Fanfics Are Life❤️❤️❤️

(of course, there's gossip about how some bros hate him for even having the privilege to choose, but they can't do anything about it. *shrugs* they just wouldn’t dare to, with his father practically funding 90% of their house’s livelihood.)

frat!shoto, who eventually becomes chapter president, not necessarily because he wanted to but because everyone thought it was just so fitting. yes, his father does play a part but shoto is also admired for his quiet leadership that comes from being naturally gifted and smart, and also for his calm and collected attitude.

he's not a flashy president, but his name definitely makes itself known to other orgs. he's intimidating in a sense with the name of his father and the loyalty he's garnered for himself at his back. a competent head of the house that is constantly marveled at.

other sororities loveeeeee the president of upsilon alpha, todoroki shoto. i mean, how could they not? that man is so famously known on campus for his handsome looks and tall height and deep voice, both in and out of greek life. he could get anyone and everyone if he wanted to.

and if there is one thing the haters do not complain about, is how popular their parties have become because the face of their org is such a hot chick magnet. whether he utilizes it himself or not.

honestly, before he even started his term as president, people have always wondered why they've never seen shoto with anyone. girls cling to him but its with a kind and firm hand that he pulls them off. nobody ever saw even a flicker of lust or interest pass through his blank expression as the most sought-after sisters shamelessly flirt with him.

like it's almost funny how this becomes such a hot topic... people whispering that he's trying to play hard to get... some sophomore claiming to just trust him that he saw three girls come out of shoto's room this one time... or the idea that maybe he just doesn't fuck or like girls in general... the rumors were endless until:

he brings you, his sweet childhood friend from home, to one of the most exclusive parties of the year. only izuku, his vp and right-hand man, is familiar with you—bright green eyes and warm smile greeting you immediately.

jaws are dropping and hearts are breaking left and right as president of upsilon alpha—todoroki shoto's stoic demeanor that always distanced himself from every woman, is practically glued to your side all night.

they've just never seen him so intimate with anyone!!! didn't even know he was capable of it!!! they watch with drama-filled eyes as shoto would bend down and whisper into your ear, thinking it's something dirty and filthy and not knowing it's just quiet soft questions of "do you want another drink?" or "having fun, pretty?"

(shoto saves those words for when he doesn't feel the leering eyes of others on you.)

and yes, you're dressed well for the party, you look beautiful and nicely put together. but there is something foreign in your presence here. something that makes you shine and look almost untouchable. and maybe that's just what happens when the most important person in the room treats someone else like they are that instead.

it's in the way his hand never leaves your back and how his eyes follow your every action. the way you smile and talk animatedly up to him, so unaware of how the most influential guy in the room is looking at you like you hold the entire world. nobody's ever heard of you before, but your name travelled so fast within the first ten minutes of stepping into the house, that you no longer needed to introduce yourself during conversations anymore.

(there was a moment that shoto left to break up a rowdy fight in the backyard, only to come back to a drunk freshman flirting up a storm with you. people swore the air dipped below zero degrees then, and for a second, that intimidating aura of president of alpha upsilon, todoroki shoto, came back tenfold.

it actually becomes the next hot topic for the year: shoto's emotionless face that looked down heinously at the poor guy. a simple, chilling "are you done here?" that sent the freshman running.

you chastise shoto about it to this day for being so scary to the poor kid. but shoto just shrugs in return. it was always his worry that you’ll be caught up in greek drama or disgusting advances. it’s part of the reason it took him years to bring you around his circles.)

one party eventually turns into two, then more. and very quickly, you become someone who is treasured and protected within the house. it becomes a common sight to see you by his side at formals or on the occasional weekend, usually sporting his own prized letters. "pres' girl", they would call you, even before hearing the news that you two started officially dating.

it was a rather funny and astonishing sight to see their usually quiet but not passive president so enamoured with you. one bro even leaked to the pledges that if they paid special and careful attention to this one woman, they would be in the president's good graces.

(it works one time before shoto promptly shuts the idea down. partly because he thinks it's a too manipulative card to play. mostly because he doesn't like the idea of another man or boy doting on you.)

people don’t urge each other to try to flirt with him anymore (unless they want drama), and it's now confirmed that shoto does indeed fuck like girls. if the hickies and bite marks blooming across your neck one night said anything.

extra note: i can also see shoto joining a professional frat, if not a social one! either a medical or business one

1. Riddle Rosehearts

Most of the Heartslabyul students are jealous of you. You are the only person who can (accidentally) break the rules of the Queen of Hearts and then get away with only a light scolding from the Housewarden.

There had once been a student who dared to say that Riddle played favorites on you, but then the red tyrant got angry and they ended up getting collared for a whole week. The punishment actually could have lasted much longer, but you who heard the news took pity on the student and asked Riddle to release him. That student is now a living example of what can happen to people who dare to comment on how Riddle treats you. Now, almost everyone knows how important you are to Riddle.

Every time you come to visit Heartslabyul, the students there will automatically lead you to Riddle without paying attention to your reason for visiting. You find it a little amusing, the way their faces light up whenever they see you before trying to get you to Riddle as quickly as possible, it's as if they have found a savior who can save them from a calamity called Riddle Rosehearts. You can't blame them, they became like that after noticing that every time Riddle's with you, he will be a bit lenient in giving punishment to the rulebreaker because his attention is too preoccupied on you.

When an Unbirthday Party was being held, you would definitely be invited and there's a special seat that has been arranged just for you, which is right beside Riddle's own seat. There's an unwritten rule that says the first slice of cake belongs to the Housewarden. But, since the cake belonged to Riddle now and that rule wasn't exactly written down on paper, then there's no harm in letting you have the first bite, right? In his defense, Riddle claimed that he didn't break the unwritten rule. The first slice of cake was indeed his, he just let you have the first bite.

If you have trouble understanding a certain subject, fret not because you have Riddle to tutor you. Once school was over, you two would have a study session in Riddle's room. Accompanied by tea and Trey's handmade cakes, Riddle will teach you with the patience he has never shown to anyone but you. Every time you answer correctly a question he gives, Riddle will give you a spoonful of Strawberry Pie from his plate. And if you answered wrong, Riddle will explain it again from the beginning until you fully understand it. This pattern will continue to repeat until finally all the questions are answered or the strawberry pie on his plate runs out.

Amidst his busy life as Heartslabyul's Housewarden, Riddle would always try to spend more time with you. Like; accompanying you to walk to school, talking briefly with you when you two pass each other in the hallway, having lunch together in the cafeteria, and when school is over, he'll wait for you so both of you can go back together to Heartslabyul and have a private tea party.

Whenever he's feeling stressed and exhausted, somehow you always show up at the right time and give him the comfort he's looking for. The two of you would spend time together in his room, with Riddle resting his head on your thighs while your fingers trace the soft strands of his hair. Accompanied by your gentle hum, Riddle then decided to rest for a bit together with his childhood friend before continuing his work later.

2. Leona Kingscholar

Rather than calling yourself Leona's childhood friend, you actually feel more like his personal assistant, considering how much work you have been doing for that lazy lion.

Together with Ruggie, you two were entrusted by the teachers to bring Leona back to class every time he skips class. But knowing Ruggie, he will surely let you handle it all while he himself returns to class to study (he would rather not waste his school fees, okay?). Left all alone, now start your journey, trying to find Leona. You already know where Leona is, but first you need to go to the cafeteria to buy some meat which you plan to use as an 'offering' so (hopefully) he will go back to class with you.

Every time you pick Leona up from his napping place, usually there will be two possible endings. The first one was that he will accept your 'offerings' and go back to class with you, although begrudgingly and full of complaints all the way to the class, then continue his nap in class, which makes you heave a long, weary sigh. While the other one is, he pulls you to accompany him to take a nap together, where you will be his pillow and also his partner in crime considering now you also skip the class together with him.

Even though he never shows it, Leona secretly loves watching you bustle around doing things for him. From cleaning his room, cooking for him, doing his laundry, and other menial work. Ruggie would do all that work for his money, meanwhile, you do all of that out of concern for your lazy childhood friend. It makes Leona feel as if you put him in as your priority that's more important than anything else, it makes Leona feel smug.

Every beastman in school knows better than to pick a fight with you. Never mind fighting, they shouldn't even talk rudely to you. If they dared to do so, then they should be prepared to face Leona's wrath. In Leona's mind, you who are his childhood friend are a part of him. Offending you means offending Leona as well, and Leona won't take it well.

But no matter how your patient is, sometimes you can also get annoyed with Leona's endless laziness. So, you will wake the lion up from his sleep and tell him to do his own business himself. And since it's Leona, of course he refuses and will try to go back to sleep, but you're not going to let him have that peaceful sleep until he finished all his works. The two of you then will start squabbling about it for a bit while the other Savanaclaw students will stare at you in amazement, for you're the only daring one to scold their lazy of a Housewarden. If it were anyone else, their Housewarden would probably kick that person away the moment they disturbed his sleep.

In your eyes, Leona is no different from an overgrown cat. Whenever Leona's mood gets worse, he will look for you and take you to his room to accompany him to sleep. You didn't try to cheer him up, you knew all Leona needed now was just your company, so you started telling him about your daily life and other interesting things you encountered today. And whether you realize it or not, Leona never sleeps even though his eyes are closed. He listens to all your stories in silence without missing a word. For him, your voice is far more effective in calming his nerve than sleeping.

3. Azul Ashengrotto

In the Mostro Lounge, there is one special table that no one is allowed to sit on, no matter how much they are willing to pay for it. If someone tries to occupy it by force, then they would come face to face with one of the Leech brothers and be banned from entering Mostro Lounge again. That table was specially prepared by Azul just for you, his most beloved childhood friend. Every time you visit Mostro Lounge, Azul will drop anything he's currently doing just to greet you personally and help you order your favorite menu.

Contrary to what people think, Azul doesn't give you free food just because you're his childhood friend. You still have to pay for your meal, but Azul doesn't mind giving you a little discount. And when I say he gives you a little discount, it means he will give you several discount coupons that you can stack with other discount coupons with a maximum of 100%. But in exchange for the coupon he gave you, you have to keep this nice thing a secret from the other customers. Because truth to be told, Mostro Lounge doesn't accept stacking discounts, but since you're his childhood friend, Azul doesn't mind making a little exception for you.

At school, you were always seen together with the three infamous Octavinalle's students or at least one of them, mainly Azul. Because of that, there are rumors going around saying that you are also involved in some kind of shady business alongside the three. You aren't concerned with the rumours, but Azul does. He would send the twins to find the person who spread the rumor and teach them a lesson or two about how one should not just jump to conclusions without any real evidence. People can talk shit about him and he couldn't care less. But talk shit about you, and Azul will take it personally.

Every time Mostro Lounge wants to add a new menu, Azul will call you to be the taster. If he sees you enjoying the new menu, then that same night the menu will already be on the Mostro Lounge menu list.

Since you're Azul's childhood friend, it's not surprising that you're also good friends with the Leech brothers. Together with Jade and Floyd, you three have fun teasing Azul. But different from the Leech brothers, who will be given additional work if Azul manages to get angry, you will only end up with a long scolding from the businessman.

Even so, you still feel a little guilty for making Azul angry. You know Azul usually has a fair amount of patience, but if he gets angry, it means the jokes you three makes have gone a bit too far. Hence, you volunteered to help out at the Mostro Lounge. Azul is a little touched by your sentiments. You have always been very caring and concerned with his feelings, ever since childhood. Well, that side of you is the main reason why you're Azul's favorite person.

But as a businessman, who is Azul to turn down the chance you're giving him? Since you asked for it yourself, then he won't be lenient in giving you orders. This resulted in you ending up in the VIP room, sitting on one of the soft sofas, cookies and tea served on the table in front of you, while Azul sits at his desk and goes through his documents. Azul has indeed given you one task, which is to sit quietly and accompany him to work until the closing time.

Azul is the type of person who is full of preparation and planning. It made him feel secure, knowing that he was ready to take on anything. But if something goes wrong and out of his expectations, Azul will become very frustrated and all he wants is nothing but to crawl back into his octopus pot. It was times like these that the twins would turn Azul over to you. Their childhood experiences have taught them that once Azul entered his octopus pot, only you can persuade him to come out. You won't blatantly coax Azul out because the first time you do it, Azul actually hides deeper into his octopus pot. So to solve this problem, you're going to sit outside his octopus pot for a few moments without speaking a word, giving him alone time while still reminding Azul that you're there for him. After a long enough silence, you will start talking about random things to completely turn his attention to you and forget his frustration. For a while, you will continue to talk alone, but you keep telling stories until finally, Azul starts responding to your words one by one. Azul realizes that all the topics you choose to talk about are completely useless, but oddly enough, he doesn't mind hearing all your ramblings at all. When he is finally back to normal, he will pop himself out of his octopus pot and act as if nothing happened. But the next time you visit the Mostro Lounge, Azul will treat you to a free meal as his token of gratitude.

4. Kalim Al-Asim

Even though you are not a servant of the Asim family like Jamil, but you still insist on taking care of Kalim because he is a sunshine boy who must be protected at all cost.

Usually, people will see you hanging out together with Kalim, with or without Jamil. You are the only person Jamil trusts to look after Kalim when he is too busy doing other things.

Kalim loves to tell you numerous things, from the big news he heard from Cater in club-meeting to the little things like how sleepy he was during Professor Trein's class. You always listen attentively to him, while occasionally giving a response as a sign that you pay attention to his story.

Kalim also likes to gift you random objects he found at shop. He said they reminded him of you, so he reflexively bought them and wanted to give them to you. Because of his habit, Jamil often scolds him and constantly tries to remind him not to buy things spontaneously. But did Kalim stop? No.

Everyone knows Kalim likes to throw parties, but when it comes to you, Kalim hopes to always throw a party for you if Jamil doesn't forbid it. Did you get a good grade on Professor Crewel's pop quiz? It's time to party! Did you get coach Vargas' praise for doing a zigzag flight? It's party time! Are you sad because your favorite novel character died? A party will make you feel better!

Look, Jamil is grateful that you often accompany Kalim so that he can focus more with another work, but can you stop agreeing to all of Kalim's requests?! What do you mean you can't say no to him?! What do you mean his twinkling eyes look so mesmerizing that you forgot to say no?! Great Sevens, please give Jamil's more patience to face your and Kalim's stupidity.

Kalim is the epitome of the sun itself, he is always optimistic and cheerful. But that doesn't mean his life is always smooth, sometimes Kalim can also feel down. If that's the case, Kalim will usually sneak out of the dorm using his magic carpet and then go to your place to invite you to join him. Flying his magic carpet and spending time with you is Kalim's best way to relieve stress.

5. Vil Schoenheit

Initially, little Vil didn't want to be your friend because he thought you were ugly (you're not, it's just Vil's standards that's too high). But the little you have been fascinated by his ethereal beauty, so you constantly try to pester him. Being a child, you can only praise Vil's beauty with a limited vocabulary. Like how clear his eyes are, how pink his lips are, how beautiful his hairstyle is, how melodious his voice is, and other little things you like about Vil. No one has ever praised him like that, so little Vil accepted you as his friend on the condition that you have to constantly compliment him, honestly and sincerely.

And that's what you've been doing until now. But even as a grown up, you still prefer to compliment Vil's beauty with straightforward words because you think it sounds more sincere than long poetic words. Vil says it's a stupid thought, but deep down he'd rather you keep praising him like that because your simple compliments are always better to hear than empty flattery people give to him to curry his favor.

As a result of having Vil as your childhood friend, your beauty standards have been greatly affected. When other people compliment someone as handsome/pretty, you can only awkwardly nod your head, even though in your heart you are trying to find which part of that person is handsome/beautiful. They didn't even have a thousandth of the charisma that Vil had! How can people call him handsome/beautiful? Do they have a problem with their eyes? (No, it's just your standards that's been raised very high by Vil).

Every time Vil becomes a model for a brand, usually he will share the products he got with you. And if the film he's starring in is coming out soon, he will invite you to attend the film premiere together.

You are Vil's first and number one fan, while Vil is your personal stylist and makeup artist. Every outfit and makeup that you will wear must pass through Vil's strict selection. He won't force you to look perfect like him, but he will make sure you look outstanding in any style of fashion that you choose.

With other people, Vil has this Untouchable Queen aura who is difficult to approach. But with you, he's just Vil, an ordinary young man with extraordinary ambitions. When both of your schedules are free, you and Vil will meet in his room to do beauty treatments together while exchanging stories. Vil tells you about what's going on in the entertainment world, while you tell him about the stupidity that some NRC students did when Vil was away.

Vil has one big secret that he doesn't even tell you. And that secret is the fact that you are his emotional support that always cheers him up whenever he feels down. When he gets frustrated every time he gets a villain role, you always stand for the character he plays instead of the main character. When people started to leave him for Neige, you still chose him. When you have seen all the bad sides that he has always buried, you remain by his side. For Vil, you are the most beautiful thing the world has ever given him.

6. Idia Shroud

Apart from Ortho, you are the only person who can freely enter Idia's room as you please. But before entering, please don't forget to knock on his door in the rhythmical order that you two have agreed beforehand, so he knows that it's you outside and not the normies that he constantly tries to avoid.

Just like Leona's childhood friend, you're also entrusted by the teachers to bring him to class. Together with Ortho, the two of you will spend nearly half an hour persuading Idia to attend the class. Faced with your and Ortho's pitiful faces, what else can Idia do but to man up and do the shit? At least, that's what he said to himself. When he just come out of his room, his anxiety gets the better of him and he will immediately scurried back to his room. In the end, you managed to bring Idia to class, but it's not the person himself and rather his floating tablet.

It is common knowledge among students that Ignihyde has a private Wi-Fi network with excellent signal. So, whenever you have homework to do, or you simply want to play online games, you will come to Idia's room and borrow their dorm's Wi-Fi. In exchange for giving you Wi-Fi, Idia will 'borrow' your hand to do his game's gacha. Apparently, you have this 'golden hand' that every gamer would kill for. The card with the highest rarity will come home in just one pull or the first ten pulls every time you gacha.

The limited time event just started a few minutes ago, but thanks to your 'golden hand', you immediately get the SSR event character, whose spawn rate is less than 1%, in just one pull. He will immediately jump around while squealing like a child, and then subconsciously hug you while thanking you many times. After that, he immediately posted the gacha's result online and starts being salty to other players who have to hit the pity system just to get it.

You spend more time in Idia's room than your own. His room just has everything, okay? Cool air conditioning, smooth internet network, comfortable bed, and various kinds of snacks. Every time you visit Idia's room, you will usually fall asleep in his bed listening to the sound of keyboard typing that's created when he plays his games or programming stuff that you can't really understand. Of course, Idia initially is a bit unhappy with that habit of yours since he only has one bed. But when he sees you sleeping so soundly in his bed, Idia can only sigh and decided to sleep somewhere else, maybe in his chair or just straight up lay himself on the floor. He'll be kind just for this time, the next time you fall sleep in his bed, Idia swears he will really kick you out of the bed (he lied, he still lets you hog his bed while he himself sleeps on the floor).

You may not know, but Idia is the envy of every gamer in his online circles. He often shows off Ortho and you to other gamers, saying how lucky he was to have a younger brother who is very considerate and also a childhood friend who has a 'golden hand'. How many introverts can have the same thing as he does? ALMOST NO ONE, SUCKERS!

When Idia's anxiety becomes worse and he starts being pessimistic about all aspects of life, Ortho will immediately go to you and take you to his brother. You both will find him huddled under the blanket on his bed. He asked you and Ortho to just go and leave him alone. But you two know better than to leave. So, you and Ortho will sit on the edge of his bed and start trying to coax him out, telling him about all the good things this world has. It would take a while for him to calm down, but that was better than letting him sink deeper into dejection.

7. Malleus Draconia

Becoming a childhood friend of Malleus means accepting Lilia as your father figure. And accepting Lilia as your father figure means being prepared to be chased down by Lilia who wants to hear you call him father.

You are the first friend Malleus has ever had, so he tries very hard to maintain your friendship. Something caught your interest? Next time you meet Malleus, he'll give it to you as a present. Are you having trouble learning magic? Worry not, Malleus will help you master your magic. Are you amazed by his status as a prince? Hmm, maybe Malleus could ask his grandmother to adopt you? (His grandmother also likes you, but she can't adopt her potential grandchild-in-law just anyone)

You've once tried to stay away from him because some people say you don't deserve to be a friend of Malleus, the crown prince of the Briar Valley. As a result, Malleus's mood became so bad that it threw the palace into a turmoil. His mood finally returned to normal when the two of you were reunited again. After that incident, Malleus became quite protective of you. Someone spoke badly of you? Malleus will meet him personally to have a 'friendly' discussion. Someone wants to pick a fight with you? The next second, they all suddenly fell to the ground for no apparent reason.

You and Malleus are basically one package deal. NRC students will often see the two of you walking around the school hand in hand like two little children, you talk to him and he listens to you. Those who saw that sight dared to swear by the name of the Great Sevens, Malleus had this very rare gentle smile graced his handsome face when he's looking at you.

Malleus loves spending time with you, even if all you both do is just sit quietly under a tree listening to the sound of birds singing in the distance. When the soft breeze starts to blow, you start to get sleepy and unknowingly end up falling asleep leaning on Malleus. Seeing your peaceful sleep expression, Malleus couldn't help but gently trace your face using his finger. He just wanted to make sure that all of this was real and you're not an illusion his mind created.

Having a Malleus as your childhood friend makes you get free bodyguards. For the starters, Malleus himself is quite protective of you because of what happened in the early days of your friendship. And because Malleus is practically glued to you, his two retainers, Sebek and Silver, will also stick to you for the sake of guarding Malleus. Then, there's Lilia, who doesn't want to miss the fun, so he will always appear suddenly and join your group of four. It's kind of complicated, but at least now you have four free strong bodyguards.

The man smiles down at him, one that the boy only returns with a blank look as he continues eating. 

“You must be hungry.”

Still staring up at him, the boy stays quiet, only opening his mouth to rip off another portion of the bloody heart, tiny baby teeth ripping the meat off, and chewing it again hurriedly, as though it were to disappear. Some blood squirts from the muscle, but the red bleeds into the man’s uniform, the red disappearing into the red pants and black button up. 

The man crouches down at him, eyes softening when he notices the oddly sallow cheeks of the boy, cheeks that should’ve been filled with nourishment and plumped by this age, rosy and chubby. He reaches his hand out, only for the boy to wince and put the hand not holding the heart up. The man pauses, surprised at the behavior.

Eyes closed tightly, the boy lets out a whimper from bloodied lips, a menial hand acting as a tiny shield against something. He’s protecting himself. 

The man murmurs softly, in a tone that seems to be rather foreign to the boy, “Don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you.”

The child slowly pries open his eyes, turning his gaze back to the man, who softly smiles at him. He waits, his hand still up just in case. 

Then, the man carefully puts a hand on the boy’s blonde hair (oily, he notices instantly, as though it hadn’t been washed for days). The child shuts his eyes tightly again, but feels the hand go to gently stroke his head, a touch he wasn’t used to. A touch he doesn’t know the meaning of. 

The man watches as the boy opens his eyes again, astounded at the odd, but painless sensation. He gives another smile at him, eyes crinkling at the corner with a twinkle in them.

“Let’s take you home, hm?” the man says to the child, who merely blinks at him.

“His name is Michael,” you hear your father say from your place upstairs, where your parents talk amongst each other in the kitchen as you hide yourself between the bars of the upstairs railings. “Michael, this is my wife.”

You can hear the shuffle of your mother’s skirt as she crouches down. “Hello there, Michael. Welcome to our house. Have you eaten yet?” she inquiries fondly.

You don’t hear a reply, something that makes your brows furrow since that’s not polite to do so. 

“Are you hungry?” your mother asks.

Again, no reply. 

“Do you like any specific foods?” 

“Sweetheart, how about you make him a sandwich?” your father suggests to your mother. “He had eaten earlier at the facility, but I’d hate for him to go to bed starving.”

Your mother affirms his suggestion and goes to tinker with the dishes and supplies in the kitchen. You hope she’s making one of your favorite sandwiches, the one with jam stuffed between Nutella and white bread. 

“I hope you like turkey, Michael,” your mother chimes; you make a face at the food, displeased with her choice. 

Michael. That’s a boy's name. You have a boy named Michael in your class, and another in the class next to you. Perhaps you have a new friend of sorts? But you only meet friends from school, not in your own home, and especially not so late at night.

Curiosity takes over you, and you carefully tiptoe down the stairs, wondering who on earth this Michael was. The kitchen’s light comes brighter and brighter into view as you inch closer, and you just about make it without being seen until you hit a certain point on the wooden planks and the wood creaks out voluminously. 

You freeze, alarmed at the sound, and misstep on the last stair, gravity pulling you down with it and sending you tumbling down noisily. 

The impact doesn’t hurt as much as the fright that spikes in your body, scared of getting in trouble for getting caught being awake so late in the night. Your parents rush out of the kitchen from the noise, finding you on the floor in a twisted position. 

They yell out your name in worry, but you’re more concerned now with the pair of foreign blue eyes that stare at you from the entrance of the kitchen. A boy with a choppy mop of blonde hair was just barely visible to you before your father hid from view with his body, his face speckled with blue and black in some areas and donning rather ripped and worn-out clothing. You stare at him back, wondering about his presence, before your mother scoops you in her arms and takes you back upstairs at your father’s command. 

Michael stays in the guest room in the basement. Your father tells you not to go down there in the meantime and to stay upstairs in your room if he’s ever on the main floor. For Michael, it’s the same instance; he’s not allowed to come upstairs if you were there and must remain in the basement. They even put a tall stair gate that properly separates the two levels of the house for extra insurance. 

When you ask him why, he merely tells you “because I said so.’”

“I can’t be friends with him?” you ask him during breakfast before school, some milk from your cereal sopping your chin.

Your father tucks out a tissue from the holder, dabbing the liquid away before it can stain your new purple butterfly t-shirt. “One day, you will. Just not now, my love.”

You say nothing, a response to your father shows him that you understand. He goes to prepare another helping of raspberry toast and cereal, and you tell him you’re full. 

He chuckles fondly as he plops a spoon in the bowl of cereal. “No. This is for Michael.”

“How come he gets two raspberry toasts and I only get one?” you huff when your father takes out two pieces of bread and spreads the preserve on it. 

“Because you don’t eat the second one all the way through,” your father chides, “and we don’t waste food in this house. Michael needs more food than you. He’s very skinny.”

“Like a skeleton?” you ask.

Your father shakes his head in disapproval, tutting a finger. “Don’t say that, honey. That’s not nice.”

You shrug, going to munch on your singular piece of toast, your full, cherub-like cheeks puffing from the food. “I’m just asking.”

A shattering crash, a loud boyish yell, and a shriek from your mother. The combination of the sounds make you rush out of your bedroom to see what the commotion is about rather late in the night.

You make it halfway down the stairs, using the railings again as a barrier between upstairs and downstairs, trying your best to see what was happening in the living room. 

Your mother clutches her palm tightly, shaking visibly as her face twists from what seems to be pain of some kind. One of the vases has been broken, its ceramic shards all over the carpet of the living room. The pasta your mother cooked last night is splattered on the carpet as well, staining it orangey-red with sauce and noodles all over.

Your father holds down a wriggling Michael in his grasp, who thrashes against his hold angrily. This is the few times that you’ve seen him in passing, always so far away from you despite being under the same roof, and you’ve never interacted with each other even once besides the singular moment of eye contact in the two months he’s lived here.

“Let me go!” he screams, pounding and scratching at your father’s arms. “I don’t want stupid spaghetti!”

“You need to eat,” your father attempts to say to him, but his words fall deaf on the boy’s ears. “You have to eat something or you’ll starve.”

“Get the fuck off of me!” he hollers, the curse word making you flinch at his ferocity. You’ve heard the word before, but your parents have forbidden you to say it, with the one time you decided to test it out to see its truth ending you with a bar of soap in your mouth. “Let go!”

“Michael, just one bite of it,” your father pleads, his grip still firm around the boy whose skinniness doesn’t match with this strength. “Just a bite of some spaghetti and you can go to bed.”

He whines and yells, shaking his head furiously.

“No! I want meat! I want meat!” he shouts. 

“You can’t have meat,” your father says, which only makes the boy angrier. “That’s not allowed.”

His face is flushed with red, eyes that you thought were blue now flickered with ruby as they stare hungry daggers at your mother. You can see clearly now that his chin is glazed over with something; saliva. He’s salivating. 

The boy continues to thrash, wetness spitting out in flecks. “I don’t care! I want meat! I want her meat!” 

Your mother whips her head back to the boy, horrified at his words as she continues to clutch her bleeding palm. She turns her gaze to her father for a response at Michael’s words, only for him to swallow dryly and to motion for her to get out of here to tend to her wound.

“You,” she breathes to your father in a wide-eyed gaze. “You need to take him back to the facility. He can’t stay here any longer… not with (Y/N) around.”

“He’s not an animal, sweetheart—”

“He’s acting like one!” she interjects, taking account of Michael’s heavy panting and intense salivation as he fixates his gaze on her, hungry and desiring. “What if something happens to our child?!”

“He’s one, too!” your father insists, ignoring the deep scratches that Michael digs into his skin with his tiny nails. “I refuse to let them do such experiments on a mere child without me around!”

“Then do something about all of this—!” your mother exclaims, motioning a bloodied hand at Michael’s savagery in your father’s arms, gasping as he lets out an inhumane snarl at her, his teeth that shouldn’t be so menacing considering they were still so immature, baring all too harshly. “—before he hurts (Y/N)!”

You’ve been staying awake at night more often lately. The quiet ticking of your clock tends to accompany you, along with whatever sounds the quiet of the night gives out. 

A car pulls into the driveway, the muffled grating of rubber against concrete passing through your window with the headlights flashing some light temporarily in your darkened bedroom. They’re back home—your father and Michael. 

Michael doesn’t go to school, from what you know. At least… in the daytime. When you’re upstairs, belly full and ready to do your homework in your room, your father takes Michael to “night school”, where he does seemingly the same business you do at school, just in the evening. They’ll leave at around 8:30 pm then come back at around midnight or so. 

And all the while, you lay in bed. Waiting for their return. But you don’t go outside of your bedroom to greet them, not wanting to get in trouble for breaking two rules at once, you just merely lie there in wait. For some reason, you can’t go to slumber unless you know they’re home.

You can hear them talking amongst each other, voices muffled by the platform between the floors and the thick walls, but they’re talking calmly. It took awhile to get him to speak, but Michael does answer in short responses, only answering in bare minimums, so conversations often feel one-sided.

Your mother stays away from him now, only just cooking him dinner and preparing his clothes. But she makes herself scarce ever since he sunk his teeth into the deep layers of her palm.

When you asked her about it, despite knowing the reality of the situation, her eyes momentarily widened in fear before she turned to you with a plastic smile, eyes softened in a gaze that didn’t seem like her. 

“Mommy just burnt her hand on the stove, that’s all,” she said, voice a little tight. 

You meet Michael for the very first time in the dead of night. 

Your throat was dry and aching for water, and your mother had forgotten to prepare you some before bedtime, so you creeped downstairs in the blue hour of the night, entered the code that your father gave you for the gate on the stairs, and pattered to the kitchen. 

It’s there that you see him, spotlighted by the light of the fridge. He’s peering his head into it, the door to the basement wide open, his enclosure opened. Your breath hitches when you stare at him, almost admiringly so. 

For some reason, however, the boy doesn’t move. He just keeps staring into the remnants of the fridge, disinterest on his face. There are eye bags under his eyes, heavy and tinted with an exhausted purple. The bruises from his face have long faded, with some yellow specks here and there, but otherwise, he actually looks a little more human now. 

You freeze in your place when you see him in full flesh for the first time without any restrictions to guard between the two of you. A silence falls on your lips, your breath hitching as to not make any sudden noises to startle him and you decide that it’s best to go back upstairs until he goes back down into the basement, but just as you’re about to move, Michael closes the door and turns back. 

Then he sees you. You see him. Your eyes widen. He blinks. 

It’s hard to see, given that the house was only lit by the light above the stove, but you see him there in full visibility. You’re a little taller, but you make direct eye contact with him, your eyes meeting intentful hues of blue. 

You don’t know what to do. You’ve been good so far—abiding by your parents’ words and avoiding interaction with him until you were able, but now you’re face to face with him completely by accident. Will you get in trouble? 

Michael suddenly takes a step forward. You instantly take a step back in fright. He furrows his brows. 

“Move,” he commands, an icy stare piercing into you.

A yelp struggles itself in your throat, only coming out as a weakened mewl, and you jump out of the way.

Michael doesn’t spare you another look as he exits the kitchen and enters back into the opening of the basement, shutting the door behind him.

The lock clicks. You’re alone in the kitchen now, left alone with your thoughts and the ghost of Michael.

Your throat feels drier than ever before.

It’s been a few weeks since you met Michael face to face for the first time, and you’ve made the habit to make sure you have a full glass of water at your bedside to avoid having to creep down again and run into the stranger in your house. But you’ve forgotten to do so tonight. 

You opted for just drinking the sink water from the bathroom, but the taste was different in comparison to the water machine, too tinny and metallic for your liking, an iron-like taste remaining on your tongue that you wanted to wash out. 

So… making sure that you were completely alone… you walk downstairs and to the kitchen again. You sigh in relief when you peek through the hallway and find that you were alone this time in the darkness of the kitchen, the overhead stove light still on to light your way.

You watch mindlessly as your cup fills with water, not thinking much of it and turning back to go back to bed, until you gasp so hard that some water sloshes out of the cup. 

Michael stands before you, idly and eerily still. The moonlight from the window haloes him and makes him look like a phantom in the night.

Did you not hear the basement door open? Or perhaps the creak of his footsteps?  It doesn’t matter now, considering you and him are now once again just feet apart from one another, a distance that seems all too close for your liking. 

Neither of you say anything at first. Your large eyes just stare into his dull ones, trying to question why he’s here again. Until he speaks.

“Clean that up.”

Trance breaking from his haunting figure, you gain back a sense of reality and feel the coldness of the water on your foot, grounding you back. 

“Huh?” you look down and see a puddle of water. “Oh…”

“Clean it up,” he says, pointing. “Before you slip.”

Your voice catches itself in your throat. Words drown themselves in the confusion you’re faced with at the interaction, and you do nothing except for place the cup on the counter and take some paper towels, soaking it up.

Michael watches you as you quietly clean up your mess, eyes scanning your figure and its every movement. Once the floor was dry, you go back to shyly fill up your cup again from the spilt water and try to pass him to go back to the safety of your bedroom, until you hear him speak again.

“I want to go upstairs,” he says, capturing your attention again.

You turn back to him, a worried pinch in your brow. 

“Dad says you can’t.”

“I don’t care,” he states and tries again. “I want to go upstairs. Take me there.”

You frown, clearly unimpressed at his bossiness. “No. I’ll get in trouble.”

His eyes narrow and you flinch. 

“Take me upstairs. Now. I want to see what’s there.”

The way he says it sounds almost growly, like he was about to bite at you. You can almost see him snarl slightly when you refute his command.

But you resist anyway, knowing what’s good for you. “I said no.”

Now he’s really irritated, given by the gnashing of teeth and balled fists.

“Take me upstairs or I’ll eat you,” he threatens, his voice now filled with contempt and impatience. “I’ll eat your skin and bones. And then your brain and heart.” 

And though you should be afraid of him, afraid of what this stranger in your house might do to you, your face contorts into a mild annoyance, too tired to deal with this matter. If you were somewhat more awake, you probably would’ve been frightened at his words, but the only thing on your mind is just going back to bed—a simple task for a mere nine-year-old.

“You’re weird,” you mutter and turn your back to him, retracing your steps to go back upstairs.  But you hear him follow, your footsteps being echoed by his own on the floorboards. You turn back to him, sighing. “Stop following me.”

“I want to see upstairs,” he repeats again, the hardness in his eyes still there. 

“...”

You remain quiet, almost feeling vexed at his resilience, but you sigh and roll your eyes. Perhaps if you just let him entertain himself just for a bit. Just for a swift moment so he can shut up and you can shoo him back into the basement. Your parents don’t have to know a thing.

You hold his stare momentarily. 

“Just this once,” you state, holding a finger up to indicate your seriousness.

He doesn’t say or do anything, but seems to acknowledge your permission when you let him follow you again. The stair gate is still open, and you move aside to let him in before you close it ever so slightly, just enough that it remains open for him to go back downstairs without the code, and he trails himself up the flight of stairs behind you.

You watch him as he tinkers around with the plethora of furniture in the hallway, admiring the pictures on the wall and looking at himself in one of the mirrors. Just so he doesn’t do anything dumb. 

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to a narrow door. 

“Broom closet,” you say simply.

He points to another door. “What’s that one?”

“Bathroom.”

“What about that one?”

“Dad’s office.”

He then points to the two large doors at one end of the hallway, opposite to your own. “What’s that one?” 

You turn and look at where he’s pointing. 

“Mommy and Dad’s room,” you mention nonchalantly, the way that Michael stares deeply at the two doors going unnoticed by you. 

He turns back to you, eyes still a little vast. “Where’s your room?” 

Your head nudges over your shoulder. “Down the hall.”

“Take me there,” he commands again. “Let me see it.”

You want to interject, saying that your room is your own, but you’re so sleepy that you’ll do anything if it means Michael goes back down to the basement and leaves you alone.

So you lead him there, letting him wander around your room and admire all the trinkets that you’ve collected. You shuffle yourself back into the comfort of your bed, thirst quenched and eyelids heavy. 

“When you’re done, close my door and go back downstairs,” you mutter as you fluff your pillow, hearing him stroll around your room and toying with the things you don’t really want him to touch. “Make sure to close the gate.”

Again, he says nothing, just entertaining himself with your collectibles and toys. You lie yourself back down and shut your eyes, just wanting to rest once more, letting Michael’s quiet sounds of curiosity lull you to sleep, ceasing when you hear your door close. Relief flows within you, finally getting the chance to fully rest without keeping your toes on edge, until you feel your blanket pulling and the shuffle of your bedsheets.

You shoot up in bed, appalled at the sight that Michael is tucking himself into your bed without permission. 

“Hey!” you whisper-shout and nudge him. “You can’t do that! Go away!”

“Your bed is better than mine,” he says monotonously, not caring about your concern. “I want to sleep in it.”

“I’m gonna get in trouble!” you whine and try pulling your blankets back to yourself, but he’s already tucked his body under one edge of it like a cocoon. “I don’t like sleeping with other people in my bed!”

“Then take mine then,” he remarks, his head resting on one of your spare pillows. 

You grit your jaw. “No! Go back to your own!” 

“Stop bothering me,” he mutters. “I want to sleep.”

“Sleep in your own bed!” you exclaim.

“I want to sleep here,” he murmurs, resting his eyes. “Just for tonight.”

You huff, complaining again, but your words fall on deaf ears when Michael doesn’t respond again, clearly taken by the Sandman when he was finally settled into the comfort of your bed. Your own sleepiness is beginning to take over you as you stare at his sleeping, calm face, feeling defeated and exhausted.

“Just for tonight,” you mutter with hushed contempt to him, despite him not being able to answer as you tuck yourself back into your sheets.

Your father had found you and Michael asleep together in your own bed to his surprise the morning after. Although he was more than delighted to see you and him being in the same vicinity without any harm being done, your mother was mortified when he excitedly broke the news to her.

“But they’re able to coexist in peace!” he had insisted.

“For now! What if something happens in the future?!” she worriedly remarked.

“We can’t keep them apart from each other for long,” your father said. “It’s not fair to either of them that they have to be restricted in the house because of each other.”

Your mother wasn’t convinced, still adamant on keeping you and Michael separated if he continued to live with your family. “You said it yourself that the child is… you know.... What will happen to (Y/N) if he gets the urge again?”

“He hasn’t had any impulses since that one time,” your father stated. “Yes, he may have had some urges here and there but the medicine seems to be working! He hasn’t had any incidents since he started taking it, hasn’t he?”

It was argument after argument with them for at least a week, but your mother eventually brought her guard down slowly and accepted the conditions of Michael slowly being introduced to you more and more under their supervision. It was mainly your father that did the talking to both of you, with your mother staying close to you and making sure Michael didn’t do anything impulsive that would harm you. 

It was a slow start, just letting you and him eat dinner together when you came home from school (you find that he’s taken a liking to anything with bread). Then on the weekends, Michael was allowed to go upstairs to be around you, watching TV with you or just intently watching you as you played with your toys (he didn’t seem to be interested in them. He seemed more interested in you and what you’d do.) 

Your parents were always nearby if he was around you, just in case that he was ready to gnash his teeth. But it never happened. He never did as much as salivate around you and was just another merely child around you. Another friend.

Your father was pleased at Michael’s improvement in behavior, writing them down in his notebook as he examined how he interacted with you. 

“I think the newest prototype is showing the best results,” he had muttered into his phone fondly as you showed off your newest bunny plush to him. He took it by the ears suddenly, making you exclaim and telling him that holding it like that will hurt it. Michael gave you a look, telling you that it wasn’t alive to your disdain. Your father chuckled. “His temperament has been nothing but calm lately. He’s improving rapidly.”

Your mother was still ever the worrywart, always keeping a sharp eye on Michael—an attention that went very much noticed by him. She never said anything directly to him, but with her stony gaze, it was always as though she was warning him not to make a wrong move. Michael would just return it with a flair of spite in his eyes, as though he were annoyed at her attentiveness.

But regardless, you and him slowly began to intertwine your lives with each other, beginning to build a foundation in each other’s worlds. All the while not knowing truly how permanently embedded your futures will be together.

You learned the truth about him when you were twelve. 

Michael has to take a pill twice a day and drink something your father gives him every morning that mildly stains his lips purple—a juice he has to drink to gain weight properly since he was malnourished as a younger child, your father says. He eats with you in the mornings now before you head to school, but he doesn’t tag along. In fact, his “night school” has moved to the mornings, but instead of coming with you like any other child, he follows your father and they go to his “school” together. 

You never questioned the pills at first, thinking they were just the vitamins you were given in the morning to nourish your body. You ask your mother about it one day after school and though her face hadn’t changed, didn’t even so much as blink, her grip on the steering wheel tightens. Hard. 

“It’s to regulate his blood sugar,” she says

Your mother is quite the liar and you’ve gotten used to her lies through the years, so you could detect there was a veil covering the reality of her words. But you never prodded about them more, merely because you felt like you shouldn’t.

She asks you later that day to fetch a hair tie from the bathroom upstairs so she could properly cook dinner, but when you don’t find anything in the main bathroom, you venture into your parents’ bathroom to find it. 

And that’s when you see it. A sight you never expected to see in your own house. 

Your father, with a long, thin, clear tube in his arm filled with red that drains from his body into a beaker, two inches worth of blood pooling inside of it. A small test tube rack holding seven tubes sits on the framing of the sink, with a small amount of a strange and viscous blue liquid sitting at the bottom of it and a couple of orange caps sitting idly next to it.

The orange caps.

The orange caps you would see in the trash can when you were throwing leftovers out in the morning. 

You make yourself small, just quietly watching through the crack of the door hinges as your father finishes draining another inch of blood into the beaker, wincing in pain as he takes out the needle from his arm that connected with the now-bloody tube. He cleans himself up, bandaging the area before tending to work with the test tubes. 

Your father picks up the beaker, pouring a bit of blood into each of the test tubes with the blue liquid and you watch as blue melded into red, a plum-like color rising from the mixtures. Purple.

Purple… 

The drink that Michael drank in the morning along with his pills tinted his lips purple for the slight moment he was done with it, just until he licked his lips and refreshed them. 

The orange caps… the purple liquid. The dots connect suddenly and you feel more than nauseated when they do. Michael wasn’t drinking juice. He was drinking your father’s blood… and whatever that blue liquid was. 

You shift your body from your hiding spot and reveal yourself to your father, your eyes watery and mind racing. 

“What are you doing?” you ask with a warbly voice. 

Your father looks aghast at your sudden appearance, clearly stunned at the fact that he was caught in the act. He picks up on the fact that you were clearly disturbed at such a sight and knowing that Michael was drinking your father’s blood and tries to calm you down in the best way he could, though with how harsh your chest heaved and how terrified you looked, it was difficult to do so. 

Your father closes the door so Michael, who was outside kicking a soccer ball, and your mother wouldn’t intervene.

The truth spills out; about who Michael was and why he was here. About the pills and the drink. About what he did and why he did it. And though your father was revealing the truth as to not hide anything more from you, it seemed like the more you found about the strange boy living under your roof, you grew more panicked. 

You’ve heard about them before—cannibals. Cannibals of the world were notorious for not only their crimes, but why they did it in the first place and what led them to doing so. Everyone was susceptible to becoming one, but only when one would pass the line of sanity and insanity would be labeled as such. 

They were primarily born from a fury of negative emotions would teeter them closer to crossing that border; be it a horrible burst of anger or an intense sorrow, the more a person would feel such emotions, the closer they came to bordering insanity and losing their humanity… and they closer they came to venturing out another in order to regain it back.

A person consuming another was their version of restoring their benevolence, each chunk of a person restoring what was lost in the blur of negative emotions, and with each bite they consumed, they felt just a little more human. But it came at a cost—with the more they ate, the faster they were able to lose their humanity, almost at twice the speed from pre-consumption, their emotions unstabilizing themselves once again, making the cycle repeat itself if they weren’t able to keep them in check. In order to restabilize themselves, if ever the case they did lose control again, they would seek out new prey, more prey, to gain back their semblance of being human. 

The notoriety of human meat was based on two components—the flesh and the blood. The flesh of humans was unlike any other; a rich maltness with the extra additions of intense juiciness and a powerful umami flavor. A true delicacy to those who have eaten it. The foreign blood consumed was responsible for restabilizing the emotions lost from their own humanity, giving off a euphoric relief that ensured a temporary emotional stability to the consumer. Mixed with the addicting taste of the flesh and the need to regulate themselves with the blood, the combination proved to be the powerful driving force of the repeat behavior for cannibals.

It was why they were dangers to society if left alone and not properly rehabilitated. If such were left unregulated, the cycle was doomed to be repeated. 

Often they were looked at with contempt and disgust—so much so that even those that committed the act even just once and restored themselves to society were almost always shunned by others, mainly due to the fear that they would become their next victim. It was rare, but there were people that looked at them with pity—like your father. A gentle, soft-spoken man filled with empathy, your father had dedicated his life’s work as a scientist to try to help those who fell victim to such, with the last few years being dedicated to working on a cure that would stop such dysregulation once and for all. 

The pill that Michael took in the morning and night was one of its prototypes. The drink with your father’s blood was to primarily keep him stabilized without wanting to eat flesh and bones. The blue liquid it was mixed with was to thin the blood and reduce the full effects of it so he wouldn’t become too dependent on it. But none of that mattered compared to learning the truth about Michael and why he was here.

You had been living with a cannibal this entire time. Eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner with him, watching cartoons with him, sharing a bed with him… all the while he had the complete ability to devour you whole if his mind slipped at the slightest sense. The truth was horrifying and you wish you had never learned it, because upon doing so, you spiraled into chaos and sobbed to your father why on earth would you hide this from you, knowing that you loved Michael so dearly, it was unlike any other love you harbored for anyone else. You loved your parents, you loved your friends… but Michael was special. There was a special place in your heart for him.

A heart he could’ve gnawed away at in any given moment.

Your father tried to calm you down, telling you that Michael was just as human as you were now. That such urges from him dissipated long ago and he hadn’t gotten them since he started taking the pill and drinking his blood. That he wasn’t a danger to the world any longer because of what your father had nurtured for him.

“This isn’t fair!” you cry. “I deserved to know!”

“Yes, you did,” your father says. “But I didn’t know how to tell you without you getting scared.”

A flow of tears rapidly smear your cheeks, your emotions getting hazy. “What if something happens?! What if—what if something happens to you? O-or Mom? Or me—”

“I’d never hurt you, (Y/N),” Michael’s voice says softly from nearby. 

You and your father turn over your shoulder to see Michael standing in front of the bathroom, feet shuffling. Eyes still blurry with tears, you just barely manage to make out his figure. He seems uncharacteristically meek, ashamed almost. 

“Micha…” you croak out.

He slowly walks towards you, but your father abruptly stands up and creates a barrier between you and him, understanding that you and him may need some space right now. You hide behind your father, terrified of him after learning his truth. Understandably so.

But he remains his guard in place, adamant. 

His gaze concentrates on you, eyes of azure piercing into you. His usual flicker of malice that he gave everyone but you and your father isn’t there, but instead replaced by a true and dedicated devotion. Dare you say you call it love, even, if cannibals were even capable of such.

Your father clears his throat. “Michael, I think it’s best if you—”

“I hate the thought of it,” he states simply, ignoring him. “In fact, I’d rather kill myself than even think of hurting you.”

His tone was just as droll as ever, but the depth of his words were clear as day. Transparent, showing off a nature of him that only you got to see, softer and milder from a boy whose words were usually as sharp as knives. 

His dark, harsh words made you and your father flinch, especially considering that Michael was saying them with a completely serious face, indicating that the twelve-year-old was more than capable of doing such a task if given the chance to. 

But regardless, you could still see his earnesty. Whether it was you and your immature brain or the fact that you viewed him as special, you chose to believe it. The doubts still lingered in the back of your mind, yes, but you still felt a compulsion to let him still be in your life as Michael. 

You stay behind your father, just peeking your watery eyes out at him. 

“Do you mean it?” you ask softly. 

“That I’d kill myself?” he reiterates, making you frown. 

“No,” you mutter. “... that you’d never hurt me.”

Michael stares at you before he nods.

“I’d kill every person in this world before I hurt you,” he states to your father’s concern… especially when he notices the quiet mania in the boy’s gaze. “... before I let anything hurt you.”

You and Michael were fourteen when it all happened.

He was picking you up from the bus stop that your bus dropped you off at, as his “school” ended a few hours earlier than yours did, with just a mild walk back to your house filled with conversations about your day.

It was a late fall day, the sun setting earlier in the day than it did in the summer, so the sky was starting to spill with the beginning traces of blue evening ink mixed with the remnants of daylight. 

You and Michael enter your house, the lights oddly flickered off except for upstairs despite both your parents’ cars being home. 

The smell was immediate, the first thing that hit you that indicated something was wrong. 

An acrid scent—rotting and putrid. Tinny, the faint smell of copper ghosting around the house. Michael curses aloud, face wrinkling at the smell and saying that your mother was probably cooking up a dead body to your discontent. But you can’t help but pinch your nose either, nearly retching at the scent that flamed your nostrils. 

You call out for your mother in the darkened house, wondering what on earth she could be cooking in the kitchen, but when you patter over to that area of the house where your mother was usually in during this time of day, her and her pink apron were nowhere to be found. 

Michael notices that there were ingredients being prepped and that she was most likely about to cook some salmon, a knife being laid out on the counter next to a cutting board. But the vegetables and the fish are warm, as though they had been left out for a while. You tell him to check the basement as you search the first floor, a worry building inside of you at the strange emptiness. 

The living room, the dining room, and the laundry room are all completely empty, except with the remnants of human life like the remote sitting in between couch cushions and the washing machine still running. You check the front door again to truly see if your parents’ cars were there, and they were; hell, even their slippers were gone indicating they were somewhere in the house that you now feel has a sinister feel to it. Something is wrong.

Michael comes back upstairs. He shakes his head when you ask him if they were there, coming up as empty-handed as you were. Your own hands grow clammy, a slight rush of heat running across your forehead. Michael takes your hand in yours, warming them up with his in a quiet attempt to soothe you.

He says that they’re probably upstairs, that there’s still that ground you have to cover. But there’s this gnawing feeling that eats at you when you gaze upon the stairs, telling you that going up there is a bad decision. You try to voice it to Michael, but he just juts a brow at your confusion, shaking it off and with his hand still in yours, you and him slowly climb up.

It’s not a rushed pace to go up the stairs you’ve travelled up and down many times. In fact, you want to go slower the more of them you climb, this resistance in your legs attempting to pull you down as a plea to not go further, for your sake. You pause on the stairs suddenly, a terror in your eyes. 

Michael furrows his brows and tightens his hold. He asks you what’s wrong.

Nausea seeds itself within you. You’re left wordless, only swallowing thickly and shaking your head. 

Michael turns his head towards upstairs, thinking you’ve seen something, but he sees nothing but the closed doors of the bedrooms. He pulls you stubbornly, managing to make you climb one more step. 

You’re frozen in this state of fear, lip warbling at the haunting anticipation. Michael continues to pull you up, telling you to get your act together frustratingly as he heaves you up step-by-step until you and him reach the top floor. 

The nausea grows worse when you make eye contact with your parents door, making Michael hiss out in pain slightly when you tighten your grip in his hand. He wants to tell you off, but you cower towards him, a glaze over your eyes. He thins his lips, letting you clutch onto his arm as you approach your parents’ closed door.

Michael suddenly stops in his tracks, just a few feet shy from the door. You turn to him. 

The smell he had gotten used to during the few minutes of the search, using his shirt and the laundry detergent leftover on it to replenish his senses every once in a while, but his stomach twists as he realizes that the smell is much more strong now. The strongest it’s ever been, actually—so strong, it makes him want to hurl right then and there.

A rancid rot of something. The familiar metallic smell overwhelms him… but more in the sense of familiarity and less of disgust. He’s encountered this scent. Because Michael has smelled this before, all those years ago. 

Dread pits itself in his stomach when he guesses what’s behind these closed doors. He can hear it if he listens closely. 

Not wanting to wait any longer to keep himself in the dark, Michael grips the door handle of one of the doors and swings it open. 

Immediately, you want to throw up and vomit. The smell from earlier is the strongest it’s ever been—a disgusting, pungent thing that even makes Michael retch once or twice in his throat. 

You gather yourself up from trying not to vomit, and you regain your balance back to Michael’s side… only to see the very thing that would plague your mind for the rest of your living years.

There, in the middle of your parents’ darkened room, was the corpse of your mother, her torso nearly gone with her blood and leftover organs spilling all over the carpet. Her small intestine lays limply on the ground, unraveled, while one of her lungs half-reveals itself to you from inside her ribcage. Her face is turned towards you, a face forever ingrained in your memory as the very definition of fear itself—eyes wide open, mouth unhinged into what looked like a scream.

And hovering over her, feasting on the flesh of her body, was your father, mangled and bloody and ravenous. His face was smeared with blood, glasses speckle with ruby as his teeth sank deep into her limp arm, ripping off a tender piece of skin off so large, it revealed bone. He chews it with a heaving chest, saliva dripping from his mouth like a waterfall as he searches for more skin to feast on. An inhumane growl erupts from him as he swallows, going to bite on her arm again.

But before he can tear off another piece, you scream out loud at the ghastly sight, making your father suddenly look up and see you and Michael standing there, shock written on both of your faces. It paints his own suddenly, the animalistic-like look on his face dissipating with the exception of his reddened irises that pierce into you and Michael. 

You shake violently, your vision getting hazy the more you try to analyze the scene before you. Michael himself is trying his best to understand what on earth happened—why such a mild-mannered, quiet man was able to do such a beastly thing. 

Your father suddenly stands up, blood still dripping from his chin, a desperate look in his eyes. 

Michael guards you behind him suddenly, reaching behind his pocket as he grits his jaw when he stares at the bloody man that reaches out for you.

“(Y/N)...” your father gasps out, throat hoarse. “I-I can explain—”

“Stay the fuck back!” Michael shouts, revealing the kitchen knife from earlier in his grasp that he points directly at the man that had been taking care of him for the past several years—though calling him a man didn’t seem all that fitting now, not with the corpse in front of him and the blood that stains his body. “Get away!”

Your father desperately turns to him, tears pricking at his eyes at the two children before him looking absolutely terrified of him. “Michael… please… I just—I don’t know what—”

A sobbed whimper rips from you, your voice lost, but Michael speaks for you. “What the fuck did you do?!”

“I don’t know…” your father gasps, blood spitting, “I’m so s-sorry… I just… we were in a fight and—” he takes another step, one that Michael and you take back. 

“I said stay back!” he hollers and juts the knife at the man. 

“I’m sorry,” your father wheezes, but takes a couple of more to try and reach you, his precious child, with hands that once grazed you so affectionately but are now stained with the blood of the mother you came from. He circles in on you, despairingly, calling out your name in the tenderest manner he can muster despite the red tint on his lips and teeth. “(Y/N), please f-forgive me. Forgive Papa—I didn’t mean to—”

You choke out a sob, gasping for breath, the violent tears running down your face muffling you but you shake your head desperately to not let him get any closer to you. Michael lets you hide yourself behind him, his knife still drawn and hand intertwined with yours. 

Your father is now crying himself, disgusted at what he’s done to make you cry so harshly. His hands shake viciously, with their only want being to hold you in his arms like he did this morning before you left for school. If the universe could allow him one wish… just let it be that. Just let him hold his child in his arms one last time before—

Michael suddenly turns on his heel, dropping the knife and pulling you with him, abandoning your father in the bedroom upstairs. He drags you down the stairs you came from, a sense of flight overtaking his senses and letting his body float through the air to wherever he takes himself. 

You and him suddenly burst out the door of the house, your father’s forlorn screams of your name echoing from behind you, his broken voice being the last sound you’d ever hear from that house that you leave behind as you and Michael sprint into the night—running and running and running. Running so far, away from the house, away from your father, away from your mother’s body, away from your old life… until your legs are so sore that they can’t function anymore. 

All the while, the images play in your head, haunting you. Your mother’s ghastly face staring up at you with chunks of her body missing, your father and his bloody face, the wretched smell of the house, all of it makes you cry as Michael pulls you along. Everything hurts, from the inside out, and you’re nothing but confused and scared. 

Amidst the night, you and him stop at a park that you think is miles away from your old house, only lit by a few spare lampposts. Your chest hurts, his feet ache, both of your heads spinning from exhaustion and adrenaline, and you collapse into him, your world suddenly fading black. 

A sharp pain stabs you in your chest suddenly, making you gasp aloud and sit up in bed. It disappears the moment you’re conscious, but there’s this aftereffect of a sting that blooms within your chest. A clammy, shaky hand draws to your forehead that you can feel is misted with sweat and you draw a stuttering breath, trying to regain semblance of where you are in this darkened room. 

There’s a dim lamp in the corner of the room, and that’s all it takes for you to understand where you are. 

“Look at me.” 

A voice says it from beside you and you whip your head to see blue hues looking at you with concern. Your own gaping eyes meet Michael’s tired ones, and your shoulders droop upon seeing him. 

“Micha…” you rasp out, throat irritatingly dry.

Michael doesn’t say anything, just examining your shaking figure for a bit as you recompose yourself with deep breaths. This was routine to him at this point the more the date of the incident draws closer. There were moments that the one singular moment that pivoted your life entirely would haunt your dreams, making you shake and wrestle with the sheets so violently, it woke him up. He had tried to wake you up mid-nightmare before, but his words fell on deaf ears and you only responded in terrified whimpers. It wouldn’t be long before you jolted awake anyways, once the whimpering started. 

A towel at the ready, he grabs it from the nightstand and presses it up to your forehead, soaking the nightsweats up and dabbing it on your open neck and chest that’s stained with tears and saliva. Your chest still heaves harshly, but your eyes don’t flicker around as much as they did mid-sleep, focusing on the blanket’s design as the towel soaks your skin. 

You fist the blanket. “I had that—”

“—nightmare, I know,” he mutters, placing the towel back onto the nightstand and grabbing the glass of water to help quench your thirst. “Drink.”

Obeying his command, you recklessly lap up the water, with a bit of it trickling down your chest to his displeasure considering he just cleaned that area up. 

You hold your head in your hands as he puts the cup back down on the nightstand, head spinning. Michael suddenly shuffles to you, letting you rest your head on his chest like you did at the park all those years ago, listening to his heartbeat to help calm you down.

“I still see him,” you murmur, feeling his hands run up and down your back. “My dad. I mean.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “It’s the same thing every time.”

“I’m sorry,” your eyelids heave and flutter lightly, exhausted. “You must be tired of having to deal with this.

You smile slightly at his blunt statement, eyes closing as you listen to the steady beat of a heartbeat you often were lulled to sleep by through the years. 

He shrugs, clearly unbothered despite how many times he’s had to face this from you.

“Doesn’t matter,” he sighs. Michael’s gaze focuses on the shade of yellow the lamp is, feeling the warmth of your body against his, the silent tears that flow from you soaking his shirt. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

a/n: this was sooo self indulgent but WTV i just wanted to get it done and spit this out here.. i had more lore to him too but i didn't want him to get greedy so i stopped it here. need to fix that ending tho... lowk weak

also their relationship isnt supposed to be hinted as incestual despite the dark themes—their relationship is more akin to like eremika, where one of them was abandoned and got “adopted” by the other, but kaiser still has his last name. also bc reader’s mom didn’t rly treat him like a son and their dad treated him more like a science experiment. hope i implied that properly

-:-:-:-

COMPLETE

-> We Can't Cut it from Out These Veins by Scarecrows_to_CherryTrees Rating: M / Words: 21k

You see—Sakura is a civilian. Her parents? Civilian. Her school? Also, civilian.  So, one afternoon, when Sakura finds herself coloring diligently at her desk—a beautiful piece of crayon art that has blood splatters, shuriken, and men with x’s on their eyes—the teacher suddenly snatches the drawing right out her tiny hands. She gasps dramatically. She pales appropriately. She immediately summons her parents in for a meeting.  When they ask her why she drew this specific image— “It's what my soulmate dreams about,” she innocently admits.  The teacher’s encouraging smile curdles. Her father blinks slowly as if pained. Her mother glances at her father with a steady, deliberate gaze as one brow arches masterfully. Sakura’s seen this look a few times before. It's the ‘See? This-is-What-Happens-When-you-Have-a-Soulmate’ look.

OR: Soulmates!AU. KakaSaku. Long-shot. Shared psychic bond. Humor. Romance. (Just a fun little fic for laughs.)

Oh my god I howled reading this fic. Just. Absolutely madness. The characterization of young Sakura, the way the author matures her over the course of the story, the slow burgeoning friendship, then intimacy, she develops with Kakashi over the course of over a decade through their psychic bond. The pacing was so well done, and the Shenanigans had me in absolute stitches. The only thing I regret about this fic is that there isn't more. It's just one of those stories I could live in.

-> The Misadventures of Kakashi and the Girl from Nowhere by Goldfishlover73 Rating: M / Words: 137k

When a girl called Sakura seemingly falls in the sky, Kakashi is skeptical. Far more skeptical than the rest of Team Minato are. War is approaching quickly and this strange girl is leaving more questions than answers in her wake, Kakashi must decide where his trust and loyalties lie in a constantly changing world.

A time-travel AU told from Kakashi's perspective, beginning at the age of ten on Team Minato before the deaths of, well, Team Minato. SUCH an interesting take on the classic time-travel AU. Features angst, cozy Team Minato, and a really well written progression of Kakashi's maturity as he grows up, struggles with the traumas of war, and slowly falls in love with the mysterious "Uzumaki Sakura".

One of the things I really loved about this fic was the way it so effectively addressed some of the canon plot holes, as well as the expected plot holes of a time travel AU. It has a really satisfying plot wrap, some BAMF Sakura, and Kakashi's perspective is really well written and interesting to read. I stayed up all night reading this and deeply regretted in the morning as I zombie-walked my way into work, lol.

-> House Calls by LadyofSnark Rating: M / Words: 229.7k

Always the Team Mom, Sakura opens up her home as a clinic for the hospital-phobic ninja of Konoha. At the same time, her relationship with Kakashi begins to evolve in a way she never expected.

Super cute, fun, cozy, with an interesting premise. Well written and has a really interesting dynamic between Sakura and Kakashi which does not start off necessarily easy or smooth at the start of the fic, even if it is friendly. A very long slow burn you can sink your teeth into.

-> Another Life by Bluefurcape Rating: E / Words: 52.8k

Sometimes you start wondering about what could have been…

Technically a cheating fic--with a twist! Sakura starts having strange dreams in which she's married to Kakashi, and the dreams (in conjunction with very real complaints about her marriage) make her questions whether marrying Sasuke was the right choice. The mechanism behind the dreams is really, really interesting, and the way their marriage spirals out of control, the anguish over its effects on Sarada--and Sakura's emotional turmoil surrounding it all--is page-turning.

-> The Exciting Adventures of Lotus Man, Blue Boy and the Not-So-Relucant Doctor Petals by goldfishlover73 Rating: E / Words: 186k

Sakura enters college with the dream of becoming a top tier nurse. Little did she know her trajectory in life was about to change. Really, they should put the hell portal that's in the middle of campus in the brochure. Or the two mini skirt wearing super heroes… or maybe not. At least she has a cute neighbor.

I honestly don't even know how to describe this one. It's a wild ride. It's cute, it's silly, it made me laugh and made me hold my breath and clutch my phone with anticipation. I loved it.

-> Dear Future You by Scarecrows_to_CherryTrees Rating: E / Words: 80k

Sakura is accidently sent 15 years back to when Team 7 is just starting out. She knows Kakashi, but Kakashi certainly doesn't know her. At least...not yet. Or: What is it like meeting the love of your life, before they even know what you mean to them? Love is not always on equal footing, but it can grow to be.

A time travel fic, in which Sakura accidentally gets sent back in time to Kakashi's ANBU years, and they get stuck together while they try and find a way to send her back. Something of an enemies to lovers, Kakashi falls so hard and it's just delicious; even better as Sakura's secrets are slowly revealed. Extremely well written and well paced, I devoured it in a night.

-> Silver Lining by Thinknicht Rating: T / Words: 60.5k

They were the only ones left.

Written around a really interesting premise surrounding the fourth war: everyone gets cocooned, and a resistance is built out of those who manage to break free. Stars BAMF Sakura and supportive Kakashi, with a quiet romance bubbling beneath the surface. It's unusually written in that the first half deals a lot with more serious/dramatic themes and plot-heavy stuff, and the second half is a largely light-hearted and fluffy, focusing on romantic relationship development; but I liked that--kind of gives you the best of both worlds.

-> There Will Be Time by thekatthatbarks Rating: T / Words: 39k

Naruto doesn't want to be Hokage anymore. Tsunade picks Sakura as her successor. Sakura accepts the hat but doesn't know how to accept the praise and confidence sent her way. Everyone believes in her, but is she really cut out for this?

I loved the premise of this fic! For all that Naruto goes on about being Hokage in the series (and I do love fics with Excellent Hokage Naruto), I thought it was so compelling to explore the idea that, in growing and interacting with the other ninja villages, Naruto realizes Hokage isn't the way he wants to protect Konoha and bring peace to the ninja world. Sakura taking up the mantel was really interesting to read (especially since her mentor is the previous Hokage--so much interest and potential there!). I love a good BAMF Sakura and Supportive Kakashi fic, and this definitely qualifies. With Kakashi falling for this powerful, inspirational woman along the way, of course!

-> A Brief Introspection on Sunflowers by MurderMittens Rating: E / Words: 67.8k

Sakura and Kakashi meet at a bar. The sex is not unexpected. What is unexpected is everything that follows afterwards.

An age-swap AU where Sakura is a Big Somebody and Kakashi is a lovestruck college boy pining after a woman otherwise way out of his league were it not for the fact she is pining in return. Really interesting clan dynamics with Sakura as the ex-Uchiha matriarch and the daughter of a wealthy merchant. Super interesting character backstories as well, and relationship dynamics that feel compelling and grounded. The author gives the characters room to grow with and outside of each other, which I love. Very well written. Excellent smut scenes and tender romance!

-> Code of Conduct by LindtLuirae Rating: E / Words: 11.8k

“You did this,” he murmured, suddenly sure she had meant for them to arrive at this exact position. “Did what?” Her innocent tone belied her telling smirk. “Made me want you,” he husked, their faces inches apart, held there by the tattered remains of his better judgment.

A same-age ANBU AU in which Sakura gets put on Kakashi's ANBU team. What starts as conflict slowly and then all at once becomes attraction. Well paced, snappy, compelling relationship dynamics, great writing. An excellent short read!

-> Red Strings and Lilac Skies by siuilaruin Rating: E / Words: 90.5k

The seduction mission is where they start. It is not where they end. / A canon-divergent AU where there's a seduction mission between the Kage summit and the war; where Sakura moves on from Sasuke; where love is a hearth fire instead of a wildfire.

I am super, super picky about my seduction mission stories (I say, writing a seduction mission story). This one surprised me because Sakura starts out as a virgin which is not usually my thing. But it was handled well. The whole social dynamic surrounding seduction missions in general was handled well. The character development and pacing was good, and the treatment by the narrative and by other characters of both Sakura and Kakashi after their mission felt realistic and grounded.

Actually most of the story takes place after the mission (which is only a chapter long). The mission itself is a catalyst for the emotions which come later, and the development of their romantic relationship. All-in-all, the smut was excellent, the longing was delicious, and the characters were interesting and dynamic.

Warnings for dub-con and non-con elements, and references to rape and pedophilia (all characters in the present-tense narrative are 19+ at the time of sexual activity).

-> The Danger of Smudged Storage Seals by bluemingqueen Rating: M / Words: 53.9k

Sakura should have known that Naruto taking an interest in seals would lead to disaster. In hindsight, maybe she should have looked to see if the piece of paper she’d pressed a chakra-laden finger to was the explosive seal or the slightly smudged miniature storage seal containing all of her shinobi registration documents.

A twist on the usual time-travel AU; young Sakura gets sent back in time and ends up on Kakashi's team seven under Minato where, slowly but surely, she finds her place as a ninja (and in the heart of the team's coldest member!). Very, very cute, with really interesting character development for Sakura.

-> Looped by MyMindsMadness Rating: M / Words: 20.6k

Time, although a funny thing, is also very precious. That’s why Kakashi decides to give Sakura time for her birthday… or did she give it to him? Time travel can be a bit confusing… For her twenty-first birthday, Kakashi sends Sakura back in time to accompany a younger version of him through the most important events in his life. He only does so because she’d already done it… which means he’d already done it, or he wouldn’t think to do it now… he thinks.

Another time-travel AU, this time a closed time loop. Really cute to see the way Sakura and Kakashi's relationship develops as she hops through his timeline. Fun, a little sentimental, a little spicy. A long enough story to satisfy but short enough to read quickly in an afternoon. Perfection.

-> Star Magnolia by scorpiogojo Rating: E / Words: 17.9k

Two years after the Fourth Shinobi War, Hatake Kakashi prepares to take on the role of Hokage — and breaks up with the only woman he’s ever loved. Haruno Sakura, brokenhearted and still very much in love, lets him go. But Konoha is small, their wounds are big, and love never really leaves when it's real. After their quiet unraveling and brutal separation, will they find the slow, tender, irrevocable way to find each other again?

Aaaaaaangggsstttt, all aboard the angst train! Starts post-breakup, with frequent short flashbacks filling in context. A nice, quick read, full of drama, angst, and passion. Well, written, good smut--an engaging, quick read.

-> An Icha Icha Romance by Melody_Grace Rating: T / Words: 10.6k

In which Kakashi isn’t the only perverted member of former Team 7, and people fall in love in mysterious ways.

Sakura sneaks into a sex shop under a henge for some new steamy romance novels and runs into Kakashi. Flirting and shenanigans ensue. Features soft!Kakashi and flustered!Sakura. Super cute, well written, well paced. A really fun read!

-> Dreaming's End by thepiedsniper Rating: T / Words: 107.2k

Sakura didn't avoid the Infinite Tsukuyomi with the others, and all the events that happened afterward were simply the product of her dream-state. When Sakura finally wakes up from years spent in her personal "paradise," she must to learn how to start again. Kakashi is there to help her.

A really interesting premise--that all of the material of Boruto was Sakura's infinite tsukuyomi dream. The story follows her struggle both to come to grips with having spent that much of her life in a dream, feeling aged beyond her years, struggling to tell the difference between genjutsu and reality--and Kakashi, by her side, helping her heal.

-> The Roles We Play by insomnikat Rating: M / Words: 45.6k

Guide and support. Defend and heal. In the grand scheme of Life, these were the roles Kakashi and Sakura had probably always been meant to play. And it had been enough… until it wasn't.

A really thoughtful, nuanced portrayal of Sakura's heartache in the early years of her marriage with toddler Sarada, coming to terms with her unhappiness and loneliness. Kakashi is there to see her break and steps in to support--and along the way, they fall in love. An affair fic that is really so much more. Beautifully written with a snappy pace, smitten Kakashi, and satisfying KakaSaku moments littered throughout. Lots of yearning and dancing around each other and "We Cant"s. I absolutely ate this up.

-> The Problem With How Time Works by MurderMittens Rating: E / Words: 39.4k

"I don't remember you being this uncomfortable when Kakashi was nine and had a crush on you," Ino pointed out neutrally. "You thought it was flattering before." She moved to pour more wine into their glasses as Sakura exhaled sharply out of her nostrils. "Obviously! It was fucking cute when he was a kid! But now he's..." she trailed off, gesticulating feebly. Ino, taking pity on her, finished the sentence: "Now he's a stone cold hottie who looks and sounds like he'd murder the ever-loving shit out of your vagina."

An age-swap AU where Kakashi falls for his sensei Sakura and pursues her ardently when she returns to Konoha after years of training. She absolutely has a meltdown over it before finally giving in. So cute!! Well written, fun, sweet, and a little spicy.

-> Heavy Reading by bluefurcape Rating: E / Words: 39k+

A terrible book series might be Sakura's only chance to save Kakashi's life.

I adore this story. It's a quick, snappy read, which as a busy adult I appreciate in a fic--but honestly the premise is so good I kind of wish the author had made it into a detailed long fic instead! The premise and setting is so fun, and the characters are delightfully rich. Kakashi gets captured on a mission and employs a jutsu to protect his mind and Konoha's secrets from foreign invasion--only it of course, goes awry, and when he's brought back to Konoha he's trapped in his own mental labyrinth reenacting a book series he and Sakura shared throughout the previous several months. Super cute, fun, and incredibly creative.

-> A Novel Idea by mummapaintstheblues Rating: E / Words: 64.3k+

Kakashi has spent his years of retirement building sanctuaries for his sanity around the village of Konoha. Sometimes a man just needs a quiet place to read a good book, and sometimes he needs to share that space with a fellow reader who needs her own peace of mind. A cozy book fic in which Kakashi builds elaborate and secluded reading nooks and annoys librarians.

The summary does NOT does this gem justice. It is so, SO cute, a love letter to both readers and writers. Book nerd Kakashi shares his secret reading hideaways with Sakura and romance unexpectedly blooms. Each book they share with each other is a real world book and the author's choices are hilarious and on-point for their characters. And the way Kakashi falls for her... oh! So sweet! (and the smut 🤌🤌). Also has some accompanying art by the author!

-> Dog Teeth by SpicyChestnut Rating: T / Words: 11.1k

Sakura thought she knew Kakashi pretty well. Turns out she still has a lot to learn about him—and herself.

Whoopsie-daisy, Sakura discovers she has a fang kink! After finally getting to see beneath Kakashi's mask during a training exercise, she finds herself fixated on his canine-like features over subsequent years. Cute, sweet, a smidge angsty, and just a little bit spicy. Part of a larger ongoing series, though this installment is complete.

-> With One Long Kiss by the_road_I_know Rating: E / Words: 43k+

A kiss to avoid enemy detection during a covert mission sends Sakura spiraling into feelings she never thought possible. For Kakashi, of all people. Her friend, her teammate, and now the man she can't get out of her mind.

Oooooh my god this fic! The yearning! The insecurity! The resolve-to-love-unrequited angst! The humor! The tenderness! Their complete and utter inability to talk to each other about their feelings! Oh and the smut. This fic has it all. I binged it in one night instead of sleeping like a responsible adult and do I have regrets? Absolutely none! The way their relationship evolves, the quiet intensity of Kakashi ("sun-drenched and mythic" GOD what a line), his and Sakura's adorable friendship, the way it evolves, they way they fall apart for each other... GOD it's so good.

-> The Post-It Poet by mummapaintstheblues Rating: E / Words: 30k+

A poem on a sticky note; sinful, sweet, impossible to forget. More appear, each one tugging Sakura closer to the hand that writes them. So she writes back.

I love the premise of this. Yearning Kakashi secretly writing poems on sticky-notes for Sakura, who can't get them out of her mind and is determined to figure out who the author is. Features sassy Ino, Shikamaru being a little shit, and chronically undersexed Sakura. Great finaly smut chapter, and cute dynamics throughout.

-> Chikai (Oath) by megamomprime Rating: M / Words: 60k+

After nearly succumbing to a brutal injury during her last mission, Sakura regains consciousness in the hospital a month later only to discover she has absolutely no memory of the last four years. During the recovery process, she struggles to reckon with just how much her life has changed.

A slow burn with soft Kakashi and Relationship Dynamics (tm), this story is so tender and sweet and full of emotion, and both of them are so vulnerable, uncertain, and gentle with the other. Well written, and the author captures their characters so well. Their relationship struggle is set against a really interesting social setting (Kakashi's inauguration as Rokudaime), and the nature of the memory loss is also really interesting.

-> Gravity by LindtLuirae Rating: E / Words: 29k+

It's been four years since the war and Sakura still can't get a good night's sleep. Upon noticing her struggles, Kakashi takes matters into his own hands. Sleep is not the only thing they end up finding along the way.

“I’m picking up what you’re putting down, and I will go find Tucker to give him another beer.” Logan saluted you as he went to grab a new beer and locate Tucker.

“Am I invited to this dinner tomorrow?” Beau quipped to Dean.

“I don’t know, man. Are you?” Dean teased. “Missy, here is the woman of the house. You’ll have to ask her,” Dean jutted his thumb in your direction.

Beau turned to face you and pouted as he asked, “May I please come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Excuse me, I do not live here,” you mocked in defense. “But, yes, you are invited to family dinner.”

"Don't even start with that," Dean waved you off.

“Family dinner?” Beau questioned you and Dean.

Dean let out a laugh, “Yeah, Tucker and Missy have been alternating in cooking on Sundays, and now it’s family dinner,” as if that explained why you and the boys considered it family dinner. 

“Garrett invited me over to dinner at the beginning of sophomore year, and Tucker was cooking tortellini. We were all hanging out afterward, and I told them how I would cook more if I wasn’t in the dorms. I hated cooking in the dorms because the smell lingered way too long,” you started. “Anyways, he cooked dinner that night, and the next weekend I cooked, so it just kind of became a cycle. A routine.”

“Why haven’t I been invited to family dinners until now?” Beau raised a brow at Dean. “I would’ve brought something!”

You let out a giggle at his dramatics. “Yeah! Why didn’t you invite Beau?” you goaded.

“Not you too, Missy,” Dean groaned into his drink. The red solo cup is blocking the view of his face. 

Allie approached you guys and poked at Dean’s side, causing him to choke on his drink. You and Beau try not to laugh, but the second you look at each other, the laughter spills out. “What are you guys going on about?”

“Family dinner,” Dean answered her.

“Is Tucker cooking tomorrow or Missy?” Allie pondered for a moment. “Oh, wait! She cooked last weekend, so Tucker’s definitely cooking.”

“Missy wants to get him drunk tonight, so we can get him to agree to make tortellini tomorrow,” Dean explained the plan to Allie as he pulled her into his side. “You know he’ll feel bad if Missy asks and he doesn’t follow through with it since she made her famous dish last week per his request.”

Beau quit mid-laugh the second he comprehended that Allie had been attending these family dinners. “Am I the only one not attending these dinners?” he called out, exasperated. 

“Dean should’ve invited you earlier.” Garrett slapped a hand to Dean’s shoulder as he joined you all.  

“G, not cool, man.”

Garrett made his way to you with a new can of cherry Coke in hand. “For the lady,” he presented it to you and took the empty can. He set it down on the counter before turning back to you. “I’ve been wondering where you were, but I found you with these bozos and Allie.”

“Beau is very upset that he hasn’t been in attendance for family dinners on Sundays,” you whispered to him as he snuck an arm around your shoulder. 

Your eyes were on Dean and Beau as they started going at it again, but this time Allie joined Beau’s side. Dean’s eyes flared open with joking betrayal. “Babydoll, not you too. Please.”

“You want to make rounds?” Garrett asked softly, leaning down to speak into your ear. 

“Yeah, I want to check in with Tucker. Make sure Logan is getting him drunk, so we can get Tuck’s delicious ricotta tortellini.”

Garrett guided you away from the group in the kitchen. You both navigated through the living room in search of the fellow housemates. You see Tucker downing a beer and Logan immediately offering him another, which Tucker greedily took into his hands. Logan winked at you knowingly as you and Garrett approached the pair. 

“How you feeling, Tucker?” Garrett asked him, amused. 

“Great, G!”

“You’re cooking dinner tomorrow, right?” you questioned, trying to seem like you weren’t sure.

Tucker scratched his head and looked at Logan, who gave him a nod. “Yeah! Of course I am,” he blurted out.

You unconsciously leaned your head against Garrett’s shoulder. “Do you have anything specific in mind?” You glanced over to Logan with a slight smirk. 

“Dude, you should totally make tortellini again!” Logan suggested.

Tucker immediately started shaking his head, “Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how long that takes to make?”

“But, Tuck, you know how that’s my favorite! Won’t you even think about it?” You pull away from Garrett’s side to go to Tucker with the biggest pout you managed to put out. 

Tucker took one look at your face, then another at Garrett, and he folded quickly. “Yes, I will,” he sighed, knowing there was no point in saying no to you. “Only because you’re my favorite.”

You let a short cheer out and pressed a kiss to Tucker’s cheek. “You’re the best, Tuck!”

“Enough of that,” Garrett interjected you two, and he gently grabbed your hip to pull you back beside him. 

“Mr. Best Friend is jealous that I’m going to steal your heart, Missy,” Tucker joked.

Logan doubled over in laughter, fully shaking with amusement, “Oh, you know that a way to a woman’s heart is food.” 

“Might just take Missy right from you.” Tucker playfully reached out for you with a smirk, pinching at his cheeks.

Garrett’s grip on your hip tightened just enough for you to notice. Heat flooded your cheeks, and you felt like the room was getting hotter by the second. You should’ve been used to the jokes by now, but being Garrett Graham’s best friend since freshman year came with lots of teasing.

The day you and Garrett met was in a history lecture, and he was sitting behind you. When class ended on the last day of the first week, you were still gathering your stuff, and Garrett was getting up to head out. In a rush to grab his ginormous water bottle, he brought it up, and it hit you right in the back of the head.

The professor whose name you hadn’t quite remembered yet just dismissed class, and the usual chaos of shuffling backpacks with everyone gathering their things filled the room. You remained seated as you were putting away your notebook and trying to search for your headphones in your backpack. With your head slightly tucked down, you weren’t really too aware of your surroundings, and something had smacked into the back of your head.

Thunk.

It wasn’t hard enough to hurt badly. Just hard enough that it made you jump. You let out a surprised yelp and gently rubbed the sore spot before putting your arm back down.

“Oh shit.” You heard some mutter behind you. Garrett instinctively reached to touch the back of your head with his free hand but retracted, realizing it probably isn’t appropriate to do that to someone you’ve just met, even less so after you accidentally hit them in the head. “I’m so sorry,” he blurted out.

You turn around, and a guy is staring at you in complete horror. It was only a few seconds later when you realized that he was the new hot shot hockey player. Which from what you’ve seen on The Fifth Line, there was a bit of emphasis on the player part.

The expression on his face caught you off guard.

He genuinely looked like he thought he just committed a crime. 

You shook your head, amused despite the small sting. “It’s okay! Things happen.” You laughed off, softly giving him a smile, trying to let him know you weren’t mad. 

Somehow, the poor guy looked even more distressed. 

“No, seriously,” he says. “Are you okay?”

You glanced at the water bottle that is ridiculously large. 

Then back at him.

“Yes, totally.”

“No, seriously.”

“I am serious.”

“I just hit you with my water bottle.”

You laughed at the redundancy. “It was a light tap.”

He doesn’t seem reassured whatsoever. “I know that’s got to hurt a bit.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

He frowned. 

You could practically see him trying to decide whether you’ve secretly suffered a concussion. The thought almost made you laugh again. 

“Seriously,” you told him. “It’s okay.”

“Why do you have to be so nice?” he grumbled, and the look on his face made this far funnier than it should be. 

“You seem to be more upset about this than I am,” you teased, watching as his shoulders slumped. 

“That’s probably true,” he mumbled softly as he kept eye contact with you. There was a twinkle in his eye that you just knew was trouble.

“There he is.”

“What?”

“The normal person.” You get a laugh from that, escaping before he could stop it.

“I should probably introduce myself.” His lips quirked into a smile as he shook his head.

“Officially?”

He paused, confused, “What?”

“I know who you are, Garrett Graham.”

His expression fell blank for a split second before he quickly recovered it with a grin. “So you do.”

“People tend to know you when that’s the only name you hear people cheering at hockey games this year,” you confessed to Garrett.

“You’re very observant.”

“More like I have eyes and ears,” you grinned back at him.

He dropped his head into one hand with a slight chuckle. “Well, I apparently know much less about you than you know about me.”

“That sounds right.”

“So let me make it up to you.”

“By how exactly?” You quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Coffee,” he offered. 

You pretended to think about it, but mostly because you’re curious what he would do.

“Coffee?” you repeated in question.

“I owe you.” 

“You really don’t.”

“Oh, c’mon. I’m buying you coffee.”

You smiled, “Okay.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”

“Sure,” you answered again.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

He looked suspicious for a moment, like he thought there was a catch. You decided not to tell him there is one. Namely, that he still didn’t know your name. And you’re not intentionally volunteering it. You finished gathering your stuff and started to head toward the exit.

He followed right behind you.

The hallway outside is crowded with students weaving between classes. He made a quick step around you to be ahead, so he could hold the door open for you as you left the lecture hall.

Still no name. You took a short look at him, and you could tell he’d noticed. 

The occasional glance he sent your way confirmed it.

You don’t say anything. 

Neither does he.

The silence stretched all the way out of the building. Then a voice called out, “There you are, G!” A tall blond jogged towards you two. “Thought you vanished.”

Your water bottle assailant immediately groaned, “Unfortunately not.”

The blond glanced between you and Garrett. His gaze immediately stuck to you, and a faint smirk played at the corner of his lips. “Oh.”

“No.” Garrett immediately shut him down.

“Oh, absolutely.”

“It’s not–” Garrett was cut off, and the blond ignored him completely. You could tell that they were good friends.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked Garrett with a growing smile. A dangerous smile. Before either of you could answer, he added, “And why does she look like she knows every embarrassing thing you’ve ever done, G?”

You laughed, and Garrett pointed at you. “That’s exactly the problem.”

The blond stuck out his hand. “I’m Dean,” he introduced himself jokingly formally.

You reciprocated by shaking his hand, “Nice to meet you.”

“You too, beautiful.”

You playfully rolled your eyes and decided that it was time to put the poor guy out of his misery. You tell Dean your name while purposely trying to keep your attention on him rather than Garrett. 

Dean repeated your name out loud. “Nice.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught Garrett repeating your name quietly to himself like he was trying to memorize it. 

Cute. You thought to yourself.

Then Dean glanced between the two of you again, “So what happened with Missy here?”

You blinked at the nickname. “Missy?”

Garrett groaned again, and you were ignored by the two. “No.”

Dean pointed at him knowingly, “You did something! Because when I walked up, you looked like you’d spent the last ten minutes apologizing.”

“He basically has,” you snorted.

“Exactly,” Dean grinned. “So I figured he’d messed something up.”

“Maybe not messed anything up but a first impression,” you pretended to ponder as you rubbed the back of your head, hoping that it would mess with Garrett. You hid your laugh when you saw that he noticed your little joke.

Garrett looked ready to walk directly into traffic just to distance himself from the embarrassment from you and Dean.

You laughed, and when you glanced back over to Garrett, you caught a look on his face. A wide grin. The one that says he’s just had an idea. Probably a terrible one while you guys were at it.

You narrowed your eyes at him, “What now?”

“What?” he tried to play it off.

“You have that look.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” you insisted.

Dean stopped mid-walk as he burst out laughing, “Oh shit, G. She’s already figured you out.”

That’s when Garrett said, “Nothing, Missy.” You stopped walking. He kept going.

Dean nearly choked. 

“Don’t.” You shook your head at him, but you were talking to Garrett.

“Don’t what?” he responded.

“That.”

“What?”

“Missy.” Garrett’s smile turned innocent. Entirely too innocent. “You literally just learned my name,” you told him.

“Yeah.” 

“And?” 

“And that’s not it,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing. 

Dean was at the point of laughing so hard that he was barely breathing. 

Garrett just shrugged. 

You should probably have been annoyed. Instead, despite yourself, you fought a smile. Because somehow the nickname sounded ridiculous enough to work. Then, judging by the look on Garrett’s face, there was no chance he was going to let it go.

“Coffee,” you said, shaking your head.

“Coffee,” he agreed.

Somehow, before you’ve even made it to the coffee shop, the nickname Missy is already stuck.

By the time that Garrett invited you to hang out with his friends in his line, the two of you had long since become inseparable.

At some point, coffee turned into study sessions.

Study sessions turned into lunch, which led to spending entire afternoons together.

Somewhere along the way, the nickname still followed you.

No matter how many times you complain. No matter how many times you reminded Garrett, you did have an actual name.

To Garrett (plus Dean), you would always be Missy,

Which is why you weren’t surprised when he texted you one Friday afternoon midway through the semester. 

You rolled your eyes as you read his last text and scanned around your room to search for this man’s colossal bottle. How did he forget it? Beats you.

Bingo. 

You found the bottle and headed out to finally make introductions to Garrett’s friends. Who has been bugging Garrett the moment they found out he was hanging out with a girl and not hooking up with her. 

The house itself is exactly what you would have expected when four college freshmen are given a place together. It’s not particularly messy, but it felt lived in. 

The kind of place where people actually spend time together and enjoy each other’s company instead of disappearing into separate rooms 24/7.

The front door barely closed behind you before Dean appeared.

“There she is!”

You pointed at him, “You’re responsible for the nickname.”

“And proud of it,” he cheesed, that kind smile that is always so infectious that you felt your own lips curling.

Garrett appeared behind him. “You absolutely should not be.”

“She still answers it.”

You hated that he was right.

The grin he gave you says he knows it too. 

A few moments later, you’re introduced to the remaining roommates. John and John, or better known as Tucker and Logan. 

The pair bombarded you with questions, and within five minutes, they somehow learned your major, favorite coffee order, and your favorite drink.

“You seem normal enough,” Logan deemed as a proclamation as you guys talked in the living room. 

“Excuse me?”

“I expected worse,” he shrugged.

You looked at Garrett and asked the other boys, “What exactly has he been saying about me?”

Each of the boys quipped a response.

“A lot.” 

“Enough.”

“Some would say too much.”

“I hate all of you,” Garrett muttered under his breath.

“You’ll fit right in,” Logan finished.

By the end of the night, you all were sprawled across the living room arguing over movies and laughing so hard at shared stories that your stomachs started to hurt.

You sat on one side of the couch with Garrett. You were leaning against him while you were talking to Tucker and Logan about the best Batman movie. Garrett was talking to Dean about some girl Dean saw working at Malone’s. Garrett had his arm loosely wrapped around your waist, and his hand was messing with the hem of your shirt.

At some point, you realized something. 

You didn’t feel like a guest.

It was almost like you’d always been there. 

And judging by the way nobody bothered treating you differently, the guys seemed to feel the same way too.

It was the start of sophomore year, and your presence in the Boys’ house was now such a regular occurrence that you had a drawer in Garrett’s room, a toothbrush next to his, and under the sink, he had a bottle of your perfume. 

When you’d pointed it out the first time, he’d shrugged. “You forget stuff.”

“I won't forget perfume.”

“You might.”

“I won’t.”

“Baby, it’s there just in case.”

He claimed that he just wanted you to be comfortable and feel at home, but you knew one of the real reasons was that he was obsessed with seeing your stuff in his room. 

You thought that people would get better about your and Garrett’s friendship, but it seemed that people could never fathom the fact that Garrett Graham had a girl best friend.

Frankly, sometimes you couldn’t believe it yourself. 

As much as the rest of the boys in the line teased you, they were fiercely protective of you and defended you against any rumors that people tried to start. It is endearing how much you and the boys treated each other like family. 

Something you would never admit out loud is the fact you knew that you and Garrett crossed the boundary of best friends a long time ago. Sure, you were attracted to him and cared for him like no other, but his constant saying that he doesn’t have time for a girlfriend really messed with your head. 

You loved him. There was no doubt about it. You tried putting yourself out there and dating, but a lot of the time, guys weren’t interested when they found out your best friend was Garrett Graham.

It didn’t help that Garrett’s love language is physical touch. He constantly found ways to be close and touch you, whether it was an arm around your shoulder, holding your hand in his lap under the table when you and the boys hung out at Malone’s, or a hand that always found your back or hip when you guys navigated through crowds. 

Even with that, there were the puck bunnies to consider, the numerous girls who seemed to gravitate to Garrett the second he flashed that damned smile. But they wouldn’t be able to say they knew him. They didn’t know his favorite band, what major he’s pursuing, how he liked his coffee, or what his mother’s name was. But you did. Of course, you knew him like the back of your hand. 

“Missy, do you know where my–” Garrett’s voice from the bathroom snapped you out of your thoughts. 

You responded before he even finished his sentence: “Bub, your phone is still charging by the bed.”

You were sitting by the window, and the book you were reading had long been forgotten in your hands. You set it aside near a couple of other books you kept there. 

Garrett walked out of the bathroom with his hair still damp from the shower he had just taken, and a towel wrapped around his waist. You hadn’t looked over to him yet as you were folding a blanket that you kept by the window. He watched you with a soft gaze, and a smile budded on his lips.

He went over to the bed and tapped on his phone to check the time. His wallpaper flashed at him. It was a photo of you in the kitchen blowing out your birthday cake candles when he and the boys surprised you with a mini celebration last semester. 

“Hey, we should probably head down soon. I think Tuck is done cooking dinner,” he suggested. “Let me put something on, and we can go.” He went to his closet to grab some clothes. 

You nodded at him and grabbed your phone. “I’m going to head down now to see if he needs any help.” You pressed a kiss on his jawline when you headed out of the room.

You wandered down to the kitchen. “It smells like a restaurant in here.”

“Of course, with Tuck cooking,” Dean said as he carried a case of beers to the fridge. 

“I’m making tortellini,” Tucker called out on the stove.  

Your eyes scanned the room and saw several pots going at once and the counters covered with ingredients. It almost looked suspiciously professional.

“You need any help with anything, Tuck? I’m all yours.”

“Don’t let G hear you say that.” Logan chuckled as he walked into the kitchen, holding something behind his back. 

“Whatcha got, Logan?”

“You know we’d never forget about you.” Logan brought his arm around to his front, revealing a case of mini cherry cokes. 

“You guys are the best.” You buttered them up with a cheesy smile. 

He took one from the case before handing it to Dean to put in the fridge. “For the lady,” he exaggeratedly presented the can to you while bowing. 

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” You accepted the drink in curtsy. 

“Where’s G, man? Foods ready to be served, and his ass is still in his room,” Tucker howled out as he started serving the plates.

You expected to hear a response, but you noticed the silence rather quickly. You looked up from opening your can and saw all three of the guys staring at you for a response. “Why are you guys looking at me?” You blurted. 

“Well, where is he?” Dean prompted. 

“Up in his room.”

“Why is he not down here with us?” Logan added.

“You guys know that I’m not his keeper, right?” you groaned exasperated.

The boys all mirrored the same look that screamed, “Are you being serious right now?”

“I’m not!” Your voice cracked at the delivery, causing the others to laugh.

“What are you all laughing about?” Garrett’s voice broke through the laughter. 

Silence fell upon the room for a few short moments before Dean made a joke: “Just about Missy’s obsession with cherry cokes.” He held up another can to set on the table. 

“G took you long enough, man,” Logan greeted Garrett.

“We were just about to start with you,” Tucker playfully told him.

You all crowded around the old kitchen table. Nobody bothered about matching plates or utensils. One of the chairs wobbled, and Dean had the luck of getting it for the night. You were seated next to Garrett, close enough for your knees to knock into each other and neither of you cared to move. 

The meal was perfect.

You took one bite.

Then another.

Followed by another.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” you praised.

Tucker laughed, “What?”

“I’m not kidding, this is heaven,” you hummed happily.

“Babe, if you think this is heaven, maybe I can show you what real heaven feels like,” Dean dramatically winked at you knowing that it would get on Garrett’s nerves.

“Quit it,” Garrett told him but turned his attention to Tucker, “I told you she’d love it.”

You narrowed your eyes between the pair, “You discussed this beforehand?”

“Obviously,” Garrett stated.

“You are all weird,” you declared to the room.

“And yet you’re here with us on a Sunday night,” Logan bemused.

You pointed your fork at each of the boys, “I regret befriending you all.”

“No, you don’t,” Garrett affirmed.

“No, I don’t,” you admitted with a smile creeping on your lips.

The table fell quiet for a half second. Not awkward. Just one of those moments that everyone wanted to take in and keep as a treasured memory. Everyone glanced at each other with fondness. 

The moment faded when Dean threw a bread roll at Garrett.

If someone were to ask you what your favorite meal is, this would still be the answer.

Maybe not fully because of the tortellini. Which was genuinely incredible. 

It was because of this. The table. The laughter. Logan arguing with Dean. Tucker pretending not to be pleased with himself that everyone kept going back for seconds (and thirds and fourths for the fellow hockey men). Garrett stealing food directly off your plate despite having an identical serving. 

You felt like you always belonged there.

The tortellini just became attached to the memory. After dinner, everyone helped to clean up. Or at least claimed to. Dean somehow managed to disappear. Tucker offered moral support rather than actual labor for once in the night as he sat on the counter, keeping you guys company. You and Garrett ended up doing most of the dishes. Logan cleaned the counters quietly.

“You know I wish I cooked more,” you said to no one in particular. 

Tucker glanced over. “You cook?”

“A little.”

“A little means yes.”

You shrugged, “I used to a lot when I was home, but with the dorms the smells lingered too long, and just not enough space.”

“That’s fair,” Tucker hummed.

“And cooking for one kind of sucks,” you whispered but it was loud enough for the boys to catch it. 

“It does,” Garrett nodded.

“Nobody asked you, bub,” you retorted.

“I’m supporting you.”

“More like interrupting,” you kid.

Tucker laughed, you brought your gaze to him. “You should cook here.”

You blinked at him, “What?”

Dean chose that exact moment to reappear, “Absolutely.”

Logan pointed dramatically, “I second this.”

“You guys haven’t even tasted my cooking,” you cautioned them.

“We’re willing to take risks,” Garrett grinned at you.

The look made you suspicious. “Oh no.”

“What?” Garrett questioned with false innocence. 

“You have an idea.” 

The other three just watched the banter between you two.

“I always have ideas,” Garrett claimed.

“That’s worse,” Logan whispered to Tucker.

You looked around the kitchen. At the house. At the boys who were crowded into it. There was a familiar comfort that you don’t remember forming. And for the first time, the idea didn’t feel strange.

It felt natural.

“Okay.”

“Done.”

By the end of the night, Sunday family dinners existed. 

Every Sunday.

One week Tucker cooked. The next week you did. On a rare occasion, Dean, Garrett, and Logan teamed up to cook for the night.

Nobody was allowed to skip without a legitimate emergency.

Dean attempted to argue that hungry bunnies counted as an emergency. That one earned him a slap on the back of the head from the other three. 

The dinners became routine. Then tradition. 

Followed by something more. People started planning their schedules around them. Sometimes new people were invited.

Bad weeks felt easier knowing when Sunday was coming.

Good weeks feel better when there are others to celebrate with.

By the end of the semester, everyone stopped pretending. Not about the dinner, but about you and Garrett. The two of you still insisted that you were strictly best friends. 

Everyone else nodded along, desperately waiting for one of you to say something about it.

Because whenever someone looked around the table, the picture was always the same.

Garrett grabbed you a cherry Coke every time he reached for his one beer for the night without thinking.

You saved him a portion when he was running late.

The pair of you always sat beside one another.

Nobody said anything. Mostly because they knew that you both would deny it.

But every Sunday, around that crowded table, the rest of the house watched the two of you and thought the same thing. 

That you two loved each other. That you lived better being next to each other. 

“Yo! Missy, do a shot with Beau and me,” Dean shouted from the kitchen, setting out the shot cups.

Before you replied, you looked to Garrett, and as if he could read your mind. “Just spend the night. It's not like you were planning to go home anyway. Go enjoy yourself.”

“Thanks, handsome.” You pressed a quick kiss against the edge of his jaw. “What is it?” you questioned when you went over to Dean and Beau.

“A shot,” Dean answered. 

“Very informative.”

You looked toward Beau, maybe the only responsible person in the house right now. He glanced up to hand you the shot. “Don’t ask me. This was all him.”

Dean’s grin was concerning. You groaned dramatically, “I feel like this is a bad idea.”

“It absolutely is,” Logan agreed.

“Not helping, Logan,” you murmured under your breath. 

Dean wiggled his shot. 

You turned your head to look back at Garrett. Automatically. The same way you always did. In a way, you didn’t realize you did so often, but Garrett noticed. One look and he already knew exactly what you were asking. 

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you, baby,” he reassured you.

“Will I?” You smelled the shot, causing your nose to scrunch up.

“Probably.”

“Probably?” He laughed at your echo as he shuffled over to you guys.

“If Dean somehow tricks you into doing more than one…” he trailed off, looking at Dean, who was setting up even more shots. 

“I heard that, G,” Dean quipped at him.

“I’ll drag you upstairs before you make any life-ruining or altering decisions,” Garrett finished. 

There was a certainty in it that made you smile. It was the thing that always settled something inside you. No matter the situation, you knew that Garrett would take care of you.

Not because he thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. Just because that’s what the two of you did for each other. 

The same way you always made sure he wasn’t overworking himself with practices, games, studying, etc. The same way you brought him his protein shakes to practice when he forgot. 

The same way you both somehow always knew when the other needed support before having to ask for it.

“You ready, Missy?” Dean winked at you.

“Yup,” you cheered with Beau and Dean. You downed the shot, and Garrett was already next to you with a chaser to help.

“One day you’re going to explain this thing between you two,” Dean pointed at you and Garrett. 

“Never,” you and Garrett said simultaneously.

Logan nearly doubled over laughing.

Tucker giggled to himself, having found his way over to the kitchen a few moments before.

Dean looked personally offended.

And Garrett just looked at you with the same twinkle in his eye from the moment you first met. 

The party died slowly with people filtering out in groups. The music was playing low. Empty cups and bottles accumulated on every available surface. By three in the morning, the Boys’ house was mostly quiet.

Tucker was passed out on the couch nearly an hour ago. He mumbled something about tortellini right before knocking out. 

Around the same time, Logan disappeared upstairs after making sure everyone downed a water bottle and some ibuprofen.

Dean was last seen stealing leftover pizza before vanishing into his room.

You were gathering the scattered trash left around the house, with Garrett following you with a trash bag in hand. You two worked your way around the house, making sure that nobody broke anything and didn't say anything about it.

You headed upstairs when Garrett went to throw out the bag outside. 

You found yourself curled into the corner of Garrett’s bed, wearing one of his hoodies that ended up living in your drawer here just for you to wear. You nursed another bottle of water. Not because you got particularly drunk. Because Garrett had handed it to you without asking before you went upstairs. 

The room was dim except for his lamp. Your drawer was half-open. A pair of your socks were sticking out. Your charger is plugged into the wall. 

There is so much evidence of you in this room now that it would be impossible to explain away. Not that either of you really tried to anymore. 

Garrett entered the room and headed straight to grab a pair of sweats. He went over to the bathroom. 

He came back out now shirtless, just in his sweats, and he threw his clothes into the hamper, which landed right on top of yours. 

Garrett sat beside you on the bed. Close enough that your arms brushed against each other. 

Neither of you said much for a while. 

The silence wasn’t awkward. It never really was. It was one of your favorite things about him. The ability to simply coexist together.

Eventually, he glanced over, “Tired?”

“Exhausted.”

“Did you have fun tonight?”

“I always do with you.” Your body started to lean into him.

Garrett brought you into his chest. The smell of your perfume overtook his senses. 

“Ready to go to bed?” he hummed into your hair.

You nodded gently and tore yourself from his grasp to look him in the eyes. Your gaze traveled from his lips to his eyes. Suddenly, neither of you was looking away. 

Something shifted. Not all at once. Just enough. Enough that you felt it, and you knew he did too. 

Garrett exhaled slowly. “Can I tell you something?”

The question snapped you out of your daze because Garrett sounded nervous. He never sounded like that around you, not anymore. 

His laugh was quiet. A little disbelieving. Like he was debating with himself.

Then he shakes his head, “I think I’ve been trying not to say this for months, hell, since the moment you cooked dinner for all of us while we were at practice back in sophomore year.”

Your heart immediately started beating faster. “Okay.”

“I keep telling myself we’re fine just the way we are.”

You blinked, “We are fine.”

“We are,” he smiled. “That’s part of the problem.”

You stared at him, and the room felt like it was getting warmer by the second. 

Garrett ran a hand through his hair. “I like you.”

“Wow.”

“What?” he quirked his brow at you.

“That sounded odd,” you giggled to yourself in disbelief. 

“It didn’t,” he defended weakly.

“It definitely did.”

“It really didn’t.” he shifted closer. “I mean it.”

Your chest hurts in the best possible way. “I know you do.” He froze at your confession.

Not because he’s told you before, but because he’d shown you. 

Every coffee he gave you when he knew you stayed up late studying.

Every late-night conversation in his room pretending that what you guys had was a normal friendship. 

Every time he remembered something small.

Every time he made space for you in crowded places.

Every time his eyes searched for yours after he scored a winning goal. 

Every time he looked at you like you were the best part of his day. 

You already knew, but hearing it made it real.

“What?”

You smiled, “I know.”

His expression looked almost offended. “You were supposed to be surprised.”

“You have a bottle of my perfume under your sink.” 

“In my defense–” you cut him off.

“You gave me a drawer.”

“You needed a drawer. How else were you supposed to stay over so often?” he shrugged.

“Maybe.” You reached for his hand. The movement was natural, like everything else with him. “I like you too.”

The room went still. Garrett stared back at you. “You do?”

You snickered. “Seriously?”

“I just want confirmation.”

“You have been my favorite person since the moment you almost concussed me freshman year.”

He covered his eyes with his hand. “Okay, moment ruined.” But when he uncovered his face, the smile that spread across his lips was devastating. Warm and content. Happy.

“So?”

“So what?” 

You shifted closer. “What does this mean for us?” You pretended to ponder. “Hm.”

“Missy.”

“I think…” You cocked your head to the side. “This means we should probably stop pretending we’re just friends.”

Garrett laughed. A real laugh. The kind that only came out around people he felt completely comfortable with. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” you repeated. 

Then he leaned forward, slowly. His hand settled against your cheek. And when he kissed you, it didn’t feel new. It felt like something you’ve been waiting for a very long time. 

When you finally pull apart, both of you are smiling. A little stunned. Definitely giddy. Garrett rested his forehead against yours. “So we’re not telling them.”

You softly chuckled to yourself, “Absolutely not.”

“They’re going to be unbearable.”

“Especially Dean.”

“He’ll claim responsibility.”

“Too bad it’s thanks to your ridiculous bottle.”

He groaned, “We are keeping this to ourselves.”

“Agreed.” 

The agreement lasted less than eight hours.

The next morning, the kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon. 

Logan was standing at the stove.

Tucker was sitting by the counter with his head in his hands. 

Dean was eating cereal directly from the box. 

Nobody looked particularly awake. You shuffled into the kitchen wearing another one of Garrett’s hoodies, which wasn't unusual. 

Garrett followed a minute later. Also not unusual. 

Nobody paid attention.

Logan continued cooking his bacon. 

Tucker still hadn’t lifted his head up yet.

Dean kept munching on the cereal.

Garrett walked directly to the coffee pot. Also normal.

He poured a cup. He added exactly the amount of cream and sugar you liked. He carried it over to you. Still normal.

“Morning, Missy.” You heard Logan call from the stove.

“Morning,” You replied.

You accepted the mug from Garrett. And without thinking or planning, you leaned up and pecked his lips. Quick. Easy.

And not normal. 

The room went silent. The silence lasted exactly two seconds. 

Then Dean practically launched out of his chair, “I KNEW IT!”

You immediately dropped your head. “No.”

“YES.”

“It has been like six hours.”

“I KNEW IT.”

Garrett groaned. 

Dean pointed to himself, “This happened because of me.”

“It absolutely did not,” Garrett remarked. 

“I brought you together.”

“You really didn’t,” you laughed.

Tucker finally lifted his head and studied you and Garrett for a moment. Then nodded, “About time.”

Garrett pointed at him, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Tucker muttered as he dropped his head back down.

Dean looked betrayed. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What else is there to say?” Tucker’s voice was muffled. 

“They’re dating!” Dean proclaimed.

“They’ve been emotionally dating for like over a year,” Logan shrugged off. 

“Fair,” you mouthed to Garrett. 

Logan flipped another piece of bacon, completely unfazed. “Bacon’s almost done.”

The room erupted.

Dean started shouting. Garrett was laughing. You nearly spilled your coffee when Dean came up to pick you up in a spin, barely giving you time to set down the mug. Garrett made quick work of grabbing it out of your hands. “I call being the godfather to your future children.”

Life seemed to be put back into Tucker, and Logan flipped around, pointing the tongs at Dean. “No man, that’s not how that works.”

Tucker looked more alive than ever. “My sous chef would never pick you, dude.”

Dean sat you down on the counter and immediately started arguing with the other two. 

And standing next to you was Garrett. His shoulder pressed against yours while he handed your coffee back. 

You realized something. Nothing felt different. Not really. The house was still home. The boys are still family. 

Garrett was still your favorite person.

This is normal, your therapist said, writing something down on her clipboard. They were your first relationship and the only one you've ever had. It'll be a while before you feel fully separate from them. It'll go away after a while.

And, to an extent, you resonated with her words. However, you mostly felt like you'd either die an old spinster or go back to Uraume within a few months, dealing with whatever spiteful behavior they'd send your way in the meantime.

It was your fault for bringing that up to Izumi, who had gasped like you just told her you had sex with her boyfriend. She slapped a hand on her chest so hard it echoed through the fairly-empty cafe you were in. "Absolutely not! You will not go back to that sad excuse of a person!" she halfway-shrieked, shaking her head violently. "I will personally ruin your life if you do!"

Izumi proceeded to tell the rest of your friends and, tonight, for the past two-and-a-half hours, they'd made you two different profiles on two different dating apps and had been swiping through them endlessly. Somewhere during that time, Asahi suggested that you screen mirror your phone to the TV, forcing you to partake in the process.

"This guy is suspicious," Shiori says, scrolling through a random guy's profile on Hinge. His name was Jiro, and he liked working out, going to new restaurants, and true crime documentaries.

"He's just boring," Izumi replies, tapping her chin. You shrink deeper into your spot on the couch as Asahi looked over at you.

"What's your opinion, [Name]?"

All you can muster is a non-committal shrug, pulling your blanket further up your body until it covered everything but your eyes. You just can't shake the guilt, the absolute terror of having to consider dating. When you started dating Uraume, you were barely 16. Dating wasn't even a thought in your mind. Now, you were 27 and hopeless.

Asahi frowns at your answer and looks back to the screen, chewing on her bottom lip. "Okay, okay, next. Clearly this guy isn't the one."

Shiori clicks the little 'X' next to Asahi's profile. Hinge takes a second to load the next profile, probably from the sheer amount of people you've swiped past at this point, and—

The room goes silent. You're so shocked by what's on your screen that you perk up from your blanket a bit, your mouth forming a small 'O' shape.

"Now, hold on a minute," Izumi chokes out, covering her mouth. "What in the world am I looking at?"

"God incarnate, perhaps," Shiori says, and you can't help but agree. On your screen is the most beautiful man you've ever seen in your life, with shaggy white hair and a pair of frighteningly blue eyes. He's dressed in a black compression shirt and a pair of baggy, white sweatpants, holding up a peace-sign to the camera.

Your eyes flit up to the top of the screen, and your blood runs cold. The silence continues as you all take in what you're looking at.

Satoru and Suguru.

"They're looking…for a third," Asahi finally says, the words sounding like a death chant more than anything. "Just our luck. God and he's looking for a third."

"Well, let's just see who the girl is. Scroll, Shiori. Maybe she's really hot too and [Name] can just be hot with them."

"I'm afraid to scroll. I won't be able to bear it if she's hot too."

"Not that it'll matter," you finally speak, and everyone's head whips towards you at lightening speed. "It's not like I can go from intense, decade-long monogamy to relaxed polygamy."

Shiori scrolls slowly, like she can't handle seeing who's waiting for her below the cut-off. Slowly, but surely, the second person is revealed: long black hair, thin, catlike eyes, and the most elegant smile you've ever seen in your life. It's a shot of them at the beach, sitting on a blue towel underneath the shade of a generic beach umbrella.

And, also, they're clearly a man. Satoru and Suguru are two men.

"If you don't like them, [Name], you're dead to me," Shiori says, scrolling farther down the page. There's several pictures of them, clearly from multiple different years. One of them holding up a big, fluffy, white cat, one of Satoru looking at Suguru so lovingly it makes you sick. Somewhat disapointingly, you wonder if Uraume ever looked at you like that.

You wonder if these two would look at you like that, too.

The room waits in baited breath as Shiori scrolls to the bottom of the page and you assess all of the pictures. You feel a million different ways, none of the feelings very good or welcoming. The image of Uraume lingers in your mind from the very moment you broke up with them; tears forming in their eyes, anger filling their expression.

"Sure," you say, clearing your throat. "Why the hell not."

Shiori wastes no time sending a like on one of the pictures, making a comment on their cat. She sends it off, and you swear you might feel a little more detached from Uraume than you ever have before.

—

You stand outside of a fancy Italian restaurant downtown, hugging yourself for comfort while you try to hype yourself up enough to walk inside.

It had taken less than a week for you to end up on a date with Satoru and Suguru, thanks to the excessive meddling of your friends. When you matched with them, Izumi had screamed so loudly it worried your neighbors. She forced you to message them back, staring over your shoulder while you texted them.

It didn't take you long to figure out which one was which. Satoru was, to put it lightly, bad at typing, his messages filled with typos and an utter lack of capitalization or punctuation. Suguru was the complete opposite, ending most of his messages with a period (which was scary) and using far less emojis in his speak.

For the most part, you enjoyed texting with them. However, standing outside this restaurant, you couldn't imagine this date going well. You were so nervous you could barely breathe, fingers trembling against your phone. You had already half-drafted a text to Asahi, begging her to come pick you up.

You'd arrived at 7:59, right on time, but now it was 8:08 and you were eight minutes late to your date because you were too much of a wimp to go inside. You repeat Shiori's fighting words in your mind over and over again, desperate to force yourself to go inside.

Were you going to let Uraume and their reign of terror on your life win? Were you that weak so as to pass up on a date with Gorgeous #1 and Gorgeous #2?

Your feet are moving before your mind catches up with it. You can't let Uraume win, you can't go back to them. You can't go back to never hanging out with your friends and being tracked 24/7.

The restaurant is quiet and calm, which is surprising given the sheer size of it. You're immediately stopped by a hostess, who offers you a polite smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "What's the name on your reservation?"

"It should be under Gojo," you say, hoping she doesn't notice the shake in your voice. Her eyes widen and she perks up instantly, smiling much wider.

"Oh, of course! Right this way, ma'am," she says, taking you into the depths of the restaurant. The farther back you go, the more you feel like you're marching towards your death. You spot them in a booth in the corner, smiling and giggling with each other like a couple of lovesick schoolgirls, and you consider turning around.

Satoru spots you before he can. He raises an eyebrow and waves, causing Suguru to look over at you as well. You struggle to believe they're real people, seeing them in person. They're far too perfect to be truly alive.

The host bids you goodbye and you slide into the U-shaped booth, keeping a decent amount of room between you and Suguru. "Sorry I'm late," you say, looking down at your trembling hands. "Um, I just got into a little bit of traffic. Didn't think I'd be this late, so I didn't text."

"For a second there, I thought you were standing us up," Satoru jokes, and Suguru immediately digs an elbow into his side, causing the former to yelp in pain.

"You're not funny, Satoru," Suguru speaks, and his voice is like honey on your ears. "He didn't mean that. We didn't think you were going to stand us up."

"Well, I'm glad. That would've made things awkward," you say, finding hard to look either one of them in the eye. "Did you guys make it here okay?"

"Satoru's a terrible driver, so I wouldn't say we made it here okay."

"Well, if you get your driver's license, maybe you wouldn't have to deal with my terrible driving anymore."

You watch them go back and forth contently, somewhat enjoying listening to them bicker. It helps you get rid of the nerves that plague your entire body, and coming down from the adrenaline rush makes you feel a little more excited to be there. Satoru looks over at you, going as far to put his hand in Suguru's face to shut him up.

"So, how've you been? Anything new pop up in your life? Is your neighbor still being annoying?"

You chuckle, endeared at the fact that he remembers anything about you. You make up some half-baked answer, trying to make yourself seem as interesting as possible. Suguru is much better at asking you questions, avoiding anything about your personal life.

The two of them are clearly very nice, at least from what you're seeing. They make you feel comfortable and relaxed, a stark difference to how you were feeling before coming in. Satoru insists on ordering your food, because "it's what guys do on the first date," and Suguru tells him that it's not 1805 anymore. There's no underhanded insults or vague accusations that make you feel like throwing up, no scrutiny of your outfits or the way you talk.

The two of them are just…them. It's refreshing.

Of course, you should've expected it couldn't be fun and surface level all the time. As the waitress takes away your plates, Suguru clears his throat, leaning back into his seat. At some point throughout the night, you'd moved a little closer to him, so close you could see the little details of his face.

"Not to make this terribly serious," he starts, and a sinking feeling appears in your stomach. "But I just wanted to check in with you about what Satoru and I are looking for, which is something fairly serious."

You nod, glancing over at Satoru. For the first time tonight, he actually looks nervous, like he's expecting you to reject them, or something. If you were to reject them, you think your friends would eat you whole.

"Yeah, like, not a hook-up thing, you know. If that's not what you were looking for, well, then…"

Truthfully, it's not. You weren't really sure if you wanted anything serious ever again, not after the last decade of your life being miserable. At the same time, you enjoyed their presence and the way they made you feel, so you didn't want to reject them.

Perhaps you would just feel it out, see where it went, and go from there. Casual dating is normal, Shiori insisted while rummaging through your closet. One date doesn't equal committed relationship.

"If you'll have me, I'd love to keep hanging out with you guys. In a non-hook-up-y way." You smile, twiddling your thumbs in your lap.

The anxiety on Satoru's face melts into pure joy, and, for a moment, you think you could get used to them.

—

Two months later, you hang out with Satoru and Suguru once or twice a week, and you spend the rest of your time looking forward to seeing them again. It's nice to have a little schoolgirl crush again, to not be so settled with your life and the people in it.

However, you just can't seem to get past the guilty feeling in your chest. It lingers all the time, growing when Suguru smiles at you or Satoru forces his way to the edge of the sidewalk when you're walking. It gets even worse when one of them touches you, even if it's something innocent like holding your hand or an arm around your shoulder.

Your therapist suggests being honest with them, about Uraume and the trauma you have, but every time you think you're close to letting it spill out, you can't do it. The thought of bringing them into your sweet, drama-less relationship makes you feel sick.

So, you deal with the guilt. You give them vague stories about your life and your earlier years, avoiding mention of your ex entirely. You dodge questions about your dating history and attempt to flip it back around on them, to no avail; they've only dated each other, too.

At some point, they stop asking, which you appreciate, but you can't help but think about what they say to each other when you're not there. It makes hanging out with them worse, and it makes you freak out about your life at random times.

Which is why you ended up at a 7/11 down the street from your apartment at midnight, staring at the ice cream with red eyes and a stuffy nose. Everything looks disgusting to you, but you know it'll make you feel better, so you force yourself to consider your options. Milk and cookies, chocolate chip cookie dough, cannoli—

"[Name]?"

You freeze. You haven't heard that voice in a long time; it's always reminded you of high school mean girls, tainted with a mocking lilt that you've always hated. You hated everyone in Uraume's life.

You slowly turn to the side, making eye contact with Yorozu. She's dressed far too fancy to be in a 7/11 at midnight, in a form-fitting, red dress as opposed to your bright-pink sweatpants and stained sweatshirt. "Yorozu," you huff, praying for this moment to end quickly.

"I haven't seen you in a while. You look worse for wear," she scoffs with a slight tilt of her head, looking you up and down. "Honestly, I thought you'd be back with Uraume by now. Seems your tantrum's running longer than they'd hoped."

Shivers roll down your spine at her words, chilling your entire body in a second. You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. "What do you mean tantrum? I broke up with them for good. I don't want them in my life anymore."

"Sure, sure. We certainly missed having you tonight, though. You were always very personable with our guests," Yorozu smiles. You're about to ask her what she meant, but then Sukuna comes rounding the corner, and you wonder if this is a divine punishment sent to you from God himself.

He grunts when he sees you, his face contorting into an expression mixed with anger and disgust. You're sure you're number one on his hit list right now, as your break up with Uraume apparently had them calling out of work for weeks (as according to what Izumi had told you).

Yorozu's face lights up the moment she sees him, and she immediately grabs hold of his arm, leaning her head on his bicep. "Mr. Sukuna here had his book launch tonight. It was a long time coming…we were sad to not have you on the project."

Every word that comes out of Yorozu's mouth is a lie. It was more like you were sad to not be on the project anymore, given the fact that being the Sukuna's book editor was the biggest gig you'd ever gotten, but it was a small price to pay to be free from Uraume.

"Yes. The door is always open for you, [Name], assuming…"

You cringe. Were things on Uraume's end that bad? So much so that his mentor-turned-father-figure who hated your guts wanted you to come back? Maybe you weren't doing as badly as you thought.

You open your mouth to reply, but are quickly cut off by Satoru Gojo, who looks angrier than you've ever seen him before. Dressed in a suit and tie, he strolls over to you with conviction, his usual smile plastered on his face so tightly you wonder if it hurts.

"[Name]," Satoru calls, his voice dripping with venom. "Fancy seeing you here!"

He walks behind you, locking his arm around your waist. Suguru follows behind him, a scowl pressed onto his features. It's unlike him—the Suguru you know always has a light smile on his face, or an inquisitive expression. He rounds to your other side, standing uncomfortably close to you.

"Sukuna, Yorozu," Suguru greets, interlacing his fingers with yours. "Interesting to see you've left your own party early."

"I'm even more shocked to see you seem to know [Name]," Yorozu comments, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Are you three…a thing?"

"She's our girlfriend, yes," Satoru announces, and you do your best to not grimace at the words. That certainly wasn't true, and it would also likely lead to your demise.

Both Sukuna and Yorozu take pause at that, and you can see Sukuna's Adam's apple bob as he swallows, perhaps annoyed that he'll have to leave and go tell Uraume his ex-fiancée is in a relationship with two people he apparently already knows.

"Wow. I didn't take you the type to move on so quickly," Yorozu says, and you begin to prepare yourself for the end of the secret you've kept so carefully. Perhaps it was better for her to reveal it against your will, you cope, so at least they'd find out relatively early on.

"Move on?" Satoru questions, furrowing his brows. Yorozu's smile turns impish, and you close your eyes, waiting for the bomb to drop.

"Don't you know?" she asks. "[Name] and Uraume were in a relationship for 11 years and broke up, like, half-a-year ago. She even ghost-wrote half the book Sukuna released tonight."

Satoru's grip on your waist tightens while Suguru lets go of your hand, and there's a slight pause. You look over at Suguru's face, which goes through about a thousand emotions in a second. Finally, it lands on a calm, unbothered expression, with one eyebrow raised.

"Oh, right. I forgot about that," Suguru hums. "She doesn't talk about them much. Guess she did move on."

The silence between you all is so thick that you feel like you're suffocating. While you sit there, you make some rudimentary connections in your mind; you suppose it wouldn't be wrong to assume that the Gojo in Satoru's name comes from the Gojo Conglomerate, which has lost more than a couple of court cases to the almighty defense lawyer Sukuna in the past. Maybe you were stupid to think you'd come across a beautiful, blue-eyed Gojo that wasn't a part of the Gojo family, but you thought the likelihood of that was slim to none either way.

"Right, well," Sukuna says after a moment, his voice grating on your ears. "We should leave. Good luck with her."

Sukuna practically drags Yorozu out of the building and, once they're gone, you immediately detach yourself from Satoru's grip. The silence continues between the three of you, though both of the boys have their eyes on you now. You stare at your shoes, wishing you could go back in time and refuse making a Hinge profile at all.

Suguru grabs your chin and raises it up, forcing you to look at him. His touch is soft and kind, which you weren't expecting given the exchange you'd just had. He doesn't look particularly angry, which you appreciate. Satoru, on the other hand, looks like he'd just withstood the betrayal of a lifetime, staring at you with those harrowing blue eyes.

You feel the tears from earlier returning, though you do your best to hold them in. Your life sucked so bad and you weren't even 30 yet.

Suguru sighs, dropping your chin and shaking his head. "I suppose we need to talk. Would you like to come eat some ice cream at our apartment?"

You don't really want to at all, but you nod, following the two outside to a fancy, black car parked on the curb. You sit in the back like a child, rapidly tapping your fingers on your knees and trying to keep your nausea at bay. The ride is fairly silent, save for Satoru and Suguru debriefing their time at Sukuna's book launch. You learn that your hunch was right: Sukuna had forced the Gojo family to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars in lawsuits, and had likely invited Satoru just to piss them off.

How had you managed to be so unlucky? Maybe you needed to visit a psychic to cleanse your bad energy, or something. Or maybe you'd been hexed. You didn't know.

After a short drive, the three of you pull into the parking garage below one of the fanciest apartment buildings in the city, which doesn't shock you one bit. "Welcome to Casa de Satoru," Suguru mumbles under his breath, a slightly-joking tone in his voice. They park in spot number 25, and, despite it all, Satoru opens the car door for you, grabbing your hand to help you out of the car.

You ride the elevator up to the 54th floor, which opens into a small hallway with two doors on opposite sides. Satoru and Suguru's apartment is, fittingly, 2254, and, when you walk in, you allow yourself a moment to ogle at the space. It's beautiful, filled with art and color and everything you would've hoped for in an apartment like this. Everything has a blue tint, which fits Satoru's overall vibe perfectly.

"Do you like it?" Suguru asks, patting your back as you look around. "It was way worse before I moved in. Took a while to make it this nice."

"It's beautiful in here. Fit for a couple like you two," you say, watching as Satoru drags his feet into the living room and collapses onto the couch. He loosens his tie and leans his head back on the top of the couch, letting out a loud sigh.

You quickly slip your shoes off and scuttle inside, taking a seat on the very edge. Suguru chooses to sit next to Satoru, and you swear you're having flashbacks to the many times Uraume sat you down and berated you for hours.

For a couple seconds it's quiet, and you decide they're probably expecting you to talk. "Listen, I was going to tell you at some point," you start, swallowing thickly. Every word that comes out of your mouth feels like glass ripping down your throat. "As you can probably imagine, despite the fact that it lasted so long, my relationship with Uraume wasn't the greatest, and it's still a tough subject for me."

Suguru nods slowly, and you assume he's going to speak. Instead, Satoru rapidly sits up, a look of deep hurt on his face. It makes you cringe.

"I don't know the half of it, clearly," he starts, voice strained and upset. "But it obviously sucks bad for me that I didn't know. I guess I didn't really bring up the whole family lineage thing, but, still, it sucks. It sucks really bad."

"I know, and I do feel sorry. But I can barely even talk about it with my friends, who knew me the entire time we were together," you defend, taking a long, shakey breath. "And I want to be able to talk about it more. I want to believe that it doesn't affect me anymore, but it does, you know? It just does."

Satoru is about to reply, but Suguru places a hand on his thigh, shutting him up like someone would shut up a dog. Satoru leans back instead, returning to staring at the ceiling.

"You don't need to tell us anything you don't want to," he insists, rubbing Satoru's thigh. "But it would be nice to have at least some context. Given our prior connections."

You bring your knees up to your chest, leaning your head on them. "They were my class president in high school. Asked me out first year, and we were together ever since. They controlled just about every facet of my life, from where I went to college to how often I hung out with my friends. I finally got the courage to break up with them in April. That's pretty much the gist of it."

You hear some rustling and then the feeling of the couch dipping next to you. Suguru's arms wrap around your curled-up figure, a welcome weight amongst your anxiety. There's a couple more seconds of nothing before you watch Satoru sit down next to you, leaning against your shoulder. The three of you sit there for a moment, unmoving.

"We're serious about you," Suguru says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "If you'll have us."

"You promise?"

"We could show you," Satoru says.

"If you'd like that, of course," Suguru adds.

You look up from your curled-up position, making eye contact with Satoru. He looks primal, almost, staring at you like you're his prey. In a momentary lapse of judgment, you bask in the feeling of being wanted. Realistically, you know it's probably not smart to have sex with them when you're emotional and generally gross, but part of you feels like it'll be good for you to stick it to the man.

You could move on, you knew you could. You weren't having a tantrum, you were getting on with your life.

"Yeah…I would like that. I guess."

Satoru's mouth hungrily crashes into yours, pushing you back into Suguru's chest. You kiss him back with a fervor you haven't had in a long time, soaking up the want oozing off of him. You haven't felt this way in years.

Suguru dips his head down, pressing light kisses up and down your neck, slipping his hands under your shirt and massaging your hips. Satoru puts his hands over Suguru's, pushing his palms harder into your body.

Suguru adjusts so that you are leaning up against his chest, tapping Satoru on the back of his head. Satoru pulls away from you, giving Suguru a look of confusion that quickly melts into recognition.

Satoru leans back for a moment, if only to let Suguru tug your sweatshirt off, revealing nothing but the three-year-old bra you put on that morning. Satoru leans back down and leaves light kisses down your stomach, only detaching his hands from Suguru's to wrap his fingers around the edge of your waistband.

In a moment of panic, you squeak out a short "wait," causing Satoru to pause and look up at you. His eyes, the color of sapphires, bore into yours like sunlight, and you struggle to keep eye contact.

"Hm?" Suguru hums in your ear, dragging his nails up and down your sides. Goosebumps spread over your skin, causing a shiver to run across your body.

"Um, I haven't shaved in a while," you choke out, anxiety running through your body. "And I didn't shower today."

Satoru snorts, rolling his eyes. "I'm a grown man," he says. "Do you think I care about a little hair? Suguru hasn't shaved in years."

You feel your cheeks grow warm as Satoru waits for you to give him the go ahead. "Well, if you're sure," you approve, shrinking into Suguru's chest. Satoru wastes no time getting back to work, lifting your hips and taking off your sweatpants and underwear in one fluid motion. His breath is cold on your dripping pussy as he stares at your core, eyes dark. You prepare yourself for contact, but nothing ever comes.

Instead, Satoru looks up past you, presumably at Suguru, like he's asking for permission.

"Well, go on, Satoru," Suguru says calmly, as he removes your boobs from your bra, massaging them tenderly. "She's waiting so patiently for you."

Without further hesitation, Satoru dives in, warm tongue running up and down your soaking folds. His skillful tongue finds your clit with ease, licking it just right. Pleasure builds in you like it never has before—Uraume was never this good, not even with 10 years of practice.

Of course Satoru was perfect at this, as he was perfect at everything. Soft mewls escape your lips, no matter how hard you try to hold them in, and you writhe against Suguru's chest. You throw your head back over his shoulder, giving him easy access to your neck.

While Satoru continues to attack your clit, Suguru kneads at your breasts, nipping at your neck and shoulders. Every so often, Satoru moans against your clit, sending shockwaves up your body. It's too much—both of them are too much. You're putty in their hands, completely at their disposal for however long they'd like.

"Look how much she likes this, Satoru." Suguru sings, resting his chin on your shoulder. You look back down at Satoru, who looks like he's in heaven. "Tell him how much you like it, hm?"

"It's so good," you whine. Pressure begins to build up in your core, and you push yourself back into Suguru's chest. "I think—I'm about to—"

In one fell swoop, Suguru runs his hand through Satoru's hair and pulls him away from your cunt, dangling his head in front of you. You let out a cry of displeasure, your hips chasing Satoru's mouth.

"I don't think you've earned it yet, baby," Suguru says, pushing Satoru's head fully away from you. He looks upset, too, eyebrows furrowed and cheeks flushed pink.

"I think she's earned it," he quips, but he doesn't move, as if he won't do anything against Suguru's word. You nod eagerly, turning to look at Suguru. His cheeks are flushed, too, from just watching the two of you.

You can feel his cock pressing against your back through his dress pants, and, in retaliation, you jerk backwards, causing a hiss to escape Suguru's lips. "Resourceful, now, are we?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Satoru, switch with me."

Suguru gets up from behind you, and you can barely comprehend what's happening as Satoru quickly meets him in the middle, smashing his lips against Suguru. They quickly begin undressing each other while you watch, ripping buttons off shirts and throwing ties across the room. Sitting awkwardly, you decide to just take your bra off, unclipping it and throwing it on top of Satoru's discarded tie.

Moments later, Satoru slots himself behind you, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. He puts his chin on top of your head before leaning down to place a kiss on your head. "Y'know, [Name], your ex being my mortal enemy aside, I'm a pretty big fan of 'ya."

"Oh, great to know," you reply, watching Suguru kneel on the cushion in front of you. His cock is huge, girthy, and, for a moment, you'll wonder if it'll even fit inside you.

He runs the head through your slick folds. You moan at the contact, overstimulated by the whole experience. Your clit aches with the memory of Satoru's mouth, and all you want is for Suguru to make you cum.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" Suguru asks, eyes serious. Immediately, embarrassment blooms in your chest, and all you can do is nod, hoping that will be enough.

"No can do, babe," Satoru says, his voice reverberating through his chest. "Gotta use your words, 'kay? It's what Suguru likes."

You gulp, taking a deep breath and swallowing your pride. "I want you to fuck me, Suguru, please."

With a satisfied smile, Suguru slowly pushes inside your cunt, cushiony walls enveloping him until he's all the way in to the base. He's big, and you knew that, but the feeling of fullness is overwhelming and every slight movement sends electricity running through you.

Suguru begins at a steady pace, reaching down to rub your clit in the process. Your back arches and pushes against Satoru; you try to pull away from the pleasure, but Satoru holds you there, making you take everything Suguru has to give you.

Soon, even Suguru can't control himself, rolling his hips against yours. Every thrust draws an unwilling sob from your lips, and you do anything to relieve the pressure building in you. You lift your arms and place them on the back of Satoru's head, squeezing your eyes shut.

You'd never had sex like this before, not once. You don't know what to do with yourself, with this, and all you can do is try to hold on for dear life.

"Don't kill her, Sugu. She looks like she's going to pass out."

A slow moan escapes Suguru's lips. "Shut the fuck up, Satoru."

It's not long before that familiar coil begins to build in your lower half. You begin to whine, "Suguru, I..I.." you barely stutter out as white hot pleasure rips through your body. Suguru works you through it, now lightly drawing circles on your swollen clit. Despite reaching your climax, he doesn't stop, snapping his hips back and forth.

You're barely lucid by the time Suguru reaches his high, pulling out with just enough time to cum all over your stomach. He lets his cock rest against your cunt, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips and Satoru's.

"Come on, man," Satoru whines, pulling away from Suguru's kiss. "You got it on my arms. Where the hell did your aim go?"

"You're acting like you haven't swallowed it before," Suguru laughs, turning his attention back to you. "You okay, honey?"

As you pant from the come down, Satoru whines from behind you, reaching down to palm himself. "Aw, Suguru tired you out, huh? Are you too sleepy to let me have a turn too?"

"Surely she's not that mean," Suguru insists, cupping your cheek with his hands. For the first time, you notice the deep purple in his eyes, boring down at you. "Maybe we move her to the bedroom, first."

Suguru's quick to sweep you up into his arms, leaving Satoru behind in the living room. You have no idea what to say as you lay limp in Suguru's arms, struggling to process the past fifteen minutes.

Suguru lays you down in their bed, plush and soft under your body. "Seriously, are you okay to keep going, babe? We can let you sleep and finish up out there."

Satoru juts out his bottom lip into a pout, waiting for you to respond. You chew on the inside of your cheek—you weren't sure if you'd survive anything else. Nevertheless, you nod. "Yeah, I'll—I'll be okay."

Satoru pounces on you immediately, settling between your thighs and lining himself up with your hole. "What a good girl," Suguru muses, laying himself down next to you. "Just a little bit longer, yeah?"

Whatever that meant. The night goes on with you being passed back and forth between the two, who are eager to have their way with you. By the time they're done, leading you into the bathroom to have a bath, your body aches in ten different places and your mind is foggy with pleasure.

You end up sat on Satoru's lap in the bathtub, soaking up epsom salts and the smell of the vanilla scented candle Suguru lit. They do all the work for you, rubbing soap into your skin and drying you off and putting you in some of their clothes, as they do the same for each other.

For a moment, jealousy rips through you. They started dating around the same time as you and Uraume had, and they were so secure in their relationship they could let someone else in. Meanwhile, you couldn't even have friends while you were with Uraume.

You try to force them out of your mind, to free yourself from their shackles, but you can't. Even when you're laid down in between the two of them, wrapped up in their embraces as they whisper to each other about their days, you can't stop thinking about them.

"Girlfriend?" Suguru whispers in your ear, placing a soft kiss on your earlobe. Feigning your sleep, all you can do is let out an agreeing hum, which seems to be enough for them.

Satoru gives you a chaste kiss on the cheek, and then on your nose, and then on your lips. "Pretty girl," he says, curling his arms around your hips. "Our pretty girl."

You squeeze your eyes shut and let sleep take you as quickly as it can.

—

Time passes, and you fall into their routine. At the same time, you pull back, unable to get your past out of your mind.

As far as you're aware, your boyfriends aren't necessarily aware of your regression, with them being so focused on each other all the time. They don't mind when you sleep on the edge of their bed, curled up into yourself rather than with them. They don't mind when you sit on the other side of the couch, away from their touch. They don't mind when you blow them off to go hang out with your friends.

At some point, you admit to yourself that what you're doing is wrong. You talk to your friends about it, who insist that this is all part of getting past Uraume and the trauma that came with them.

And then, you see Uraume at the grocery store.

They look worse for wear, as you've been told, their hair grown out almost to their shoulders and their face devoid of their usual makeup. They're staring at all the various types of freshly made jams, tapping their chin lightly as they think. They look as beautiful as always, and you begin to realize that the guilt you feel might actually just be you still being in love with them.

Stockholm syndrome, your friends had called it, an unhealthy attachment to someone who only ever hurt you. And yet, it takes everything in you to not walk up to them, to the point where you abandon your cart in the middle of the store and walk out.

Later that night, you're sitting on Satoru and Suguru's couch, flipping through a book that Suguru had recommended you. The two of them are deep into some anime Satoru loves, with Suguru's arm lazily dangled over Satoru's shoulder.

All night, Satoru has been staring at you instead of watching his show. Usually that's his sign that he wants to have sex, but he makes no moves on you, just watching.

In between episodes, he finally decides to speak.

"Will you come over here, [Name]?" he asks, catching both yours and Suguru's attention. "I feel so far away from you."

Both of them look expectantly at you, so you stand, ignoring the way your stomach churns at the thought. You miss the way Uraume would hold your hand while you watched Law & Order, running their fingers across your knuckles, not the way Satoru and Suguru held you like an object.

Nonetheless, you attempt to sit down next to Satoru, but he drags you into his lap before you can even reach the couch. His hands wrap around you and dig into your waist almost painfully, up until Suguru pinches his arm and he loosens up.

The next episode starts without another word, and you go back to reading your book.

—

The next day, you talk to Asahi, because she's the only one who would listen to you. You word vomit about how much you miss Uraume to the point where you start crying, sobbing about the way they loved you.

You tell her that Satoru and Suguru's love is too intense, that it feels more possessive than Uraume's ever did. That you feel like an object more than a partner.

Asahi listen and nods, holding your hands in hers as you speak. At some point, you let out a distraught wail and drop your head against the table, ending your tangent. Asahi thinks for a moment before speaking, trying to find the words to say.

"…This is what Uraume wants, probably," she finally says, and you look up at her, teary-eyed and miserable. "For you to miss them like this, to compare them to your next partners. But, to be honest, you look better now than you ever did with them."

Asahi does not tell you the words you want to hear, so you repeat the same process with your therapist. She gives you almost the same exact answer, so you go home and cry into your pillow.

You know they're right, objectively. You know that Uraume would bask in the glory of you crawling back to them, teary-eyed and apologetic, and they'd pretend like taking you back was some valiant act of love. They'd hold it over your head for months.

You ignore Suguru and Satoru's texts about having a movie night and you go to bed at 8:30, wanting to escape your feelings. You wake up the next morning to a frowny-face emoji from Satoru and a simple good night text from Suguru, so you force yourself to text them good morning and an apology for your early bedtime.

Shortly after that, while you're brushing your teeth, you get a call from Satoru.

"How's my beautiful girl doing?" he asks jubilantly, more excited than you'd ever heard him.

"Good," you say through your teeth brushing, your words barely comprehensible. "How are you?"

"Well rested and excited for the day. You work from home, right, babe?"

You spit your toothpaste out and time the mint taste from your mouth. "Yeah. Didn't you know that already? Why'd you ask?"

"I have an important all-day thing today and Suguru is taking his students on a field trip, so neither of us will be home until late," Satoru sing-songs. "Would ya mind comin' over and watching Maru?"

Maru, their cat, was the best part about dating them. She was a fat, old, fluffy white cat who loved to cuddle and watch TV, perfect to sit with all the time. The request was innocent enough to you, and you could spend more time pretending to be content with your relationship. You were hoping it would trick you into actually being content with it.

"Of course I'll come watch Miss Maru," you say in your baby voice, a smile blooming on your face. "I can be there in 30?"

"I'll come pick you up in 20."

Satoru, who is very famously late all the time, stays true to his word, picking you up 20 minutes later with a breakfast sandwich for you in hand. He yaps about how much he doesn't want to go to his meeting, how he'd rather stay at home with you and Maru, lazing about all day. You entertain his conversation as best you can, insisting he could do it another day, that you were never busy on weekends.

He raises an eyebrow at that, glancing over at you instead of paying attention to the road. You wait for him to speak, feeling a bit anxious when he laughs instead.

"You always have to hang out with your friends on the weekends," he utters, and you don't like the way he says 'friends.' "I feel like I never get to see you."

You frown. "We have a pretty normal schedule going on, no? I see you three or four times a week. We've only been dating for a few months."

Satoru lets out a long, breathy hum, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. Suddenly, the car feels stuffy, and the lack of music makes you feel uncomfortable. He seems like he doesn't know what to say, eyes darting back and forth from you, the rearview mirror, and the road over and over again.

"I guess I'm just greedy," he says, and you know that spells the end of the conversation. Any prying you do will be shut down almost instantly, as if he's not at will to say what he wants. "Did you see the Emmys last night?"

Satoru drops you off outside of his apartment building and tells you to head up, handing you his keys with barely any hesitation. He demands a kiss on the cheek and then bids you adieu, leaving you to your own devices.

When you arrive at the apartment, Maru is sleeping on the couch spread-eagle. She looks as innocent as ever, and you rush over to sit with her. On the way, you notice something you've never seen before—a camera set up to watch the couch.

You try not to stare at it, preferring to stare at the kitty purring against your hands. You're sure it's just to watch Maru and nothing else, so you ignore it and the way it makes you feel sick.

—

Suguru gets home first, walking through the door at 4:30. He looks exhausted, running his hand through his hair as he drops his bookbag in the foyer and slips his shoes off.

"Welcome home," you say absentmindedly, keeping your focus on your computer screen. You've spent the whole day reading through submissions to the publishing house you work at, sifting through hundreds of terribly written romantasy novels and bad memoirs. "How's your day?"

Suguru sighs like the question is offensive to him. "High schoolers," he says, and that's about all you need to know. He comes over and stands behind you, snuggled up on the couch next to Maru. He leans over and wraps his arms around your shoulders, pressing kisses to your neck. "Maru didn't cause you any trouble?"

The feeling of his lips brushing against your neck makes you flinch. "She did nothing but lay there. She moved back and forth between right there and her tree," you say, opening your email and typing out yet another rejection letter. For a moment, Suguru lingers, watching you type out your classic better luck next time message, his breath hot on your neck.

"What do you want for dinner?" he finally asks, standing up. The question finally makes you break your focus on your laptop, and you turn to look at him.

"After I finish up my list for today I was planning on heading back to my place," you reply, and Suguru tilts his head as if to ask why. "Me and my friends watch the new Drag Race episode together every Thursday."

Suguru's lips dip into a frown. "Can't you just stay for dinner?" he asks, tilting his head. "Right after, you can leave."

You look back at your laptop, staring at the time. "Satoru will be back when?"

"Half an hour or so. He always leaves work a bit early."

Okay, so you'd easily be back by 7. "Sure, then. Sounds good to me. Make whatever you want."

Suguru disappears into a different area of the apartment and, a few minutes later, you hear the shower turn on. You finish looking through your last proposal at 5 on the dot, slamming your computer shut and pushing it off your lap. Maru is quick to climb into its spot, making herself at home in between your criss-crossed legs.

"Silly baby," you whisper, scratching behind her ears. The moment she gets comfortable, though, the front door swings open and scares her away. Satoru walks in holding a bag of takeout and donning a big smile, waving his other arm around excitedly.

"I'm home!" he sings, padding into the living room the moment he takes his shoes off. He's quick to discard the takeout bag onto the coffee table, turning and collapsing on top off you. You can't help but let out an oomph as Satoru lays his full weight on you, wrapping his arms around you excitedly.

You give him a couple of awkward pats on the back as he peppers your face with kisses, causing you to scrunch up your nose in discomfort. "Did'ya miss me, babe? You think about me all day?"

You draw in a sharp breath. "Of course. What else would I be doing?"

He pouts at your answer, shaking his head. "You're a terrible liar, y'know that?"

Satoru seems like he's going to say something else, but someone catches his eye behind you, and he's quick to get off of you and run towards him too. You turn around and watch Satoru slam into Suguru, giving him a big kiss on the lips. "Ahh, this is the best," he exclaims, turning back to you. "Both of my princesses waiting for me when I get home from work. Could things get any better than this?"

"If you showered and got the smell of office off of you," Suguru suggests, looking towards you. "Did you pick up dinner?"

"Obviously. All I want is to sit on the couch and eat food and watch a movie with you two, not watch you cut onions for an hour and a half," Satoru jests, slipping away from Suguru and skipping into his room.

Suguru comes over and picks your laptop up, slipping it into your bag before sitting down next to you and draping an arm around your shoulders. He's put on his usual baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants duo, so you decide to make yourself comfortable and lay on him. He's soft and comfortable, especially after a day of nonstop reading.

Suguru turns the TV on and begins flipping through streaming services, clicking through movie after movie. You watch quietly until Satoru comes back in, insisting he put on Titanic. Satoru sits on the other side of you, shoving himself into your side. Suguru puts on The Godfather instead, and you listen to the two of them bicker as usual.

Satoru passes out all the various food he got, and you settle for a box of plain noodles. At some point, Suguru gets you water, and you eat to your hearts content before snuggling back up to Suguru. "Are you playing favorites right now?" Satoru asks, and Suguru tells him to shut up in response. So, he settles for laying his head on your shoulder, mimicking the way you lay on Suguru.

It's a wonder you don't fall asleep faster. You're not even done eating for 20 minutes before you're passed out, and, when you wake up, Satoru and Suguru are watching Sex and the City, long done with the movie. You shoot up in a panic, feeling around for your phone.

"Good morning," Satoru chuckles, pulling you back into his chest. "Your friends said you can reschedule Drag Race. Seemed pretty thrilled to postpone, if you asked me."

You blink a couple of times, not loving the idea that they talked to your friends. Suguru is quick to hand you your phone—you'd slept until nine. You almost get angry, ask why Suguru didn't wake you up, but the slew of text messages prevents you from speaking. It's your friends, cheering for you and saying they hope you got laid.

You bite your tongue, relaxing into Satoru's chest as best you can. By ten, you're dismissing yourself into their room, rummaging through their drawers to find your things. You were suddenly glad they asked you to bring some stuff over after the first time you spent the night, though they "loved seeing you in their clothes." You're in bed by eleven—as you are every night—curled up on Satoru's side of the bed.

You don't know what time it is when they come in. They move about the room quietly, whispering to each other loud enough that they wake you up. You keep your eyes shut, hoping they'll quiet down once they realize that you're asleep asleep.

"The guy is absolutely unreasonable. I guess his daughter lives in the building, so he doesn't want to sell it," Satoru whispers, rolling his eyes. "I told Ichiji to dig something up on him, we'll see if he can even manage that. If not, I'll ask Megumi."

"Don't put too much of your energy into it," Suguru replies, and you can feel him sit on the other side of the bed. "There's other ways we can deal with it. We just need to be patient."

"I don't want to be patient," Satoru replies. You feel his hands curl under you as he moves you over a bit, like you're a ragdoll in his bed. "I like having a pretty girl in my bed."

—

You wake up the next morning, earlier than Suguru and Satoru as per usual, and Tokyo is covered in a thick blanket of snow. You spend at least five minutes staring out the kitchen window, distraught at the sight.

Your phone confirms your worst fears—insane train delays and cancellations, road closures, everything you don't to hear. At the same time, this event is sort of freeing, because it confirms to you that you probably need to break things off with Satoru and Suguru. You're terrified of being trapped here, forced to spend the whole day with their obnoxious doting.

The idea makes you laugh at yourself. You would spend hours sulking about Uraume's scarce attention, but, apparently, that was perfect for you. Or, maybe you'd grown too used to it. Whatever it may be, you probably just needed to spend the better part of the next two years single.

Suguru comes out shortly after your revelation, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. You prepare for him to come to you, rightfully so as he his arms around your middle and rests his head on your chin. "School's cancelled," he says, and the news has you hoping he'll still spend the day grading.

Satoru whines the whole morning about how he still has to go to work and how the corporate world is his worst nightmare. Suguru makes a comment about how that was his fault, and all he can do is march out the door while mumbling about how his life sucks.

The day is, surprisingly, pretty okay, despite the fact that the snow just won't stop coming down. Suguru teaches you how to play chess and watches you play Zelda on Satoru's Switch, content to just be in the same space as you. At some point during the day, Satoru talks to you through the camera on the mantle, whining about how jealous he was of the two of you.

You make peace with the fact that you'll probably spend another night there, and, when the snow stops around 4, you hope that the city can fix things up in time for you to go home early the next day. Then, you'll start planning your break-up speech, which will most likely be you blubbering about how you're just not ready for another relationship yet and how it's not fair to them that you still think about Uraume all the time.

Then, Satoru gets home and immediately starts undressing you, and you spend the evening in bed, being used between the two of them like a sex toy. It doesn't make you feel good mentally, though, physically, you might as well have been in heaven. Satoru babbles about how much he loves you, how good you make him feel, how perfect you fit into his and Suguru's relationship, while Suguru watches you with that foggy glint in his eyes, like his mind is elsewhere.

You go to bed and are gone before they wake up.

—

The next few days are excruciating. Satoru gets upset with you for leaving before saying goodbye, insisting it was dangerous for you to take the train when it was still so gross outside. You smooth it over as best you can, insisting that you just wanted to get home and use up the rest of your groceries before they went bad. You'd spent a lot of money on your breakfast bread (and Satoru tells you that he could buy ten more loaves for you next time).

You sit down with your friends, telling them your reasoning behind your choices and insisting you aren't going to go back to Uraume. You tell them you aren't really a person, just someone's other, and you don't like that. They have varying reactions—Izumi's upset, Shiori's indifferent, and Asahi is supportive—but, at the end of the night, they all understand.

After a few more hectic days at work, you go over to Satoru and Suguru's house for dinner. They clearly know something is up, as Suguru is dead silent while he makes chicken and Satoru is bent over his computer, agonizing about some work thing driving him crazy.

Dinner is delicious, and eating it makes you feel guilty. So, about halfway through, you clear your throat, looking up from your plate.

Satoru is already staring at you, and Suguru doesn't bother to pay attention to you, focusing on his food. "Listen, I—we need to talk," you start, tripping over your words.

"About what?" Satoru asks, and you don't like the desperate look in his eyes. "Did we do something wrong?"

"No, um, I just…don't think I'm ready for another relationship yet," you say, swallowing hard. "I mean, I was with Uraume for all of my young adult years, and I don't really feel like my own person yet. And I don't think it's fair to you guys to still be so hung up on my ex when you're giving me your all."

Suguru puts his silverware down neatly, finally looking up at you. Their attention is even more than usual right now, filling your lungs and sinking into your skin. Neither of them speak, so you're forced to keep rambling.

"You're both so sweet, and the best thing I could've asked for, but I'm clearly not ready enough. I just need more time. Maybe after I sort myself out, we can try again, or something. But, for now, I think it's best we break up."

There's barely a reaction to your words. Maybe you thought they liked you more than they actually do, from the way Satoru cracks a smile and Suguru just stares. You wait, mentally begging for one of them to say something.

And, of course, Suguru's the one to speak.

"I think that's sweet, dear."

You grimace. "What?"

"I think it's sweet that you think you have a choice," Suguru repeats, and the words almost make your jaw drop. Panic flares through your body, and all you can think is of course you dated a couple of psychos right after a sociopath. "But, if I recall, we told you we were in this for the long run, not a hook-up situation."

"Yes, obviously I remember," you say, curling your hands into fists on your lap. "But that wasn't a legally binding contract, or something. I'm a person, I have free will, and I'm breaking up with you right now."

"No, you're not," Satoru says, shaking his head. "We get a little possessive, you know? You can't just walk out on us like that without even trying to work on it."

Suguru nods in agreement, leaning his head on his hands. You can't find the words to say, failing to comprehend the situation you're in. "Okay, so you still think about Uraume. Whatever. After a while, once we've got you comfortable here, they'll barely be an after thought," Satoru continues, and his voice sounds….off. "You'll be too focused on loving us."

You stand abruptly from your chair, almost knocking it over in the process. "I think I need to go home," you state, stepping away from the table. Both of them just watch you, with Suguru's arrogant expression sending waves of anxiety through your body. "We can revisit this tomorrow, maybe, after you've both thought about it some more. We can sort it out."

You trip over yourself trying to get to the foyer, slipping on your tennis shoes instead of bending down to untie and retie them, like you usually do. You practically rip your bag off the usual hook, grabbing the doorknob and turning it as hard as you can.

You pause. You turn the doorknob some more, and you pause again. You look up at the door and come face to face with a lock you've never noticed before, the keyhole staring right back at you. You hear footsteps behind you, so you spin around, pressing your back against the door.

"Did you lock me in here?" you shriek, holding your bag to your chest. Suguru stands there with his arms crossed, looking like this is somehow inconveniencing him.

"We can revisit your privileges in a little bit. But, for now, it's best we spend some time sorting all this out," Suguru replies like he's your parent, holding his arm out to you sternly. "Give me the bag and take your shoes off, dear. We've set up a room for you that you can use to calm down and gather your bearings."

"What the fuck are you saying to me right now?" A million thoughts race through your head as you speak, and you begin rummaging through your bag for your phone. Sighing, like he expected you to do this, Suguru pulls it out of his pocket, holding it up. "Give that back, Suguru. You're don't own me, you can't do this. You need to let me leave."

"We don't need to let you do anything," comes Satoru's voice as he rounds the corner, leaning back on the couch behind him. "If you had just been good, you wouldn't be in this situation right now—this is your fault. Not ours."

"My fault? My fault?"

"Don't make this difficult, please," Suguru says, and, suddenly, they look scarier than they ever have before. Scarier than Uraume ever did before. You imagine their face right now, laughing at you as you fail worse than you ever have before. You can hear their voice saying you should've never left, and you wish they were here to drag you out of this situation like they always used to. "Go spend some time in your room, calm down a bit. I'll put your dinner in the fridge so you can finish it later."

You end at a standstill. The door is locked behind you, they stand like a wall in front of you. You can't think of anything, a solution for you to get yourself out of this. So, you just stand there, unmoving.

After a few moments, Suguru sighs, shaking his head. "Okay, okay. I guess we really can't be nice. We tried. Go ahead, Satoru."

Satoru, who is bigger and taller than the both of you, takes a step forward, and you open your mouth to scream. He's faster than you, though, and picks you up before you can, throwing you over his shoulder.

You punch and claw at his back, squirming to try and get him to drop you. Satoru's hold on you is far to strong for you to even make a dent on him, but you refuse to stop trying, to give up so easily. Suguru watches as he follows behind, looking almost disappointed in you.

The blender kicks on and he groans from the table behind you like he’s on life support. “Does that thing know how to be quiet?”

“Enjin.” Could he be any more dramatic? “It's a blender.”

“Okay? They need to invent quieter ones.”

He went too hard at his frat’s opening party last night. Gris had to physically drag his barely functioning body home earlier this morning, and not even twenty minutes later he was calling you whining and all pathetic, “Please come help me, ma'…”

Were you shocked by the condition he was in? Not even a little. If anything, this is tame for an early-semester hangover. You’ve seen him way worse, like, foaming at the mouth and nonverbal. You’re surprised he hadn’t died from alcohol poisoning along the way.

Did you start bitching at him the second you walked through the door? Obviously. And did he have the nerve to squint at you and go, “Baby, can you not? My head is literally splitting,” like you’re the villain here? Yes. Which only made you double down, because the audacity of catching an attitude while you’re voluntarily providing emergency services before your internal alarm clock went off is, quite frankly, insane.

But you still got to work anyway.

You set the smoothie down in front of him, then slide over the plate of eggs and toast you made. It looks wholesome sitting next to the half-drunk Gatorade he’s been nursing since he woke up.

He stares at the plate, poking at the eggs and breaking the yolk. “I kinda thought you’d bring McDonald’s or something…”

You smack him upside the head and point at the food. Enjin glares at you, yet takes a bite anyway. He can whine all he wants, but he’s the one who begged you to come over—not to mention your breakfast clears a McGriddle by a mile.

Sitting across from him with your arms crossed, you yawn. You were up late too—just not stumbling around his frat house. You stayed in, binge-watching shows to reset your brain after getting handed all your new classes this week.

Enjin had something to say about that too, complaining about how your attendance at his frat was so important to him. But that’s when all the crazies come out, and there was no way you were dealing with blackout freshmen puking on your shoes.

It was bad enough you’re stuck taking care of an almost-puking Enjin as it is.

He's talking, nearly spitting pieces of egg at you.

“Ew, gross—don’t talk with your mouth full. I know your mom taught you better than that.”

He ignores the jab and picks up a piece of toast, holding it out toward you. “You’re going to make a good wife someday, you’ve already had plenty of practice with me.”

You snort. “I don’t play wife with you, I’m basically your maid.”

“Maid, wife. Same difference.”

“You’re such a dick, you know that?”

Your eyes drift past him to the wall behind the kitchen table. The photos are still taped up unevenly with peeling corners—pictures of his frat brothers, old high school friends, random blurry party shots. Then there are the ones of you two.

Prom. Graduation. One from the first time you ever hung out outside of school—both of you younger, awkward, not quite this version of yourselves yet.

You’ve been best friends since high school. He was new, and you were assigned to show him around. He wasn’t all that different back then—still sassy and observant—but he was quieter, less sure of himself, and you were the first person who made the place feel less foreign for him.

Sometimes you think it was fate that shoved you into each other’s lives that day, because without it, you probably would’ve stayed in completely separate circles. You don’t think you would’ve chosen each other on purpose.

As much as you can’t stand him some days, you’re inseparable. He’s—corny as it sounds—your person. And if anyone asked him, he’d say you’re his too. Zero hesitation.

And if things weren’t already stereotypical enough as is, you’d definitely had feelings for him at one point—because who wouldn’t have? Enjin’s always been a hot shot. Even as a teenager he's had that thing about him. It wasn’t exactly earth shattering and shocking that you developed a crush.

You had a boyfriend when the two of you first met (sadly your first and only one, actually), which ended a bit after you and Enjin became inseparable. He said it was because of how close you were. At the time it felt crazy dramatic, but looking back, you get it. When you’re young, any attractive guy with that kind of presence feels like competition. 

Especially one who seems to understand you better than your own boyfriend does.

And once that fell apart, you fell. Head over your damn heels. He’s cute and funny, makes you feel important and treats you like you're his girl—just not officially. Princess treatment before it was even a joke between you two—to this day you’re spoiled absolutely rotten. It wasn’t exactly hard to grow heart eyes.

But first and foremost, you were his best friend. That was the foundation, and always had been. And over time, that really did become enough.

It took a little while to settle into that reality, sure. But as you both grew up and matured, you realized something important—you didn’t want to risk losing your person over feelings that might complicate everything. Being his homegirl, his ride or die, the one he calls first—that meant more than anything ever could.

~

One month later…

“Excuse me.”

You turn at the voice behind you.

It’s some guy you’re pretty sure you haven’t noticed in this lecture before—and you feel like you would’ve remembered him. He’s got this blank, almost drained expression—like he hasn’t slept in weeks, which is pretty impressive considering it’s only the second week of the semester. There are faint streaks of grey in his hair too. Damn, how old is this guy?

Okay, he doesn’t look old. Just like he’s lived three lives already and none of them went smoothly. Here’s to a fourth?

“Do you have this week’s notes?” he asks. His voice is nice, low and deep. Pretty, even. It just sounds like he’s running on a dead battery.

“Yeah,” you tap your laptop. “They’re all on here though.” He nods once. “That’s fine.”

There’s a pause. He’s still looking at you.

“So… Do you want me to email them to you, or…?”

He nods again and gestures toward your laptop.

You hesitate for half a second—because, hello, stranger—but hand it over anyway.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in class before,” you say, attempting small talk while he types in his email. He doesn’t look up. “I’m always in the back. I moved up a few seats because someone kept taking mine.”

“This late in?” You let out a small laugh. “Swear some people don’t understand seating rules.”

“There are seating rules?”

“Um… yeah. Like, once you pick your seat the first week, everyone just collectively agrees that’s your spot.”

He finishes typing and hands the laptop back to you. You’re still not sure what to make of him. You glance at the email he sent it to. “Zodyl… cool name.”

“Thank you.”

You try to introduce yourself in return, but he cuts you off, “I know.”

You’re spent thinking about that interaction for the rest of the day. You’ve met some interesting people before, but he’s definitely up there.

Later that evening, sprawled out on your floor and staring at the ceiling while Enjin lounges on your bed—you’re rambling, replaying every second of it while he half listens, tossing in comments whenever he feels like it.

“He kind of looks like a bug,” you say, sitting up suddenly. “Wait. What if he is a bug and just hasn’t figured out human interaction yet?”

Enjin hums. “Sounds like you’re bug-phobic.”

“I am not! I can be accepting of bug people. He seems nice enough. Just… super weird.”

“Maybe he thought you were pretty. Made him nervous.”

“He did not seem into me—”

“Nah, he wanted a piece of that and short-circuited.”

You smack his leg. “Shut up. Quit being an ass.”

“I’m serious!” He kicks that same hand, “Guys get weird when they’re into someone.”

He’s not overly concerned about this Zodyl guy, but you forming connections with random men has always made him cautious.

Enjin knows how guys are. He is one—and you’re his girl to look out for.

“Zodyl…” He finally looks up from his phone to glance at you on the floor. “Isn’t he the one who hangs out with that super wacked-out group?”

You scoff. “Aren’t you one to talk.”

“I think he’s a narc. Actually—no. Maybe not. Pretty sure one of his friends is on drugs.”

“Can you be nice for, like, two seconds?”

“Says the girl who just called him a bug. Guess we’re both hypocrites.”

~

When you walk into class again, Zodyl is sitting in the seat next to yours. He doesn’t acknowledge you when you drop your bag down and pull your chair out, just sits there facing forward like a creepy NPC in a horror game. 

You've started unpacking your things when he speaks. “Thank you for your help.”

“With…?”

“Lending me your notes.”

“Oh.” You remember. “Yeah, no worries. I’m glad I’m not taking them for nothing.”

“I didn’t steal anyone’s seat.” Zodyl looks at your confused expression for a brief second before facing forward again. “The seating rules.” He adds, a strand of hair falling near his nose in a way that feels cinematic. “No one had been sitting here. I didn’t take a seat.”

You can’t help but laugh. “I mean, I wasn’t filing a complaint.”

“I didn’t want you to think I was inconsiderate.”

The professor starts shuffling papers at the front, and students are settling in. “Do you care if I stay here?” he asks.

You look at him properly this time. Okay, maybe he doesn’t seem as strange up close. “Not at all,” you say, smiling. “Mi casa es su casa.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” You wave it off. “You’re welcome to sit there, Zodyl.”

After class, he hands you a piece of paper. You take it, looking confused as you glance down at it and back up at him.

He gestures toward sheet in your hand. “Your number.”

You blink. “My phone number?”

Passing you a pen as confirmation, you think he could’ve passed you his phone instead—but sure. This works too.

“If I need more help. You do well with this subject.”

“Yeah, of course!” You beam at the compliment. “Always happy to be of assistance.” You think, just for the faintest moment, there may be the slight chance of the smallest smile on his face. Or you’re crazy.

As he’s going to leave, “I like your sweater. Purple is a nice color on you.”

Later that afternoon, you burst into Enjin’s apartment without knocking. “Zodyl asked for my phone number. Well, sort of. He didn’t really ask—”

Enjin barely reacts to the intrusion—you do this all the time—mid-sip of his beer.

“Bug-man?” He asks, eyeing you as you pace around his kitchen.

“Yes, bug-man,” you’re practically doing laps around the room. “But he’s not actually that scary up close.”

“He was up close?”

“He moved to the seat next to mine. And then asked if it was okay that he stayed there.” Pause. “It was kind of cute.”

“So now bugs are cute?”

You grab an apple off his counter and throw it at him. “Shut up, Jin’. I’m trying to tell you what happened.”

Enjin holds his free hand up in mock surrender. “My bad, mama. Continue.”

Your pacing begins again, along with the rambling. “He kept staring at me. Like, a lot. At first it was uncomfortable. Full eye contact, no blinking. I thought he was glitching.”

“Some people pay extra for that kind of attention.”

“What did I tell you about shutting up? Anyway, he asked for my number. Said it was for ‘help with class,’ but then he complimented my sweater.”

Putting your hands on your hips, you grin at Enjin, all teeth and bright eyes. “So now I’m kind of flattered by the staring. Maybe you were right. Maybe he does think I’m cute.”

Enjin tilts his head, “Of course he thinks you’re cute,” a beer is tossed to you. “I’ve been saying that. Took someone long enough to catch up.”

He gestures his can towards you. “Just don’t let him steal my spotlight.”

Which, unfortunately, after a few weeks, kind of started happening.

You were talking to Zodyl more. In class, obviously—but outside of it too. Sure, sometimes it was about lecture stuff—he did need help here and there. But he’d also start talking about projects he was working on, random ideas, or things he was building.

You still made time for Enjin, it would’ve been crazy not to. The routine included being at his place constantly, or he was at yours, or you were out somewhere with the group, or at one of his parties. You saw him pretty much every day.

But now, sometimes your phone would buzz and you’d glance down mid-conversation. Or you’d cut yourself off to respond to a text. Or you’d casually bring up bug-man (the nickname stuck).

It wasn’t that you had a new guy friend. You’ve always had them. You and Enjin share a huge friend group—you’re close with Gris, with Follo, with August and Corvus—even the dweeb kids Zanka and Rudo that Enjin somehow adopted during his fraternity service hours at the high school. You being friends with other guys has never been new, never been weird, and never been a problem.

What was new was that this guy was clearly into you.

And, again, Enjin knows how guys are. Enjin is guys. Mr. Easy. Mr. I-know-exactly-what-they’re-thinking-because-I’m-thinking-it-too. So yeah, it made him stressed. Not because he thought you couldn’t handle yourself—but because he knew how quickly things could flip. He didn’t like the idea of you getting played, used, or fed some bullshit.

You were his to look out for.

At first he didn’t pay much attention to Zodyl. But now? His guard was fully up, because if anyone was going to rescue you from a bad situation, it was him.

He crashed out a little when you skipped your weekly fast-food movie night to study with that… thing. You hadn’t missed one since you started them as teenagers. Sick? He’d just show up at yours. Busy? You’d make it work.

But no. Here comes the cockroach, interrupting tradition.

It didn’t help that Zodyl knew who he was, too. Which, okay—fair. Enjin was known campus-wide for more than a few reasons. That wasn’t the shocking part. What was shocking was how much he knew.

“Okay, so he’s a narc who hangs out with a druggie and now he’s a stalker,” Enjin said at one point, throwing his hands up after you casually mention something Zodyl knew about him that felt way too specific. “How the hell does he know about my lucky umbrella?”

You sigh, rubbing your forehead. “First of all, he’s not a druggie and his name is Jabber—”

“The fuck kind of name is Jabber? That’s not helping his case.”

“—Second of all,” you continue over him, “you carry that umbrella everywhere. Even when it’s sunny. Zodyl is just observant.”

“Why am I being observed?” Enjin demands. “And how does he know it’s lucky!”

He didn’t like Zodyl. Not at all. And technically, he didn’t even know him. Even if Zodyl somehow knew too much about him.

One time, Enjin spotted him in passing on the way to class. Decided to be mature about it for you. If this guy was going to be in your life, the least he could do was be polite.

He waved. Gave him his best smile, pearly white canines flashing in greeting. “Hey, man!”

Zodyl didn’t even look at him.

But Enjin had always been your number one complication when it came to men. Either he scared them off—because being best friends with a hot, confident guy is intimidating (see: your last boyfriend)—or he attracted the wrong ones. The kind who only got close to you because they wanted proximity to him.

Zodyl was neither. He didn’t seem repelled by Enjin, and he didn’t seem particularly interested in knowing him personally either. No weird fan behavior. Outside of, okay, maybe some mildly stalker-ish observational habits.

It was a nice change of pace—having someone who seems interested in you and not because of who you’re friends with. Even if Zodyl was kind of weird, and you could never fully get a read on what was going on in his head.

Enjin stayed cordial. For the most part. He’d toss in a comment here and there when you brought Zodyl up—nothing too serious, just enough to let you know he had opinions—but he never outright fought you on it. Unless it was something justified, like ditching movie night. That was so different.

Even with all his side-eyes and sarcastic remarks, he knows you’re an adult. He knows you’re not naïve. If anything, he knows you too well to think you’d let yourself get played without noticing.

That doesn’t mean he stops thinking about it.

Or worrying about it.

~

Follo squints at you, Semiu, and Tomme as you push your way into the kitchen. “What are you three supposed to be?”

It’s Halloween, aka the biggest party of the semester. The house is so packed you can barely see the floor, just a blur of shoes and spilled drinks and strobe lights.

“We’re kiss, marry, kill,” Semiu says, lifting the plastic knife she’s been carrying around all night.

“That’s basic.”

Her eyes narrow at him. “And what are you?”

Follo taps the crooked paper plumbob taped to a headband on his head. “I’m a Sim.”

You laugh. “Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

Semiu turns to Gris, who’s leaning against the counter with fake blood smeared across his shirt. “And you’re… bloody Adam Sandler?”

“I didn’t have time to get a costume, and the blood is from Corvus fighting for his life with Party City vampire gel. At least I’m not dressed as a prisoner.” Gris nods toward Enjin, who’s standing there in an orange jumpsuit. He just smirks. “It was either Ghostface or this, and I wanted to get handcuffed.”

Semiu clicks her tongue. “Of course you do.”

Tomme glances over her shoulder. “Tamsy’s somewhere in the living room as an angel.” You’re still laughing at everyone, all the shots in your system from the pre-game making things way funnier than they are. “So we’re all just Pinterest stereotypes tonight, let’s call it even.”

You make your way over to Enjin’s side—like you always do—and hold your hand out for his drink. He passes it without question. Your first instinct is to chug, then just as quickly you gag. “Ew, what the hell is in this?”

“A lot,” he takes the cup back. “We all brought different alcohol and just mixed it together. August added grenadine though, so it’s pretty much a cocktail.”

“That’s not a cocktail. I feel like I just drank water straight from Chernobyl.”

He laughs and throws his arm around you, pulling you into his side. In a house this packed, being next to him is the best place. He’s your designated safe spot.

“Are you supposed to be ‘kiss’?” he asks, poking one of the lipstick marks Semiu left on your cheek.

“Well I’m not wearing a veil or holding a knife, am I?” 

“Do I get one?” Enjin puckers his lips dramatically, and you slap your hand over his mouth. “Go find someone to put you in handcuffs so I don’t have to deal with you.”

“I tried, there are no cop girls here. Very disappointing.”

“Should’ve gone with Ghostface. You would’ve gotten laid faster.”

Gris leans over Enjin’s shoulder, eyeing you. “So. Where’s your boyfriend?” Heat flushes your face. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Enjin feels something hot twist in his chest. He couldn’t even get thirty minutes of standing next to you without that thing getting brought up. “He doesn’t seem like the party type anyway,” Enjin’s jaw clenches, voice tight.

“Yeah, but I asked if he wanted to come anyway. He wasn’t interested.”

Thank fucking God, he thinks.

And then, like clockwork, your phone lights up.

Every ounce of relief he had evaporates the second he sees the name on your screen.

“He can’t get enough of you, huh?” Follo throws in.

Enjin is actually going to punch someone.

You look down at your phone, and your lips curve softly. Your face lights up in a way that makes something in him snap. Before he even thinks about it, he snatches the phone out of your hand and lifts it above your head.

“Enjin!” you shout, jumping for it. “Give it back!”

“Get off your phone,” he holds it higher as you try to climb him. “Live in the moment.” The messages are still open. He sees the photos you sent earlier—your costume and a selfie of your trio.

zodyl !!

You look pretty.

Have fun tonight.

His grip tightens around your phone. For a split second he considers smashing it. Instead, he locks the screen and shoves it into his pocket. “No more phone tonight.”

“Whatever,” you shrug him off, visibly annoyed. “What is your problem?”

He doesn’t answer.

“C’mon,” you grab Semiu and Tomme’s hands. “I wanna dance.”

You drag them away to the group of people that are dancing in the living room, but never leaving Enjin’s line of sight. He never let you at parties.

Listen, you haven’t had a boyfriend since high school. You’ve never really shown much interest in dating either. So the idea of you actually having something with this guy?

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Leaning back and watching you dance, Enjin decides to actually look at you. Like, really look at you. Figure out what it is that’s suddenly pulling Zodyl’s attention your way.

He starts with your face. Glitter highlight catching the lights, eyeshadow sparkling every time you turn your head. That loose, drunk smile painted in lipstick that matches the kiss prints on your cheeks and collarbones. Your hair falling in messy pieces around your face, swaying as you move.

Then lower.

The lace bra strap peeking out from under your little red dress, the fabric hugging you just right to leave very little to the imagination. His eyes trace the dip of your back. Your eyes. Your hair. Your neck. Your lips.

Your tits and ass.

You.

Oh.

Oh shit.

When did you get this hot?

He suddenly becomes hyper-aware of how you stand out from everyone else in the room.

You’re the most attractive girl at this party. And not in a “she’s my best friend so I’m obligated to think that” kind of way. 

It’s a “I’ve suddenly opened my eyes and realized my best friend would be more than capable of getting my dick hard” kind of way.

He’s never thought you were ugly, of course he’s always known you’re pretty.

It’s just—back in high school, you were so dorky. In his head, that’s kind of where you stayed. His silly best bud. 

When you’ve known someone that long, they sort of freeze in your mind. You stop updating the image. So he’s always seen you as that teenage girl he met freshman year.

He realizes you’re not that girl anymore. You’re grown. You’ve been grown.

Fuck, when did that happen?

Had you always gotten this kind of attention looking like this, and he just never clocked it? How did he, of all slutty men, miss your glaring sex appeal?

Is that why all of his past lovers got so angered by you? Because you—who’s objectively funny, smart, and clearly very attractive—were his girl best friend?

He always brushed it off as jealousy over the attention. And yeah, sure, he gave you a lot of it. Now he’s starting to think that wasn’t it. They weren’t just annoyed, they were threatened. Just as bad as the guys who saw him with you.

You were competition.

And if he were in their shoes? He’d feel insecure standing next to you too.

Now, knowing there are guys looking at you like that, something fires up under his skin. It doesn’t feel protective anymore, not like it usually does.

It feels territorial.

You’re his girl. You’ve always been his girl—and now there are other men looking at you?

Absolutely not.

That doesn’t work for him. That’s never been how this goes.

~

It becomes Enjin’s number one mission to steer Zodyl away from you. Or better yet, steal you back. Not that you’d actually been taken from him, but his ego took a hit that night, and something in him shifted. There’s this new awareness when he looks at you—and he doesn’t know what to do with it except act.

Operation: Kill The Roach.

After the party, he’s insufferable. Groaning every time your phone lights up. Rolling his eyes when you answer a call. Going dead silent the second Zodyl’s name gets mentioned. Any hint of him in your sentence and Enjin’s already bitching.

“I dunno babe, I just get bad vibes. Like, he ate birds as a kid or somethin’…”

“Birds?!”

You’re over it. Completely.

What used to be light teasing turns into actual arguments. Every time you say you’re going to hang out with Zodyl, it’s a fight. Every. Single. Time. He argues like it’s his job. You can see the jealousy plain as day—it’s written all over him—but what you don’t understand is why it showed up out of nowhere. He was fine before!

You try reassuring him. Tell him he’ll always be your best friend. Which, apparently, is the worst possible thing you could say. Nothing lands right anymore. You don’t even know what he wants from you at this point.

You and Enjin argue sometimes. That’s normal. But it’s never been like this between the two of you. 

After one particularly nasty fight, you’re sitting on his bed, laptop open, trying to focus on a paper. He’s right beside you, silent. You can practically feel the heat radiating off him—the tension is suffocating.

You’re too tired to deal with it anymore.

“Hey.”

You don’t even look at him. “Don’t start again.”

“Do you think I’m hot?”

That makes you turn. “Come again?”

He’s staring at you like he’s dead serious. “I asked if you think I’m hot. Sexy. Attractive. Whatever.”

“I mean, yeah. Who doesn’t?” You squint at him. “Isn’t that what gets you pussy?” Snorting a little. “Definitely not your personality.”

“Okay…” His jaw tightens. “Do you think I’m hotter than Zodyl?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Pretty straightforward question, ma.”

“It’s not though?” He was being insane.

“Who’s more attractive? Me or him?”

“Dude, where is all of this coming from?”

“I’m not dude.”

“Okay, Enjin. Get your panties out of a twist.” You roll your eyes and scoff at his attitude, turning back to your laptop.

He shuts it mid-citation.

You barely have time to react before he moves in, bracing his arms on either side of you and popping your personal space bubble. You fall back slightly onto the pillow behind you, catching yourself on your elbows.

“Stop avoiding the question.” His eyes are locked on yours, and this doesn’t feel like your usual play-fighting.

“I—”

“Swear to God, if you dodge it again.”

“I don’t know!” You’re flustered now, fully. He’s not backing off. You swallow. “I guess I haven’t really thought about it?”

“Then think about it.”

You hesitate.

Sure, Zodyl is attractive. In his weird, bug-adjacent way. Handsome. Broody. That whole mysterious thing that works on people if you ignore the super off-putting energy.

But Enjin is… Enjin.

He has a reputation for a reason—anyone with functioning eyesight would say he’s sexy. You’ve also seen the parts no one else gets to. The real personality under the persona. You watched him grow into the man he is today.

And he’s one hell of a man.

“Um… you?” It comes out sounding like a question.

He’s way too close. “Why’d you say it like that? You lyin’ to me?”

“No.” You push at his forehead with one finger, trying to create space. “I just had to think about it.”

“Do you need to be convinced?”

A squeak slips out, “Convinced…?”

Your face is burning. He doesn’t even fully know what he meant by that, but you’re flushed and breathing shallow and looking at him like that, and his mouth is running ahead of his brain.

One of his hands lands on the headboard behind you—leaning in to where you can feel his breath on your cheek. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I can convince you.”

You don’t know what to do with your hands, folding your arms awkwardly across your chest. “Jin’… be honest, are you jealous?”

He jerks back like you slapped him. “Jealous?” The idea is preposterous. What he’s feeling is far deeper than that. “No. I’m not jealous.”

You give a small, unimpressed laugh. “It’s been kind of sounding like it.”

He sits back with a huff, and you’re still half-reclined, heart racing, trying to process whatever the fuck just happened.

“Awh, c’mon.  You’ll always be number one in my heart.” There you go, trying to reassure him again. You’re teasing, but the way you phrase it makes something twist in his chest.

Number one. Like there’s a ranking. Like there could be a number two. A number three. Like you could still choose someone else, and he’d just—

No. It doesn’t matter if he’s first or hundredth. There’s no room in your heart for any other man. 

He doesn’t even know what he wants out of that. A relationship with you?

A relationship?

With you?

The two of you already have one. Just not the romantic kind—and the ideas never really crossed his mind before.

But now that it has, it won’t leave.

And the more he sits there, the more one thing becomes very clear to him. He wants—no, needs you to be his.

Enjin only ramps it up from there.

He’s working overtime with you now. Picking you up from every single class, whether you ask him to or not. And when you walk out of the one you share with Zodyl, he makes a whole production out of it—grabbing your arm, tugging you into his chest, telling you how much he missed you. Even if he literally saw you twelve hours ago.

Zodyl doesn’t react. No expression. Just a quiet “goodbye,” and he walks off.

Then texts you anyway.

So Enjin starts getting more physical. Not that physical affection was ever weird between you two—it’s always been a thing—but this is different. It’s doubled and bolder. A hand sliding onto your thigh with a squeeze while he drives. Pulling you tighter against him during movie night and pressing kisses to the top of your head. Fingers threading through your hair while you’re trying to focus on homework.

At parties, where he used to just rest a steady hand on your lower back to keep you grounded and near him, is now both hands planted on your hips. Your back flush against his chest, chin resting on your shoulder.

He even starts stripping down when he knows you’re coming over. Shirt gone. Sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Hair loose instead of slicked back—the way he knows you like it. He corners you in the kitchen once while you’re cooking, pressing in close under the excuse of “just grabbing a cup.” Tattooed biceps right by your head as he reaches above you. 

Once, knowing you were coming over, he walked out into the living room straight from the shower—still dripping. Water tracked down his chest, droplets falling from the ends of his hair. 

He stretched slowly, arms lifting over his head so his muscles flexed and shifted on purpose, towel falling enough to make you nervous he was about to flash you. Then he looked at you like he’d just noticed you were there. “Hey, pretty girl,” cue a very fake yawn, “when’d you get here?”

It’s way more intimate than it’s ever been. Friendly affection got left behind a mile ago.

He’s pulling out every trick he has. And Enjin has magic. He knows exactly how to use his charm, his presence. He’s slutting himself out more than ever before, and he’s laying it on thick.

Maybe too thick. More than he needed to.

Because there’s one thing he doesn’t know.

You used to have feelings for him.

You were still frustrated with him. Still violently annoyed. He was overbearing, dramatic, and utterly impossible lately.

But after that night—after he had you pinned between pillows and freedom, barely any space between you—you couldn’t ignore the feelings that slowly started to resurface.

The energy between you felt different. The way he looked at you wasn’t the same anymore. The way he touched you for sure wasn’t.

You started feeling like that same teenage girl who had the fattest crush on her best friend. The one who read too much into every lingering touch and every half-smile. He was getting you all hot n’ bothered—it was embarrassing. You thought you’d grown out of that.

You’re adults now. You don’t get to have dramatic, delusional fantasies about your best friend suddenly realizing he wants you. That’s middle school shit.

Even if, lately, he’s been acting like he’s fighting for his own damn life every time you’re around.

~

“I wanna go bowling,” Follo announces, taking a drag from the blunt as he lays practically horizontal across the back of the couch. Enjin and Gris have shoved him off at least three times already just to mess with him, but he keeps climbing back up like it’s his assigned seat.

Everyone’s at Enjin’s place for the night. There’s a movie playing in the background that no one’s actually watching, drinks scattered across the coffee table, his favorite cracked ashtray sitting in the middle as a decorative piece.

Follo pushes himself upright—immediately losing balance and sliding off the couch again. “Ow,” he grunts. “Who wants to go bowling?”

“Right now?” Gris looks at him like he’s insane.

“Yeah. Right now.”

“We are not going bowling right now,” Enjin snatches the blunt from his hand. “Maybe this weekend.”

“Can’t this weekend!” August calls out from the floor. “I have a project due!” You sink back further into the armchair. “I can’t either.”

Follo groans dramatically. “You of all people should be able to go. Please?”

“I already have plans. I’m sorry though.” You give him a sympathetic look and he whines at it. Tomme shifts on the floor, propping her chin on your leg as she looks up at you. “What’s got you busy?”

You hesitate for half a second. “Uh… I have a date.”

That gets everyone’s attention.

Gris lets out a low whistle, and Semiu nods approvingly. “You go girl. Your years of celibacy are finally over.” You flip her off playfully. “Shut the fuck up, it’s not like that.”

“Fine,” Follo sighs, still pouting. “You’re excused from bowling, I guess. Congrats that he finally grew a pair.”

“Thank you for approving my time off, Follo.”

Enjin goes completely still where he’s standing. Lips pressed into a thin line. Teeth grinding so hard it looks painful.

“You look mad,” Follo’s still beneath him on the floor. “Be happy for her!”

Enjin shoots him a look that could kill. “You’re too high,” he mutters, planting his foot against Follo’s chest and nudging him back. “Green out. Right now.”

Follo starts dramatically thrashing like Enjin’s actually crushing him, even though he’s barely applying pressure.

He can’t even look at you. He knows if he does, he’s going to say or do something he can’t take back. And he has no idea what that something would even be.

But you’re looking at him.

And Follo’s right. Why can’t he just be happy for you? He’s your best friend. He’s always been your loudest supporter, and your biggest cheerleader. Every win, every milestone, every dumb little achievement—you’ve never had to question whether he’d show up for you.

So why is this so different?

You can’t deny that when Zodyl first asked you out, your instinct was to hesitate. With the way Enjin’s been acting lately, and old feelings creeping back in at the worst possible time—not to mention the possibility that actually dating someone could put space between you and him—you were torn.

Enjin doesn’t look at you for the rest of the night.

He stays mostly silent, tossing in a response here and there so he doesn’t completely kill the vibe. But he won’t meet your eyes. Won’t laugh at your jokes. Won’t even brush past you the way he usually does.

Even after everyone leaves and you stay behind to help him clean up—like you do—he acts like you’re not there.

When you’re done, you grab your things and head toward the door. “I’m leaving!” you call out. Your hand is already on the handle when you hear footsteps, quick and uneven.

“Wait.”

He can’t let you walk out like this. You turn. “Yeah?”

Enjin closes the distance in two strides and pins you against the door. One hand on either side of your face, holding you there. 

“Are you…” he starts, then stops, thoughts racing faster than he can control. “Are you going to go on that date?”

He’s so close that you can feel his breath. It pulls you straight back to every moment lately where he’s been inches away, touching you like he does. Your heart is pounding so hard you think he can hear it.

“Why wouldn’t I?” 

“Because I don’t want you to.”

You should be furious. You should call him controlling. Tell him to get over himself. But instead, you’re just hurt. “Why can’t you be happy for me?”

The question hits him harder than anything else tonight. It loops in his head until only one answer presents itself.

“There’s only room for me.”

“I’ve already told you—”

“No.” His voice is stern. “There’s only room for me.”

“Listen to me,” you plead. “You'll always be my best friend, and that’s never going to change. It’s okay for me to try out a relationship. I won’t leave you behind. I promise.” Your hand lifts to give him a pinky promise, and he pushes it away. “Then try it out with me.”

You freeze. “What?”

“A relationship. Have one with me.”

“Jin’, hey. Like I said, you’re my best friend—”

Those words land wrong just like the others.

Enjin steps back, retreating. “Yeah. You’re right. Sorry, ma’. I overstepped.” As much as he hates to do it, he’ll throw in the towel if you weren’t willing. “Be safe getting home, okay? Have fun this weekend.”

“Stop.”

“It’s late, and I know you like your Saturdays quiet and—”

“Enjin.” Your voice snaps, sharp. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“What are you saying to me? What have you been saying to me?” You step toward him. Every step feels loud. “Do you like me?” You’re right in front of him now, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him down so he has to look at you again. He lets out a half-laugh, half-breath. “Understatement.”

“Since when?”

“I’ve always liked you, baby.”

“When?”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Think it started when you came in talking about that bug—” You tighten your grip. “Sorry. Zodyl. When you told me he was texting you n’ shit.”

“And then it was thing after thing, and I realized you’re my girl. Nobody else’s. You’re my girl in every way, whether you feel the same or not.”

“I don’t—” Your voice wavers. “I don’t understand.”

He sighs, disgruntled. “Well I’ve been trying to show you—”

“Then show me now.” The words make Enjin's heart stop. “I’ll be receptive. Help me understand.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do,” you push. “Help me understand what you’re feeling.” The way he hesitates makes you frustrated. “Please?”

He surges forward and bites down on your neck—hard. Aggressive enough that you know it’s going to leave a mark. He pulls back just enough to drag his tongue over the indents of his teeth, like he’s making sure it sets.

Your hands fly from his collar to his shoulders with a sharp gasp. It hurts—really fucking bad—but the way he’s kissing over it now makes your stomach twist and heat pool. 

“My girl,” he mutters against your skin, words rough between messy kisses and lingering nips. “All mine.” His hand slides up your waist to your collar, tugging it aside so he can press another bite into your shoulder.

“Ngh—Jin’, wait—” you whimper as he does it again.

“Showing you,” he’s completely lost in it. In you. In the act of marking you up. “Showing them.” His hands are gripping you like he thinks you’re about to disappear. Like if he loosens his hold for even a second, you’ll slip through his fingers.

When he finally pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, chest rising and falling too fast. He looks utterly wrecked. “I’ll do anything for you, ma’,” he breathes, voice rough, almost breaking. “So quit lookin’ at other guys and just belong to me. Shit—do I gotta get on my knees and beg?”

This is Enjin. The cocky, arrogant, campus-famous flirt whose ego usually fills the room before he does. And right now he’s undone.

For you.

You rub his shoulders, trying to soothe him, thumb brushing over his cheek, under his eye. “You’re so stupid, you know that?”

He frowns slightly.

“Stupid and blind.” A laugh escapes you as you recall how obvious you were about your feelings when you were younger. “I had the biggest crush on you in high school, I was so down bad.”

“Was?” he hones in on the word.

“Well, yeah,” you tap his cheek. “I had to get over myself if I wanted to stay your friend. And I did. I learned to be okay with that because I knew the chances of you feeling the same were slim to none. I figured I wasn’t your type.”

“My… my type?”

Thinking back now—late nights next to someone else, wondering if you got home safe, if you’d eaten, if you were laughing somewhere without him—he realizes you’ve always been the woman that mattered the most to him. Checking all of his boxes.

“You always teased me. Called me a dork or weird like I was just your annoying little sidekick—” His fingers hook into your belt loops and he yanks you forward before you can finish, lips crashing against yours.

It’s desperate, rough and messy. Nothing like the soft, perfect first kiss with him you imagined when you were sixteen. 

Your hands paw at his chest as he kisses you like it’s life or death, like this is the only way he knows how to prove himself worthy for you. With those fresh bite marks burning against your skin, a declaration of his claim on you, you’re living out your childish wet dream of your best friend.

With Enjin.

He pushes you backward and you stumble, falling onto the couch with a breathless laugh that dies the second he follows.

Enjin doesn’t hesitate. He’s on you immediately, bracketing you in, one hand planted by your head while the other grips your waist. He wedges his leg between yours to keep you right where he wants you. “Should’ve realized sooner,” frustration and want tangled together in him. “Could’ve saved us so much time.”

He rolls his hips down just enough to make you gasp, a soft sound slipping out before you can stop it.

“Fuck,” he growls into your mouth. “You’re so hot.”

The compliment goes straight between your legs. The idea of Enjin looking at you like this—wanting you like this—used to feel delusional, so far fetched. And now you’re pinned beneath him while he kisses you stupid.

This is different from anything you’ve ever had. Your kisses with your ex-boyfriend don’t even compare. Those were childish polite pecks. 

The way he makes out with you is art. He nips at your bottom lip, drags his tongue along the seam of your mouth until you part for him. His hands slide under your shirt, palms warm against bare skin, fingers splaying like he’s mapping you out because he never got to before.

He’s going to make up for lost time.

Enjin knows you’ve never done anything like this before. Semiu wasn’t joking about your years of celibacy, and the fact that he’s the one you’re here with right now does something reckless to his ego. 

He wants to be the one you remember, the one your body responds to without thinking. The one who teaches you what this is supposed to feel like. He wants it burned into you so deep that no one else even registers—in a way where when you close your eyes, it’s him. When you think about being touched, it’s him. When you imagine wanting someone, it’s him.

He’s not just trying to win—he’s trying to make sure there’s no competition ever again.

A hand slides up your stomach to the underwire of your bra, teasing the edge and making you shiver. His thumb brushes over your nipple, leaving you gasping for air—a silent plea for more. All while his other hand finds the waistband of your pants, tugging impatiently as he kneads your breast. Every touch of his ignites your skin.

Enjin pulls back just enough to look at you, hand still hooked at your waistband, thumb brushing the skin there while his lips trail back down to your neck—slower this time, less frantic.

“Is this okay?” He’s bracing himself for rejection. “If you don’t want this, I’ll stop. We can pretend it never happened.”

“You can go on your date,” he adds, voice rough but steadier than before. “And I’ll stay in my place.”

As much as Enjin doesn’t want you to deny him, he meant it when he said he’ll do anything you ask of him—even though the erection in his pants hurts so bad right now.

“No,” fingers fisting into his hair as you try to pull his lips back onto yours, you thrust your hips up to meet his—desperate for any friction to satiate the pooling between your thighs. “I don’t wanna stop, don’t wanna go—”

In one smooth motion, he’s lifting you up and carrying you straight toward his bedroom. The door barely makes it open before he’s tossing you onto the bed—hands everywhere, guiding you, pressing you down.

He goes for your shirt first, tugging it up and over your head with impatient hands, barely giving you time to catch your breath before he’s working at your pants too.

Enjin sits back to look at you, nearly bare in nothing but your undergarments. Your chest is rising and falling, cheeks pink with swollen, glossy lips—his eyes trace your form, staring at the marks on your neck and shoulder. The expanse of your skin to leave more.

He feels his dick twitch and drool. 

Shrugging his shirt off and tossing it aside, the tattoo along his stomach makes his abs stand out every time he moves. That mixed with the view of an imprint of his ever so hard cock beneath his sweats? You’re salivating.

Enjin catches you looking and grins. “Like what you see?”

“I could say the same for you.”

“Is that even a question?” He laughs under his breath. “Fuck yeah I do.”

He leans down, mouth trailing lower, lower, lower—kissing along your stomach, over your hip, until he’s hovering right where you need him the most. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, pressing a slow kiss to the inside of your thigh.

It’s soft, almost sweet. And then he bites again.

You jolt, and he looks up at you with that dangerous half-smirk as a faint red mark begins to bloom. “And this,” he traces his finger in a circle around the mark, “is for only me to see.”

His breath ghosts over your soaked panties, hot and teasing. Your hand presses against his forehead to stop him, and he groans at your touch. “Wait,” your hips twitching up despite yourself. “You don’t have to… I know some guys don’t like—”  

Enjin makes a show of pulling the lace down with his teeth. He flicks his tongue along your slit just once, slow enough for you to feel every damn nerve ending scream for more before pulling back with a shit eating grin. “Nah, that ain’t me, mama.”

The second those words leave his mouth has you clenching around nothing.

His tongue drags a filthy stripe from your entrance to your clit, and the second he tastes how wet and sweet you are has him grinding into the bed. “Fuck," he rasps, “look at that. All for me?” His thumb replaces his mouth just long enough to circle slow, maddening patterns while his other hand pins your hips down. 

You choke on air when he finally sucks hard on that swollen bud—the vibration of his groan shooting straight through you as one finger sinks inside without warning. “Mine,” Enjin repeats like a prayer between licks, teeth grazing where it makes stars explode behind your closed eyelids.

Your fingers fly to weave through his golden strands of hair—letting out a louder moan than you intended to—before slapping a hand over your mouth to muffle your sounds. 

No, he can’t have that.

With his free hand, he pulls yours away to lace your fingers together. “Awh, don’t do that. Let me hear you.”

Rough tongue sending sparks coursing through you, he slips in another finger—curving them just right to hit that spot inside of you and drive you mad. His fingers tighten around yours, holding your hand like a lifeline—and you can see him shaking, straining as he fights the need to just get closer to you. 

You’re practically crying from just his mouth and fingers alone—you can’t imagine what it’ll feel like to have him inside of you. “Agh—fuck! Oh, Enjin—”

“That's it,” he’s purring against your clit, “keep sayin’ my name just like that.”

It’s too much—too good. When you unconsciously try to wiggle away from his hold, Enjin tsk’s—grabbing your thigh by his head and pulling you back, pushing your hips down again to keep you in place. “Where are you runnin’ off to?” His eyes are locked on you. “You're stayin’ right here, princess.”

“Please, please—Jin’, please—” You haven’t got the slightest clue what you’re begging for, but you just know you need more. 

The obscene sound of you soaking his fingers punches an embarrassing moan from Enjin’s throat. Your back arches off the bed because of it—lips parted around his name—while he watches with pupils blown black.

Enjin’s hips continue to jerk mindlessly, and he swears he’s going to bust his load in his pants from just the taste and sight of you. 

“Ngh—Enjin, I think I’m—” Attempting to warn him of your increasing climax, you’re cut off by him pulling away, coming up to kiss you. It’s softer this time—at least compared to his rough, desperate lips earlier. “Not yet.”

Taking off his pants, he finally releases his cock from its hold. You can’t help but gape at it—tip red and angry, drops of precum leaking down. It’s unfairly pretty.

And it’s big.

He reads the slightly fearful look on your face, rubbing soft circles into your hips. “Hey, we’ll take it slow, okay?” Every touch is a silent promise to you—this is Enjin, you’re safe. He’ll always take care of you.

Lining himself up at your entrance, he looks at you for confirmation. This okay?

You swallow, nodding. He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek as he pushes just the tip in.

“Shit—” You wince in pain with a sharp inhale. Enjin’s lips brush over your temple as he pushes in inch by inch. “Relax, baby. Just breathe, I’ve got you.”

Bottoming out has him moaning, head dropping to the crook of your neck. “You feel so good.”

Every muscle in his body contracts, trying not to move—this is your call, and he’ll wait however long he needs to. Eventually, the pain subsides into a dull ache—but underneath it is something better. When you feel his dick twitch inside of you, it makes your breath hitch.

You tap his shoulder.

“You can move.”

Enjin pulls back ever so slightly, before rocking back into you. “You're shaking,” He nuzzles the curve of your shoulder, inhaling the scent of sweat and your perfume. “You okay?”

The feeling of that first thrust catches you off guard, and you gasp—running your hands down the ink on his chest. “Perfect.” You nod profusely. “Please don’t stop.”

Slowly but surely, his hips start rolling in more shallow movements as he watches your face twist with newfound pleasure. You’re clenching around him so hard it’s taking everything in him to last, which was no easy feat right now. “You’re so tight—”

“You sound like that’s a bad thing…”

That makes him laugh, even though half-way through it he chokes on a groan when you tighten up on him again. “No, baby. Far from a bad thing.”

“You’re so wet,” a kiss, “and grippin’ me like this,” a thrust. “Fuck, ma’—it’s makin’ me lose my damn mind.” He picks up speed, and it feels so good that you are crying now. Big, fat tears beading at your lashes and running down your face. 

“Shh, don’t cry baby,” Enjin cooes, catching the drops of salty tears with his tongue—lapping them up as they fall. Your nails claw down his back—so hard he thinks he may be bleeding—but that only turns him on more. 

It’s kind of wild—seeing you laying beneath him, eyes glazed over and glossy with tears, moaning his name and crying, all fucked out on his dick. Never in a million years would he have thought he’d be balls deep inside of you—but now he’s cursing himself for not doing this so much sooner.

His cock is hitting nerves that your fingers or toys could never reach, and your back arches into him every time it kisses your cervix. You also couldn’t believe you were having sex with Enjin—silently thanking whatever higher power is up there for finally granting your wish.

“You’re so beautiful.” His hips roll in mind blowing circles. “And you’re so smart, funny, and kind.” Every praise is accompanied with a thrust that knocks sounds you didn’t even know you were capable of from your lips. 

“You’re all mine, right?” You babble, nod, whatever. But that’s not what he wants. He takes one hand and grabs your jaw, the other reaching down to circle your clit. The added stimulation along with him hitting all of the right spots in your gummy walls makes your vision blur. “Ngh—yes! Right there—feels so good…” 

“Wrong answer, try again.” His thrusts are brutal now, all softness out the window. “Let me hear you say it.” He grips your jaw harder, forcing you to look him in the eye, “I know you can. C’monnn—just use your words, princess.”

“Yours!” You cry out, “M’ yours—all yours, oh!” One particular snap of his hips has you practically screaming—you make a mental note to write an apology letter to his neighbors. “Only wanna be yours, Enjin—”

“Always have been—” You take his face in your hands, “Never loved anyone else—” 

Your nails raking down the sweat-slick nape of his neck has him moaning and moving like a damn dog in heat, hips jerking like a live wire’s been shoved up his spine. “I never ever will!” 

Your voice is like cupid’s arrow right in his heart. No pussy’s ever had him this drunk on it before—losing all of his self control—but that was just the spell you had on him. Constantly pulling at his heart strings, and shit, he wished he'd always loved you this way.

Maybe he had. Maybe you were right that he was stupid—he never really was very good with feelings. He’ll never make a mistake like that again.

“That’s my good girl, always sayin’ exactly what I want to hear…” He’s trying so hard to hold on. “God—M’ sorry, mama—” Enjin’s hands lock around your thighs, hiking them up until they’re flush with your chest and he’s wearing them like a necklace. “Didn’t mean to make you wait this long.”

You didn’t think it was possible for him to get any deeper—but fuck, he was—the stretch burning so good, and you can practically feel him in your stomach. His thick cock bullies into your tight cunt with little to no mercy, forehead pressed against yours, and your walls flutter around him as the coil in your stomach tightens.

“You gonna cum for me?” He goes faster, harder—he could win an Olympic medal at this point. “Please, baby. Need you to—” The pace of his thumb circling around your clit speeds up, giving you about 30 seconds until you fall apart. “Need you to cum all around my cock—”

Your vision goes white as you snap, orgasm rushing over you in mind blowing waves. You fall forward, this time biting down on his neck—hard enough to bleed and bruise.

“Mine—mine, mine, mine—” If you’re going to be his, then he’s going to be yours. No more Mr. Playboy. You’re not about to let him claim you without claiming him right back. If he wants you locked down, then he’s locking the fuck down too.

“Fuck—yeah baby, just like that…” Enjin’s cumming harder than he thinks he ever has in his life—the feeling of your walls spasming and clenching as you experience your own release, your teeth sinking into his skin, the sound of your cries and chanting right by his ear—it leaves him fucking you rough and filthy through both of your highs. 

You think this must be what heaven feels like. If you died right now, you’d be at complete and utter peace with the life you’d lived. 

His hips slow, easing your legs gently back down around his sides. You’re utterly wrecked beneath him—flushed and panting, skin glowing with sweat, shimmering almost like the glitter you always dust across your collarbones at parties.

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

The way your hair fans out on his sheets. The way your lips are swollen and bruised from kissing him. The way your eyes are looking at him right now. He wants to burn the picture of you into his brain forever. 

Enjin slowly pulls out and you mewl at the overstimulation, then at the loss of him inside of you. “Was that okay?” His eyes search your face like he’s looking for any sign he messed up.

“More than okay,” you reach up to trace the mark you left on him. It’s dark and gnarly. You wince. “Sorry about that… But was it okay for you, too?”

“Best sex I’ve ever had, baby.”

Enjin drops back onto the bed and pulls you into his chest where you belong. “And don’t apologize. I liked it, was hot as fuck. I feel branded now—might go get it tattooed.”

“You’re gonna get so much shit from the guys.”

“Do I look like I care?”

You run your fingers over the lines of his tattoos, tracing them absentmindedly while he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. “We should probably get you cleaned up.”

He’s right, your thighs are sticky from your combined juices now leaking out—but you whine and cling tighter to him. “Nooo. Not yet. In a bit.”

“You’re such a spoiled brat.”

“Your spoiled brat, if I remember correctly.”

“Yeah, my pain in the ass.”

His heartbeat thuds beneath your palm, his hand rubbing slow circles into your back like he’s trying to lull you to sleep. “Got a question for ya’.”

You lift your chin to look at him. “What’s up?”

“You still going on that date this weekend?”

You roll your eyes and pinch his cheeks lightly. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

He grins. “Second question.”

“God, what now?”

“Girlfriend?”

Your heart flutters—the best word that could’ve come out of his mouth. You smile softly and nod.

Countering him, “Boyfriend?”

“Obviously.”

You poke his chest. “Best friend?”

He never hesitates.

“Forever.”

𝜗𝜚

The walk to the dining room is long and you are unable to keep your busy mind on track. For a while now your relationship with Satoru has caused conflicting feelings for you. Being the one to see him sleep so peacefully, being the one to wake him up - to see him adjust to the morning light, barely there but still smiling up at you…

Being the one who sees him to bed at night, per his request. He has you sit in his bed with him, something neither of you could ever tell someone else because of the implications that come with that action. But all he has you do is reminisce on simpler times with him. How catching the frogs in the garden was once the hardest thing he had to do in his day and that he missed horseback riding with you, begging you to join him again. It’s hard to lie when his blue eyes look up at you through his white lashes, but you continue to tell him you just grew past enjoying that. Choosing to protect him from the current reality you struggled with. His lip always curled into a little pout at the end of your conversations, and you would tuck the blankets into his sides and wish him a good night.

Everything between you two felt so wrong because the things that you both were forbidden to do felt so right. It was really no mystery to you, and as you both grew older and Satoru grew bolder, it wasn’t a mystery to anyone else either: Satoru felt more than just friendship for you. You think that is what you loved most about him. The fact he could never hide his feelings - lacking the ability to pretend to feel or be anything that he wasn’t. But all though you loved it,  it was causing a lot of problems for you. You were made aware of the King and Queen’s feelings on you and him being so close. They were unimpressed, but willing to ignore it as long as you focused on your duties and kept the Prince focused on his. But you and everyone around you knew the ice you were treading on was rapidly thinning. 

As you make your way closer to the dining room you shut away your feelings, the pressure of your role in his life becoming more apparent each day - unable to avoid the gossip among other servants and your parents' constant warning that the path you were walking would lead to a place you would regret finding. 

𝜗𝜚

Breakfast with Satoru went as it always went. He played around with his food while you walked him through the tasks he was expected to do for the day. 

“The Queen set up another dining etiquette lesson which you will attend soon after your meal,” you tell him and he scoffs, elbows digging into the table and the egg on his plate being flung onto the oak table. You grimace and continue, “You also have a lesson to brush you up on the politics of surrounding nations,” he responds by slurping his water loudly, piercing blue eyes staring at you with a bored expression. Clearing your throat you remind him he also has fencing lessons and two hours of horseback riding to look forward to and he finally flashes you his award winning smile. 

“Now you’re saying what I wanted to hear,” he still has his eyes on you, looking at you with adoration and something else you couldn’t place. You squirmed under his watchful eyes, muttering about how he needs to finish breakfast and get cleaned up for the day. 

𝜗𝜚

While Satoru sits through his lessons, you busy yourself in the laundry room, cleaning his sheets so that they are ready by the time he enters his chambers for the night. The repetitive motion of scrubbing the wet laundry against itself to work up any dirt did little to distract you from the whispers of other servants who were obviously talking about you. You wanted badly to scoff and tell them to find some new drama to busy their mouths with - but you knew it would do nothing but fuel the gossip so you steeled your face and kept focused on your tasks. It was obviously no secret to anybody in the Gojo estate that you two were closer than what was allowed. You could hardly even blame them for finding such enjoyment from the drama that was unraveling slowly but surely. Being a servant was hardly an entertaining job. You originally found yourself lucky you had Satoru to keep you entertained - but that was quickly biting you in the behind. 

All though everyone else around you couldn’t stop talking about it; Satoru and you never uttered a word about the subject of their rumors. It left a sour taste on your tongue to imagine actually acknowledging out loud that you were aware of what was transpiring, and Satoru couldn’t care less what anyone had to say about him and you. It was better left unsaid between the both of you, you thought to yourself. 

𝜗𝜚

Once laundry was done you made your way out into the field where Satoru was practicing fencing with his teacher. You balanced a full cup of water in your hand as you made your way closer and closer to the two men taking jabs at each other, being careful not to spill a drop. The sun beat down on you and the birds chirped between the sounds of their swords thwacking against each other’s. You waited patiently for them to finish their sparring. You were in awe each time you saw Satoru do something that wasn’t entirely included in his princely responsibilities. Sure, fencing was something all Princes were taught to do; but it was far from a requirement to rule an entire nation of people. He came alive when it was just him and the outdoors. Away from the stuffy classrooms and the boring talk of what was expected of him and where his place was in the world. He didn’t regard being a Prince as a privilege but as a tedious title thrown onto him because of who he was born to. Satoru despised his role in the world, but having activities to keep his mind engaged temporarily lessened his growing anger as his responsibilities piled on his shoulders. He wondered if Atlas ever considered giving up and letting the heavens squash him dead. 

The tip of his blade touches his teacher’s chest, scoring his final point and causing his lips to turn into a wide smile. He’s breathless when he notices you, walking up with the confidence of a God before peeling his mask off his head. He’s sweaty and breathless, leaning in close to your face. You can feel the heat radiating off his body from how close he managed to get, a bead of sweat dripping from his hairline as he takes the cup from you. “Thank you,” he manages to tell you between heaving breaths. You can’t fight the quiver it causes you. 

He downs the cup, the remnants dripping out from the corner of his mouth and sliding down his defined jaw and trailing down his neck - making it impossible to avoid the bobbing of his throat with each gulp he takes. Your blush is red hot, suddenly finding the blades of grass incredibly interesting until he speaks up. 

“Walk me to the stables?”

𝜗𝜚

As you escort him to the stables your father is in charge of, your hands brush against each other while you match each other’s steps. You're both stuck in comfortable silence, listening to the soft trickling of a far away fountain and watching as two butterflies race in front of each other. Their wings flutter as they surround each other, colliding with one another as they circle around the other, before taking off into the greenery ahead. You look up upon feeling a pair of eyes on yours - Satoru smiles once your eyes reach his. Your face flushes only causing him to grin at you as you desperately try to find an interesting topic to talk about. “H-how were your lessons?” you inquire. 

His head shakes at you, laughing to himself before he answers you, “fine”. The answer is dull and void of any details but you struggle to find the correct words to pry. Your fingers bump into his again and you bring your hand up to cough into it. You don’t have to look at Satoru to know he is smiling at you like he always does when you’re flustered. Typically you would call him out for it, and he would flirtatiously respond back that he just can’t help it. But you don’t call him out and he doesn’t respond back. If he was aware of the conflict in your features he doesn’t mention it. You walk in silence again until the stables come into view.

𝜗𝜚

You greet your father upon entering the large open doors where he is quick to bow. “Prince Gojo, good afternoon,” Satoru nods in acknowledgement and the other stablehands begin to saddle up his favorite horse. He watches as your father says hello to you, his eyes wary noticing you with the Prince. It was your job as his personal servant to follow him around of course, but tensions had been high recently. Any time the two of you were alone was a cause of concern in his book. “Daughter,” he smiles at you, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. Your father was a burly man from years of being in charge of the stables and taking care of the horses. His beard was unkempt and his face was a little dirty, but with one look at him there was no denying he was your father. You two shared the same eye and hair color, you both thought long and hard before you spoke, and you both were prone to nervous habits like biting your nails. Satoru wondered what it would be like to have a parent worth inheriting from. 

The stablehands brought his horse out, the white stallion whinnying upon seeing the Prince. Satoru greets him warmly, brushing his hands across its muzzle, “Hey boy,” he calls to him sweetly, continuing to run his hand across its back as he prepares himself to jump into the saddle. He pauses though, eyes deep in thought and you almost ask him what's wrong before he speaks up. “Get her a horse, please,” he tells one of the men who brought out his horse and you instantly perk up. 

“Prince Gojo,” you address him formally in front of your father, “I really must get back to prepare for dinner.”

“As your Prince,” he says, making it a point to emphasize the label he hates you using, “I’m asking you to ride with me,” he turns to direct the stablehands, “Saddle up a horse quickly please.” Your father is anything but impressed, but he nods when his staff check with him for permission. It’s subtle and no one would ever admit to disobeying the Prince, but they felt the need to check for his reassurance. He didn’t just demand respect, your father earned it. 

You fiddle with your fingers, mumbling about how it really wasn’t a good idea but once Satoru got started on something he wouldn’t stop until it happened. You sigh as they bring out a stunning black mare, saddled up and ready for you to ride. Satoru notices your hesitation to pull yourself up, making his way over to you and grabbing your hips abruptly. His slender fingers squeeze the flowy fabric of your uniform tight against your sides before lifting you up into the saddle. He patted your mare once you got situated and made his way back into his own saddle, completely unaware of how dead silent the stables became. Your father was shaking his head and the other men were rendered speechless watching you follow the Prince out into the open fields. 

𝜗𝜚

Riding with Satoru was a different kind of freedom. The feeling of the wind flowing through your hair, the sound of boisterous laughter as Satoru led you into his favorite part of the forest; dodging twigs that stuck out from the trees as you raced after him. Your mare’s hooves thundered down on the forest floor, the steady thump thump thump causing your heart to beat along with its rhythm. “I thought you said you didn’t like riding anymore?” he teased you as your melodious laughter filled the open air. He kept looking back at you, trusting his horse to guide him safely while he couldn’t help but watch you and the unfiltered joy you let out, causing his heart to flutter and mouth to dry. Satoru wasn’t one to reflect too hard on his emotions - recognizing it would drive him mad to ponder on complicated things like his feelings. But watching you was different. He didn’t feel the need to label what he felt. He just allowed himself to feel.

Because with you it was easy… or hard. Easy because his feelings were so featherlight; devoid of their usual drag against his heavy heart. But hard because he could feel you slowly pulling away from him.

You couldn’t stop the buzzing of your body from how good the adrenaline rush felt. How good it felt to be away from other’s wandering eyes - waiting for you to make a mistake you nor your family could come back from. It was bliss. Spending time with Satoru was bliss. 

𝜗𝜚

The two of you had stopped in a grassy knoll upon a hill farther up the Gojo’s land where people rarely visited. Your horses busied themselves with a nearby stream, lapping up the clear water as you and the prince laid side by side in the knoll. Your eyes busied themselves with the fluffy white clouds in the sky, focusing on the feeling of the grass licking at your skin. Satoru’s eyes watched you as you watched the sky, trying not to pout at the feeling of you admiring a different color blue than his own. His heart tugged and he willed it to focus on the peacefulness of laying by your side. Morning doves cooed in the distance and the summer breeze swept away the uneasiness that tried to bury itself into your skin. “I wish we could lay here forever,” you commented after minutes of silence. Satoru huffed out in agreement. 

“Turn towards me,” he begged, the words barely loud enough to break through the sounds of nature. You weren’t used to Satoru being so soft spoken, quickly turning to lay on your side to meet his face. His eyes scan your features for a minute, before he breaks the silence again,  “You’re so beautiful,” he tells you simply, tucking away a strand of hair behind your ear. Your heart lurches and your stomach drops as his thumb touches your bottom lip, playing with the plush skin. 

Against everything in your body telling you to close your eyes and melt into his touch you sit up abruptly, clearing your throat and softly muttering about how dinner would be ready soon. As you go and fetch both of your horses, Satoru buries his head in between the long blades of grass, not bothering to fight back a childish groan.

┊p1┊𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠... p2┊

taglist: @bubera974 𐙚 @dahliawarner 𐙚 @phoenixisdabest 𐙚 @designerpvssy 𐙚

initially you never considered having a kid, but if it's your dear brother's son, and likewise your only nephew, you'd change your entire lifestyle for it.

you didn't care whether you were putting yourself in more danger by taking in harry, nor did you care what dumbledore had to say about how a bunch of non-wizards were going to do a better job protecting harry.

you knew very well that your beloved sister-in-law didn't receive the best treatment from her sister, who was also harry's aunt though she didn't deserve that title in your eyes. if a woman like lily's sister were to take care of harry, you could only imagine how miserable harry would be.

so, despite how much pain you were in from losing james and lily, you did everything in your power as one of the best aurors in the nation to get custody of harry. perhaps taking care of him was your way of grieving the loss of your brother and sister-in-law, but you didn't give yourself time to think about it.

making sure harry was a happy and healthy baby was the most important thing to you, and thankfully, what remained of james's old friend group agreed and occasionally dropped by to help you take care of harry.

the wizarding world obviously didn't miss the fact one of their best aurors would be child-rearing the boy who lived, and you've had many unwelcomed visits from people like the malfoys to your doorstep.

you were tempted to move to a different place and never tell anyone until harry was a little older, but it was hard enough to manage harry and your job, so it never happened.

that being said, harry grew up as a healthy and happy boy, though he missed his parents, he was happy to have you with him. because he was your top priority in all situations, he never had a moment of feeling neglected.

has accidentally called you mom, though you're a little bothered by it, you don't stop him, knowing you're the closest thing he has to lily.

generally speaking, the entire plot of harry potter would go a completely different way if harry was raised in the wizarding world alongside proper knowledge of his parents. i doubt he'd be as lost or confused as he was in canon

and maybe remus would be more involved in harry's life too, but he's also going through a lot being a werewolf and losing his bestest friends to death and to prison and to voldemort

you and remus trade letters every now and then, you giving him updates on harry while he gives you vague answers about his own wellbeing

when sirius eventually returns on harry's third year, you're the first person to hear about it and blown away by the sudden news that sirius never killed anyone, but he was framed by none other than peter

being james's sister, you knew all three of them very well, so it was nearly heartbreaking to hear that peter would do such a thing in the first place.

you even knew why snape disliked harry so much, knowing your brother caused him too much harm with bullying and "taking" lily away from him.

and truthfully, you were the few people who tried to stop james from doing too much to snape, but snape never accepted your help, considering you were a gryffindor and james's sister

it isn't until you hear about what happened to harry in his fourth year that snape sees you again

when you burst into the infirmary nearly in tears, there are many reactions

snape initially doesn't recognize you and tries pulling you away from harry until dumbledore tells him not to and to give you time instead

obviously, the man is flabbergasted and wonders who the heck you are until harry gains like half his consciousness and is mumbling "auntie, are you okay?" and it clicks

harry --> james's son, harry's aunt -> james's sister

he's very quiet for the remainder of the time until you leave the infirmary with dumbledore and mcgonagall, when he takes you aside to talk privately

he starts off with casual questions which is very out or character for him, but you answer him anyway, knowing him as a blunt and honest individual despite being a slytherin

after a small back and forth of him asking how you're doing and what you've been up to while raising harry, he apologizes out of the blue.

even if he hated your brother's guts, he could never hate lily or you

he apologized that he couldn't do anything to save lily at least, knowing that you cherished and admired lily very much, knowing you found solace in her when your brother and his friends wouldn't listen to you

a part of him is also sorry that you had to see lily's eyes after long her death through harry, who was a mash of the two people you loved the most. snape knew you were probably in more pain than he was if he was hurting as much as he was from lily

james was horrible to him, sure, but it doesn't take away from the fact you and james were two peas in a pod, with a bond probably stronger than the death spell itself

and for being unable to protect what little peace you had in your life, he's sorry

and you tell him there's nothing to apologize for. protecting lily and james was never his job but rather peter and your job

I don't think it'll be strange for there to be some chemistry between you and severus, with how you tried getting him away from james and his friends and reuniting after harry's forth year.

back to you and harry though, and a little backtrack

you absolutely HATED rita skeeter

the way she haggled harry and his friends didn't sit right with you, the way she dragged his name through the mud and even got your name involved, though it didn't go far since too many people knew you as one of the most important aurors in the wizard society

not to mention, dumbledore and mcgonagall did not take kindly to her dragging your name into the mess once they saw the papers

and... you might have sent some unpleasant words to skeeter after harry sent you a letter of his situation

you can take unpleasant words towards you but any provocation towards your nephew or brother or sister-in-law will definitely prove to people why you're one of the pillars of the wizard society

or at least, the few that aren't serving mr. noseless

sadly, you weren't there when sirius died, so he isn't spared. and you were reasonably devastated and heartbroken at hearing how he was killed, but the pain of losing of your closest friends and supporters was what pushed you to protect as many people as you could

remus and snape are two of the people you were able to protect by some miracle.

and you best believe the death count in the final war was considerably less because you were smart and threw around shield spells to anyone you could get to, and remus and tonks were one of the first people to get it

for snape, you pulled an illusionary spell on and made it seem like he died, when really he was fine

(can you tell I'm playing matchmaker)

at the end of it all, harry potter would be a lot more dynamic and not very depressing if harry had an aunt on his dad's side. I guess james was such a handful harry's grandparents couldn't make the time or have energy for another one

✧˚ · .・Newlyweds・. ·˚✧

You found the apartment on an ad, it was close enough to your new workplace to get there by walking and it was not expensive for the area, but the kitchen furniture? It was at least 20 years old. Cabinets? Falling apart.

Toji didn’t understand why you were so cool with a kitchen that could barely be used to chop vegetables. The thing is: he didn’t have much time in between meeting you and marrying you, so there were a lot of things he still didn’t know about you

When he spent the night at your place you would always order take outs, he assumed it was because you two could spend more time together or you didn’t have enough food for two

It wasn’t until the marriage that he found out about your awful eating habits. Basically you hated cooking because you suck at it or you suck at it because you hate cooking

You couldn’t decide when explaining

So a kitchen to you consists of only a fridge to: store frozen meals, stuff to make sandwiches and pin a list of places that deliver near you

And when he found out oh boy you were never scolded that hard not even by your mother. It’s not like he was too different himself but he at least managed to use the stove in order to not starve to death and save a few pennie’s

“You regret marrying me now?” You asked when the scolding got too harsh.

“No dumbass, I signed a fucking document saying I’ll grown old with you, but how am I supposed to do that if you die because you’ve been eating absolutely garbage all your life?”

That's not what the document said Toji have you even read it

Also he would scold you while smoking but you let him get away with that bc of how hot he looked whilst doing it.

So he attempted to make home-made dishes for the next days

The day he didn’t clean the shrimps as he should resulting in the two of you having food poisoning (he blamed the kitchen) was when you suggested that “someone” had to sign in for cooking lessons.

“Someone huh?” “someone 😌”

But he refused to keep cooking in those conditions, so he started to attend cooking classes in the morning and wander around the city in the afternoon looking for kitchen cabinets on sale... And he found it.

Although the reason why it was so cheap was because the assembling was not included.

When they came to deliver it was a Saturday morning. You were confused by the wood piles around your living room, but Toji assured you that he could do that by himself, so he gathered his tools and started to destroy the old cabinets with a hammer in nothing but baggy pants and construction gloves.

“You seem to be enjoying this a lot” you told him while sitting on the couch with a coffee mug staring at his bare back. “You seem to be enjoying it way more than me” he replied, whipping his forehead, it was too early to be turned on by the sight of your husband's muscles glowing with sweat but the heat between your thighs didn’t give a damn about what time it was.

So yeah he fucked you on top the counter which was the only stable piece there.

He really liked building stuff so he built a whole office in the spare bedroom for you to comfortably work from home whenever you could.

It became an unspoken thing: you had your office job and he had the house job, and would occasionally get hired to fix/build something for the neighbors.

You did not know anyone at the new company branch you transferred, so when they asked about your life you would happily brag about being a newlywed and that brought up the topic of your husband (also the amazing food everyone asked if was made by you) so in a few weeks all the branch knew about your husband being a “housewife” and that became a joke for them

Until one day you woke up late and forgot your lunch, Toji could not risk you coming back to the trash eating routine so he dropped by your company to give your lunchbox

“We hired a new security guard?” “I don’t know” “Who is that?” your colleagues were whispering at the 6ft muscled menace at the reception until you spotted him.

“Did you forget this on purpose?” “What? Of course not, I love your food” you tiptoed to reach his cheek and give him a kiss.

“That’s the househusband?” “No way, he’s definitely a mob” “Is that a scar on his face?”

“There’s a sale nearby, text me when you leave and we’ll walk home together” “Check if that chocolate brand I like is on sale, please?” you looked at him with those pleading eyes he could not resist. “Fine” he bent down a little to peck your lips before walking towards the exit.

Let's say your colleagues haven't joked about him anymore.

Toji really embraced the house husband life, he appreciated your hard work and paid you back by taking care of the house and doing delicious meals, he even got some tips from his cooking class friends about house cleaning and growing plants.

You had a hard time making friends with the neighbors 'cause you didn’t like to socialize much so it was a surprise when people greet you on the streets and ask you to take small plants and little containers with food for you and your husband.

When you worked from home he absolutely would drop by every hour to give you fruits and filling your water bottle or just ask if you wanted something

Yeah I’m gonna take a break now bc househusband Toji got me all soft and mushy

If you worked overtime he wouldn’t complain unless that meant skipping meals or losing sleep.

“That’s enough” he said closing your laptop. “Toji! I haven’t—” “I don’t care, you yawned 5 times the last hour, let’s go” “But—” Toji didn’t like brats, he picked you up giving your ass a slap and carried you to the bathroom where a hot bath tub awaited.

✧˚ · .・Married s3x life・. ·˚✧

Okay so before the marriage your interactions with Toji were resumed by sex. You always felt like it was purely carnal for him.

It was mind blowing ofc but he would only spend the night if he was too tired to leave. That’s when you tried to engage him into pillow talk and eventually made him fall for you.

After marriage he learned how to express his feelings better through sex.

When he was feeling romantic he would make you a nice and light meal with a generic cheap wine he doesn’t know wine leave him alone then lead you to bed to slow undress your working clothes

“Such a good girl aren’t you? Working all day and coming home all tense. Let me take care of my wife” he would lay you in the bed and massage you all the way down your back then roughly grab your ass cheeks. “You leave me here alone thinking about you in that tight skirt, why do your coworkers get to see your perfect ass in that thing more than I do? Raise it” with a slap on your cheek you would get your knees on the mattress and raise your butt until you felt his warm fingers spread your folds giving you a little stretch before filling you fully with his cock.

Toji also gets bored very often, resulting in him staring at you while you talked to a coworker on the phone when working from home and eventually making his way under the desk to spread your legs and push your underwear aside.

Oh it was an important call? Too bad hun.

Toji knew what he was doing when he walked around the house using his usual baggy pants and no shirt unnecessary flexing arm for simple things.

One day, before bed, you caught him staring at the mirror and one hand moving up and down his torso.

“You okay there?” you asked coming to hug him from behind. “I gained weight from all the cooking classes, we bake too much. I’ll go for a run tomorrow morning” he sighed and turned to you. “I think you look great, honey, it’s normal to gain some extra pounds and... what are you doing???” you asked once he picked you up bride style. “We are gonna burn some calories, baby doll” “Oh :D”

One of his neighbor friends from the cooking class told him about these yoga classes and he suggested that you attend to get more “flexible”, you felt a little offended, but went for it anyways, and you bet he would “test” your flexibility every now and then to "know if the classes are money well spent".

Spencer Reid’s earliest memories were not linear.

They didn’t arrive in neat timelines or clearly defined years the way most people’s did. Instead, they came in fragments, sensory impressions stacked on top of one another like transparencies. The smell of old books and pencil shavings. The squeak of sneakers on linoleum floors. The grounding weight of silence that followed him everywhere like a shadow.

And you.

You were always there.

Not as a single moment he could point to, but as a presence threaded through everything else. A constant variable in a life that otherwise felt too fast and loud. When he tried to trace the beginning of you, his mind failed him. You simply existed, already seated beside him at a small desk that was too short for his legs, already tugging at his sleeve because he’d drifted too far into his thoughts.

He remembered the way classrooms felt before you. So overwhelming in their chaos, filled with scraping chairs and overlapping voices that made his chest tighten. And then he remembered how that sensation softened once you started sitting next to him. How the noise blurred at the edges when your knee pressed lightly against his under the desk, a small, unconscious anchor that told his body it was safe to stay.

You learned early that he startled easily.

Not from fear, exactly, but from intrusion. From the suddenness of touch that didn’t announce itself, from hands that appeared without warning. So you announced yourself in a language only the two of you seemed to share. A gentle brush of fingers against his arm before leaning closer. A whisper of his name before tugging on his sleeve. Your touch was never sharp. It was slow. Predictable. Kind.

He remembered your hands most vividly.

They were always warm, even in winter, even when you’d come inside from the cold with pink cheeks and a runny nose, fingers immediately seeking his like they had a homing instinct. You held onto him the way children hold onto railings, not because they’re afraid of falling, but because it feels wrong not to. During assemblies, when hundreds of bodies packed together and the air grew thick and stale, you would lace your fingers through his and squeeze in quiet reassurance, counting his breaths with your thumb like you were teaching him how to exist in the world without it hurting.

No one ever told you not to touch him.

Maybe the teachers saw how he calmed when you did. How his foot stopped bouncing. How his gaze returned to the room instead of disappearing somewhere far away. Or maybe they simply didn’t notice, because you were small and bright and harmless, and he was the strange, gifted boy everyone had already decided was fragile.

Spencer never thought of it as touch.

It was just you.

You leaning against him during silent reading, your head resting briefly on his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You sitting on the floor beside him during recess instead of running with the other kids, tracing shapes into the carpet while he explained things he was too young to have words for yet. You pressing your forehead to his when he cried quietly in the nurse’s office after another kid called him a freak.

You were there when the world became too much.

You were there when he forgot how to be small.

By the time Spencer realized most people didn’t live their lives with someone’s hand wrapped around their sleeve, it was already too late. The habit had settled into his bones. Your presence had become synonymous with safety, with warmth, with the idea that closeness didn’t always have to hurt.

And so, years later, when Spencer Reid invited you to a BAU Christmas party, he didn’t consider it an anomaly.

He didn’t stop to question the decision or examine the possible outcomes the way he usually did. Inviting you felt less like a choice and more like a continuation, like picking up a sentence he’d started years ago and never quite finished. He didn’t think about the way your hand would inevitably find his arm when you arrived, or how your fingers would curl around his sleeve with the same quiet certainty they always had. He didn’t think about how his body would recognize yours before his mind ever could, adjusting instinctively, shifting just enough to make space for you.

He only knew that where you were, he could breathe.

“Spencer!”

Your voice reached him before you did, cutting through the low murmur of conversation and soft instrumental Christmas music drifting through the bullpen. Spencer turned just in time to see you weaving through the room, eyes alight, cardigan slightly crooked like you’d put it on in a hurry. You crossed the distance between you quickly, as if drawn by gravity, and slipped into his space without hesitation.

Your hand landed on his arm and squeezed once, affectionate and grounding.

“Oh my god,” you said, glancing around with wide eyes. “Everyone’s so tall.”

Spencer smiled immediately.

It happened before he could stop it, before his brain could catch up and assess or analyze. The tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying all evening loosened, his shoulders dropping a fraction as your warmth settled in beside him. The room felt quieter suddenly, smaller, more manageable.

“They are?” he asked, blinking. His gaze followed yours as he took in the room properly for the first time: Morgan towering near the refreshment table, Emily leaning casually against a desk, Hotch standing straight as ever near the tree. “I mean—yes, I suppose they are. The average height here is probably above the national—”

“Spence,” you interrupted gently, laughter soft and fond as you leaned into his side. Your shoulder brushed his chest, your head tipping toward him in a way that was so unconscious it felt rehearsed. “I’m not asking for data.”

“Oh,” he said, equally gentle. “Right. Sorry.”

You tilted your head against his shoulder for half a second, just long enough for the contact to register, just long enough to remind his body of something old and steady. It was the same motion you’d made as a child when you were tired or excited or simply content to be near him.

“I think I’ve just spent too much time with little humans,” you continued thoughtfully, eyes still scanning the room. “Adults feel…elongated.”

“Elongated,” he repeated, testing the word like it was a new puzzle piece. “That’s a good descriptor.”

You straightened slightly, pleased. “Thank you. I pride myself on my vocabulary.”

Then you looked up at him, your expression softening in a way only he ever seemed to notice. “You okay?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately, the truth spilling out before he could overthink it. Then, after a beat, quieter and more honest: “Better now.”

Your thumb brushed absently over the fabric of his sleeve, tracing a small, unconscious arc. “Good.”

The BAU around you hummed with quiet holiday energy. Paper cups clinking, someone laughing near the coffee station, the faint smell of pine and sugar cookies lingering in the air. White lights blinked lazily along the edge of desks, reflecting off computer screens and tinsel. It was festive in a restrained, slightly awkward way. Very on brand.

You took it all in with open curiosity.

“So,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your free hand, never letting go of him. “This is where you disappear to all day.”

“Disappear is…not inaccurate,” he said. “Although I do technically remain in the same physical location.”

You grinned. “Good to know. And these,” you added, nodding toward the team, “are your work people?”

He nodded. “They’re…important to me.”

Something softened in your expression at that. Your grip on his arm tightened just a little. Not possessive, just protective. “Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll be good.”

He frowned, confused in the way only Spencer Reid could be. “You’re always good.”

“I mean,” you clarified, smiling, “I’ll try not to embarrass you.”

“You don’t,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out with quiet urgency. Then he hesitated, searching for the right phrasing. “I mean…you’ve never been a source of embarrassment.”

You laughed, warm and delighted, and leaned closer again. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Across the room, the team watched.

JJ’s eyebrows lifted. Emily’s lips parted slightly. Morgan’s grin grew slow and incredulous. Because it was like watching a celestial event. So rare, impossible, beautiful in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Spencer Reid, fully relaxed.

Spencer Reid, smiling without restraint.

Spencer Reid, being touched without recoiling.

It was like seeing Halley’s Comet.

And neither of you even noticed.

It was crazy.

The moment Spencer finished introducing you—barely managing to get your name out before you were already smiling at everyone—you launched into a story like the words had been waiting just beneath your tongue all night. You stayed tucked into his side, your hand still looped comfortably around his arm, fingers absentmindedly gripping his sleeve as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your free hand moved constantly as you spoke, expressive and animated, tracing invisible shapes in the air. You talked with your whole body, voice bright with wonder and enthusiasm, the kind that pulled people in without effort.

“So my class is doing this thing where they write letters to Santa,” you said, eyes darting between the team members as if you were letting them in on something important. “Which is adorable, obviously. Like, painfully adorable. But then one of my kids raises his hand and asks if Santa has an email because,” you paused, lips twitching, “‘writing is too slow.’”

You laughed, breathless and delighted, and without thinking leaned your head briefly against Spencer’s shoulder, the motion unconscious and practiced.

Spencer felt it before he processed it.

His hand twitched at his side before lifting and settling gently at your elbow. His fingers barely pressed, just enough to keep you steady, to anchor you where you were.

No tension. No hesitation.

Just instinct.

“Statistically,” Spencer added calmly, slipping into the conversation like he’d always been part of it, his voice low and thoughtful, “children are adapting to digital communication at increasingly younger ages. Their frustration tolerance for slower methods is decreasing.”

You turned to him like he’d just solved a mystery.

“See?” you said triumphantly, pointing at him before looking back at the team, still clinging to his arm. “This is why I keep him around. He makes my classroom chaos sound academic.”

“I think it already is,” Spencer said softly, glancing down at you. “You’re shaping cognitive development during a critical stage.”

You blinked, caught for half a second, then smiled and leaned a little closer. “That’s because you’re sweet.”

Across the room, JJ’s chest tightened a little at the way Spencer looked at you. Completely unguarded, eyes warm, attention wholly yours. There was something deeply familiar in the way he stood with you, like this version of him had always existed and the rest of the world just didn’t get to see it.

There was history there.

Emily tilted her head, studying you with open curiosity. “Kindergarten?” she asked, impressed. “That takes a special kind of patience.”

You nodded solemnly. “And an acceptance that glitter is now a permanent lifestyle.”

Morgan laughed, arms crossing. “You seem… surprisingly cheerful about that.”

You shrugged, squeezing Spencer’s arm again like it was second nature. “They’re good kids. Loud. Sticky. But good.”

Spencer watched you as you talked, the way your nose scrunched when you laughed, the way you rocked slightly on your feet when you got excited. Heel to toe, like you always had. He remembered you doing that in the school library, whispering about wanting a classroom full of color while he folded paper into perfect stars, sliding the prettiest ones toward you without saying a word.

Back then, you’d leaned against him too.

He remembered thinking, even then, that it was easier to breathe when you did. That the world felt quieter when you were close.

“So anyway,” you continued, still glowing, squeezing Spencer’s arm again as if the story itself needed anchoring, “they decided glitter was a necessary addition.”

You nodded decisively, brows knitting in mock seriousness. “Which it is. Artistically speaking. But now I’m finding glitter in my shoes. In my bag. I’m ninety percent sure it followed me here. Like a parasite.”

Spencer hummed thoughtfully, his grip at your elbow adjusting just slightly, protective without being possessive, familiar without being conscious. “That’s consistent with craft-related contamination,” he said, utterly serious. “Glitter has a high persistence rate once introduced into an environment. It’s extremely difficult to eliminate completely.”

Your eyes widened like he’d just confirmed a conspiracy. “I knew it.”

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

Morgan finally couldn’t help himself. “Reid.”

Spencer glanced over, distracted but polite. “Yes?”

“You okay there, man?”

“Yes,” Spencer replied without hesitation. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Emily exchanged a look with JJ.

When you eventually stepped away to grab a drink, you did it reluctantly. Like you were peeling yourself out of a place you belonged. Your fingers brushed along Spencer’s wrist as you went, the contact light but intentional, a familiar goodbye that wasn’t really a goodbye at all.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, already half-smiling like you knew you would be.

Spencer nodded, though the words didn’t quite register.

He didn’t track your movement analytically. Didn’t follow the angles of your path or note the number of steps between desks the way he usually did with everything else. His mind didn’t reach for data or probability or pattern.

He just…watched.

Watched the way the room seemed to expand the second you left his side, noise rushing back in where you’d been like air filling a vacuum. Watched the lights feel harsher, the music louder, the conversations less distinct. The warmth at his arm faded too quickly, leaving behind something hollow and unfamiliar, an absence he couldn’t immediately name but felt acutely.

His hand lingered where you’d been, fingers curling slightly, unconsciously, like they were waiting for the shape of you to return.

And the second you were out of earshot—

“You let her touch you,” JJ said gently.

Spencer blinked, still looking in your direction. “She’s always touched me,” he replied, confused by the implication.

“For your entire life,” Morgan added, voice softer than his usual teasing, like he was stating a fact rather than a joke.

Spencer finally looked away from you.

He paused.

Not because he disagreed, but because something in his chest shifted, slow and seismic, like a realization settling into place after years of being ignored.

He thought of scraped knees on hot pavement and you pressing Band-Aids on crooked because you were too young to care about precision. Of science fairs where you’d sat cross-legged beside him, handing him pencils while he talked too fast and too much. Of long nights on the phone after his mom had bad days, your voice low, telling him it was okay to be tired.

He thought of thunderstorms, of you padding down the hallway in socked feet, climbing into his bed without asking, curling into his side like you’d always known you were allowed. Of how you’d held onto him then, too. Like he was solid ground. Like he wouldn’t disappear.

“Oh,” he said softly.

The word barely made a sound.

Across the room, you turned just then, drink in hand, eyes searching until they found him. Your face lit up immediately, the same unguarded smile you’d worn when you were seven years old and had decided that Spencer Reid was your friend.

You walked back without hesitation.

Your hand slipped into the crook of his arm again, familiar as breathing.

“Miss me?” you asked lightly.

Spencer didn’t even notice the moment his hand closed over yours.

But the team did.

The BAU bullpen looked exactly the same the next morning, down to the smallest, most mundane details that Spencer Reid usually found comfort in. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, an unchanging mechanical sound that blended seamlessly with the quiet tapping of keyboards and the low murmur of early-morning voices. Computer screens glowed in muted blues and grays, some already filled with case files, others blinking patiently as they waited to be logged into. A printer whirred somewhere near the back, followed by the faint thump of paper landing in a tray. The ever-present smell of burnt coffee hung in the air, bitter and sharp, curling around the cleaner scent of paper, toner, and industrial disinfectant. Everything was familiar. Structured. Predictable in a way that usually steadied him.

And yet Spencer Reid felt…exposed.

It wasn’t the kind of exposure he could quantify or explain with statistics or probability. It wasn’t logical. It was the subtle, unnerving awareness that something about him had shifted, had been seen, and that the room, unchanged as it was, somehow knew. As he stepped inside, he adjusted the strap of his messenger bag on instinct, fingers tightening briefly around the worn canvas. He could feel it then: the way attention moved toward him, quiet and understated. No one was staring outright. No one needed to. It was in the pauses, the half-glances, the way conversations seemed to soften and bend in his direction. Enough to make his skin prickle, a faint tension humming just beneath the surface.

He reached his desk and set his bag down carefully, aligning it with the edge the way he always did. He nudged it a fraction of an inch to the left. Straightened the strap. Sat down. The ritual mattered. His hands hovered over the keyboard longer than usual before he powered on the monitor, as if delaying might give him time to recalibrate, time to return to the version of himself that fit more neatly into this space.

“So,” Morgan said.

The single syllable cracked through the air like a starting gun.

Spencer looked up, heart giving an unhelpful, traitorous skip. Morgan was leaning casually against the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest, posture loose and confident. There was already a grin pulling at his mouth, the kind that told Spencer this was not a neutral observation. Emily had turned fully in her chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, her gaze sharp and assessing in that familiar, almost profiling way. JJ stood nearby with a stack of files pressed to her chest, eyes bright, expression far too gentle to be innocent. No one else in the bullpen appeared to be paying attention, but Spencer knew better. This was a controlled environment. An audience existed whether he acknowledged it or not.

“Yes?” He said, straightening, shoulders pulling back automatically.

“Big night,” Morgan said lightly.

“It was a Christmas party,” Spencer replied. “That’s not statistically significant.”

JJ’s smile widened just a little, like she was trying not to laugh. “You brought someone.”

“Yes.”

Emily tilted her head, studying him. “Someone you’ve known since you were…what, eight?”

“Seven,” Spencer corrected without thinking.

Morgan’s grin deepened, pleased. “And yet none of us have ever met her.”

Spencer frowned, brow furrowing as he processed the implication. “That doesn’t mean—”

“It means,” Emily interrupted smoothly, “that when we did meet her, she was wrapped around your arm like she’d been there a thousand times before.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then stopped.

He paused, visibly recalibrating. This was a question that required precision. Language mattered. Context mattered. He searched carefully for the right explanation, the kind that could translate something deeply intuitive into something reasonable.

“She was comfortable,” he said finally. “We have a long-standing familiarity with physical proximity.”

Morgan let out a low, impressed whistle. “Listen to him.”

JJ laughed quietly. “You don’t even let me touch you.”

Spencer blinked, genuinely confused. “You touch me frequently.”

“On the shoulder,” JJ clarified gently. “For about half a second.”

Emily leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “She leaned her entire body on you.”

Spencer felt heat creep up the back of his neck, ears warming in a way he absolutely did not appreciate. “That’s…different.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “How?”

Spencer hesitated.

He did what he always did—searched his mental catalogue for the correct word, the right classification—but came up empty. The truth hovered just beyond his reach, too large, too amorphous to pin down with language. It wasn’t about touch alone. It wasn’t about habit. It was something quieter. Older. Something that lived in muscle memory and breath.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “It just is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was knowing.

Then Garcia’s voice burst cheerfully from her office, bright and theatrical. “Oh my god. Are we talking about the girl?”

Spencer winced. “Garcia—”

“She was adorable,” Penelope continued, rolling herself halfway out of her chair, eyes sparkling. “Sunshine in human form. And you looked—” she paused theatrically, one hand pressed to her chest, “—unreasonably happy.”

Spencer dropped his gaze to his desk, suddenly very invested in the pattern of the wood grain. “I am happy regularly.”

Morgan snorted. “Reid, you smiled without being prompted.”

“That happens,” Spencer said, voice weaker than he liked.

Emily smiled, kind and knowing. “You held her hand.”

Spencer froze.

“I—” He stopped short, memory rushing in with startling clarity: your fingers sliding into his, warm and sure, the way his thumb had moved without permission, tracing the back of your hand as if it had always known where to go. “That was…not intentional.”

JJ’s expression softened completely. “But you didn’t pull away.”

“No,” he admitted, voice barely above a murmur.

Hotch chose that moment to step out of his office, coffee in hand, gaze sweeping over the bullpen with practiced efficiency. His eyes lingered on the loose semicircle, the half-smiles, Spencer’s unmistakably pink ears.

“Is there a reason work hasn’t started yet?” Hotch asked.

“No reason,” JJ said quickly. “Just…team bonding.”

Hotch’s eyes lingered on Spencer for a fraction longer than necessary, then he nodded. “Reid. Briefing in ten.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the team dispersed, Spencer sat back down, heart beating just a little faster than usual. The bullpen slowly returned to its normal rhythm, the noise settling into something familiar again.

His phone buzzed against the desk.

He glanced down.

Good morning! <3

Did your work people survive me?

Something warm unfurled in his chest, slow and undeniable, spreading outward until it softened the tightness he hadn’t realized he was carrying.

His lips curved upward before he could stop them.

Emily noticed immediately. Morgan did too.

“Oh,” Morgan said softly. “He’s smiling again.”

Spencer straightened abruptly. “That’s irrelevant.”

He typed back carefully.

Yes. They found you memorable.

The reply came almost instantly.

That sounds ominous >:(

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, softer than he meant it to be. His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he debated his response, eventually attempting one of the strange combinations of symbols you’d taught him.

Around him, the BAU kept moving.

if it wasn’t for the fact that it pays well while simultaneously allowing you to do some of your own studies and looking good on your college resume, you wouldn’t even be here.

but you are here. seated inside the henderson household. 

“hey y/n, can you please drive me to my friend mike’s house?,” dustin runs into the living room, an exasperated expression on his face, interrupting your reading. 

“are you okay?” you ask, worried about the kid you just met when his mother called an hour ago trailing on about how she saw your babysitting flyer some time back. and even though she knew that she had to book a date at least two days beforehand, she still asked if you could watch over her son. 

“just for today” she said, as she needed to look for her missing cat. her promise of double pay, convincing you to accept her request. 

“i’m fine, i just really need you to drive me to mike’s,” dustin says hurriedly, eyes hopeful that you wouldn’t ask anymore questions. 

“why?” you ask and the boy’s shoulder slumps, doing his best to not roll his eyes at your persistence. he’s obviously not used to  asking for permission. 

“i uhm forgot my book there and i really, really need it to study for my exam tomorrow,” he sends you a toothy grin, trying to convince you that that was all there is to it. you’re no fool. you notice the slight change in his voice, his fingers anxiously playing with his pockets, right leg slightly bouncing up and down - indications that he’s lying.

“you know your mom’s not paying for my gas, right?” you reason, not wanting to give in to his request and hoping you could just have a calm afternoon.

dustin sighs, his smile disappearing, “fine. i’ll just go behind your back and bike there and if i end up missing or in a ditch somewhere then it’ll be your fault,” he counters, personality quickly switching from the boy who said “please.” 

you sat there, flabbergasted, “are you…blackmailing me right now?” an eyebrow raising, you couldn’t believe how diabolical the curly headed boy is. 

“i’m not blackmailing you. i’m simply telling you what's going to happen if you don’t drive me,” he smiles, an almost devilish smile, tone hardening with every word and you truly do not know whether you’re terrified or impressed. 

letting out a quiet chuckle, you shake your head, “alright, c’mon kid,” you say, grabbing your car keys off the table, “but we’re going back as soon as you get it.”

——

you should’ve known not to trust him, finding yourself hurriedly getting into the back seat of the car of the last person you ever expected to interact with - steve harrington. 

pushing his forgotten red roses towards the other end of the car, you take your seat in the middle. 

“wh-what are you doing?” dustin turns from the passenger seat, facing you as steve takes in your presence, eyes on his rearview mirror, a confused expression evident on his face. 

“y/n l/n?,” he questions, finally remembering where he has seen you before, “you’re in nancy’s grade?,” he asks, more a question for himself than you. 

you nod, “steve harrington,” acknowledging his presence for the first time. 

 “why are you with dustin?” he wonders. he didn’t know much about you. only that you and nancy were sometimes studying in the library together. she’s told him before that you always get the top grades in class and she wanted to be around more motivated people like you. 

“i’m his babysitter and i’m coming with,” you simply answer his question, keeping the explanation short. it’s weird enough that you were inside the car of hawkin high’s famous “king.”

“since when did you have a babysitter dude,” steve reverts his attention back to dustin. 

“i'll explain later,” dustin reassures him quickly before turning back to you,  “and uhm, you don’t have to come, i have steve now,” he points to the guy in the driver seat like you don’t see him. 

from what you’ve heard about steve, you’re not sure you trust leaving the young boy with him. he’s known for being notorious, having bad company and overall, just a guy with the money, the looks and the popularity that somehow has every girl wanting him and every boy wanting to be him. you’re not sure how that guy can be trusted with kids.

subconsciously, you eye steve suspiciously, causing him to put two hands up in surrender “hey, i have no idea what’s happening either,” he defends, shrugging nonchalantly. 

snapping out of your daze, you focused your attention back on dustin, “look dustin, steve isn’t the one being paid to watch you right now,” you start to explain.

“hold on, you’re getting paid for this?” the older boy interrupted.

you ignore him, attention still on dustin, “if something were to happen to you, your mom would be looking for me. i’m responsible for you kid, i-,”

“fine! there’s no time,” he cuts you off, obviously in a rush. 

“you can come, just,” dustin contemplates, already regretting the words that slipped from his lips, “just don’t blame me for getting you into this thing.”

at that, steve snaps back to reality, “wait, wait, wait, if this ‘thing’ is about ‘that’ then she definitely can NOT come,” steve declared, his voice laced with a seriousness you didn’t think he could have. 

“well, are you going to drag her out of the car so she doesn’t find out about this thing?,” the younger boy replies, a sarcastic tone evident on his lips. 

“guys, i can hear you,” you piped in, eyes going back and forth between the two boys, having absolutely no clue what they’re referring to. 

“dustin, im not joking ok!,” steve ignores you, “we can’t tell people about this,” a serious expression appearing on his face, one you’ve never seen on him before, “we’ll get in trouble, you know that. besides, we shouldn’t involve anyone else into this anyway!,” he protested. 

he didn’t sound like the steve you would hear about at school. he sounded responsible, protective. he sounded like…a babysitter. 

“i know that steve, that’s why i told her to leave!,” dustin shouted. 

“well, she’s clearly still sitting in the backseat of my car!,” steve’s voice raises with every syllable. 

“can someone just explain what’s happening?” you try butting in, rolling your eyes, completely fading into the background as they continue their bickering.

“i don’t see YOU trying to do anything about it!,” dustin throws the argument back to steve, his patience on thin ice.

“she’s YOUR babysitter!,” steve points out yet again, ears turning red, veins popping and finally pushing the young boys’ limit. 

“fuCK!, we don’t have time for this steve, we really have to go NOW!” dustin shouts, losing his temper. 

steve, ready to reprimand him, before you decide you’ve had enough.

the series of “thing” and “this” has your mind spinning and your curiosity getting the best of you.  

“SHUT UP!” gaining the two boys’ attention, their bodies turning towards you, “both of you. shut. up.” you enunciate, loud and clear.  

“i promise i won’t blame you…or you,” glancing at the two boys, “for whatever the hell this thing is…just put your seatbelts on and drive,” ending their argument as you sat behind the passenger seat, clicking your own seatbelt into place. 

steve gives up, letting out a sigh, “fuck it,” before finally stepping on the gas. 

ii. the babysitters and an angry billy hargrove

you should have never picked up mrs. henderson’s call and you definitely shouldn’t have agreed to babysitting. what was the point of having your own terms and conditions when you didn’t even follow them yourself?

you should, however, have listened to steve and dustin when they told you to leave.

the day isn’t even over yet and you’re already questioning everything you knew. in a span of a couple of hours, you have been introduced to a world you couldn’t even imagine. having to pinch yourself a couple of times to make sure you weren’t just dreaming. 

everything was strange. 

you’ve spent the whole afternoon dropping meat, trying to bait something called a demogorgon. met steve’s spiked bat. got questioned regarding your relationship with billy hargrove from his very own red headed step-sister. came face to face with the said demogorgon, who, by the way, had demogorgon friends and were actually a pack of demodogs. almost died in a junkyard. walked in the dark woods just to end up in a creepy laboratory. felt the awkward tension between steve, nancy and jonathan. understood why will byers was called the zombie boy. stood behind steve while holding a random kitchen knife you grabbed from the byers’ kitchen — and to top it all off, encountered a little girl who flung the finally, very dead demogorgon through the window then unlocked the front door, all using only her mind. 

in conclusion, monsters and superpowers aren’t just a thing people read in their comic books.

“how are you holding up?” steve breaks you out of your thoughts, your eyes snapping to his voice. 

everyone else has left, leaving you the only two teenagers to act as the adults once again. 

the strangest thing of all of this was somehow, steve harrington went from being the popular jock to a guy whose simple presence can provide you comfort. everything you knew about him has changed. 

it’s amazing what shared trauma could do. 

you shoot him a small smile, “well, i definitely wasn’t expecting all this,” you look around the mess around you, “to be a part of that thing” you refer back to the boys’ banter, trying to keep the energy light despite everything that happened. 

he gives you a sheepish smile,  almost like he was sorry, regretting that he allowed you to be a part of this. 

“it’s not your fault. i chose to come,” you say, reading his thoughts and putting an end to them. 

“where did you put the demogorgon?” you continue, changing the subject, reassuring him that you were ok. at least, as much as anyone could be ok in this situation. 

“we stuffed it in the fridge,” he shakes his head, arms crossing, like he couldn't believe it himself, “‘for science’ dustin said,” steve quotes the younger boy with a grin.  

“right, of course, all the important things,” you chuckled, matching his grin as the two of you continued to clean the broken fragments that have scattered around the house. 

you thought it was over, that you could all just wait for everything else to unfold in peace but after a few minutes of silence, the kids were back on their feet, ready to "get off the bench.” you’re not sure how steve has the energy to continue arguing with them when you’re completely exhausted. 

the sound of an engine brings a silence to the house, max running towards the blinds recognizing the car that has made an appearance in the driveway, “shit, it’s billy, he can’t see me,” she says frantically, eyes meeting yours, a silent call for help. 

“i got it, just hide,” you hushly ordered, quickly making your way to the front porch. steve tried pulling you back but you were out the door before anyone could protest, resulting in him looking through the peephole. 

billy’s momentarily confused expression at your arrival wasn’t lost on you and if you were in his shoes you’d probably have the same one on, “hey sweetheart, what are you doing here?,” his husky voice taking up space in the cold, night air.

standing a couple steps away from him, his hand immediately finds a spot on your waist, pulling you closer. you placed a hand on his chest to keep some distance between the two of you, aware of the audience you have, “i’m babysitting a kid, his friend lives here,” you explain, smiling sweetly at him, hoping that he won’t suspect anything and leave as soon as he came. 

“have you seen my sister?” he asks breathily, face inching closer and closer to yours, a smirk on his lips. if it was any other day, you would have enjoyed his attention, maybe even be up for some fun. right now though, you just want him as far from max as possible. 

“no, why would she be here?,” feigning innocence, you hope he believes your lie. 

“she’s been hanging out with a couple of kids here, a bunch of bad influences,” he huffed, eyes quickly glancing around you before pulling you even closer.

“i haven’t seen her, she’s probably at the arcade, have you checked?,” you hope he doesn’t hear the shakiness in your voice. 

“you know what i like about you sweetheart?,” he muttered, placing a harsh kiss below your ear, his grip on your waist starting to dig into your skin. you know he has caught you. 

“you can’t lie for shit,” pulling you away from him, gaze darkening, he howled with laughter as you followed his line of vision, seeing four kids peeking through the window — one, with very bright red hair. 

frustrated curses slip from your lips as you shoot them an angry glance before billy grabs your wrist, dragging you right behind him as he pounded on the door, coming face to face with steve. 

“harrington, am i dreaming or is that you?,” he mocks, his hold on your wrist tightening. 

“yeah it’s me, don’t cream your pants,” steve rolls his eyes, hands on his hips like a disappointed mother. 

steve notices you wince under billy’s hold, “let her go man,” he orders, taking a step towards the wider boy. 

billy focuses his attention back on you, for a second you see a feeling of betrayal flash through his eyes but that was quickly replaced with a snarled expression, like he was completely disgusted with the thought of you. 

“is there a reason why you both are here alone?” his dark voice causes goosebumps to rise throughout your body. 

you’ve heard of how violent he can be but until right now, he has never shown that side to you. 

“what are you saying?,” you almost couldn’t recognize him anymore, breath hitching in your throat. 

“are you fucking him behind my back, sweetheart?,” billy’s voice grew menacing, “you know i don’t like to share,” he continued accusing you, his free hand coming in contact with your neck, forcing you to look at him. 

“dude, no. we’re babysitting,” steve answers for you and motioning towards the kids like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.  

“you’re hurting her,” he emphasized, “just let her go,” gently stepping closer, steve has his arms slowly reaching for you, hands up, a signal that he comes in peace. 

steve hopes billy will focus his attention on him instead, just wanting to get you out of there. he feels responsible for your safety and well-being. 

“gladly…” billy shot him an evil smirk, “you can’t trust bitches anyways right, harrington?,” he scowled, violently throwing you against the wall. 

your head makes a direct impact with the concrete, causing you to fall to the ground, a whimper slipping through your lips. you hear the kids' screams and a punch being thrown as you feel your vision slipping between darkness and light.  

you make out dustin running towards you and grabbing your hand, trying to get you to sit up. a couple of unsuccessful tries, he pleads “i’ll come back okay, just stay alive,” as he makes his way back to his friends. 

the proceeding events were all a blur and it felt like you were watching it through static television. one moment you can hear victorious cheers. the next moment, you hear something break and steve is suddenly lying on the floor a couple feet away from you, bloody faced and barely breathing. billy continuously throws his punches and the kids scream in fear. you try to get up but your body betrays you, only allowing you to reach out your arm towards the brown haired boy. 

somehow, the sound of the punches halted and billy fell to the ground. a sigh of relief escapes from your lips while the slow rise and fall of steve harrington’s chest becomes the last thing you see as you completely fade into the darkness.

—

the next time you open your eyes is to another set of screams, waking you up from your much needed slumber, if you can even call it that. you ignore the pounding in your head as you try to regain your vision. the first thing you feel are the strong arms in front of you, acting as your seatbelt, as you try to piece it all together. 

a couple minutes of confusion later, you finally recognize what’s happening, joining steve in full babysitter mode. the yelling of “no’s!,” and “stop the car’s!,” filling the tiny vehicle. 

“great, now they’re both awake!, i told you we should have just left them!,” mike cursed dustin annoyingly. 

“we were not going to leave them there, mike!,” dustin retorted, “c’mon guys i promised you’ll be cool, okay? just calm. down,” he softly ordered, like he was the babysitter and you two were his children. 

you scoff, “dustin, don’t fucking tell me to calm down!,” somehow fearing for your life now more than ever. 

“everyone just shut up, i’m trying to focus!,” max yells as lucas yells the directions in her ear. 

max makes a harsh turn causing a chorus of screams to rise. your hand immediately clutching around steve’s arm, face burrowing in his neck, seeking for protection, afraid of the crash that luckily never came. 

you’re not even too sure what happened the rest of the night but somehow you all made it out unscathed, besides the fact that you and steve are probably suffering matching concussions. 

iii. the heart-to-heart

in the tiny bathroom of the byer’s house, you find yourself standing in between steve harrington’s legs. his body feels familiar now, especially after you seeked comfort in each other in the dark tunnel, the two of you thinking it would be your last breaths. in some way, the miracle happened and the screeching demogorgons ran straight past the two of you, like you weren’t even there. 

you remember looking up at his golden, brown eyes. being that close to him, you noticed how beautiful they actually are and finally understood how he has charmed every girl at school. 

‘i guess it wouldn’t have been too bad dying in steve harrington’s arms.’ you thought to yourself.  

brushing those thoughts away, you bask in the moment of solitude within the commotion that is taking place behind the bathroom door. everyone reunited here, checking up on each other.

“does it hurt?” you ask him as you gently pat the alcohol covered cotton pad around his eye, cleaning up the bits of red that have stained them.

he slightly winces, hoping you didn’t notice, “i’m fine, this isn’t my first rodeo,” he assures, sending you a wink before completely regretting the tiny action, a frown briskly replacing his smile, causing small chuckles to slip between your lips. 

“you know, you should really stop getting into fights, i could’ve sworn you had a black eye just a year ago,” you remember it like it was yesterday - steve harrington walking the halls of hawkins high without his two minions for the first time, looking like he had fallen off his throne as the hushed whispers grew louder until they finally made its way throughout the school in a matter of minutes. 

you could tell he wasn’t at all the person he was trying to be and for a second, you saw yourself in him. you wanted to get to know that steve. the steve that may understand you. but that second didn’t last long. 

“so you were watchin me?” he teases, a smirk on his lips resulting in a playful shove and an eye roll from you.

gently grabbing his chin, you stare straight into his eyes, “of course i was. you’re steve harrington,” you remind him, “everyone watches you,” stating the facts before letting go and going back to removing all the dried up blood from his pretty face. 

he clears his throat, shrugging his shoulders, playing it cool, “yeah, i guess you’re right,” he says dumbfoundedly, making you laugh. 

“you’re ridiculous,” you quietly comment, a smile still on your lips. steve focuses on your light touches, trying not to wince every time you get near his open wounds. you notice his knuckles going white, gripping the toilet seat he was sitting on and ever so gently, hurried your actions. 

“there, all clean,” you softly declare as you slip from his space, turning around and putting all mrs. byer’s first aid kit back into place. he quietly thanks you, leaning his head back a bit to rest, his eyes shutting for a second. 

“thanks, by the way,” you break the silence “for protecting me earlier… with billy and all the upside down things,” you explain, looking at steve through the mirror. he nods, not entirely sure he’s deserving of your gratitude. you protected him as much as he protected you. 

“is he always that violent with you?” steve asks, an eyebrow going up. 

you immediately shake your head,  “no, he’s never laid a hand on me, i don’t know what came over him,” you say honestly. 

“why billy hargrove?” he asks, causing you to pause your actions, paying attention to him.

“what do you mean?” you reply, turning around to face him once again, your back against the tiny kitchen sink. 

“well, you didn’t leave dustin alone even though you just started babysitting him today, you care about having seatbelts on, you immediately covered up for max and just now, you took care of me when you should be taking care of yourself,” he points out, “you’re responsible and kind and you care and, well, billy is just a huge dick,” he finished, a hand flailing in the air as you stare at him, stunned at his observations.

you compose your thoughts for a while, not at all ready to have a heart to heart with steve harrington in a bathroom. 

instead, you throw the question back at him, “why nancy wheeler?” 

“you cannot possibly be comparing billy to nancy,” he replies quickly, a disapproving tone laced in his voice.

“i’m not,” you say defensively, “i’m just saying, she hurt you too but you’re still with her, you-”

“i-i don’t know if we’re actually still together,” he sadly replies, cutting you off, eyes dropping to the floor and you think back to the woods earlier that night — nancy emerging with jonathan right by her side. 

“but you still love her,” you continue, “even though she’s hurt you, you still love her,” you finish, trying to make a point.

“so, you’re in love with billy?” he concludes.

you scoff, wanting to say yes and finally drop the subject but the mere thought of agreeing with that sentence makes you visibly wince. 

“god no, i’ve been on a couple dates with the guy, it’s far from love,” earning an even more confused steve to face you. 

“i don’t know if it’s because i got my brains punched out or i really am just dumb but i completely lost you there,” he admit, a tiny smile on his lips and all you could do is sigh. 

heart to heart talk it is. 

“you’re not dumb, i just-” taking a deep breath, you prepare yourself.

“we all have our own reasons why were with someone,” you begin, “i’m just so tired of the perfect good girl image that has been imposed on me, it's like people just see me as that and nothing else,” as soon as you start, the dam breaks, flowing. 

you find yourself entrusting your deepest thoughts to him, “i can’t be fun because good girls aren’t supposed to be, i go to parties and people are confused that i'm there. you know, i even joined the cheerleading team so people can see me as something more? but all that does is fuel the assumption that i can do everything and still get shit done...that im not capable of mistakes and bad decisions. that i’ll turn out to be something great when really i’m just so damn scared all the time,” your voice breaks but before he could comment, you cleared your throat and continued. 

“i guess being with him makes people finally see me out of my stereotype” you confess, waiting for him to say something. the silence becomes overbearing and you feel completely vulnerable under his gaze. 

“oh,” steve responds, before bursting into laughter and you feel like a complete idiot, eyebrows shifting downward. god, you’re so ready to dramatically walk out of this bathroom and slam the door against his face but before you could do that, he notices.

“hey wait,” he says, gently grabbing your arm, asking you to stay as he arranges his thoughts.

“i’m sorry, i’m just relieved that you’re not actually in love with him because you deserve a lot better than billy hargrove,” he says charmingly, his cool facade still on display. 

“i know,” you agree, stopping yourself from rolling your eyes, “is that all?” you ask, still annoyed. 

“yeah,” steve starts, “i-no,” you give him time. you know that he’s having a war in his mind right now, the same one you just had. 

he avoids your gaze, thinking to himself, until finally, he puts his defenses down, “i understand you,” he confesses. 

“if it makes you feel better, it’s not at all greener on this side, i wished people looked at me less, i wish i didn’t have to go to all these parties just for people to respect me,” steve rattled on, feeling the weight fall off his shoulders with every word that falls off his lips, his facade disappearing bit by bit.

“i completely gave up on school because everyone has already expected me to fail and i started to believe them…it’s tiring having to pretend i’m this ‘king’ steve,” he quotes, “when really i am spiraling and have no fucking clue what i even want in life...i’ll probably just end up having a stupid job i hate and being as bitter as my father,” he sadly chuckles.  

“i’m just as scared as you,” he ends with a small smile, eyes meeting yours. he feels lighter after having said it all out loud for the first time and he can’t quite comprehend how he feels so safe sharing his saddest truths with you. 

but as you cast him a kind smile, the words “fuck stereotypes,” making its way to his ears, he can’t help but be thankful for the spilled truths and ajar doors. 

steve mirrors your expression and you’re glad you finally got to meet him. not “playboy” steve harrington and definitely not steve “the king” harrington. 

just steve. 

-

next: yr. 1985

an: a lil bridgerton reference there hehe ... thank you for reading! let me know if you're interested in reading the other moments i had planned :)