time passes you find yourself equally smitten with them both, longing for a more permanent place in their family.

tags: AFAB reader, no quirk au, single dad aizawa (+ adopted daughter eri, + prev. foster son hitoshi), professional nanny reader, falling in love, fluff and angst, slice of life, child ptsd + past child abuse (eri), aged-up characters, best friends touya + rumi, brief talk of a parent with addiction (hitoshi), domesticity, handling of child trauma, finding your place in a family, eventual smut, vaginal oral sex (reader receiving), a lot of kissing, no power dynamic

wc: 20k+ (oops)

The address the agency had given you is still open and blinking in your Maps app, a congratulatory finish-line flash to indicate the end of your journey. Given the lack of response after five minutes of firm knocking, you’d have half a mind to consider that perhaps, this was the wrong house.

“Maybe I should call…” you mutter under your breath, fiddling with the touch screen and huffing as you rebalance the slipping rucksack back onto your shoulder. Despite all your years of professional nannying, the first face to face meeting always left you slightly anxious. You’d been granted access to your new employers profile after your initial verbal interview — Japanese male in his thirties, over six foot tall and employed as a criminology professor at an esteemed university, unmarried with a single adopted daughter — but all the contact you’d had with Aizawa had been either mediated by the agency or over the phone. No photographs. The only thing you truly knew about the man thus far was the low baritone of his voice.

Not forgetting the air-tight requirements that came with caring for his daughter. You had been chosen specifically for your experiences with vulnerable children, and apparently for the fact that you held some modicum of self defence skills. A protective parent, then. While the gritty details had not yet been shared with you, it didn’t take much to put two and two together. Eri, a young girl of only six years, would be in need of more than just someone to keep her occupied; you would have to be a genuine care giver, someone she could really trust. Another adult in her life that signified safety.

The title of a ‘Nanny’ was typically looked down upon. Armed with a bachelor's degree and qualifications in child development, professionals still viewed you as nothing more than a glorified babysitter. But you loved your job, and not just because you were good at it. You liked the kids. Their odd sense of humour and their thought processes, their imaginations and the lens through which they viewed life. You enjoyed expanding their worlds, and the simple yet joyful way that they would expand your own.

More than that, the kids liked you. They appreciated your honesty, how you would treat them with respect and truly make the effort to listen to their thoughts. Given that your services were hired, the adults around them were often too caught up in their careers and personal affairs to indulge in anything more than provision of the basics. It wasn’t something you could judge them for — the new parents you have worked with in the past were genuinely wonderful and most, if not all, carried a large amount of guilt for having to leave their children at home.

You only hoped that you could help this family, too.

Tongue pressed into cheek, the pad of your thumb hovers over the contact name. Aizawa Shouta. Just as you're about to hit call, you are startled backwards by a series of weighted clicks. Counting, it sounds like there are two locks alongside the turning of a key, and soon you are meeting the gaze of a slightly dishevelled man.

He appears out of sorts, as if he’d only just woken up. You think, absentmindedly, that he is handsome. Broad and built beneath his loose black shirt, square framed glasses low on the bridge of his nose and overnight stubble shadowing his jaw. He pushes the hair loosely curtaining his face back and tucks it behind both ears, sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows. The good looks are almost enough to distract you from the neon pink sweatpants.

“Ah… hi,” you smile sheepishly, straightening your back and withholding a wince as your bag almost slides from your shoulder a second time. “You’re Aizawa Shouta, I presume? We spoke over the phone”.

The man grunts an affirmative, scratching idly at his cheek. He inhales deeply, sharp eyes almost too quick to catch as they appraise you in the doorway. “Yeah. You’re from UAtots?”

You nod, “I am”.

He mirrors the action, though the movement of his head is heavier, swaying him forward. Part of you is concerned he’s falling asleep on his feet. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” stepping back into the threshold, he beckons you into the house, “we were taking an afternoon catnap”.

You step inside, a zip of apprehension along your spine at the proximity. He’s warm at your back where he waits to lock the door behind you. “Catnap?” you smile, sliding off your shoes and lining them up neatly by the others. You step aside so he can bypass you into the hallway, inhaling to steady your nerves and catching the smell of his cologne.

“Eri likes to sync weekend meal times alongside the cats so she can nap with them afterwards, since eating makes her tired,” he explains, walking you further into the house, his voice entirely monotonous as if the answer should have been clear to you. “I’m sure if this goes smoothly you’ll be subject to plenty of them yourself”.

Well, you’re not sure you could object being paid to nap.

You’re shown to the living area, finding it littered with evidence of a young child. Toys, colouring pencils, storybooks. Chaotic, but it is organised chaos. Splayed out in the centre of the main room is a double futon, covered with wrinkled mismatched blankets that have been thrown aside. You take note of the shelves and bridge-like structures built into the walls, some leading to little alcoves or cushioned platforms. One looks to be occupied by a mass of black fur.

Right, cats. Aizawa hums contemplatively. “She must’ve run off to her room after I left to answer the door. Not a fan of strangers”.

“Can’t say I am either,” you reply empathetically, chewing the skin of your inner lip at his lack of response. He guides you towards the kitchen; somewhat narrow in comparison to the other rooms, but still bright where the sun bleeds in from the large patio doors. The cabinets are a deep green, almost black in colour, and there are potted plants dotted along the windowsill. One particular pot has a small sign pierced into the damp soil that reads property of eri.

In your distraction, Aizawa has returned to your side with a full binder of paperwork. He sets it on the counter and pulls back the cover, revealing a numbered contents page. “I don’t expect you’ll read this now, but it’s a detailed folder of Eri’s circumstances and conditions,” he continues on the end of a shallow sigh, “I’ve also written up a list of instructions for a number of issues that might arise in my absence, along with emergency phone numbers — both my personal and my office, as well as some others in case you can’t reach me”.

The folder was fine. Appreciated, actually. You had endured far more peculiar parents than him, and his anxious preparation warmed you. Nerves were always to be expected, and not just from the children.

“I’ll make sure I familiarise myself before my next visit. Thank you, Aizawa-san,” you say, awkwardly gripping the strap of your bag. Drawn to the movement, his eyes squint somewhat at the things you were still carrying.

“Drop the honorifics, I hear that enough at work. And you’re welcome to leave your bag somewhere. Take a seat and I’ll bring out something to drink”.

Sitting on the far left of the couch, your rucksack tucked beneath the side table to avoid any accidents, you spend the brief wait absorbing the smaller details of the room. A fair few of your wealthier clients were largely minimalist, their homes brimming with things that sticky fingers should not touch. This house, while big for a two person family, is lived in. You think there might be nothing better than a well loved space.

When he hands you the hot mug of herbal tea, your fingers slip through the ringed handle with care. Even the kitchenware is well loved, a pattern of multicoloured paw prints surely but steadily scrubbed away from the ceramic with each use. “Thanks,” you murmur, ducking to blow against the rising steam.

The cushions dip as he sits adjacent to you, appropriately distanced. “Eri will be out once she’s ready,” he tells you after a drawn out sip of his drink. You can’t help but wonder how it didn’t scald his mouth. “I thought I could tell you a bit more in the meantime”.

You nod eagerly and take a sip of your own. It burns, and your tongue numbs.

“I’ve legally been Eri’s father for around a year and a half now, and she’s not a difficult kid by any means. Though she is quiet and struggles with anxiety she’s still kind, still curious,” his voice drops into something gentle, staring at the rumpled blankets and warming at the sight. “She’s always thinking of others first. She loves to read fantasy books about heroes and villains. Her imagination is vast, and because she can’t write well yet she has taken to acting out stories”.

“Very rarely does she fuss, and she loves to help with chores and cooking, which I can’t complain about, but,” Aizawa continues to speak and you drink while you listen, the tea cooled and more tolerant as you swallow, “…it doesn’t sit right knowing they’re done in an effort to placate me”.

To placate, to appease. To keep the peace, and keep their caregiver happy. After all, a happy caregiver is one that doesn’t raise their voice, or their hand. “It’s entirely normal for you to think that,” you offer comfort in the brief silence, “you aren’t the first parent who has felt that way”.

He finally turns his head to meet your gaze, and you find yourself remaining firm under his scrutiny. Then, imperceptibly, his eyes soften. “I just want her to feel safe. To act her age and enjoy her childhood,” then you hear a huff that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, “I might actually shed a tear the day she finally throws a tantrum”.

You laugh with him, close mouthed and short. An amused hum to cover the twist in your chest. Working with vulnerable children never got any easier to stomach. Some would respond to neglect by loudly seeking your attention, creating mess and yelling until their stomachs hurt. Others, like Eri, would shape themselves into timid dolls that never spoke out of turn, because attention often meant harm.

With lips parted to speak, you’re stopped short by an inconspicuous creak from the hallway. Observing from behind the door frame, only partially visible from where you’re sitting, is a little girl with silver hair. Your eyes meet, and she flinches back into hiding.

“One sec…” Aizawa mutters offhandedly as he gets to his feet, first leaning down to set his cup on the floor. Footfalls loud enough to be heard, the slight clearing of his throat to announce his approach, he slips into the hallway.

Like him, you place your drink down and listen. Minutes pass, and while you aren’t privy to the conversation you do hear a pair of muffled voices. Aizawa’s tone is soothing, and he waits patiently for his daughter's timid responses. Eventually, he reappears with her shielded behind his thigh, and weaving between her feet is another cat; chunky, flat faced and grey. Unperturbed by the uncomfortable atmosphere, it slinks into the room to sniff the abandoned mugs and ignores your presence.

Wordlessly asking permission to greet her, Aizawa encourages you forward with the tilt of his head. Luckily, you had a fool proof introduction when it came to children, one that covered all the bases. Eri’s grip on her fathers pink sweatpants visibly tightens as you close the distance, but she doesn’t run.

Lowering yourself to her height, you begin with a smile and your name, then you give her your birthday. What follows is your favourite animal, then your favourite colour, one thing you like and one thing you don’t.

It’s easy, simple, and likens you to them in a way they can understand. To a young kid, that’s all the important stuff.

Knowing more about you seems to set her at ease somewhat, and she steps out from behind her father after an encouraging look from him. In an abrupt motion she considers holding out her hand, but then chooses to clutch the hem of her knitted sweater.

“My name is Er— Aizawa Eri. My birthday is the twenty-first of December…” she glances towards Aizawa once again for his approval, only continuing with his assurance. “I like cats and the colour green. I think apples are the best fruit and… I don’t like mean people”.

You nod, humming in agreement to assuage her anxiety. “Mean people can be pretty scary. And I like cats, too,” — the grey-coated feline by the futon chooses that moment to yowl, pawing at Aizawa’s half empty mug — “I haven’t been able to properly meet yours yet. I’d love it if you could introduce us”.

Give her a chance to control the narrative, and in doing so allow her to tell you about something she feels confident about. It’s an infinitesimal thing, but all things are so much bigger when you’re young.

She straightens her back, shoulders no longer hunched forward to make herself appear small. Unobtrusive. No — there is now a dim glimmer of pride in her eyes as she shuffles forward, leading you back over near the sofa and pointing ahead at the noise-maker.

“That’s Bastard. He’s old and kinda grumpy but that’s just ‘cause he’s scared,” Eri looks almost as if she is pleading with you, concerned you might misunderstand her beloved pet’s behaviour. “Some people hurt him before, so… so he’s just trying to protect himself. If you’re slow and let him sniff you I think it’ll be okay”.

Some people hurt him, huh. Your thoughts subdue your initial amusement, though you try not to let it show in your expression. Heeding Eri’s guidance, you crouch at her side and allow her to extend your arm towards Bastard with her chubby fingers clasped around your wrist. He glares suspiciously between the two of you, but eventually his tail lifts into a clear signal of hello as he leans forward to huff at your fingertips.

He turns his nose up at you in what you read as disgust and stalks off to the other end of the room, but according to Eri’s bouncing feet it was a success. “He didn’t bite you or anything,” she pats your shoulder in a reassuring manner and Aizawa snorts as he collapses into the sofa cushions.

You’re pointed in the direction of the other cat — the black mass that has been curled into a ball atop one of the shelved platforms since you arrived. “Her name is Sourpuss. She likes to sleep a lot and we cuddle sometimes,” she explains seriously, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. Following a pause she adds, “don’t worry. She won’t bite you either”.

“I’m glad to hear it,” you reply, a pleasant kindling in your chest at her efforts, “I look forward to getting to know you all better”.

“Bastard and Sourpuss aren’t related but they are brother and sister. Just like me and ‘Toshi, right?” Eri glances over to her father to wordlessly seek his reassurance, cheeks dipped in pink. For a moment, the exhaustion in Aizawa’s body seems to bleed away, and he smiles affectionately.

“Exactly right, Eri,” he murmurs.

You straighten your knees at the sound of Bastard’s mewling, rewarded quickly with Eri’s devoted attention. Returning to your place on the couch, you lean towards him and subtly ask about the aforementioned ‘Toshi’.

“He was already my foster son when I first took in Eri as a foster. I cared for him on and off from age fifteen to eighteen”. Recognising your poorly veiled curiosity, he adds, “Hitoshi used to watch her for me but he recently started university. Her psychologist suggested someone more permanent and better equipped for her care”.

You nod amicably, turning to watch Eri as she offers her own small hand to the older cat. Bastard leans forward with nostrils flared, turning his head into her palm, and she beams. A stark contrast to how the feline felt about you. With the hope that you aren’t overstepping you ask, “You didn’t adopt him too?”

“Fostering isn’t just a doorway to adoption,” he replies. In your periphery you see the beginnings of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he observes his daughter. “More than anything, I think it’s about keeping families together. Hitoshi was old enough to decide for himself, and I still view him as a son regardless of the legalities”.

Somehow, the answer leaves you feeling scolded. “Right, of course,” you bow your head slightly in apology and his lips thin into a subtle smirk. Smothering the spark of irritation, at both his amusement and your own attraction, you push the conversation forward. “Then, uh. Will I be meeting him too, eventually?”

“I’d assume so. If he does visit I’ll make sure you know in advance”.

For the remainder of your afternoon visit, you observe their family dynamic with a keen eye. Eri’s shell does not fracture much, but you don’t take personal offence to it. She’s polite and friendly, often giving the answers she thinks you want to hear. You eventually join her amongst the blankets, recalling how she found confidence in helping around the house.

“Shall we put these away together?” you suggest. The little girl smiles and spring comes again. Under the moving sunspots cast through the living room window, the two of you get to work folding up the cotton linens. Eri is so preoccupied that for the first time that day, she doesn’t realise when her father leaves the room to wash up the mugs.

You understood Aizawa’s initial worry with Eri’s need to prove her worth around the house; but you also think, perhaps, she is just grateful and happy to help him.

When you leave, they both walk you to the front door. Your first goodbye to her is a perfect rendition of your first hello — little hand fisted into neon pink, shielded by the man she trusts the most. “Will you come back?” she asks quietly.

“If your dad is happy for me to,” — excitement pushes Eri onto the tip of her toes, her head barely reaching Aizawa’s hip — “when I do, we should read some stories together”.

Later that night, after a long hot shower to swiftly rid you of the tension in your spine, you settle into a heap of cotton and pillows with Eri’s binder. The cover is hard, like cardboard, and coloured blue. It’s heavy in your lap, and you find that daunting. Not because you don’t think you can handle it, but because you already want to do right by them both.

After the contents page comes the emergency contacts. You recognise Hitoshi’s name, and beside each other person is their immediate relation to Aizawa and Eri. Her school office. His best friends. Aunts. Uncles. Coworkers. A part of you unravels with the knowledge that the two have such a support system in place.

Then comes the lists. Food Eri does not like — she enjoys sweet things but tart is much too sour for her palate — and the medication she can not take. There are steps to follow if ever she gets sick, instructions on where to find the first aid kit and her favourite hot water bottle. More important than anything else, there is a page dedicated to summarising her triggers and subsequently how to handle them. No sudden touch, noise cancelling headphones always on her person, explain what you’re doing and why as you do it.

It’s incredibly comprehensive. The latter part of the binder is made up of her initial caseworkers notes, or observations from her psychologist that are important to her care. You learn that Eri might sometimes dissociate, is prone to freezing up when frightened and struggles with communicating her emotions. There are scars littering her body that need to be tended to once a day with steroid cream, but Aizawa notes that he will do that himself. She has little appetite and no tolerance for the dark, spending a lot of her earlier days in her father's care completely withdrawn and selectively mute.

Given her history you can’t blame him for covering all his bases; part of you wonders if he had put all this together in order to test you, to see whether the responsibility would scare you off. He would be mistaken, if that were the case. After all, you’d promised to befriend Bastard by the years’ end.

The next time you see Aizawa Shouta, he is in fitted suit pants and a dress shirt. It is sharp and tailored, accentuating the broad strokes of his shoulders and the dip of his waist. As he bends an arm to fiddle with the cuff, the material strains around his bicep. He looks handsome, and decidedly uncomfortable.

“Good morning,” he mutters, turning away from you expectantly. You amble after him once the door is shut, walking into the kitchen. Throat bared and leaning against the counter, he quickly downs the remnants of his coffee with an dissatisfied sigh.

“Bad nights sleep?”

A brow lifts as he glances up at you. You try not to focus on the absentminded swipe of his thumb at the corner of his mouth. “Always,” he replies. “You want some?”

Your mouth thins as you try not to smirk. “No, that’s okay. Thank you though,” you follow the movement of his hands as he leaves the mug in the sink, then extends his arms to expose his wrists and roll the cuffs mid forearm. Despite arriving at the time he’d given you, he appeared to be in a rush. You make a note to come earlier tomorrow, if only to make things a little smoother.

Eri’s footfalls are light, barely audible as she totters into the kitchen — you try not to think about the implications — and she stops short when she sees you. “Good morning Eri,” you greet warmly.

“Good morning,” she mumbles.

“You look very cute,” dressed in burgundy dungarees over a white long sleeved shirt, cuffed at the ankle to reveal frilly cream coloured socks, her hair has been tied haphazardly into two long pigtails. “I like your Sailor Pluto clips!”

“Thank you…” she pokes at the clips on her crown self consciously, timidly pleased at your recognition of them.

Aizawa circles around you both as he heads back into the hallway, “Sailor Pluto? I thought she was called Sailor Moon”.

Eri follows at his heels. “No dad, Sailor Moon has yellow hair,” she corrects him kindly, waiting by the coat rack as he bends to slip into his dress shoes. “But it’s okay, I get them mixed up sometimes too”.

Her attitude is a testament to his parenting. In the short time you’ve spent with them he has only ever spoken to Eri respectfully, in a manner that grants her agency. He clearly allows her to make decisions herself and experience the consequences of them, bad or good.

Before he has the chance to reach for his bag, Eri releases an abrupt sound of protest and grabs it herself. Both of her hands fit around the long handle with room to spare, and it drags by her feet as she gives it to him.

“I appreciate that sweetheart,” he replies, taking one of the jackets from the hooks and linking it through the crook of his arm. “Which one did I like best again?”

“Sailor Saturn!”

Dark hair curtaining his sober expression, he nods sagely and repeats, “Sailor Saturn”.

They are so caught up that, for a few minutes, you are nothing but a fly on the wall. It’s endearing, the interactions sitting warm like honey-lemon tea in your chest. At the sound of your laugh, Aizawa’s eyes snap over to your silhouette in the kitchen doorway. Eri glances between the two of you, and appears to hamfist the precious little courage she has to ask you, “Who— who’s your favourite?”

“I really loved Luna the cat,” you say. Her mouth forms the shape of an ‘o’ before it spreads into a small smile. You get the inkling there was no wrong answer; you feel accomplished anyway.

“Right,” Aizawa cradles his hand against her head to garner her attention. She peers up at him, eyes wide. “Her teacher is aware you’re going to be picking her up but you’ll need to give her the code just to be safe,” he says, settling the strap of the satchel across his chest. “It’s ‘candy apples’”.

“Got it”.

Gentle, he pinches her cheek between his thumb and forefinger. “Be good, alright?” Eri hums, giving her enthusiastic agreement, “have a fun day at school. And make sure you hold hands when you cross the roads”.

“You too dad,” her demeanour is slightly more unnerved at his imminent departure, fingers tightly curling and unfurling against her palms. “Be good at work”.

He laughs — low and undeniably fond, almost like a purr in his chest — and then he leaves.

Eri is cautious in his absence, but she still answers when you speak and smiles when you look at her. You can see what Aizawa meant by her placating nature — she’s scared to upset you, because she doesn’t yet know your boundaries. There was not enough time to have that discussion before school, but you endeavoured to do it some point later.

Her bag is garish, block colours of red blue and yellow. Different from her Sailor Moon accessories, the bento and backpack are distinctly Hero themed. Hanging from the zip is a cat keychain that looks suspiciously like Bastard, and it bounces as she moves.

The walk isn’t too far. The early air is still tepid and the morning traffic has mostly dispersed. You see other parents with their children, laughing and scolding and sprinting ahead. Eri remains at your side, hand in hand, and quietly tells you about a dream she had the night before.

Confoundedly, “Dad told me he doesn’t have dreams”.

“Maybe he does dream, but he forgets them as soon as he wakes up,” you reply. Her nose wrinkles slightly in a way that suggests she is thinking quite hard, and eventually she nods.

A staff member waiting by the gate recognises Eri and bids you both good morning, motioning for her to join her classmates. “I’ll see you after school, alright?” you say. The hand clutching at your fingers squeezes twice before letting go.

You linger for a few seconds longer, only to observe as Eri runs up to one boy in particular. His cap is red, too big for him and adorns two horns at the front. When she dips her head forward, you know it’s to show off her hair clips.

With five hours to spare, you decide to utilise the time by clearing up the house. There’s not much mess but it’s better than nothing, and if you spent most of it nosing around the spots you’ve yet to see, that’s no one’s business but your own — aside from Bastard and Sourpuss, who still deign to return your affections and settle for stalking you at a distance.

Mounted bridges and tastefully placed hiding spots can be found in most of the rooms; Aizawa’s respect for individual space clearly extended to his pets as well. There are fragments of them everywhere, in tchotchkes and photographs and framed stick figure pictures. You catch glimpses of the other people in their lives, of Eri much younger than she is now, of a too-big violet haired boy curled up in one of the cat beds.

In each new room, you make sure to tidy up somewhat. Aizawa seemed the type to be particular about what fell under the definition of mess and what did not, and in that vein you stay away from reorganising anything that looks important, but it doesn’t stop you from picking up any stray socks.

One place you do not enter is Aizawa’s bedroom. Eri’s, however, has been left wide open.

The first thing you see is the feelings chart taped to the door, a small magnet with her likeness has been stuck in the ‘nervous’ box. Inside is surprisingly neat for a child her age. Cohesive. There are hues of yellow and grey along the walls, a white canopy hung over a brass ring in the corner of the room to curtain a pile of pillows. Her bookshelf is full, the pages are worn, and her plush toys have been organised in a line from big to small on her mattress.

There is a faux vine of leaves threaded through the bed frame, dotted with small LED lights. She must like plants, you think, recalling the greenery in the kitchen. You’d have to look it up, or ask her father.

Aizawa hadn’t requested you do any specific chores, but you don’t do well with idle hands. So you throw the collected laundry in the washer, clean and dry the plates and cutlery from breakfast, and refill the coffee machine with the beans kept in the cupboard. It’s the good stuff, expensive. You almost regret not accepting his offer that morning, but the dregs left in his mug smelt far too bitter.

At the start, as you’re acclimating to the chosen family, you are always left slightly aimless. Floundering. Especially with parents that have never hired a nanny before; they seldom understand how much the role entails, and struggle with letting go of certain responsibilities.

Thus, with precious little left to do, you end up leaving early to pick up Eri later that afternoon and taking the long route. You press the divots of the house key into your palm as you walk, metal cool in the late spring sun. With time to observe, you admit that Aizawa’s neighbourhood is undeniably beautiful. Passing a large nearby park, eyeing the climbing frames and slides and triple seated swings, you wonder if Eri would like to go there with you on occasion. There’s even a quaint, sectioned off area of land privated for communal gardening.

Maybe, on your scheduled weekends, you could take her to other places too. The aquarium, the movies or the science museum. You’d have to ask Aizawa’s permission.

Waiting behind the gate is another member of staff, different from the woman stationed there this morning but she greets you amiably all the same. Other parents are flocking into the grounds, some grouping together for small talk while others — such as yourself — lingered off to the side and waited alone.

When the children begin rushing through the school doors, it is organised by class number. Eventually you spot the little boy with the horned cap rushing towards his own guardian, but no Eri with him. Instead she is led out hand in hand with whom you presume is her teacher. You smile as she points in your direction and waves, jostling the cat charm on her bag strap.

The woman greets you first, a slight accent to her words that you can’t place. German, maybe. “Hi! I’m Eri’s teacher, Amano-san. You must be the new nanny I’ve heard all about”.

“That would be me,” you lower your head into a subtle bow, offering your name in a much more formal introduction than the one Eri had received. “I’ll be picking Eri up regularly from now on. It’s good to meet you”.

“And you,” Amano grins, the movement pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. At a second glance, you notice a thin silver chain attached to the frames and looping around her neck. Coupled with a green pantsuit and the specks of paint along the lapels, you suspect Eri’s teacher may be the more eccentric type. Easy-going and comforting.

“I hope you don’t mind but I have to ask for Aizawa-san's passcode,” Amano motions flippantly with her free hand as she speaks, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “it’s just school policy, ya see. Can’t let the baby go without it — only for the first few pickups while the staff get to know you”.

“That’s perfectly fine. He informed me you might ask,” Eri’s head pivots back and forth between you both with bright, inquisitive eyes. Giving her what you hope to be a secretive look, pointer finger pressed to your lips and voice hushed, you add, “the code is ‘candy apples’”.

Rewarded with a minute grin, Eri toddles over to your side as soon as Amano lets go of her and bids you both goodbye. Reflexively, you reach to fix her pigtails where they’ve come loose but think better of it — she does not react well to sudden touch. “Oh,” you pause to count the remaining clips in her hair. “One of your Pluto’s is gone”.

“I gave one to Kota… he’s my friend”.

Kota. You silently mouth the name, and resolve to remember it. “Is he the boy with the cool hat?”

Eri hums a quiet affirmative, peering up at you and shyly extending her hand. You take it, giving a gentle squeeze. “That was very nice of you to do,” you tell her.

“Dad said love grows by sharing,” she replies. You notice that when she speaks about her father, her voice is a little louder. Proud, even. “That’s why he always lets me have his last pur— Purin cup”.

You try to picture Aizawa eating something as sweet as crème caramel and bite back a smile. He seems more the coffee jelly type. “Your dad is right. I bet Kota felt very special to have Sailor Pluto”.

You return home the morning route, in consideration of Eri’s short legs and growing exhaustion. Bastard and Sourpuss are theatrically pleased by her arrival, yowling in glee as if she’d been gone for months. They must recognise that you brought her back, and you try not to preen when the older cat begrudgingly rubs his gums against your ankle.

“Okay, Eri. What first? Homework or food?”

She wrings her hands together, pressing palms flat to her stomach. Face pinched, she looks like she wants to ask something of you. “Eri?”

“Can I…” her courage diminishes and she glares at the floor, scuffing socked feet against carpet. Lowering your body to her level, knee clicking as you crouch, you wait patiently with a small smile. You can see her internal battle with your own eyes, squeezing her own shut and taking a deep breath.

The drawn out exhale follows, and the tension bleeds from her muscles. Still unable to meet your gaze, she asks, “Can I show you my room first?”

You don’t tell her you have already seen it. Children deserve to be treated with respect, but some truths were worth keeping. Guided to the grey-yellow painted space, Eri is in her element. Homework and hunger can wait a few more minutes — strengthening her comfortability with you was much more important.

Once she starts she can’t seem to stop. Eri shows you all her magpie clutches of treasures and brings them to your lap, a back and forth skitter across the room. The knit blanket from when she was an infant, a pretty rock she found with her dad, a friendship bracelet from someone called Izu. Her love has no limit; you’re holding old shells and framed pictures and memory-imbued trinkets. Each one receives equal praise, indulgent sounds of awe that warm her cheeks.

‘Love grows by sharing’ is what she’d said. Steadying the heap gathered in your arms, you think you feel your heart swell three sizes.

By afternoon's end, Eri is fed and sitting contentedly in the middle of the living room. Aizawa had texted that he would be home soon, so you were simply enjoying the peace until then. Having tucked one of the couch cushions under her knees to alleviate the discomfort, all her focus is on the worksheets splayed out along the floor. Fractions. You grimace, watching Bastard bat at her pencil as it moves with her wrist.

Click, click. Eri is at her feet in less than a second. The sound of a key entering a lock and turning, the door jarred open as Aizawa shoulders into the house with arms full of assignments. He doesn’t startle as his daughter knocks into him, but he does scowl at the realisation that he can’t hug her. You hover cautiously in the hallway, “Ah— do you need some help with those?”

He looks up, the frown smoothing into something a little more vulnerable. Exhausted, but in a different way than he was this morning. You feel a misplaced sense of guilt for not having a cup of coffee ready for him.

“No, I can manage,” he replies, kicking off his shoes and lining them up half heartedly with his foot as he readjusts his grip. “I’ll be fine once I can sit down”.

He sets the papers on the far end of the couch and upon reaching the opposite, Aizawa falls back heavily into the cushions with a relieved groan that strums at your centre. You smother the feeling. Eri trails after him with her features pensive, carefully gauging his mood before doing anything further. The moment he limblessly opens his arms to her, she is clambering up beside him and pressing to his side.

Intuitively, you hold your breath. You take the opportunity to really appreciate how gentle Aizawa is with his daughter. Cradling the top of her head in a show of affection, his eyes slide from Eri to where you stand in the doorway. You’re left sheepish under the expectant lift of his brow, all too aware of how awkward you’re being. “How was it today? Anything happen that I should know about?”

“Everything went well. We held hands to and from school, didn’t we?” Eri nods, and the large hand in her hair further disturbs her pigtails, though she doesn’t seem to mind. “We’ve eaten our dinner and finished her fractions worksheet for tomorrow. She’s been nothing short of a dream”.

“A dream, hm?” he nudges Eri gently to encourage her to smile, and she does. “Always is”.

“I met…” your attention is quickly drawn to the tail curling around your leg. Sourpuss barely spares you a glance when she butts your calf, as if to pass it off as a simple accident. You don’t bend at the knee to pet her, because you know she’ll scatter and leave you pitifully rejected. “I met Amano-san,” you continue, “I introduced myself since I’ll be seeing more of her. She’s very… friendly”.

Aizawa’s mouth lifts in subtle amusement, “She’s boisterous but a good teacher. Eri loves her,” he pats his thigh as Sourpuss approaches, ready as she leaps onto his lap. He’s content, relaxed with his head tipped slightly in a way that accentuates his jaw, the shadow of stubble fading down the length of his neck. You quickly drag your thoughts back into the present before they can drift into inappropriate territory, steeling yourself under his gaze in the hopes he hadn’t noticed.

“You have your hands full and you’ve had a long day, so I’m happy to see myself out if that’s everything,” you say.

Eri’s eyes widen, her bottom lip slightly jutted. You aren’t sure whether she is wordlessly beseeching you to stay, or displeased at the thought of not walking you to the door — either way, you allow yourself some pride for having won some good favour with her so soon.

Aizawa must notice, because his hand slides from her crown to soothe along her back. “Don’t worry,” he reassures, “they’ll be back again in the morning, bug”.

He’s pensive as he appraises you, perhaps looking for what it was in you that his daughter had latched onto. Whatever he does or does not find, he begins to move. Sourpuss chirps a sharp noise of complaint, jostled from her place in his lap and leaping back onto the floor. “C’mon,” he says, getting to his feet and rubbing the nape of his neck as he clicks it to the left. Then, stubbornly, “I’ll walk you out”.

The next month and a half with them passes between blinks. You come to learn that even if every day is the same, there are a million ways to do it. And the place you carve into their lives is comfortable. Comforting.

Your attraction to Aizawa only festers. It seems that at some point, you had won favour with him, too. He begins leaving you offerings of food without explanation, and in turn you have a pot of coffee ready for when he gets home. He isn’t much of a cook and usually sticks to snacks, but occasionally you’ll find leftovers with your name written on a postit note.

Love grows by sharing.

Against better judgement you start finding excuses to arrive early and stay later, and sometimes your conversations linger like his gaze, until the only word left to describe the way he looks at you is ‘fond’.

Venting to your friends does nothing helpful, since they only encourage you to poke further at the relationship just to see where it’d go. Likened to a yellowing bruise on your arm, you knew exactly what would happen if you were to poke it — it would hurt.

Worse is, your feelings are not just an unfortunate result of being attracted to Aizawa. You adore Eri, and she likes you too; watches you with wide ruby eyes, collecting your speech patterns and body language like the tchotchkes kept on her shelves. With every reluctant shedding of her shell, a quiet but creative and joyous little girl is slowly unveiled to the world, and you know you want to be there to watch her grow beyond what your contract states.

At best, you are teetering on the edge of being very unprofessional. At worst, part of you is already one foot in the door and willing to step forward.

Today you were at the park. The grass is damp, sparse dots of moisture littering the pavements. You peer up mid-step and a drop of rain hits your nose, squinting against the light that bursts through the canopy. There’s petrichor in the air, fresh and crisp. Eri stands at your side at the crotch of the maple tree, watching quietly as the sun shower passes.

“Pretty…” she whispers, stepping towards the edge of shelter with her arm outstretched, fingers splayed like branches to catch the rain. She does this, but not before first seeking your approval, as she did with most things. The evolving comfort she felt with you didn’t negate any of the survival instincts she’d learnt in her earlier developmental years.

It hurt to know she didn’t get to have that — the new realisation that she was an individual person, with power of her own that she could wield. You were only glad that Aizawa always gave her a chance to make her own choices. She felt far safer accepting such freedom from him, because Eri knows that he trusts her. He trusts that she will eventually get it right, even if it isn’t immediate.

His unconditional patience when it came to making mistakes, and learning from them, paid off. You’ve no doubt that it came into practice with his own university students, too.

“Everything will be too wet to play on now,” your eyes scan the playground, finding the tarmac dark and saturated with water. The sun shifts and bounces sharply off the curve of the slide. You hadn’t been there for more than half an hour, so it was a little disappointing. “What shall we do instead?”

She rocks on the balls of her feet while she thinks, the end of her sleeve growing damp with every scoop of the oncoming shower. Peeking beneath them are the protective wrappings she keeps around her arms to cover the scars you’ve yet to see.

Her wet hand curls to form a fist, and she steps back into the shelter of the maple tree. You bend forward and beckon towards you, using the hem of your hoodie to gently dry her off. Minutes pass, and you can tell her lack of a definitive answer is making her nervous. “It’s alright if you’re not sure,” you tell her, quick to assuage whatever thoughts she may be having.

“Well, I picked the park so— so maybe you can pick next?” she hesitantly suggests.

“That’s very considerate!” Eri outwardly preens, tucking her chin to her sternum as she smiles. “I think… I’m craving sweet things today. How about we go home and see if we can bake something?”

It’s as if the rain takes pause and the skies open just for the two of you. There is no puddle left untouched on your walk home, Eri pulling you ahead by the hand, uncharacteristically hasty. Every time you find something new for her to enjoy you feel like you’ve swallowed a drop of sun. Aizawa’s expression in the face of her smile and freshly baked goods make it all the more worth it.

Leading up the street towards the house, you squint at the sight of a person. Sitting on the doorstep under the overhang is a violet haired man. Young, still a little youthful in the cheeks. Nineteen or twenty, if you had to guess.

“‘Toshi!”

Eri’s voice draws his attention from the phone in his lap, and when he looks up you’re met by a weathered grin adorned with two vertical rings hugging the left of his bottom lip.

The spider bites aren’t his only piercings; there are other jewellery cuffed along the shell of his ear, an industrial bar cutting across the cartilage of the other, and glinting in the light are two small spikes through his right eyebrow. Dappled shadows dance across his face, an oversized navy sweater hangs comfortably on his frame and pools around the waist of his tattered jeans.

You aren’t alarmed when he sweeps Eri into a hug, pleased by her melodic laughter. This was her brother, Hitoshi, presumably, the purple boy you’d seen in some of the framed pictures around the house.

“You must be—”

His voice overlaps your own simultaneously, “You must be the nanny”.

Prickly. He stands then, keeping Eri cradled in his arms, her own looped tight around his neck as her feet kick happily either side of his hips. No, you think. Protective. And taller than you realised.

“That’s me,” you reply stiffly. You had no idea he would be visiting today — Aizawa hadn’t mentioned anything about it, so you can only assume he isn’t aware.

Turning to smoosh her cheek against his own and glancing between you both, Eri is emboldened by the stilted atmosphere. She makes a point to introduce you to Hitoshi, reciting your favourite colour and animal word for word. Like flame to wax, her efforts soften the blank exterior and his expression wanes into affection.

This time, when he looks at you it is measured. He appraises you much like Aizawa had on your first day. A positive reference from Eri is invaluable, clearly. “I’m Eri’s big brother, Shinsou Hitoshi,” he concedes, the thud of his boots heavy as he steps forward. Readjusting Eri to his hip, he extends a hand and motions to shake your own.

Years of professional experience has your grip firm out of sheer habit, while his remains slightly loose, the cool metal of his ring pressed to your palm. “It’s good to meet you. Aizawa mentioned that I might, eventually,” you reply.

Hitoshi hums, though not absentmindedly. “Same. I’ve heard a lot about you”.

“Mostly good I hope?” you busy yourself with finding the house keys, hoping to get Eri inside to warm up sooner rather than later. “Let’s get you both comfy, then we can get started”.

“Started?”

Stepping into homes’ embrace is a relief, the chill dissipating from your cheeks. “We’re gonna bake!” Eri chimes her excitement from behind you as you toe your shoes to the side, turning to beckon them both inside. Hitoshi quickly closes the door behind him before the cats can slip past, and places his sister back on the floor with a small noise of curiosity.

“Bake what?” he asks, grunting in exertion as he crouches and begins untying the laces to his boots, wiggling his fingers at Bastard as he bats at the string. Eri mirrors him to fiddle with her buckles, slipping both shoes off and lining them up neatly by yours before looking to you for an answer.

“I was thinking we could make cookies…Ah!” you bring your palms together in a succinct clap, “maybe we could do melonpan?”

A subtle tug to the end of your hoodie. “What's melonpan?”

“They’re sweet, melon shaped buns covered in cookie dough,” you explain warmly, slow in stroking a hand over the crown of her head. She doesn’t flinch, almost feline in how she turns into the touch.

“I’m down for some melonpan,” Hitoshi slides back naturally into the conversation, Bastard held out by the armpits as his long torso hangs limbless. You try not to laugh at the displeasure on his face. “Maybe change into something comfortable and dry first though, bug”.

Prompted, Eri scurries up the stairs on both hands and feet. “And make sure to wash your hands,” you raise your voice after her. That just leaves you and Hitoshi.

He glances at you expectantly, inclining his head towards the kitchen as if to say, aren’t you going in?

“Guess we should get the cookie dough done first,” you suggest, taking the lead.

In Eri’s absence, side by side at the counter, you both fall into a surprisingly comfortable contentment. Quiet murmurings of small talk; while you work on the cake mix he beats the egg until it whites, whisks sugar into the butter until it dissolves. Hitoshi is stiff at first, short in his responses, but he isn’t rude. He’s just cautious, prying gently into your answers but never giving substance to his own. Even in early adulthood, there was an instinct inside him that called to mask the vulnerability within. To feign confidence and guide conversations in a way that conceals him.

He flowers a little when the topic steers to Aizawa.

“Did the old man tell you much about me?”

Old man. A decade and then some isn’t far off for him, but you supposed in a barely-twenty year old’s mind it would be. “Just that he fostered you through your late teens. I didn’t pry,” you reply. “I’ve heard more from Eri, really. She looks up to you”.

He exhales deeply, and you don’t press him to continue before he’s ready. “My mum struggled with addiction…” Hitoshi stares dolefully at the dough cupped between his palms, briefly flickering to the open doorway to check Eri was not within hearing distance.

“I was so pissed when social services first took me,” deft fingers begin to move as his voice returns, kneading the ball aimlessly in bread flour to smooth out his spike of anxiety. “I loved her a lot, still do. She never hurt me and I thought we were fine, y’know? I didn’t understand it back then. But it got to a point that she couldn’t take care of me”.

He avoids your gaze, feigning indifference, and it makes you wonder how others have reacted to his story. You swallow against the dry discomfort in your throat, rolling the inner flesh of your lip between teeth. There’s nothing to say other than, “I’m sorry. That must’ve been incredibly difficult for you both”.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. You watch a thought cross his mind, the corner of his mouth curving into a half smile. “I was such a dick when I got here because I thought I’d never get to see her again. But dad sat me down and told me he isn’t here to be my new parent, that his job is to keep me safe while my mum gets better”.

You recall Aizawa’s words — fostering is moreso about keeping families together — and smile back. “Funny that be ended up bein’ like a parent to you anyway, huh?”

An amused thrum, the dough in his grasp eventually moulded into what resembled a cylinder. “Yeah. He’s not so bad,” he breathes.

Eri joins in a fluffy sweater and leggings, socks pulled up all the way to her calves, fingers still wet and smelling of almond scented soap. Her eyes sweep across the room, alight with curiosity. “You’re just in time,” you tell her, discreetly putting the topic of Hitoshi’s mother to rest. “Grab the step from the corner so you can help rub the bread flour into the cookie dough”.

When she ambles over, gait stilted by the weight of her stool, Eri slots it between you and Hitoshi. Arms held out in front, you help to roll up her sleeves to avoid mess despite the protective compression underneath.

“Ready?”

“Ready!”

Chubby fingers take two pinches of bread flour, sprinkling over the cookie dough and patting carefully into shape. You let her take her time with it, endeared by how determined she looks carrying out a simple task.

Hitoshi supervises her while you begin the first fermentation of the bread dough. It’s lucky, and amusing, that Aizawa has such a random array of ingredients in his cupboards; you didn’t presume him the type to buy things just in case, yet the instant yeast has you sending silent thoughts of gratitude to him through sheer will.

With the cookie dough now wrapped and put in the fridge, Eri insists on helping you knead the bread dough. “We have to throw it a few times first,” you tell them.

Hitoshi smirks, “May I have the honour?”

The pale consistency is sticky and unpleasant as you pass it to him, some caught like glue between your fingers. At the sight of her brother's grimace, Eri pokes at the dough and makes a sound of awe. “It’s so gooey?” she mumbles.

“That’s why he’s gotta throw it. It’ll be nice and smooth,” you curl protectively around Eri as you explain, remembering her dislike for loud noises. “You might want to cover your ears, sweetheart. There’ll be a big thud when he does it”.

Hitoshi spreads far too much flour across the counter. Pressing the heels of her hands either side of her head, Eri steps back into your chest at the first impact and gapes as the white powder billows into the air, smattering the length of his forearms. He leans his body weight into the dough as he stretches it, glancing at her for permission and only throwing it again after she nods.

Gradually, Eri lowers her hands back down as she acclimates, and the next time she touches the dough it is firmer. “You did it, ‘Toshi!”

“Ye—!” his nose wrinkles and he suddenly dips into the crook of his arm, turning away from the counter as he sneezes. “Shi— Shoot. Bless me”.

“Bless you,” you laugh at him, trying and failing to wipe away the powder clinging to your own clothes. Somehow the white smudges worsen with the effort, and the flour has even ended up dusting the ends of Eri’s hair. “Next we gotta roll it up. Think you can help, Eri?”

By the time the dough is round enough to satisfy the siblings, the mess has worsened. You nestle it into a clear bowl and cover it with plastic wrap to let it sit — or as Eri had described, you tuck it into a ‘warm bed’.

With time left to spare as it ferments, Hitoshi departs to the bathroom to quickly clean himself up. In your distraction, the sound of a door opening and heavy footsteps does not register. It isn’t until you hear the fond invocation of your names from the doorway that you look up.

Covered in flour from your hands to your elbows, with the certainty that it is also dusted across your cheeks, you look up to see Aizawa watching you both wearing a small smile.

“Hi,” you offer lamely. He snorts.

“What’re you making?”

A fool of myself, you think.

Eri’s eyes sweep over the mess anxiously. There is no indication that he’s angry, but her words still falter. She inhales deeply to steady her breathing just as you taught her, counting to four and releasing. Meeting her fathers stare, she strongly replies, “we’re baking melonpan to share!”

“Is that right?” his eyes squint into a smile and he steps into the threshold, tugging the hairband on his wrist off with his teeth and collecting his hair into a bun. “Got anything I can help out with?”

“We just—”

“Yo,” Hitoshi interrupts as he slinks back into the room with an easy wave.

Aizawa’s brow pinches into a frown. “What’re you doing in my house?” he says. You can tell he doesn’t mean it, and judging by the grin pulling at Hitoshi’s mouth, he can tell too.

“Just wanted to surprise you and Eri,” in closing the distance, Aizawa reaches over to Hitoshi and wraps an arm around him, giving a solid pat to the back of his shoulder. You watch as he squeezes, and they briefly turn into one another’s familiarity before letting go.

Feeling your stare, Aizawa looks at you. To the people that do not know him, his expression might be unreadable, but you understand the fulfilment there. He appears settled, like having you all there in his kitchen has thawed him. “I hope he hasn’t given you any trouble?”

“No more than you,” you cajole, dutifully ignoring the smirk plain on Hitoshi’s face. “They’ve both been very helpful”.

Pleased by your praise, Eri beams as she climbs down from the step stool. “We’re waiting for the bread dough to fer…fer…?”

“Ferment,” you whisper.

“Ferment!” she nods resolutely, stumbling over to her father to greet him. Before you can warn them, Eri has wrapped herself around his leg and pressed into the side of his hip, black dress pants now embellished with loose flour.

He cradles her head as he always does, his hand large around her silver crown. She peers up at him with unfettered joy, in their own private, unspoken exchange. You’re struck by the thought that it isn’t only Eri who thrives under his care. Aizawa, too, even as he tires, becomes that much brighter with her.

The house begins to breathe. It is more alive now than you’ve ever experienced it. From the upper floor is Sourpuss’s distinct yowl as Aizawa heads up the stairs to change, Eri on his coattails telling him about the earlier sun shower.

Hitoshi is moving around the kitchen alongside you, cleaning up the aftermath of his ephemeral flour-storm and avoiding Bastard’s abrupt burst of energy from the shadows as he darts through the remnants; fading white and sugar plum sized paw prints left in his wake.

You laugh when Hitoshi chases him, hissing disjointed curses as he tries to wipe away the prints with the sole of his socks.

When the dough is suitably risen, Aizawa sidles up beside you, shoulder to shoulder. You don’t lean into him, but you don’t move away. Each of you takes a cut, shaping it into the intended melonpan. The spheres wear their cookie sheet coats, dipped in sugar and engraved overtop with clumsy diamond patterns.

Eri lines them up on the baking tray and you put them into the oven. Calls for her to relax go unheard as she waits with her nose pressed to the glass pane until the buns are finally golden, face heated by the orange glow.

You sit with the three of them in the middle of the living room, cushions pulled from their spots and rearranged in a tight circle, and something eases into place — a quiet sense of belonging that you’ve never experienced in all your years as a nanny. The melonpan is warm and sweet in your mouth, so soft it almost dissolves on your tongue. “S’good, right?” you hum happily at the taste, finding Eri nodding alongside you with pink cheeks filled and a bright sugar coated smile.

“It really is,” Hitoshi affirms, almost an air of disbelief as he leans back onto his left hand, savouring his own melonpan with the other. You notice his eyes lazily following the movement in your periphery; Aizawa reaches across your front to brush the grains of sugar from his daughter's chin, his own pastry devoured.

The man ate unnaturally quietly, and quickly. Maybe he really did have a secret sweet tooth.

In retracting his arm, he glances to you. Thoughtlessly, Shouta wipes the crumbs from the swell of your own cheek. You feel sinnew turn to sand, sifting through his gentle hands. In that split, narrowed second, the rest of the room fell away. You’re returned to your body by the sound of Hitoshi’s pointed cough, and the touch disappears.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, furtive in his avoidance of your stare, “force of habit”.

The smile you wear is brittle over the cacophonous rush of blood in your ears. Poor of an excuse as it was, you still wonder whether it had any truth to it — ruminating over how he really saw you.

Soon enough it’s difficult to ignore just how long you’ve overstayed your welcome; atleast, in a professional sense. All five of the Aizawa’s, legal, honorary and feline, walk you to the door to bid you goodbye.

“Be good, alright?” Shouta calls after you, leaning against the doorframe long after the children have returned to their cushions. His monotony makes it all the more endearing.

The real paradigm shift comes with a flinch. Aizawa lets you into the house silently wearing a desperate look. He glances to the top of the stairs, but when you follow his line of sight there is no one there. “She froze up,” he murmurs, regret bleeding into his voice as it rasps. “I lifted my hand to pat her head and she froze, like she thought I’d hit her. She’s been avoiding me all morning”.

You frown, worrying your lip between your teeth. “Is there anything that might’ve triggered her?”

His shoulders deflate, mouth set in a grimace, and you realise then just how crestfallen he is. “Not that I'm aware of. She was fine before bed and didn’t have any nightmares to my knowledge,” — as he bends to pick up his own satchel, Eri’s helpful absence is particularly stark — “if anything goes south let me know. I’ll come straight home if you need me to. We were going to see her psychiatrist soon for a review so I’ll try to have it brought forward”.

“Alright. I promise I’ll take care of her,” you reply, watching with brows pinched as he turns to the front door. You don’t like the slouch to his back — different to the typical exhaustion. This is defeat. Grief, in some ways. While you cannot hear his thoughts, you know intuitively that he is blaming himself.

He stops as you grab his wrist, door partially open. Pray tell, what is the right thing to say?

“Things like this aren’t linear,” your grip tightens, squeezing around his pulse. There’s soft hair under the pads of your fingers, the skin there rough from decades of use. “I’m willing to bet this minor setback isn’t your fault. Bad days happen”.

“I know,” he rasps, still refusing to look at you.

“I know that you know, probably better than most,” you smile where he can’t see it. “I just wanted to remind you”.

You experience a palpable sense of accomplishment when his arm turns, inner wrist twisting and sliding forth until your palms kiss. Aizawa holds your hand and peers at you through the curtain of his hair. As clouds part and the sun pierces through the threshold it refracts in his eyes. In a fleeting trick of the light, you think they look red.

“Thank you,” he says.

Away at work, the house is too quiet. Eri isn’t a rambunctious girl by any means, but her presence can always be heard. Can always be felt. No pitter patter of socked feet, no muffled laughter, no hushed conversations between girl and cat.

A part of you whispers how similar it is to being in your own home. But acknowledging that loneliness is another bruise you don’t fancy poking.

You find Eri curled up in her bed. She has pressed herself to the wall and brought both knees to her chest. The small bundle quakes, cheeks wet with tears that have begun to saturate the pillowcase. Eri keeps her cries unsettlingly quiet, in a way you’ve only ever seen in children afflicted with soul-deep wounds.

“Eri?” you call out to her with gentle cadence. She is, visibly and emotionally, an animal cornered. You move in closer, keeping to the edge of the room, focused on the worrisome flush to her skin and her laboured breaths. It worsens as you close the distance, a frantic gleam in her eyes.

“It’s just me, Eri. You’re safe here,” pausing a foot away from the edge of her bed, you gingerly lower yourself to sit on her bedroom floor. “I think you’re having a panic attack, bug. So we’re gonna try to slow your breathing. Can you do that for me?”

Her mouth quivers, pursed right as she hiccups. Another quick blink, another round of tears. You try not to collapse with relief when she nods, “You’re already doing so well. I know it’s scary right now but you’ll get through this”.

Despite the frenetic ache in your chest and the instincts in your body urging that you reach for her, you remain as you are. This is ultimately why you were chosen. Years of schooling and experience puppets your body, autopilot taking lead.

“First we’re going to breathe in through our noses for three seconds, nice and deep so your chest opens up. I’ll do it too,” — motioning inwards with your hands, you inhale until your ribs expand and lift a finger for each second that passes — “brilliant, sweetheart. Now hold that breath in for two more seconds. Ready? One… two…”

The minutes progress excruciatingly slowly. You continue to instruct her, keeping your voice soothing and calm with each cycle of breathing. Gradually, the tension bleeds from Eri’s body and she’s cognisant enough to say your name.

It follows an aborted reach for you, halted midway and dropping onto the bed, small hand hamfisting the bedsheets. “Is it okay for me to touch you?” you quietly ask.

With her permission, keeping your movements telegraphed, you shuffle toward the mattress on your knees and wrap your arms around her like one might cradle a baby.

Pulling her closer to your chest, you realise something is off. There’s heat soaking through her clothes, and in stroking a hand along her shoulders you notice they’re wet. “Eri…?” chin against sternum as you peer down, the back of your hand finds her forehead too hot.

“Are you sick?”

The question makes her freeze, statuesque where she’s curled against your chest. “I’m sorry,” she whimpers. Unease settles in your gut.

“I’m not angry, Eri. It isn’t your fault you’re sick, it happens to everyone,” you say, gently brushing the hair away from her face. “Is that why you were anxious today, you thought I would be upset?”

“They… they get mad”.

“Who does, sweetheart?”

“Grown ups,” she rasps, her voice thick and cloying in her throat. Steadily, the breast of your shirt becomes damp too. The hand threaded into her hair lowers to thumb away the fresh onslaught of tears.

“Grown ups can be scary,” you affirm, beginning an instinctive back and forth sway as you hold her. “But not all of them. Your dad, Hitoshi and I won’t be angry if you’re sick because we want to take care of you”.

Aizawa’s earlier expression flashes unbidden through your thoughts. What he had interpreted had been fear, but not for the reasons he initially thought. Eri was not scared of him — she just didn’t want him to know she was sick. No doubt, if he had caught wind of her fever he would have called off work completely.

While she doesn’t speak about her past to you, it's clear the adults in Eri’s life before entering foster care had treated her needs as something burdensome. Your gaze drifts to the bandages on her forearms and realise they may have even harmed her for it.

“I bet these feel all sticky and uncomfortable now, huh?” you’re cautious to trace the protective sleeves with the pad of your finger. As expected, they’re sweaty.

She readjusts in your grip, a sheen of perspiration across pink skin. Panic at bay, now she is exhausted. “Sticky,” she weakly agrees.

“Then how about I run you a bath?”

It’s this that leads to you finally seeing the extent of Eri’s scars.

When you settle her into the tepid water, your eyes do not linger on mottled skin. Expression carefully schooled into something familiarly pleasant, you keep your thoughts in the present, away from the horrific what ifs and the whys. Unawares of your inner struggle, Eri raises her cupped hands steeped with bubbles and blows them across the bathroom with a tired smile. Having earned so much of her trust is not unlike Atlas, the heavens on your back.

You find Eri enjoys routine even while sick, but she isn’t especially particular about it and for that you’re thankful, as she is forgiving of your initial clumsiness. She uses the lavender bubble bath because it soothes her, not the raspberry scented wash. Eri’s towels are softer and brighter than Aizawa’s, and the difference is important because they are hers. Socks are stifling, so you needn’t lay them out. The nightlight stays on when the curtains are closed, but you still need to leave a crack in the door for Sourpuss and Bastard, who’ve both dutifully stationed themselves outside her bedroom.

You turn around and fuss with her bedsheets while she changes into something thin and light. The pyjama top is on backwards, and after retracting her arms into the shirt so you can swivel it around correctly, she clambers into the quilts. Dekiru: The Can Do Hero was her chosen story. Satisfaction thrums through your chest as her eyes start to grow heavy, a damp cloth wrung out and placed across her forehead.

There’s a pull to your sternum as you leave her room, dipoles strengthening and compelling you to stay — to make sure she’s still alright. Bastard and Sourpuss watch you with bright eyes, pupils needle-thin. Something very human in you feels as if they’re saying thank you.

More importantly, you need to text Aizawa.

You : 11:16

Just thought to update you. I think Eri might have a virus, or a stomach bug. She’s okay and resting.

Aizawa Shouta : 11:20

Do you need me to come home?

You : 11:21

We’re okay, but do whatever you think is best. Will let you know if anything worsens.

When he eventually returns home it is with cold-bitten cheeks and tension in his brow. A long day looks good on him, you think, stray hair falling loose from his bun and the collar of his shirt crooked. “Any more problems?” he asks with veiled trepidation.

“She’s alright for now,” you don’t bother hiding the wry smile that pulls at your mouth, “I heard all about the different voices you use when you read to her. Apparently I don’t hold a candle to you. Didn’t think you were the type”.

He holds your gaze with intent, “I’m full of surprises”.

You exhale a laugh, quiet and warm behind closed lips, “I’m starting to see that”.

“Only just?” his initial teasing slowly retracts, a gradual sink back into melancholy. “Is she really okay?”

“Still slightly feverish, but her temperature is down from thirty eight to thirty seven…” your weight shifts between each foot as you internally debate how to inform him of the panic attack. Aizawa lends an ear while he removes his coat, and the soft hair on your arm lifts at the chill still clinging to his clothes. You imagine taking his hands into your own and coaxing the blood back to his fingers.

“Speaking of temperature, let’s get you some coffee”. Already boiled and percolating on the counter, you’d made it in conjunction with his journey home as you always did. A little extra something you enjoyed doing for him. Aizawa would say that you do plenty in taking care of his family — but this was just for the two of you.

A quiet moment together, kitchen dimly lit in the oncoming twilight. With this, you can warm him from the inside and out. With this, you can tell him without words, I was thinking of you.

You stand opposite him, boxed into the narrow space. He appraises you from his place by the sink, leaning back casually against the counter. Heat settles in your belly before your first sip. Eyes never leaving yours over the rim of his mug, Aizawa drinks, and hums a low, pleased sound at the taste.

The sting to your palms tethers you to the present. A light, somewhat floral aroma fills your senses as you inhale. You lift your own coffee to your mouth, blowing away the plumes of steam. It is rich on your tongue.

Your gaze lingers where he licks his lower lip. “It’s a little different this time. Almost… spicy and sweet?”

Smile hidden behind your mug, you say, “I tried steeping cardamom with the coffee grounds this time. Do you like it?”

“I do,” he murmurs. He takes another sip, wearing a subdued smile of his own. In the muted light, it accentuates the bags beneath his eyes. Even in his contentment, there’s a pensive air about him that lets you know his thoughts are elsewhere.

With his daughter.

“You should know that after you left this morning I found Eri having a panic attack”.

“Shit,” he halts. Regrettably, the frown is back. “Did she hurt herself?”

“No! No,” you demurred, hastening to reassure him, “I knew what to do. She was scared at first, but I calmed her down”.

The mouth you’re so enticed by is caught between teeth, his fingers tapping restlessly against the ceramic of his cup. Aizawa sighs, erring on a scoff as he places the half drunk coffee in the sink and scrubs a hand against the stubble on his jaw.

“Do you know what caused it?” he asks. Did I do something wrong? you hear.

“It wasn’t until she let me touch her that I realised she had a fever. I thought she’d just exerted herself during the attack,” you mirror his actions, setting aside your mug carefully on the countertop. “She told me… before she came into your care, adults would be angry if she needed help or got sick”.

His eyes are cast to the floor, in a haze almost. He nods but you aren’t sure that your words are registering. Resting against sternum, his hand clenched into a fist.

“Eri wasn’t scared of you. She just didn’t want you to know about her fever because she feared it would disrupt your work,” and then gently, to truly make sure he understands, you repeat: “she isn’t scared of you, Shouta”.

He breathes the reality in and slacks against the counter with an exhale, as if the tension had been the only thing holding his strings together. You’re drawn forward by the urge to comfort him, moving into his space with a hand laid overtop fist before you’re able to consider the professional consequences of crossing such boundaries.

But he doesn’t bat you away or scold you. The warmth of your touch slowly softens his grip until you’re able to unfurl each finger without fanfare. There are faint crescent moons embedded into the heel of his palm. Without speaking, Shouta overturns his wrist and holds your hand again.

“I thought about what you told me this morning. About none of this being linear,” he continues to speak somberly, his voice so tender you felt you could marinate in it. “Eri started out as a foster with me when she was four. It was awful at the start — constant appointments with doctors and the police and social services. I’ve temporarily fostered a few kids in my time but a case as severe as Eri's was a first”.

This wasn’t a time to interrupt, just to listen. You can’t look away from him as he looks at you; looks at the space between your bodies where you currently intertwine, like he was memorising every dip and peak of your knuckles.

“Adopting her scared the hell out of me. Even though she’d become my daughter in every way that counts, there were always times I worried I’d fuck it up. Still are,” he murmurs. You do not shy away when he peers up to keep your gaze. “But you reminded me that bad days are expected, not something always within my control, and not a reflection of my parenting”.

To anyone looking in from the outside, this would be an intimate moment. You and Shouta, curved toward one another like coupled swans. “Thank you,” he squeezes around your knuckles in successive beats as if to press the sentiment into your skin. “For taking care of both of us”.

The corners of his eyes wrinkle, and you find yourself on the precipice of something more.

The depths and the possibilities that lie within haunt you through to the weekend. You cannot forget the rough pad of his thumb stroking across your knuckles, the intermingling scent of flora and cologne, or how easily you could have dipped forward to kiss him.

Eri remains sick for two days and Shouta promises you it’s fine that you stay home. You can appreciate that he wants to spend time with her, to assure her that he is a safe and constant presence in her life. Still, you miss them far more than you should.

Your best friends don’t take well to moping. Touya and Rumi are not the type to mope — their stubborn, vindictive natures were a large part of why you loved them. You just much preferred it when those qualities were not inflicted upon you.

“Remind me again why we couldn’t just drink at my apartment?”

You are dragged to a little hole in the wall Touya had found during your university years. It’s slightly industrial, a wide open space with tall, steel beams spaced around the room. What differs is the warmth; lighting low, muted orange bulb fixtures in the centre of each table casting an intimate glow, accompanied by soft acoustic music overhead.

A large drinks bar had been built into the centre, corners slightly rounded with stools around the outer — one of which you have taken for yourself. The three of you sit together on the curved edge so you can face one another, Rumi contented to be in the middle. Being here felt similar to huddling around a campfire, or candlelight. Alcohol insulating your bones and loosening your tongue, easy laughter shared with friends.

You were brought here on a quest for distraction, and yet—

“I don’t think you understand how dire this is,” you bemoan, feeling yourself pout at Touya’s self indulgent eye roll. “He tells me to be good before he leaves now, too. Looks right at me and says ‘be good, both of you’”.

Your initial goal may have been overly optimistic.

“Like a bit of praise, don’t ya?” Rumi laughs.

Touya smirks, wiping away a stray bead of soju from his mouth as his eyes sweep across the bar. “Who doesn’t?”

“It isn’t funny,” limp wristed as you swirl the sweet tasting concoction in your glass, Rumi slips her arm along the back of your stool. “I want to kiss him. All the time!”

A hand rubs firm circles between your shoulder blades. At the very least, neither of them are irritated by the topic. Embarrassing to admit, Aizawa Shouta had featured prominently in your group chat over the past month. Most of their responses have been either good natured teasing or detailing complaints about their own love lives, for which you’d been thankful, because at the time you’d only needed a place to vent and an ear to listen.

Now you weren’t so sure. Heartbeat in your mouth, his phantom touch around your fingers. You knew him sleep mussed and lazy, his low rumbling laugh, the way your name sounds when he smiles. Inch by inch the spool unravels, you take more than you need, left wanting still.

You couldn’t pretend a line had not been crossed anymore, and you tell them as much.

“So, we’re actually talking about this now?” Touya asks, waving his hand between the three of you. “I know we’ve been joking and shit, but if we’re getting serious I’ll need another round”.

Though he acts nonchalant, you can tell Touya cares. Turned inward to face you and leant forward across the bar with his cheek against his palm, the scarred skin slightly glossy as it pulls taut. Where his words say very little, his body speaks for him. Rumi coos and throws her other arm around his shoulders when you reach across, and he reciprocates in taking your hand.

“Dumbass,” he mutters. “We’re here for you. But I’m not joking about that drink”. You grin, tucking your head into the crook of Rumi’s neck, draped beneath white, to return the hug while she waves over the bartender. Another grapefruit soju, a kirin lager and a cocktail of the night.

Words come easy when you’re loose-lipped. “I’m anxious that it’s obvious to him,” you say. “Fuck. I don’t wanna make anyone uncomfortable”.

“Is this Aizawa guy really the type to tolerate anything that makes him uncomfortable?”

“I think so…”— he is, and he would, if it were for someone he cares about —“…But not without saying anything about it”.

“There ya go then,” Rumi replies, exhaling happily at the end of a long sip from her pint glass. “And you’ve told us before that he’s always honest with you. What was it you said…?”

Touya clears his throat and warps the pitch of his voice to mimic your own, “Why is emotional maturity and clear communication so hot?”

“Fuck off,” you laugh, heat thrumming beneath your skin. You wished you had a stray straw wrapper to flick at him, jokingly adding, “it is hot. I love you, but not all of us get off on being ignored, y’know.”

“Sue me,” he jests, narrowing his eyes into a drunken glare that at best, looks like a squint. “And I don’t get ignored. I do the ignoring”.

Noticing his empty bottle, Rumi slides him her glass sympathetically, “sure ya do”.

The bar is notably less empty than it had been an hour ago. Not full by any means, but the music has slowly been overwhelmed by the quiet lull of overlapping conversation. Tuning out the lovable bickering at your side, you take a moment to appraise the new crowd.

Something sinks into the pit of your stomach and you baulk, caught on a familiar sight.

Fuck, you think. How long has he been there?

There he sits, aglow with the sunset hue affixed to the centre of his table. Hair loose, ebony drapes over his shoulders. He’s in a pale turtleneck sweater, looking distinctly out of place. Beside him a lean man, bright in demeanour and loud across the room; a blond braid follows the line of his spine, tinted glasses resting on the end of his nose.

A woman approaches the pair, beaming. Curved and soft, wearing a lilac, off the shoulder dress that hugs the line of her body comfortably. She sets a tray of drinks down beside their numerous empty glasses and presses herself between the two, unperturbed by the lack of space.

A spark of recognition frissons through you. They must be the friends you often see framed around the house; Nemuri and Hizashi, if you remember correctly.

Shouta’s clear exasperation as he moves to accommodate Nemuri makes you want to laugh. But still, there is a fondness there that rolls over him like mist. He sinks into the arm around his shoulder, surrendering himself to the affection.

“Oi. What’re you staring at?” You blink, startled by the large hand suddenly waving in your face.

“He’s here”.

“Your hot dadboss?” Touya mutters, doing a poor job of acting natural as he abruptly turns to scan the room, “where?”

“Could you be any more fucking obvious?” Rumi cackles, bumping their shoulders and forcing his attention back to the table. “‘Sides, it’s clearly the trio on your two o’clock. Scruffy guy with long dark hair, eyebags that couldn’t legally board a plane — the works”.

As Touya peers over his shoulder towards Shouta, you release a long, suffering groan, slumping forward with elbows propped on the bar surface to bury into your palms. You hoped a sinkhole would open up beneath you. From behind your hands you hear, “I find your taste in men questionable”.

“Like you have any room to talk,” you glare at him through the spaces in your fingers, “didn’t you fuck a guy that had a poster of your dad over his bed?”

Seated adjacent, Rumi chokes on her drink while you knock back your own. “A poster of your dad? Hasn't he been publicly disgraced in every print media possible?”

A dismissive wave of his hand. “I will not be commenting at this time,” he sneers.

“Holy shit. I’m gonna tell your brothers—”

“—Like hell you are!”

Amidst your friends' loving exchange of insults, your phone buzzes.

Aizawa Shouta : 21:34

You handle your drink better than I thought.

Sensing the playful tone, you pointedly take a sip of another. Glancing up from the screen you meet his eyes across the bar, a smirk hidden behind his scotch glass. Chewing the inside of your cheek to withhold a grin, you text him back.

You : 21:34

Look who’s talking. I spy four empty glasses on your side of the table.

“Are you seriously messaging him right now?” Touya asks dryly, unperturbed by the middle finger you throw in response. Rumi laughs at his side, tucking her chin into the palm of her hand as your phone lights up again.

Aizawa Shouta : 21:36

You sure are paying a lot of attention to me.

And then:

Aizawa Shouta : 21:36

But you’re right. No doubt I’ll miss your coffee tomorrow morning.

A shot glass is placed in front of you. Goaded into bringing it to your lips, you grimace at the burn in your throat. Coffee sounds like bliss.

You : 21:37

I’ll miss making it. Who is watching Eri?

Aizawa Shouta : 21:37

Hitoshi. They’re having a movie marathon.

You smile to yourself, imagining the apoplectic way in which Eri would likely detail her night to you in a few days. Feeling the weighted stare, you glance up and meet Aizawa’s eyes again, half squinted into a private smile of his own. He nods in acknowledgement and warmth settles in your chest. Rumi, inebriated and loose-lipped, leans into Touya incognisant of his scowl, “Jesus. I feel like I’ve stepped into a romcom”.

You : 21:38

I can’t wait to hear all about it.

It is expected that they stay with you after a night out. Your place is closer to the bar — a matter of routine and convenience. Rumi, lightweight with alcohol and heavyweight with musculature, passes out unceremoniously on your couch before she’s halfway through her large glass of water.

Touya had sobered up on the walk home. Mostly. Just a two man party, you retire to the bathroom together with intentions of skin care and gossip. He watches you in the reflection of the mirror, bent over the sink and applying the pale clay mask to his face with careless strokes. The colour is almost identical to the faded pink of his burn scars, tight and slightly raised over the swell of his cheek. “You’re not the first person who has wanted to fuck their boss and you won’t be the last,” he mutters.

“Do you really have to put it like that?” you huff, leaning back against the toilet tank. The seat is closed and cold against the back of your thighs. You didn’t often have time for nights like this anymore, but made sure to pencil them in wherever possible for your own sanity — even if your best friend was the complete opposite of comforting.

“You’re so delicate,” he rolls his eyes at you, pushing the cat-eared headband further onto his crown to keep his hair out of the clay. Mockingly, he adds, “My apologies. I meant ‘make sweet love to’”.

Your wide smile cracks the clay dried to your skin as your leg extends to kick him behind the knee, laughing at the hissed string of expletives while he steadies himself. “Dick…” the amusement tapers, a memory of Eri flashing unbidden through your mind.

“His daughter has had it really rough. She has scars all over her body,” you quietly tell him, fractures forming in the words as your emotions swell. Of all the people you know, you think he alone understands, “it isn’t fair”.

Touya exhales, clicking the small container shut and loudly dropping the brush into the sink to rinse. Not unkindly, he says, “If I ever meet her we can bond over our shitty biodads. Make an exclusive club”.

You smile weakly at his comment, picking idly at the small wick of flesh embedded in the corner of your fingernail. “They’re both so important to me now, Touya. I don’t want my feelings to mess with this, or to hurt either of them”.

“It’s not— look,” he huffs, turning to face you where he stands, slumping back onto the counter with a comically serious expression. “I’ll say this once. Your feelings aren’t a burden, and they’re fucking lucky to have you. If the-walking-dead doesn’t want you back it doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world, but it does mean he’s an idiot”.

You might laugh again if you didn’t recognise how sincere he was being. Touya struggled with reassuring others in need and was renowned for giving terrible advice, but he loved you enough to try anyway. Tiled flooring tepid against the soles of your feet, you cross the short distance to hug him, angled awkwardly to avoid getting pink clay on his shirt.

“Thank you,” you murmur thickly.

“Better appreciate it. Being nice isn’t my forte,” he knocks his chin against your crown, comforted in the narrow clutch of his arms. “Takes a lot outta me. Kinda feel like I need a cigarette now”.

“You haven’t had one in a month. Don’t even think about it,” you flick the space between his brows, dodging his retaliation as he reaches to pinch your waist with a less than coordinated stumble.

Out in the living room on the edge of your coffee table, your phone buzzes twice.

Aizawa Shouta : 00:08

If you’re free tomorrow, can you come over to talk?

Aizawa Shouta : 00:08

Just us two.

Possibilities ran amok in your head. The anxiety thorning through your chest is reminiscent of the very first time you’d met him. Shouta was not a religious man but if there was anything that man insisted on, it was that Sunday’s are for rest. You knew he liked to lie in, a small weekly respite, and so you hesitated to knock.

A door you had opened, locked, leaned against and lingered under, now seemed so foreboding. From here on out, you imagine there will be a before and an after. Had he heard you in the bar? Had one of his friends? Or, had you been too obvious, just like you feared?

Touya and Rumi had practically ushered you out of the apartment that morning, promising to stay behind and wait for an update. Greasy food and camp horror movies were in the wings incase of a broken heart.

With bated breath, you lift your arm. The momentum of your swing slows until your knuckles are soundlessly touching wood. You really, really didn’t want to knock. The idea of your feelings being spurned far outweighed the desire to see Shouta soaked in sleep and early afternoon sunlight again.

Amidst your trepidation, the decision is made for you. You pull back at the familiar click of a key being turned, hand now clutched against your chest. The door is opened.

Belatedly, you notice that his face is clean shaven; hair combed and half tucked behind his ear to display the smooth skin. Absent is the neon pink, today the sweatpants are dark and cuffed around his ankles. You hold his gaze, resolutely avoiding how his shirt hangs loose enough to expose his pale collarbones, and find that each of his socks is a different colour — one green, one yellow.

“Will you be loitering out here all day?” he asks in lieu of a greeting. There’s an amused inflection to his tone that, at the very least, softens your embarrassment.

“I didn’t plan on it,” you reply, stepping into the entryway to be embraced by the house’s warmth. Anticipation strums deft fingers through your centre of gravity. Shouta barely moves, a hair's breadth between your bodies as you slip by him, head turning to watch you pass. “Eri isn’t here?”

Bending to remove your shoes, you hear him say, “She’s staying with her aunt Nemuri tonight. Coffee’s brewed, so you can sit if you want. Get comfortable”.

“You made it?” playful in the way you glance toward him over your shoulder, slightly invigorated by how natural this all feels. He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s about to fire you — quite the opposite. “I’m a little scared”.

The first time you’d caved into drinking one of his morning coffees it'd had the taste and texture of tar. It had been nothing short of punishment. As if he was reliving the memory alongside you, Shouta huffs a short laugh.

“I’ve improved. I won’t be shown up in my own home,” he dismisses you with a wave and heads into the kitchen, “now go and sit”.

Bastard observes your entrance perched atop the back of the couch, expression etched into a permanent glare. A soft thud follows his leap down, slinking into your lap once seated and rolling his body weight into your stomach. You smile down at him, carding through his soft fur and feeling the vibration of his purr beneath your fingers.

Befriending this fickle little creature is a testament to how far you’ve come with their family.

“Here,” you look up to see Shouta standing before you, a familiar mug decorated with multicoloured pawprints held out. You take it by the handle, wary of its heat. The other end of the couch dips as he settles beside you, notably close.

“It smells a little like… cinnamon?”

He hums an affirmative, bringing the rim of his mug to his lips and taking a long sip, unconcerned by the temperature. “I added some to the pot this time. Not too bad”.

The tawny surface ripples as you lightly blow across it before having a taste. It’s full on your tongue, but in a way that is creamy rather than viscid. You can feel his stare boring into the side of your face as you savour the subtle sweetness of the cinnamon.

“Not too bad,” you echo with a wry smile, meeting his gaze. Shouta appears uncharacteristically… relieved by your answer. You’d never known him to actively try to impress you. His shoulders relax, rubbing his hand awkwardly along the line of his jaw.

Without forethought, you blurt, “You’ve shaved”.

His movement halts, and you regret having said anything.

“I did,” he replies dryly. “...I was pestered by some very annoying people into putting some effort into my appearance before we had this conversation”

You stroke the pad of your thumb around your mug handle, made restless by the implication. Shouta was always effortlessly considerate of you, but his actions as of late are so obviously purposeful, and you didn’t know what to make of it. “I don’t think you needed to,” you tell him, your voice almost wistful in how sincere it sounds. “The scruffy look works for you. It’s handsome”.

The contact breaks for a moment as he lifts his coffee in effort to disguise his snort. You watch his throat bob, swallowing deeply. Brow quirked, he asks, “You think I’m scruffy?”

“I think you’re handsome,” you correct, a giddy sensation bubbling in your chest as the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Stop fishing, you said I’m here to talk about something”.

“You are,” he agrees, abating his mirth and returning to a more serious tone. You immediately miss the warmth. “I’m no good at this kind of thing. But I want to remind you that you can leave, if at any time I make you uncomfortable”.

Bastard fidgets, but dull claws kneading through your clothes does nothing to alleviate your sudden anxiety. “Alright… What’s— what’s all this about?”

You can see the breath he takes to steady himself, the internal monologue you aren’t privy to. There’s a discomfort that sinks into his expression, almost like a grimace. Like predetermined regret. Despite your earlier concerns, this was clearly about him and not about you.

“I admired from the very beginning how brilliant you were with Eri. You weren’t the first nanny we’d been introduced to, but she never took well to any of the others,” as he begins, you tuck a hand beneath the feline in your lap, distractedly stroking his chin. “We both saw something comforting in you. It was unnerving how easily you fit into our lives”.

Mirroring you, Shouta reaches his free hand across to scratch behind Bastard's ear. “Eri came to love you, and eventually I…” the bridge of his nose wrinkles, lips thinning as if he tasted something sour. You’re both hesitating, teetering over a cliff's edge, wary of the jump. Your pulse beats loud in your ears, and part of you worries you’ll mishear him all together.

“Over time, I developed strong romantic feelings for you,” he says. In admitting it, the fight visibly bleeds from his body. He sounds apologetic, and it hurts. “I might have dealt with it myself had Hitoshi not told me I was being too obvious. If that’s the case, and I’ve crossed any boundaries with you I want to apolo—”

“Don’t apologise,” you hastily interrupt. “Sorry for cutting you off. I— I didn’t know, but, I like you too”.

The grip on your mug is shatteringly tight. He stares at you unblinking, eyes widened in imperceptible surprise. “You do?”

“I thought I was embarrassingly obvious,” You laugh weakly, seconding him another glance. He’s still watching, a light shade of pink creeping up his neck. “I’ve been feeling so guilty. Not only about crossing professional lines, but because I don’t want any of this to hurt Eri”.

“Then we’re on the same page,” he concedes.

Your reciprocation sees a shift in atmosphere. As you both soak in the words, and all the consequences that may follow, his hand gradually slips beneath Bastard’s chin and brushes against your own. Fingers twitch, gluttonous, the moment held in suspension.

And then they’re spreading, unfolding like a flower in bloom. Your palms align and stems intertwine. Shouta holds your hand like it’s something precious, filling the spaces between your fingers. Bastard remains incognisant of the world around him as he sleeps, resting his head heavily against your wrists.

“Realistically,” you begin again, after a brief silence. “Where would you want this to go? Between us”.

His grip tightens, and he runs his thumb along the points of your knuckles. “Well. I initiated this discussion knowing things likely would not be the same again after,” he murmurs gently. “Best case scenario, I hoped either we would come up with a schedule that kept more concrete boundaries in place so my feelings wouldn’t disrupt your relationship with Eri, or I’d get lucky and you’d want to build something more with me”.

More. Maw. The aching hunger in your heart is suddenly startlingly prominent. The very thing you’d been wanting for, offered to you on a silver platter. Knowing he had always planned to keep you in Eri’s life strikes a chord, and you feel like you might cry.

Squeezing his hand back, you blink away the sting in your sinuses. “This is… slightly overwhelming”.

He smiles heistantly. You never thought you’d see the day that Aizawa Shouta looked shy. “Do I need to get the feelings chart?”

“Shut up,” you laugh. “I’m just happy. This is a big thing, and it’s about more than just us, but for now... I’m happy”.

Then, with the lines in the sand patently smoothed over, you relinquish restraint and lean into his shoulder. He rests his cheek against your temple, and you shape around one another instinctively. “If I could be the one to pick, then I think I’d choose to build something more with you”.

“Yeah?” There’s a raspy baritone warming his voice that pulls at your centre. You want to curl up next to it like kindling.

“Yeah”.

“So,” he turns his head and his lips are softer than expected along your skin. “You wouldn’t mind if I took you on a date?”

“I wouldn’t,” you breathe. He hums, a sincere happy little sound.

“Would you mind if I kissed you?”

The mug of coffee, still held in your right hand, is cold. Bastard remains heavy, spread across your lap like a blanket. You can feel Shouta’s apprehension, the uncertainty that comes with drawing new lines on a blank slate. Again, you repeat, “I wouldn’t”.

He doesn’t fumble. Shouta rests his drink beside the couch, a fleeting loss of his warmth, and then he’s back to take your own. All without releasing your left hand. Bastard complains when your legs move, knees turning inwards to face him as Aizawa moves to cradle your face between palms, and the feline departs your lap, stray hairs dotting your clothes.

A sense of weightlessness floods through you, fingers entangling into the fabric of his shirt to keep yourself tethered. He reveres you for a moment, eyes lingering on your expression as he brings your foreheads together. This close, you can see a faint scar curved along his cheek that you had never noticed before.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs.

Heat pricks at your skin. You can feel his breath on your lips. “Hurry up,” you insist.

The lilt of desperation in your tone inspires a lazy grin, “You could say please”.

You had no problems parting with your dignity. “Please”.

And so, he kisses you.

You’re certain you would be formless without Shouta’s hand smoothing along the column of your throat, untethered. The other moves to your hip. He grounds you, thumbs circling the soft skin of your waist, he pulls away for breath only to dip and capture your lips in another tender kiss. It’s slow, patient and lacking in direction. It’s without expectation and arousal. It is just that — loving.

When your lips part, he murmurs your name softly into your mouth. His tongue is wet and languid, smooth as it maps out the grooves of your teeth, sliding warm against your own. Excitement frissons along the length of your spine, compelling you to press closer and sate your hunger.

He tastes like cinnamon.

The touches evolve into something more frantic. You end up curled into him as he sinks back against the couch, half pulling you onto his lap. Appreciative and firm, a hand squeezes the fat of your thigh where it is strewn over his knee. You swallow every sweet murmuring, every soft groan he gives you, and it falls like a small stone into the pit of your stomach. Barely filling.

You wanted more, and between gasping breaths, you knew he did too.

“Can I take you to bed?” he asks, the question rough in his throat.

The muscles in your legs clench at that, pressing tightly together. It wasn’t that you didn’t want it— you felt yourself throb at the thought, shrinking under the weight of his hunger — but you’d hardly come here expecting anything. Especially not this.

“I— I didn’t come prepared for that?” you answer honestly. His gaze grows heavy, brow curved in a silent bid for explanation. “I didn’t… shower for very long,” and you hadn’t worn particularly alluring underwear, either.

He takes a measured breath and you shy into the couch cushions. “You think I care about that?” he says. Your eyes flicker then at the gentle stroke of his fingers along your jawline. He tilts your chin with the hand cradling your cheek, and forces you to look back at him. The pad of his thumb traces along your bottom lip, and he smiles when you reflexively kiss it.

“We don’t have to, I know this might be too fast. We can stop right here, ” he murmurs, enunciating each word as if to stress his sincerity. “But know that I do want you, I want all of you. And I want you now, as you are”.

You shift in place, reflexively seeking friction. Still, he waits. “Do you have condoms?”

“I do,” his eyes are half lidded, and they gleam with mirth. “Two kids at home and twenty in my criminology programme. Not looking to have more anytime soon”.

Maybe your transparency should be, at the very least, a little embarrassing. No doubt you’re wearing a lovesick expression. But you can’t find it in you to care. “Then okay,” you tell him. “Take me upstairs”.

Excitement stirs in your gut during the walk up, feeling his presence at the small of your back. The door to his room has been left ajar, and when he overtakes you to enter first you’re struck by the realisation that this is the only room you’ve never been in.

You aren’t sure what you were expecting. It’s a cool off white colour, save for an accent wall painted a dark emerald green — so dark, that without the sunlight you could mistake it for black, not unlike his kitchen. There are two alcoves fixed with shelves, lined with books and titles you haven’t heard of, and a small desk beside his chest of drawers covered in paperwork.

The bedframe is high, but there is no headboard. Pillows upon pillows, blankets old and new. Sitting square in the middle of the mattress is Sourpuss, her paws tucked against her belly as she stares at the intrusion.

You aren’t given much time to process. There are hands on your hips, teeth paving tender nips down the curve of your throat. “Still ok?” Shouta rasps, nosing the delicate skin beneath your ear.

“Yeah,” and you’re sinking into his chest like warm water as he gently guides you into the room. Before reaching the bed, you turn in his arms to kiss him. Your fingers thread into his thick hair, light as you scratch against his scalp.

Sourpuss complains when you’re lowered onto the bed, jumping to the floor as you scoot up towards the pillows. You offer her a half hearted apology, already distracted by the roll of Shouta’s hips.

His cock is hard beneath his sweatpants, rocking deliciously against your clothed sex. Everything is hot. “Shouta—!” face turned into the sheets to muffle your whine, you note that they smell like him.

“I know love,” he ruts forward again, expression pinched in pleasure. With your throat bared, he continues the path of open mouthed kisses to your collar, a hand rising to cup your chest. You arch into the touch as he squeezes. “Bet you could make me cum like this—”

“—But not before you do,” Another kiss to your lips, chaste in comparison. He pulls away to meet your gaze, seeking permission. “I want to taste you”.

“Okay…” you tilt your chin, pecking the corner of his mouth, and you feel it curve up as your hands find purchase at the hem of his shirt. “Just take this off, first”.

When he sits back on his knees, arms crossed to lift the fabric over his head, you are left adrift to enjoy the view. He is well built but appears to have lost definition over time, with his biceps and pecs still thick but his stomach soft. There’s sparse hair on his chest, thicker beneath his belly button.

Indulging the urge to touch, he shudders as you trace your finger through it and tease his waistband. “Yours too,” he says, the instruction rough in his throat.

His body moves with yours like the tide as you sit up to remove your shirt, already there to lick the valley between your breasts. You wrap your arms around his head, gathering the dark hair draped over you and brushing it away from his face to watch the way he reveries you.

Your abdomen flinches under his soft kisses. Shouta travels the length of your torso as if he were savouring you. He’s pressing sweet nothings in your skin, inaudible mumblings that still leave you warm because they’re spoken so breathlessly.

He hooks into your waistband and looks at you. Before he can ask, you slip your hands alongside his — “here, let me…” — and begin to push both your pants and your underwear over the curve of your ass. As the material peels away, you can feel it cling to your sex. Wet.

“Fuck, look at you,” a hand gently parts your knees. He forges another line of light, barely there kisses along your inner thighs, and once he reaches the apex he inhales with a quiet groan that has your fingers tugging at his hair. He’s immovable as your embarrassment pushes him back barely an inch, satisfaction twitching at the edge of his mouth. Jaw slack, pupils dilated and almost gleaming in rebellion, he rolls his tongue forward obscenely to flick the bud of your clit.

Your breathing stutters. It loosens your grip enough that he can tip his head forward to consume you completely, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure like it was his arousal own being satiated. Covetous, he signals contentment with a rumbling in his chest and it vibrates against your sex.

The beat of your heart ricochets through your centre; pulsing in your throat, your ears and your pussy. Shouta’s tongue slides over you, wet and soft. Where it seems like he’s indulging himself, you realise he’s still adapting each movement to the sounds you make. Wherever a moan falls past your lips he maintains rhythm and pace, reins himself in to watch the rise and fall of your breasts.

The knot in your belly tightens and your body coils in on itself, thighs clamped against his ears with hips bucking into his mouth. The mattress shakes, and when you notice it’s him rutting into the sheets, you moan helplessly louder. “Shouta, I’m—!”

He groans, fingers sinking into the fat of your hips and pulling you impossibly close. Your heels dig into his back as his nose slides against your clit, and he tilts to unrelentingly flicker his tongue over the swell.

“Just like that,” you gasp, grip searing at his scalp. Lewd, wet sounds reverberate around the room. “Fuck!”

A momentary breath is caught in your throat. Your body bends, spine arched forward like a bow as you crest. All at once, the sharp twist in your belly lessens, diffuses, warms your body from the inside out in gentle pulses.

In returning to yourself, you realise he’s steadily carrying you through the motions; soft licks and forgiving kisses until sensitivity overwhelms you. He hums again, like a man that has just finished a meal. You relinquish your grip on his hair and begin massaging the roots in apology.

“Hey,” you mumble, resting your cheek against your shoulder as you peer down at him between your legs. Resting against your thigh, face sodden and pink, he looks rather pleased with himself.

He sighs, tongue lazily swiping along his lower lip. Half lidded, he meets your gaze. “Can I preface this by telling you it's been a while since I've had sex?”

You laugh at the unexpected response. “What, why? Did you cum in your pants?”

The question itself is a joke, but when he levels you with a carefully blank look, your mouth parts. “You did?”

“Possibly,” he grunts, tucking his chin to nose along your navel.

Sensing his simmering embarrassment, you reach to encourage him back up the bed until you’re face to face. Unperturbed by what's left of your own arousal, you cradle his jaw and kiss him soundly.

“That’s so—” again and again, punctuating each word, “—so fucking hot”.

Shouta grins against your lips, slipping his arms around your waist and gathering you to his chest. Your palm rests over his heart, fingers idly twirling around the short hair there. “So were you,” he murmurs, pointedly shifting his hips. You can feel his sweatpants are slightly damp. “That was the problem”.

“Sorry,” you offer playfully, enjoying the pleasant buzz prickling under your skin. “It doesn’t matter. We’ve got plenty of time, haven’t we?”

It is then that your intimate afterglow is cut short, by the long suffering yowl of Sourpuss no less. Glaring sharply from her place by the desk, mortification rolls over you.

“Please tell me she wasn’t watching us?”

Shouta snorts, the sound dissolving into peals of quiet laughter as you smack his shoulder. “I don’t know,” he replies amusedly, loosening his grip and turning to the edge of the bed. “I was a little preoccupied”.

He stands and ushers the feline towards the door, which he’d mistakenly left ajar. “I can’t believe this,” you bemoan, crossing your arms over your head to hide your face.

There’s a dip on your side of the mattress, followed by the sound of something being placed on the bedside table. He sits beside you, leaning across to pry away your limbs. “Come here,” he croons, first bringing your inner wrist to his lips. “I’m sure she wasn’t”.

His hair curtains the two of you as he presses your foreheads together. It brings you back into a world made up of just the two of you. “Let me kiss you,” and you do. You can appreciate the distraction.

You part when something vibrates. In your peripheral vision, you notice a screen light up. He must’ve taken your phone out of your pants pocket. “You should check that, it buzzed earlier too. I’m gonna get out of these boxers”.

“Okay,” you smile as he presses another kiss to your temple. You never would’ve guessed he’d be so affectionate.

He busies himself changing while you look at your messages. It’s the group chat with Rumi and Touya.

Sugar tits (Touya) : 13:03

Oi. Are you alive.

Ru-ru (Rumi) : 13:12

Babe. Please reply to us before Touya sets ur mans house on fire lol

You : 13:26

Sorry sorry!! I’m alive. My legs feel like jelly though (´ ꒳` )

Almost immediately, the device is furiously vibrating in your hands again. You rest it against your sternum and grin, choosing to bask in the feeling a little longer.

When you are next tasked with caring for Eri, a few days have passed and the weather has turned. You pick her up from school on the tail end of an unexpected heatwave with the promise of a surprise when you get home. She holds three of your fingers in her hand, and a small handheld fan in the other. It’s Sailor Moon themed.

After cleaning up that afternoon, Shouta sat with you and had a much longer discussion about what the next steps should be. He made it emphatically clear that he didn’t enjoy the thought of being in a relationship with someone he employed — admittedly, it didn’t sit right with you either.

But the importance lies with Eri. For the both of you, she must always come first. Your sudden upheaval as her other caretaker would likely cause a lot of hurt and confusion. So Shouta asked that you patiently wait for your first date until after he has talked to his daughter.

You watch her with a smile as she warmly greets Sourpuss at the foot of the stairs — whom you still cannot make eye contact with — and skips into the living room. In your mind, you count backwards from three until you hear the expected gasp.

She must’ve found the fort.

Less of a fort, more of a… linen cave. It’s an old king-sized bed sheet you’d found in the closet, held in place by a book at each corner, and gaping open with the assistance of a fan at the entrance.

“Can I…?”

“Yes, yes,” you beckon her to climb in, already relieved by the cool gust of air rotating into the sheet. “Go on in. It’s for you!”

You’d tried to make it as comfortable as possible, filled with cushions and soft toys from her bed. At the very least it has a seal of approval from Bastard, who has curled up into himself atop one of the pillows, his long coat moving in the current. Eri crawls in on her hands and knees, settling beside him with a happy giggle.

“You too!” She cheers. You clamber in, tucked between her and one of her favourite plushies.

“Come on,” you say, grinning as you excitedly encourage her to join you, “watch this”. With curious eyes watching, you lean towards the spinning fan and speak into it. “Isn’t this cool?” your voice is given a jarring staccato effect as the sound waves bounce back. “I. Am. A. Robot”.

You didn’t think your smile could get any bigger until she began to laugh delightedly. She slumps her weight against you, cheek to cheek and pressed close to your side as she rushes to try it herself. Silver hair billowing in the current, she declares with a distorted voice, “My. Name. Is. Eri!“

You hold her steady as she continues to giggle. The cool air is beginning to dry out your lips, and your eyes are growing sore with every blink, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. “I like this. I’m happy,” she says, the confession sincere even as it warps.

“Good,” you murmur, stroking your hand over her crown. “When you’re happy, I’m happy”.

For reasons unknown to you, this gives Eri pause. Her lips pursed, expression adorably pinched in contemplation. Whatever it is, you let her think, and you wait.

“Amano-sensei talked about families in class today,” she tells you, turning on her knees with hands folded formally in her lap. Despite her resolve, she is anxiously picking at her fingers. “Sensei told us that everyone's family looks different. Some... some people have one mama or one dad, or both. Or none. Or two dads or— even two mamas”.

A nod, “That’s right sweetheart”.

An irrational bout of nerves settle in your stomach as she gauges you. “Some kids' parents picked them, like my dad did… others have two but they aren’t married…”

“That is true,” you concede gently. “Not all families are related by blood. Like you and your dad, or you and Hitoshi. But you’re still family”.

Eri hums, glancing down to her lap with cheeks puffed. You smile fondly when she exhales the air with an exaggerated noise. “Then!” she starts, shuffling closer on her knees, “if we’re family, but you and dad are not married… What should I call you?”

For a startling moment, you’re sure your heart is in your throat. She continues, “Do I have two dads? Or two mamas? Or one dad and a…?”

“Eri,” your words falter, reaching to still her restless hands. “You think we’re family?”

Her head tilts. “Aren’t we?”

The breath is forced from your lungs. Even seated, you feel as if the floor has been stolen from beneath you. Willing away the prickling behind your eyes, you assuage her with a firm squeeze.

“We are,” you warmly avow, “and you can call me whatever you’d like”. She beams, any and all uncertainty dwindling, in your mind and her own.

Satisfied with the answer, she drops the topic. You think it must’ve been plaguing her the entire walk home, given how quiet she’d been. More than that, you wonder whether Shouta had laid kindling for those thoughts or if she’d come to that conclusion herself.

After an hour of reciting her favourite book into the rotating blades of the fan, complete only with your expert cartoonish voices, it is time for a cat nap. It isn’t hard to fall asleep when splayed across such comfortable bedding, accompanied by white noise and a cool breeze. But you wake not long after to an obtrusive ray of light piercing through the duvet fabric. The makeshift cave is now sun drenched and warm, and laid on the far edge is a new guest.

Shouta is still in his work clothes, laid on his side with Eri turned towards him in her sleep, small hand fisted around his tie. His lips are parted, inhaling shallow breaths. He’s asleep, too, with an arm extended to rest his hand over your hip.

You carefully thread into the spaces between his fingers and watch them both in quiet appreciation until your eyes, too, are heavy. Your chest has never been so full. And as consciousness slips, your heart tips over the cliff's edge and is pulled, inexorably, towards home.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta x reader

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