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youvebeenlivingfictional · 2 days ago

Text

Gravity Part Two

Part One | Part Three

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Notes: Welcome back to another accidental three-parter. Not beta-read.

Rating: M

Length: 5K

Warnings: Yearning (a frickin lot); slow burn; coworkers to friends to lovers; angst; fluff; canon-typical medical chat; fluff; book sharing; Reader is roommates with Ellis; Jack 'Prolonged Eye Contact' Abbot

Summary: Now and again, you felt his eyes flit toward you, too, but they didn't seem to linger for nearly as long. It was new, and fun—you’d spent so much time avoiding his gaze, but now it felt like you were playing tag.

Little glances. That was all you allowed yourself at work for a while, just little glances. You limited it to certain areas—near the charge board, the staff room, by the lockers. Little glances, and little smiles.

He began to stick a little closer to you in the ER. And it was different than it had been when you were new to the Pitt. You were more steady, more sure of yourself, more used to the warmth and presence of him.

But where his attention had nearly sent you careening into the sandwich cart just a few weeks ago, you worked steadily with Jack keeping close.

You even managed to keep that girlish fluttering at bay until the two of you were shoulder to shoulder, taking off your PPE.

“Excellent work.”

“Very kind of you, Dr. Abbot.”

“Honesty and kindness are rarely the same thing. I said it was excellent work because you did excellent work.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Sure. You ever find those Triscuits?”

“You know what, I did. Right after Ellis pointed them out to me.”

Was the weather the nicest? No. It was gray, drizzly, and windier than usual.

But that didn’t stop you from taking a leisurely walk. It was your first day off after eight straight shifts (the last had been an unplanned double), and you needed to clear your head. You started with a late lunch at a cafe near your apartment before moseying over to your favorite bookstore.

You had already been there far longer than you’d planned, and were going to move on—but something stopped you in your tracks. You weren’t typically the type to stare, but for once, you leaned against one of the bookshelves and just let yourself look.

It was sort of strange to see Abbot out and about, and at your favorite bookstore no less—but it was also kind of…Hot.

You had never seen him so relaxed before: not in the staff room, not filling out a patient’s chart, not even when he was just taking his things out of his locker. It was as little odd to see him out of scrubs, too—but you weren’t taking issue with the sight of him in jeans and a henley that fitted very, very nicely over his thick biceps.

You could just pass by, you knew that. He hadn’t seen you, probably had no idea you were there. He would’ve made his presence known by now if he had, or you would’ve felt him looking at you.

You could always feel it when Abbot looked at you. It was what had sent you skittering the day before Ellis had asked if something was going on between the two of you. You’d been so focused on your conversation with Shen and then you’d just…Felt someone looking. And you’d known that it was Jack.

It had been a combination of factors. Some of it was vantage point, but so much of it had been the intensity. You’d made such a careful study of trying to avoid his attention for so long. When you felt it that day, you made the rare mistake of looking at him, and it kicked you into a panic, sending you down the hall muttering something about patient results.

It wasn’t as bad these days. You still felt when Jack was looking at you, but the fear that used to accompany it had ebbed. You’d gotten better with him in the ER, you could just…Say hello, see if it was any better outside.

You steeled yourself, crossing the aisle and speaking up: “Do my eyes deceive me, or is Dr. Abbot not working a night shift?”

He glanced up from the book in his hand, doing a double take as he reshelved a book. “I take days off now and again.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What brings you in here?”

“Just browsing,” You shrugged.

“Surprised you’re not holding anything. Ellis said 90% of the books in the living room are yours, even more back in your room.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting off a smile.

“They are—And yeah, usually I’d make a meal of being in here, but I’m on a book buying ban.”

“Really?” Jack leaned against the shelf, arms folding across his chest—and it took everything in you not to let your eyes drift over the bulge of his biceps. “How’s that going?”

“Surprisingly well.”

“How long’s the ban?”

“A year.”

Jack’s eyes widened, brows lifting. “A year?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“That seems a little extreme.”

“Honestly, it’s not. I could probably build an entire bookshelf with my to be read pile.”

“What are you doing in the meantime?”

“Trying to work my way through the books I already own—And taking pictures of book covers that I’m interested in when I’m browsing so I don’t forget.”

“So being in here isn’t torture for you?”

“No, not really. It’s like window shopping.”

“Anything in here catch your eye today?”

Just you.

“Oh, sure,” You fumbled looking around at the shelves, trying to push past your thoughts. “A couple. What about you?”

“Buddy’a mine recommended this to me,” He reached into the shelf, drawing out a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

“Oh yeah?” You reached out, taking it from it when he offered.

“You read it?”

“Nope,” You shook your head, turning it over and skimming the jacket copy. “It’s on my list, though.”

“Mm…Tell you what,” Jack plucked it from your hands again. “I’ll lend it to you when I’m done with it.”

“Yeah?” You smiled. “That’d be cool, thanks.”

“Unless…”

“What?”

“You don’t dogear pages, do you?”

You hesitated, pulling your lower lip guiltily between your teeth, and Jack let out a pained little hiss before tutting his tongue.

“I don’t do it when it’s someone else’s book,” You insisted. Jack just hmph’d softly, straightening up and turning away. You couldn’t help but follow, falling in a half-step behind him. “What’s so wrong with dogearing pages, anyway? Your own copies, I mean. It’s not like I’d do it to a library book or something.”

“Have you ever heard of a bookmark?”

“Have you ever heard of personal freedoms?”

Jack chuckled, setting the book on the counter and fishing into his pocket for his wallet.

“Rings a bell, sure.”

“You out on one of your walks?” Jack asked, stepping back and holding the door open for you.

“Oh, thanks—Yeah, I am. Needed to get some air.”

“This your last stop?”

“No, no,” You shook your head. “I usually take a leisurely stroll through Marshall’s. Poke things, think about how cute the mugs would look in the apartment, leave.”

“Could always get one.”

“In theory.”

Jack’s brows tipped up with intrigue, and your lips twisted into a bashful smile.

“I might also be on a mug buying ban,” You admitted.

“Jeez.”

“I know.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Shut up,” You chuckled. “I’m not that bad. Mostly doing it to prove to Ellis that I can control myself when it comes to cute drinkware.”

“What if you break one of the mugs you have now?”

“Well, that would be an exception. Not planning on breaking any mugs, though.”

“Does anyone ever plan on it?”

You shook your head, averting your eyes and looking around. You should let him get on his way—

“...Wow," He huffed.

“What?”

“You’re still doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“We’re the furthest we could be from work and you still can’t look at me.”

“I’ve been looking at you plenty,” You insisted, “And this is hardly the furthest we could get away from work.”

“Oh no?”

“Nope.” You took a couple of steps back, nodding over your shoulder. “I gotta go, I have a date with the mug aisle.”

“That a real hot spot?”

“At six pm on a Tuesday? Sure, it’s wild.”

“...Mind some company?”

The request seemed to surprise both of you—almost as much as your answer:

“Long as you don’t make any more cracks about me dogearing pages.”

“No promises.” Two strides, and then Jack fell into step with you. Your stomach flipped as his arm brushed yours, and you hastily shoved your hands in your pockets, putting a little distance between the two of you.

“How far’s the walk?” He asks.

“Not far—Ten minutes, maybe.”

“Been out long?”

“A couple hours. I stopped for lunch first.”

“Any other usual stops?”

“No,” You shake your head. “Not usual. Sometimes I switch up the order I go in, or stop in somewhere that I’ve walked by a hundred times but never gone into…What about you? Any other plans for the day?”

“A few errands—All things I’m happy to be distracted from.”

It caught you off-guard, and you couldn’t help your brow wrinkling. Was that what you were? A distraction?

“You said a friend of yours recommended the book?” You pushed on, determined not to let yourself or the conversation get bogged down by your contemplation.

“Yeah. And I made the mistake of mentioning it to my therapist, who seconded it.”

“Can’t get out of it now.”

“Exactly.”

You were just about to put the last of your things away when his arm entered your periphery, shoving the book into your locker beside your bag. You cast a glance back toward Jack as he drifted just a few feet away, unlocking his locker with fastidious focus. You took up the book, flipping through it—not a single dogeared page.

“How soon do you want it back?” You asked.

“Whenever you’ve finished. There isn’t a waitlist.”

“What’d you think of it?”

“I don’t want to spoil anything.”

“Mm.” You hesitated before you fished into your bag, drawing out the book that you'd finished most recently. “Here.”

You held it out, heard the pause in Abbot’s rustling before he took a step closer. You felt the book lift out of your hand before you forced yourself to fish through your things for another few moments—though you weren’t looking for anything in particular.

“...Why this one?”

“It’s on the list.”

“How long have you had it?”

“An embarrassingly long time,” You admitted.

“More than two years?”

“Pleading the fifth.”

“Yikes.”

“I know.” You hesitated, glancing over, “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Jack insisted. “Besides, if you fuck with some of my pages, I can fuck with some of yours.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “I will iron your pages, Abbot. They’ll be straighter than they were when you bought the book.”

It became a routine. You didn’t mean for it to, but it did. You’d always considered yourself a fast reader, and it seemed like Jack could get through a book at a similar clip. It usually kicked off at the top of your shifts—either you or Abbot would linger by the other’s locker, pass over the book that you’d just finished and wanted to return, the one you thought he other should read next. You felt like you’d never gone through more of your TBR pile in your life, or in such an orderly fashion. You found yourself selecting your next read based on what Jack may think, or how interested he may be in it.

Waiting by your locker shifted to lingering as you swapped books, commenting on thoughts, feelings, surprises, plot twists. You didn’t always meet his eye, secure in your ability to hold the book, to focus on it instead of him before you handed over your next reads. He always seemed to surprise you. Even when you were certain that you knew how he’d feel about his work, his opinions managed to catch you off-guard.

“Here.”

You didn’t dare glance back as he held your book out, biting your lip as you passed his copy of The Old Man and the Sea back to him.

“Thoughts?” He pried.

“I can’t tell you until you tell me what you thought.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s one of my favorites.” You glanced toward him doggedly. “No pressure, though.”

His silence made you want to squirm out of your skin, and the soft, “I liked it,” Made your shoulders drop away from your shoulders.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“...Hm.” You had no right to feel so relieved, but there the feeling was, nonetheless.

“Is it a newer favorite of yours?”

“Hm? Oh—No. I just had an itch to reread it recently.”

“Doesn’t that go against the spirit of the book ban?”

“Not technically.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t like it?”

“I wasn’t sure what you’d think. ‘Course, you could just be saying that you liked it to placate me.”

“...You think I’d do that?”

You shrugged, face heating as you felt his increased scrutiny. You fished into the locker for the next book you were planning on giving him.

“Here, this one is uh—” You twisted with it in your hands, “Well it’s on the newer end of my TBR list, and I honestly don’t know how I feel about it. I nearly DNF’d twice.” You held it out to Jack, frowning when he didn’t reach for it. Your eyes swept up to his face, and you stilled at the sight of him—the slight furrow of his brow, and almost disappointed press of his lips.

“...What is it?” You hedged.

“I liked the book.”

“I know, I—I believe you!”

He considered you for another moment before he took hold of the book with a grunt. You fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot as you tried to get a better handle on the conversation.

“Do you have one to, uh—”

“Yeah—Yeah, it’s in my bag.” Jack drifted a few steps away, and you watched him open his locker. You hesitated before you took a couple of steps closer, shoving your hands into your pockets.

“My thoughts on your pick, by the way: lots of sea, not enough old man,” You teased, and relaxed a touch as Jack’s lips quirked with a smile. “Kidding—but it was an interesting read. I’m not used to reading authors with a style like that. I mean it’s uh…There’s something about Hemingway’s writing that comes off as simple at first, I think, at first, but it’s so…Abrupt?” You floundered, shaking your head. “Maybe that’s not the right word—”

“No, I know what you mean.”

You watched Jack tuck your book into his locker before he propped his backpack up on his knee, unzipping it and drawing a thick book out. Your brows rose at the length, and you huffed out an affronted laugh.

“Uh…Okay. Intense choice. How long did this take you to read—?” You turned the book over in your hands, jaw-dropping at the pages. “Doctor Jack Whatever-the-Fuck-Your-Middle-Name-Is Abbot—”

“Alright—”

“Am I seeing dogeared pages?”

“Listen—”

“You hypocrite!”

“I was young and foolish and didn’t know how to treat my books well, alright? Or, I was what’d you call it? Exercising my personal freedoms?”

You couldn’t help but laugh as you turned the book over, smoothing your fingers over the word Dune is just barely legible along the worn spine. “I’m getting a feeling you’ve read this one a few times.”

“You’re not the only one that likes to revisit favorites.”

“Hm.”

“And if you hate it, it might break my heart, so.” Jack shut his locker, offering you an innocent smile. “No pressure.”

“...Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.”

“That’s not fair!”

“You gave me a favorite and I didn’t get a warning.”

“This is so not the same. I didn’t wanna tell you that it was a favorite and put the pressure on you. You, on the other hand, just poured it on me.”

“You can handle it.”

You stayed frozen in place as Jack turned away, heading for the charge board. You watched him go, book heavy in your hands as that turned over and over in your mind. You jumped at the sound of someone clearing their throat, and turned to see Ellis watching you expectantly.

“Oh—Uh,” You glanced over, realizing that you were standing in front of her locker. “Sorry.” You hurried over to where yours still was open. You gave the book another nervous look before tucking it away.

“What was that?”

“Dune."

“Didn’t you fall asleep watching that movie?”

“First of all, I fell asleep watching the tv spinoff,” You grumbled testily. “Second of all, it was a last-minute choice after we had those people come in from that elevator accident. I was all,” You waved your hand toward your head, “Hopped up on adrenaline, and then I crashed.”

“Really hard.”

“Maybe I just need a different angle of entry.”

“Maybe,” Ellis muttered, but you could tell that she didn’t buy it. “Thought you were on a book-buying ban.”

“I am.”

“You didn’t buy that?”

“No! No, I borrowed it from someone.”

“Shen?”

“No.”

“Lena?”

“Nn-nn,” You shook your head, hurriedly closing your locker. You glanced over, panic bubbling as you spotted Ellis watching you closely. You plastered on a bright smile, hurrying past her as you chirped, “Better get in there!”

You hadn’t been so scared of a book since you tried to read The Shining. You sat on your bed, legs crossed, staring down at the copy in your hands. How did long had Jack had this book for, anyway? He’d said he was young and foolish when he dogeared the pages.

You thumbed the spine, trying to refocus on the intro again. Bene Gesserit…How did you pronounce that? You could’ve sworn you’d heard that when you tried to watch that show, but you couldn’t remember.

You reached out, taking your phone off of your nightstand and opening Jack’s contact information. You’d had it for a long time for ‘work purposes,’ but you never actually used it. And this technically wasn’t a work purpose. Would he view it as an overstep?

You shook your head, putting the phone down. You could just ask him the next time you saw him. You leaned back against the headboard, doing your best to focus up again. Muad'Dib…That was it.

You took the phone up again, steeling yourself as you fired off a quick text: All sci-fi and fantasy novels should come with a pronunciation guide

You put your phone down, refocusing on the book. When you noticed that your eyes have strayed toward the phone screen multiple times, you reached out to flip it face-down. You were just about to let go of it when you felt it buzz once, then twice—and to your horror, you realized that he was calling you. Shit, you did overstep, didn’t you.

Fuck, okay, just buck up, apologize, and move on—

“Hello?” You asked as you answered.

“What are you hung up on?”

“I—” You floundered, brow furrowing. “Uh…Bene Gesserit?”

“You’ve got that one right. What else?”

“Mood—No. Mode dib?”

“Moh-ah-deeb.”

“Ah. See when you say it like that it sounds so simple.” You crossed your legs, cradling the book in it. “Well, thanks for clearing that up.”

“Sure.” And you expected that to be the end of it, but— “Can’t sleep?”

You frowned, pulling the phone away from your face and eyeing the time. Half past ten. You’d only been off of your shift for a couple of hours.

“Honestly?” You sighed, returning the phone to your ear, “No. Figured I’d do some reading to relax.”

“How’s that going?”

“I’m on page one.”

Jack grumbled, "Ouch," and you rolled your eyes, a smile pulling at your lips.

“I’m working on it,” You insisted. “Be easier if you could just read it to me so I wouldn’t spend so much time wondering if I’m thinking about these terms right.”

“...Hm.”

Your brow furrowed at the hum, but you forced yourself to move on: “Anyway, I hope I didn’t wake you up or pull you from anything. You should get some sleep.”

“I’ll get there. Give me a sec.”

“I—Okay?” You frowned. A second for what? But you almost didn’t care. You were just glad he wasn’t reading you the riot act for using his number for a personal reason.

“Page one?”

His return question only deepened your frown, and you pushed yourself to sit up a bit.

“Yeah?”

“Alright…A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct.”

Your eyes widened as you scrambled for the book in your lap. You were torn between following along and just listen to Jack reading to you. You waited for a pause in his reading before you spoke up:

“Jack?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t actually have to—You know, I mean I just meant, um—”

“I know.”

You bit your lip, sinking back against your pillows.

“Okay,” You murmured. Jack began to read again, and for a moment, you let your eyes slide shut to just listen.

“We should call it soon.” You hated to say it, but it was nearly noon. “You need your sleep.”

“You don’t?”

“I’m not on next shift.”

“Neither am I.”

“And I also feel like you don’t sleep as much as you should.”

“I’m starting to get the sense that you and I have that in common.”

You smiled, scrubbing your hand across your face. “Maybe. But I gotta say, thanks,” You swung your legs over the side of the bed. “You’re better than an audiobook.”

“You’re gonna make me blush.”

“I’d like to see that.” Oh—Fuck. You did need to go to bed, you were liable to say something even more out of order than that.

“Could always do this in person next time.”

“Hm?”

“I just mean,” He cleared his throat. “Could always be in the same room when we do this.”

You considered for a moment, smoothing your fingers over the pages as nerves kicked up in your stomach.

“If you’re worried about me looking at you,” He added, “You’d be in the clear. I’d be looking at the book.”

You laughed, nodding. “That is a very good point—but considering the condition of this copy, I’d believe you have it memorized.”

“The offer stands.”

“If I take all of your time up, you won’t read the book I gave you.”

“I’ll find the time.”

“When you’re supposed to be sleeping?”

“Maybe.”

You smiled, propping your head up on your hand. He’d offered—and you were beginning to learn that Jack Abbot had a habit of putting his money where his mouth was. “Alright. In-person next time.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay.”

“Could come here,” You added before you could stop yourself. “I mean—Parker’s on shift tonight, so we'd have the place to ourselves.” Shit. Did that sound like a sexual proposition? “Or I could come to you—Or we could go to the park or something—” God, shut up, shut up.

“I vote yours. I already know where the coffee machine is.”

“Is that all it takes to get you to go somewhere?”

“It helps.”

“You know what, just for that, I’m gonna move it…Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“If I dogear one of these pages—”

“I’m gonna know.”

“We’ll see.”

You weren’t sure who was more concerned about the fact that Jack was coming over: you or Parker. Of course, Parker didn’t actually know that it was Jack that you were expecting—she just knew that you had someone coming over. You hadn’t been as subtle as you should’ve been—about neatening the living room, going to the grocery store to get snacks, moving the coffee pot to the other side of the kitchen.

“I just wanna try it out over here,” You fibbed, “I think it might help the kitchen flow better.”

“Uh-huh…Who are you rolling out the red carpet for?” Ellis asked. You glanced toward the clock—6:24. You had told Jack that he could come by whenever he wanted after seven, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he kept regular working hours on his nights off, turned up on the dot.

“I, um—No one. Well not no one, but. Just a friend.”

“A friend like Shen is a friend? Or a friend like you steamed up the bathroom taking an everything shower kinda friend?”

“It was not an everything shower!”

“Then what the hell took you so long?”

“Don’t you have a shift to get to?”

“I’ve got time.”

“Not a lot.”

“Oh, you want me outta here bad-bad. Is he cute?”

…You could dish a little, right? Nothing was going to happen, anyway.

“Yeah,” You sighed resignedly. “He is.”

“Damn, so you have been holding out on me.”

“Not holding out! It’s just a friend…Hang.”

“Netflix and chill?”

More like Dune and not to try to embarrass the hell out of yourself.

“We’re not gonna fuck,” You insisted.

“Have a little faith in yourself. ‘Sides, you need to get some.”

“Parker!”

“You do! You’re backed up and this,” Ellis waggled a finger at you, “Is not good. ‘Sides, if you get some tonight, I won’t be here. You can do—You know. Whatever you’ve gotta do at whatever volume you wanna do it at.”

“I’m begging you to stop talking about this.”

“Okay,” Ellis held her hands up in surrender. “I’m going.”

“Don’t forget your water bottle.”

“MVP,” Parker sighed, “Whoever this guy is better wife you up before I do.”

“Shut up,” You cackled, whacking her arm as she passed you. “Have a good shift.”

“Have a good fuck.”

“Parker! Jesus christ!”

Having Jack over had seemed like a good idea earlier that day, but having him there with you, just inches away on the couch, was a little tortuous.

This was for a number of reasons. For one, Jack had opted for a shirt that gave you a maddeningly good view of his biceps. For another, when you’d been on the phone, you’d been able to just close your eyes from time to time and listen. You couldn't do that when he was right in front of you. Well—you could, but there was a chance he’d take it as boredom or disinterest.

But, now and again, you let your eyes stray from the copy of Dune to look at Jack—to watch his smile tick up and lower as he read the familiar words, to see his head tilt just so as he jumped from one character’s voice to another. And now and again, you felt his eyes flit toward you, too, but they didn't seem to linger for nearly as long. It was new, and fun—you’d spent so much time avoiding his gaze, but now it felt like you were playing tag.

When Jack made his second throat-clearing noise in the last half-hour, you sat up, lightly nudging his knee with yours.

“You want some coffee or something?”

“Uh—” Jack glanced from the book, back toward the kitchen, “Yeah. Coffee’d be nice.”

You swung your legs down from where they’d been tucked up on the couch, grabbing your bookmark from where you’d put it on the table, and biting back a smile when Jack whistled low.

“Hang on a second.”

“Don’t start with me, Abbot.”

“Where’d that come from?”

“May’ve grabbed it when I went to the bookstore earlier.” That was good, that sounded casual—not like you’d gone to the store specifically for the purposes of getting a nice bookmark.

“Really.”

“Mm. Caught my eye.”

You were only a couple of steps away, certain that Jack would stay behind and get a better look at said bookmark, but he was up, and behind you, and chuckling, “You actually moved the damn thing,” When he spotted the coffee pot.

“I like a clean follow-through. You hungry at all?” You asked, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “I can see what we have around.” That was good, too—it made it sound like you hadn’t gone out of your way to make sure you had good food in the house.

“I’m okay for now.”

For now sounded nice—like he’d be there for a while and would need to reassess later.

“So—Thank you,” He took the mug as you offered it, “What do you think so far?”

You leaned back against the counter, mentally combing through the chapters, the bits that had stuck out to you when you weren’t focused so strongly on Jack’s voice.

“Jessica…”

“Mhm?”

“I can’t figure her out—which feels weird to say, because we’ve gotten her perspective, but she feels so…Guarded? Even to me as a reader. Also—Jessica?”

“Yeah?”

“Jessica.”

Jack didn’t answer, shook his head a touch, so you clarified:

“Huge sweeping sci-fi world and her name is fucking Jessica?”

Jack spluttered a laugh into his coffee, lowering the mug to swipe at a couple of spilled drops on his chin, and you beamed, going on, “And Paul? Did Herbert spend so much time making up, like—Thufir Hawat and Gurney Halleck and Leto Atreides and—”

“Duncan Idaho?”

“Well—No Duncan Idaho sounds like he passed a chain coffee shop on a road trip and said ‘sure.’ Like that was the beginning of the end for creative names in this book.”

Jack’s laugh tapered, and you were faced with his soft, warm smile again. Oh—geez. You turned away from him, reaching into the cabinet for a mug of your own.

“It’s clear that Leto cares about her…A lot,” You added, “Despite how basic her name is. But when he said ‘be thankful I never married you,’ it felt so…Cruel.”

“You think he meant it to be?”

“No? But…” You trailed off, shaking your head.

“He said in the next breath that he also thinks of her comforts.”

“Yeah, because in some respect, if she’s not comfortable, he won’t be.”

“So you think his intentions are selfish?’

“I think his intentions are sweet, but they don’t come across like that.”

“She won’t let him be—Because she knows they can’t afford it.”

You frowned, turning to lean against the counter. “How do you figure?”

“When she wants to raise another topic, but swaps her comment to what time he’ll be eating dinner.” Jack crossed the kitchen to stand beside you. “What does he think?”

“...That she wanted to ask him something different.”

“And that he wished they were somewhere else,” Jack murmured, “And alone.”

Your stomach flipped—at his closeness, his tone, and the gaze that you found yourself locked into. You gave a small nod as you considered it.

“But he knows better,” You realized. "They both do." Jack’s smile widened, and you finally let your gaze drop from him to your coffee. “I can understand why you’ve read it so many times. There’s…A lot in here.”

“Any predictions?”

“On what?”

“What happens next.”

“More bureaucracy? Some Harkonnen action? Sand?”

“What about Leto and Jessica?”

You thought for a moment, glancing toward Jack. “I don’t know. I hope it turns out well, but…”

“But?”

“...I’m not really an optimist.”

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@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ;

@millllenniawrites ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ;

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @artsymaddie

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989 ; @brnesblogposts ; @antisocialfiore @thescarletfang ; @rosiepoise88 ; @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 ; @darksparklesficrecs ; @overduelibrarybooks @friska101-cg ; @andabuttonnose ; @deerandbunnies

#Jack Abbot x Reader #Jack Abbot x You #Dr Abbot x Reader #Dr Abbot x You #Jack Abbott x Reader #Jack Abbott x You #gravity

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somebodys-somebodies · 2 days ago

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Giving this to a couple of the Entities when they have time, I’ll leave it in the drafts until at least Ruger has had a chance to answer, and hopefully Shekel, cause those two would like it I think. I’d also love to see Damian respond to get to know him a bit better, but I know technology is not his thing. Not sure if Pitt or Rocky or Grey will be interested but they would be neat as well <3

Ruger:

1. Despite already being an alter, I’m a therian! I have my own human body in the inner world who is a therian. This confuses our host. I find that funny.

2. I’m a Rottweiler!

3. Sometimes I feel more dog like than others, but it’s usually a gradual change.

4. I stress everybody out because I eat a lot when fronting and usually we have trouble with food (but I am always so so hungry and I will always be so so hungry)

5. They seem neat! I don’t front enough to make friends but they’re cool

6. I have a collar with a tag that says beast on one side and whore on the other, and I love it.

7. Nah. We vibing. This is also something that confuses the host.

8. Find what brings you joy.

9. See collar mentioned above

10. I exist as a creature of passion and greed to balance out the system’s prevalent fear of appearing too needy or demanding or excessive.

Shekel:

1. I don’t have any particular association with the body so I don’t use specific terminology. In the inner world I’m an abandoned mutant/laboratory experiment.

2. Types of animals? I’m partially a person and partially a wolf, although some of my features are a bit more horse or dragon like.

3. I don’t shift, although Jay (our host) says I have a very vivid feeling when I switch in and can fuck with his perception of the body if that makes sense?

4. I don’t do much life outside of the inner world so it doesn’t effect me much, but I prefer wearing fur and eating fish when I’m fronting, stuff like that.

5. I don’t engage with strangers, I’m one of the boundary focused alters - others like Rocky love making friends and getting close to people, but some of the others and I have to mitigate that by being inherently suspicious and fast to push people away. In other words, the community looks very nice but I don’t trust anyone enough to engage much.

6. Unironically, werewolf smut is nice and feral and affirming. I also like that the body is used to walking on its toes, the way my legs are built doesn’t translate well to a human shape and being up on the toes is one of the only things that feels right.

7. Always. The body is a foot and a half shorter than I’m supposed to be, it’s the wrong shape, I don’t have fur or claws or ears. The only things that are right is the set of my shoulders and the fact that I’m bipedal.

8. Be fierce, but be kind. Love hard, but don’t force yourself to be tame.

9. My fur vest helps, and we technically have a tail, but I don’t get too dysphoric about the lack of a tail so I don’t usually use it. I want claws.

10. We suspect I’m a knockoff and divergent version of Wolf from The Lunar Chronicles, and while even in the internal world I’m not built to be good at fighting, I’m pretty sure I exist because we felt powerless and needed someone feral enough to protect us.

Pitt:

1. I consider myself nonhuman.

2. I am an angel.

3. I do not shift or change.

4. In the inner world I am blind, so seeing is a challenge when fronting.

5. N/A

6. Having our glasses off helps.

7. Not particularly. I miss my wings when fronting sometimes.

8. I have no advice.

9. No, it wouldn’t be enough.

10. In a way, I have the most religious trauma since I was a part of it, a part of god, and now I am cast aside. I formed so that Jay doesn’t have to feel guilty over what he has been through. He is not alone. I will keep him company.

Grey:

- I don’t know what categories there are. I’m just…. Here, and not remotely human.

- I’m a forest cryptid and my physical form is somewhat close to a wolf with something Wrong with it.

- my form… wavers sometimes, but I don’t know if I’d describe it as a shift.

- I don’t front much, but when I do I’m the second most likely to be nonverbal and the most likely to snarl/snap my teeth/bite anyone who crosses my boundaries (that unfortunately are much stricter than the boundaries of most of the others)

- I know nothing about the community.

- I’m very nocturnal, so I tend to stay up and Lurk in the dark.

- I don’t feel dysphoria. My true corporeal form is unable to fully contain me so it makes sense that this human body can’t either.

- to new alterhumans: if growling is the best way you can express your boundaries in the moment, it is a valid method and it’s not your fault if people don’t understand.

- I don’t need gear.

- long ago there was a boy that was hungry. His teeth grew long and his heart grew inky and his hands grew claws. The forest shoved into his soul, ripping it open and pressing inside. The boy has been hungry so long he cannot feel it - but if you try to take his food from him the wolf he became will shred the flesh off your bones.

Damian:

I don’t know shit about dick so who knows

I’m a demon

I don’t shift

I don’t live everyday life

I didn’t know there was a community

I think hitting someone with my car would feel good but I am not supposed to try that

I have a vivid sense of self but I don’t feel uncomfortable inhabiting this body, my true form overlays it in a way so it’s kind of like a possession and feels perfectly fine

I’m pretty sure any advice I have to give is not something Jay would let me say

It would be fun to have synthetic teeth, but I don’t think anyone could make teeth that actually match my true form

I came from hell to fuck around :)

(So much barking) Rocky!!!

1. Ohhh!!!! There are categories?? That’s awesome!! :D I dunno

2. I’m an Australian shepherd mix!! Not really a therian or anything, I’m just A Doggo :]

3. I don’t shift I just am ^-^

4. Uhhhh idk!!!

5. I LOVE COMMUNITIES BC I LOVE PEOPLE PEOPLE ARE THE BEST

6. Wiggling around and barking and stuff!!

7. … :D … I have never felt a bad feeling in my life!!

8. Hiiiiii I love youuuu

9. I have a collar and a tag with my name on it!!!!!!

10. Uhhhhh I exist to wiggle and bark and love people!!! ^-^

If you are an alter/nonhuman, reblog and answer these questions!

(don't be afraid to write a lot, do what you want ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯)

1/ Which category of alterhumanity do you belong to?

2/ What/who is/are your type(s)? (if you have any)

3/ Do you experience shifts? If so, can you tell us your most common shifts and your strangest cameo shift (if you've ever had a cameo shift)?

4/ How do you experience your alterhumanity in everyday life?

5/ What do you think of the community?

6/ What are the things that make you most comfortable and euphoric in your alterhumanity?

7/ Are you experiencing species dysphoria?

8/ What advice would you like to say to a young alterhuman who has just awakened?

9/ Do you have/want to have gears?

10/ Do you know/have any theories about the origin of your alterhumanity? If so, tell us! (all beliefs are legitimate)

11/ Tag someone/a creature to answer these questions!ㅤᵕ̈

#long post #after months of this in our drafts all of our known alterhumans responded!!!!#really wild we even got Dami on this one he almost never fronts #endo safe #plurality #pluralgang

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rynwrites4fun · 1 day ago

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Across The Hall (3) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: Michael offers to help you carry a large box, but when the elevator’s out, you end up climbing six flights of stairs together. The climb is tiring but playful, and it leads to him spending time with you in your apartment.

Word count: 2180

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20/ Early 50s)

Authors Note: part 3!!! the story Michael tells is based on a actual story from someone in my life lol. if I forgot to add you to the tag list, very sorry! let me know if I didn’t add you and I’ll add you on. again thanks for the love! I enjoy reading your comments :) - ryn

Wednesday 7:20pm

“You need a hand with that?” Michael asked, walking up to the mailboxes, key in hand. He slid it into the lock and pulled out a small stack of mail. He looked tired—fresh off a long shift, still in scrubs.

You had just come back from a coffee shop, where you’d stayed after work to chip away at lesson planning. Now you stood by the mailboxes, eyeing the large box at your feet.

“Oh hey! Yes, please! It’s pretty heavy. Like, definitely a two-person job.”

“Alright, let’s go for it.”

The two of you hefted the box together, making your way toward the building’s single elevator—only to find a sign taped across the doors: Out of Order.

You both set the box down and stared at it in silence.

“Crap,” you muttered.

You exchanged a glance. It was obvious—you’d both just gotten off work, bags in tow, and neither of you had the energy for this.

“Okay… well, I guess we’re hitting the stairs,” Michael said.

“I can just leave it…”

“And let someone in our building steal it?”

“Who’s dumb enough to steal a box that weighs, like, over fifty pounds?”

“Hey, you never know. People are desperate these days.”

He bent to grab his side of the box, and you followed suit.

Together, you maneuvered the large box toward the stairwell, bumping it against the doorframe with a dull thud that made you both laugh, tired and amused.

Then began the slow, painful climb—six flights of stairs ahead.

They two of you made it about halfway.

“Okay—wait, wait,” Michael huffed, setting his side of the box down with a dramatic grunt. He leaned over the banister, catching his breath. “I need a minute. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

You laughed as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, shaking his head.

“How old are you, anyway?” you asked, playfully squinting at him.

“Fifty-three,”

He was twenty-nine years older than you. He’d lived more life, seen more, carried years of experiences you hadn’t even brushed against.

“How old are you?” he asks back.

“I’m twenty five”

“Geez,” he mumbled under his breath, masking his reaction with a slow exhale. He’d known you were young…just maybe not that young.

“Should I be worried about you throwing out your back?” You tease.

He gave you a hard, playful look as he looked up at you from leaning against the banister.

“Careful,” he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I might just leave you to drag this thing up yourself if you keep it up.”

“You wouldn’t do that." you say.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t” he chuckles.

He was teasing, sure—but he meant it. He’d never leave anyone hanging, especially not a woman. That’s just the kind of man Michael was. Caring. It was something his mother had instilled in him from the time he was a kid: look out for others, be kind, be useful.

It was why he became a doctor in the first place. He didn’t just want to fix things, he wanted to help people.

“Okay… halfway there,” he said, standing up straight.

You mirrored him, both of you grabbing your sides of the box as you began the final climb—three more flights of stairs.

By the time you reached the sixth floor and made it to your apartment door, the box hit the ground with a heavy thud.

You and Michael both let out loud huffs, panting like you’d just run a race.

He dropped his backpack beside the box and hunched over, hands on his knees.

“Shit,” he breathed.

“Okay—we… we did it. We made it,” you said, dropping your own bag, one hand braced against the wall, trying to catch your breath.

“What even is that?” he asked, squinting down at the box like it had personally offended him.

“It’s a shelf,” you replied.

“Do you wanna come in? I’ve got water… beer.”

He was still hunched over, catching his breath, but he pointed a finger at you when you said beer, wagging it up and down like it was the magic word.

“Beer… a beer sounds good.”

“Okay,” you exhaled, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe.

“Do you think we can just… take a minute?” you asked, gesturing vaguely at the hallway—at the idea of not moving at all for a bit.

“I’m right there with you,” he said, like he’d read your mind.

You both stayed there a second longer, just breathing. Neither of you moved to open the door.

—

Eventually, the two of you made it inside your apartment. The box lay on your living room floor. You and Michael slouched on the couch, beers in hand, too exhausted from not only lugging the box up six flights of stairs but also your jobs.

“Are you gonna build it?” Michael asked, glancing over at the box.

“I was gonna have Aiden do it,” you said with a shrug.

Michael raised an eyebrow. Well, if Aiden didn’t even unjam your window, he most likely won’t be assembling your shelf either. The box was probably just going to sit there until you caved and did it yourself. He thought about it for a second, then sighed.

“Well, since I’m already here, I can put it together for you,” he offered.

You blinked. “What? No, come on, Michael. You just got off a 12-hour shift, you just helped me lug this thing up six flights of stairs—and your back—”

“My back will be fine,” he said quickly, waving it off.

It was a lie. His back was definitely hurting, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He’d pushed through worse and, honestly, he didn’t mind helping you out. Plus, it gave him an excuse to stay, to linger in the space for a little longer.

“Well, if you’re gonna build it, at least stay for dinner,” you said, giving him a pointed look.

“Okay, deal,” he agreed, grinning.

“I can also supervise you as you cook. You know, so you don’t smoke your apartment out again,” he said, teasing you, nudging you with his elbow.

You rolled your eyes. “Very funny.”

“Hey, I take this supervising gig seriously.” He leaned back, a mischievous grin on his face as he took a swig of his beer

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” you replied, getting up from the couch, heading to your kitchen.

You start cooking dinner, the comforting rhythm of mixing and stirring filling the air. Michael sits on your floor, his glasses on as he carefully reads the directions. His second beer sits not far from him, and tools and scattered pieces of the shelf are spread across the floor.

You glance over your shoulder, watching him as he concentrates, fiddling with the screwdriver in his hand, his brow furrowed in focus. The scene feels oddly domestic.

For a moment, you let yourself savor the quiet comfort of it—how natural it feels, how easy. You wish you and Aiden could have moments like this, too. No rush, no tension, just small, simple acts of being together. But the thought lingers, bittersweet, before you return to the task at hand.

“How long have you been a doctor?”

He huffs out a laugh “A long time”

“Uh well I started working in the ER when I was around your age–” he says picking up a piece and screwing it to another part. “I was assigned to the ER as med student…never really left after that. the department I wanted to be in”

“What made you want to be a doctor?” you asked, stirring the food in the pot, the wooden spoon clinking softly against the sides.

“I knew from a young age I always wanted to help people,”

“I was raised by a single mother,” Michael said, his voice steady but thoughtful. “She taught me to be kind, to be useful. Helpful in any way I could—whether it was something big or small. Her rule was: take action. Don’t just stand there waiting for someone to tell you what needs to be done. If you see it, do it.”

Michael said, his voice softening a bit and tinkering with the now half-built shelf, fitting a wooden panel into place. “There was this time when I was a kid—my friend and I were messing around with his BB gun, and he ended up getting shot in the torso. It was lodged in there, and he was too scared to tell his parents because we weren’t supposed to be playing with it”

You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “What did you do?”

“I panicked, but then I remembered her rule. I went into full rescue mode. I kept running back and forth through my house grabbing supplies—Band-Aids, peroxide, even tweezers. My mom was yelling, ‘What are you doing?’ and I just kept saying, ‘Emergency!’”

You laughed quietly, picturing a younger version of him in full crisis mode.

“Long story short,” he continued, “she was proud of me for wanting to help him, but also told me, very clearly, to leave it to the professionals. And right then and there, I knew I wanted to be one of them.”

He looked over at you.

“What about you? What made you want to be a teacher?”

You stopped stirring, turning the burner to low before resting the spoon on the edge of the pot. And grabs bowls from the cabnit.

“Kind of the same thing, I guess,” you say. “I just knew as a kid I always wanted to be good and do good. I thought I could do that by being a teacher. Impacting kids, inspiring them. I remembered how some of my favorite teachers made me feel… seen, safe, like I mattered. I wanted to do the same for someone else.”

“Look at us—working two of the most underrated, underappreciated, and undervalued professions,” he laughed, shaking his head.

“Tell me about it,” you said, cracking a tired smile as you scooped rice into the bowls.

“The food’s done. Come eat,” you called over your shoulder.

Michael paused mid-screw on the shelf, then set down the tool and picked up his beer. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

He made his way into the kitchen, peering into the pot with interest.

“Red beans and rice,” you said, ladling it into bowls. “It’s a Louisiana dish. I’ve got family down there. This is kind of my go-to comfort food.”

“Smells good,” he said, taking the bowl from you with a nod. “Thank you.”

—

The two of you sat at your island table like the first time the two of you had dinner, natural conversation flowing between you. Eventually, you both cleaned up the kitchen and made your way to the living room. Michael returned to the half-built shelf, you helping this time, passing him screws, holding panels steady, the quiet kind of teamwork that made the space feel warmer.

“How long have you been with Aiden?” Not looking at you right away, his focus on aligning two wooden panels.

You paused, caught a little off guard by the question, but not in a bad way.

“Since college,” you said, handing him a screw. “That was a different time though.”

He glanced over at you then, curious but not prying.

“Different how?” he asked, his tone careful, curious.

“We’ve changed a lot, I guess…” you said, your voice briefly tinged with sadness. But you quickly deflected, flashing a teasing grin and adding, “Not as young as we used to be.”

You mirror his earlier words, throwing them back at him when he had stopped to rest while carrying the box up the stairs.

He notices the brief shift in your mood but doesn’t push, sensing you’re not ready to dive into the heavier stuff. He figured maybe Aiden had been the one to change since then.

Instead, he chuckles, the sound light and familiar. “Says the 25-year-old. If you’re old, then what does that make me?”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Ancient? A fossil? Practically prehistoric?”

He lets out a sigh and shakes his head “You wounded me.”

After finishing up the shelf, you both set it carefully in the corner of your living room.

“Now I have a place to house my books and not leave them lying around,” you say, stepping back to admire the shelf.

He crosses his arms, looking at the shelf with a proud nod. “Well, look at that. Mission accomplished.”

You glance over at him, your expression softening. “Thank you, Michael, can I repay you?

“Hey, you paid for my manual labor in beer and food, so we’re even.”

You laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Okay, so pay you in food and beer—got it. Noted for future reference.”

He picks up his bag off the floor, signaling that he’s heading back across the hall, giving you a mock-serious look. “I expect my shelf to be filled with books and knick-knacks and whatnot.”

You give a mock salute. “I promise, it’ll be a shelf worth showing off.” The two of you walk toward the door.

You pause at the threshold, glancing at him with a soft smile. “Good night.” He says.

“Good night, Michael.”

With a final, lingering glance, he steps out into the evening, and you close the door behind you. You heart feels warm.

Tags: tag: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @beebeechaos @antisocialfiore @delicatetrashtree @xxxkat3xxx @homebytheharbor @woodxtock @letstryagaintomorrow @livingavilaloca @elkitot @annabellee88 @hagarsays @emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967 @lafemme-nk @kmc1989 @whos6claire @harrysgothicbitch @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @silas-aeiou @k3ndallroy @ohmystrawberrycheesecake @ay0nha @404creep

Across The Hall (1) (2) (3)

#michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch #dr robinavitch #dr robby #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #michael robinavich x reader #dr robby x reader #noah wyle

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revelboo · 15 hours ago

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🤣 I had to, I couldn’t resist. Y’all know I’m a gremlin

🔞 Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Needy

Predaking x Reader

• Groaning, one of your feet slides against the berth under you. Hips propped up with a pillow, you grit your teeth, chasing that peak. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been trapped with your big, alien dragon, but he’s leaves pretty regularly to go do whatever it is he does. Leaving you alone and bored. And honestly, half the fun is the risk of getting caught as your fingers pump urgently inside yourself. Though, honestly, you doubt he’d care if he did catch you. He’s a giant transforming robot without any of the necessary parts. There’s a good probability he won’t even know what you’re doing.

• Returning from patrol, he keys opens his habsuite door and stops short as soon as he finds you on his berth. Eyes closed, hips up and little fingers urgently moving inside yourself, he vents and the scent of your need fills his senses. Growling softly as he moves forward, he mass shifts and stalks your way, steps light to not alert you. Knows he should. That the right thing, the honorable thing, would be to apologize, to leave and let you finish in peace. But he can’t make himself move. Can’t stop watching you pleasure yourself.

• Just out of reach, but then you’ve never had much luck with just your fingers. Always close, but not quite. And a warm hand slides against the outside of your thigh, jarring you as your eyes snap open and he’s right there. Staring at you giving yourself a helping hand on his berth. He absolutely does know and does care what you’re doing, too. Those warm yellow optics focused on your fingers inside yourself. Flushing you pull your fingers free and he catches your wrist. Bending as his mouth opens to suck your fingers clean and you almost come apart just from that. “Forgive me,” he growls, glossa sliding between your fingers like he’s trying to make sure he gets every drop.

• You’re just staring at him, face red and he knows he’s crossed a line. But he wants to touch you, to taste you. Sleeping wrapped around you every night, the scent of you is now so familiar that he needs it to recharge. Just like he needs your laughter, your willingness to play. Your warmth. “I’ll leave,” he adds, hoping he didn’t ruin everything. That you won’t distance yourself now out of embarrassment.

• “You don’t have to,” you whisper, shivering as his glossa slides almost absently against your palm. Making you remember that when you’d first met him, you’d legitimately been afraid he was going to eat you. And now, you really want him to. Those optics slide down your body to the apex of your thighs and he makes a rough, rumbling, predatory noise. ‘I don’t want to,’ he admits, the hand on your thigh sliding over, a servo brushing against you. The touch a question.

• “Then don’t,” you whisper and he touches you, carefully pressing a servo into your wet heat and watching you arch. So tight and slick. Growling, his mouth brushes your belly, venting to pull your scent deep into himself as he shifts down your body. Slipping his servo free so he can slide his hands under your hips, before putting his mouth on you. That ragged little noise you make strings him tight, his spike aching behind his plating as he tastes you. Knowing that you have no idea how possessive predacons can be about anything that’s theirs. And you? You’re his now.

Did a Walmart run to fill my duck bag for Jeep tag and found this earlier.

#transformers x reader #predaking x reader #predaking #valveplug

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glitter50000 · 3 days ago

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I just noticed the ring???? XL is wearing the ashes??? amd it’s so subtly done holy shit#and those aren’t little statues at the front but you’ve done W bunch of white flowers I’ll scream oh my god the imagery#also the slight splash of red in WM’s nails? I somehow thought they were black before I turned up the brightness#you’re making me want to dress up edgy I’m going to scream I immediately sent this to friends even though thry are not even in this fandom#I just needed other people to see your good art ahhhh#they also liked it#but can I just say!??#the Jewelry??#XL is hardly wearing any he’s got his Fucking incredible earring and the chain#but WM much more decorated and yet it feels so balanced I’m going to scream#even his spiky little ponytail!!#and the fact both are obscuring their face just makes me go so wild the aesthetic here is off the charts you make me want to throw away my#closet and dress like that except I will not do that#I want to stare at this for hours#i know I’ve at least been staring at it for twenty minutes which (@fullmetalpotterhead tags)

#hello yes I’m back on my loving this art train#but like here’s the thing here’s the thing#I’m still obsessed with their posing#I do not know how to put it in words right!!!#just!!! the contrast of body language!!!#XL is so limp and relaxed#he’s looking off towards the viewer with his hands falling very naturally#and while his leg position could be seen as uncomfortable I know as someone sho also sits incorrectly that can just be a very normal way#for the body to want to fall#WM on the other hand is so posed!!!#he sits up straight. his legs are crossed#it honestly looks like he could be pulling XL in#right hand pulling with his left hand caresses his head#but based on WM as a character I feel like more likely XL draped his arm across WM first#and WM is caressing his head yes and facing XL with full attention#which also makes this feel that much more like interrupting something!!!#like XL was probably facing him too but now he’s watching us#I don’t know I don’t know I’m just thinking about this again (@fullmetalpotterhead tags)

My two pieces for the MXTX Cut & Sew fashion zine! Full zine can be found @/MXTXCreatives on Twitter <3

#Know that i’m obsessed with all your other tags on this #tian guan ci fu

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bluetimeombre · 2 days ago

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: ̗̀➛ The Paul Mescal school of yearning

You and Pedro had stared in the Last of Us together, and now he cannot stop talking about you at any chance given, very much similar to another friend of his…

[Pedro Pascal is my love and my life and has been for a while now, idk what anyone else has told you but we’re very happy together. Anyway, this is a little thing I created cause don’t we all want to be wanted the way Paul wants Daisy?!] daddy references, language, fem reader, not proof read

ᴘᴇᴅʀᴏᴘᴀꜱᴄᴀʟɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀᴏɴᴇꜰᴀɴ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇꜱ: ɴᴏ ʙᴜᴛ ꜰʀ ᴘᴇᴅʀᴏ ᴘᴀꜱᴄᴀʟ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴜʟ ᴍᴇꜱᴄᴀʟ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ᴏꜰ ʏᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴄᴜᴛ !!!

↪️ -

Yourusername: The Last of Us, out now. If you’ve ever liked me, you’ll go give it some love

1.1 m likes // 7.8k comments // 🏷️pascalispunk

urfan: obsessed

peoplelover: oh she getting that Emmy

pedroisloveislife: THE LAST OF US?!?

urfriend: ❤️

pedroishot: u and pedro are going to kill me

fanista: this is gonna break me

pascalbemine: mother is mothering!!!

pascalispunk: I’ll watch it cause I like you

↪️ yourusername: I appreciate that

↪️↪️ pascalispunk: and because pedro pascal is in it

↪️↪️↪️ yourusername: actually he got cut

↪️↪️↪️↪️ pascalispunk: 😦😦

pascalispunk: The Last of us with some of my favourite people. Give it some love

1.9 m likes // 101k comments

user101: cannon that pedro doesn't know what tagging is

y/nfan: that's y/n in the third picture, i know it

pedroismyman: he's so daddy

personcha: daddy

bellaisqueen: daddy is a state of mind

y/nluver: y/n took the last pictures, i scream as they drag me into the asylum

pascalandy/n: the flowers!! i need him

youryousername liked this post

↪️↪️ -

~ y/nbiggestgurl: guys!!! @yourusername and @pascalispunk at the a Stevie Nicks concert, I don’t know who I want to be more!!!!

↪️↪️↪️ - Pascalisinlove:

Everyone saying Pedro and Y/N are just friends when all of this exists:

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။• play video

'Do you ever look at instagram accounts devoted to you being a heartthrob when you’re feeling down ?'

'Yes, I do,' Pedro immediately burst into laughter.

'What’s your favourite account?'

‘It’s called Pedropascalfanaccount,' he chuckled to himself again, eyes squeezing shut. He regained himself in time. 'Y/N runs that account.'

There was silence in which he tried not to laugh again.

'Does she think you’re a heartthrob?'

Pedro cringed. 'I hope.'

comments:

but this is so normal pedro behaviour

I love Pedro and Y/N together sm, i hope the rumours are true

He's so daddy, need him

Y/N Pascal, I am here for it

↪️↪️↪️↪️ Pascalisinlove:

'K but Pedro Pascal is like this with all his costars.' Pedro being close with Y/N like any other costar:

These headlines:

↪️↪️↪️↪️↪️

One of my favourite moments- y/npascal11

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။• play video

The camera's caught you and Pedro standing next to each other as the interview progressed onto how you all bonded on set of the Last of us. She suggested, off-handily, karaoke.

Pedro leaned into the microphone. 'I hate karaoke.'

You chuckled, giving your own answer. 'I'd have loved karaoke, it's quite fun.'

Everyone lost their minds at how Pedro flustered, waving his hands around and desperately grabbing for the microphone. 'I don't mind karaoke, I don't mind it,' he quickly redeemed himself. Everyone loved how he was looking to you for approval. 'With the right company, it can be great- oh, we should go.'

Everyone watching the video lost their minds at how quick an opinion change he had as soon as he realised you liked it.

'We should!' you chuckle, playing along.

The video then played every other interview clip that could be found of Pedro expressing dislike for karaoke. He hated it. But as soon as you said you liked it his whole mind set was changed.

User101: he’s in love omg!!

User102: the way he looks at her

User33: omg internet mommy and internet daddy!!?!

- ⤵️

Pedropascalnumberonefan: this interview is what started it all, the way Paul just brings up Daisy and Pedro can’t stop talking about Y/N!!

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။• play video

Pedro and the rest of the cast of Gladitor II sat together, each taking turns holding cards and asking questions, how well do they all know one another.

Paul and Pedro seemed to be having their own competition, privately wanting to beat each other. But whilst privately competing they hadn’t realised just what they were saying:

"Who is my favourite actor?" Pedro asked, biting the lid of the pen off.

Joesph Quinn stroked the boldness of his head. "It’s me right?"

"That you’re my favourite actor?"

"Yeah- you said that to me once."

"I said that you were special," corrected Pedro, grinning to himself before laughing at his own joke. "And special can mean a lot of things."

"Marlon Brando?" Connie suggested.

"Harrison Ford?" Was another by Freddy.

And just as Pedro was gonna accept that answer, Paul said your name.

"Y/n! It’s y/n, y/n!"

Pedro’s grin split his cheeks as he turned his board and showed everyone your scribbled name, a heart jotted down next to it.

Pedro didn’t even care he’d just supplied the fans, he cared he got a point- going for a high five that nobody returned.

And if Pedro and Paul were in a competition for who could name their girls the most, Pedro had the lead very quickly as when Connie was up, asking:

"What is my favourite curse word in Danish?"

Pedro went in with ‘fuck’ which was wrong. Then he tried again with Bastard but he told himself off with that one, mumbling a:

"No that’s y/n’s favourite."

Next to him, Paul laughed.

But Paul came swinging back in the game when Joseph asked:

"What actor do I get mistaken for?"

The question had hardly left his lips when Paul erupted-

"Daisy Edgar Jones! Sometimes,"

"Um, no."

Userp12: PLS!! Jo shut him down so quick

User89: guys this is hilarious

User69: not even ten seconds in and we got a Daisy and Y/n mention

PaulMescalboy: k but do you think Paul is so mad cause Pedro stay winning, like has everyone SEEN the SNL videos

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။• play video

Everyone had seen the SNL videos. Not only had you and Pedro done a sketch to express how he is internet Daddy and you were internet Mommy looking after all your children, but then a tiktok had gone viral.

You were walking the red carpet with your assistant, the flashing lights adding to the glamour you carried in every step when you brushed by Pedro.

At first everyone was talking about how they were sure your hand was purposely grazing his ass but then everyone's jaw dropped with how you dragged your hand over the back of his neck. It was such a simple move, so nonchalant that you didn't even look as you did it.

Pedro looked.

Pedro grabbed your hand and kissed the back of it as if there weren't a hundred camera's on the pair of you.

Pedro looked at you like you'd hung the very moon.

He pulled you into him, leaving the microphone to grab you and hug you. Maybe he'd abandon the whole thing just to follow after you like a lost puppy.

But he'd left the microphone and the people in front of their phones with a deep need for love like Pedro loved you. When he muttered a small 'Dios mío'.

↪️

Y/nupdates: but do you all remember that time Pedro and Y/N were caught looking after her nephew together BEFORE FILMING FOR THE LAST OF US EVEN BEGAN!! UR HONOUR ITS ALWAYS BEEN THEM

↪️↪️

"You really facetime people a lot," said Bella, as they were on camera, discussing The Last of Us and what it was like on set.

Pedro laughed. "Let's facetime someone."

"Y/n?" asked Bella. They didn't even need to take another guess, Pedro's cheeky grin telling all just who he would be face-timing.

"Lets see if she answers me this time," he mumbled as he got your contact up.

Bella continued adding fuel to the fire. "I feel like every time I came into the tent on set, if you weren't with her on set, you'd be talking to her over the phone."

"Oh come on, don't exaggerate- she calls me!" said Pedro, furrowing his brows at the phone screen as he watched your name flicker on his phone. The camera's picked up the scrunch of his face as did Bella.

"You always do that face as well!" Bella pointed out. "When you start a face time call- you always do a little smoulder!"

Pedro chuckled. "I can't see!"

His head snapped down to his phone when the ringing had stopped and you'd picked up his call. He grinned and cheered.

"What the fuck do you want?" you playfully yelled down the phone as Pedro laughed, showing you Bella and showing you off to the camera.

↪️↪️↪️

User1: If Pedro went to the Paul school of yearning then Y/N went to the Daisy school of avoiding the damn question.

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။• play video

The video played you in your own lie detector test, similar to how Pedro had once been subjected to.

"People call you the mother of the internet," said the lady behind the camera.

You nodded and waited for the rest of it to come.

She slid a picture of Pedro over to you and your cheeks immediately went red. "Is this man your daddy?"

The camera caught you trying to keep it together but you started to laugh, hiding your face as you clearly didn't want the camera's to pick up your blush or your heart rate. "Oh geez- um," you hesitated, but picked up the picture of him. "My god his eyes are gorgeous. I think-"

"True," said the man officiating the lie detector test.

"Thank you," you quickly threw his way before addressing the question. "I think he's everyone's daddy, yeah."

"But is he your daddy?" she repeated.

You tried to think of a way to play it and yet nothing came to mind. "I plead the fifth."

You laughed as you finished the video and read the article’s accompanying it and even went back to look at the pictures.

You felt like a fan of yourself and Pedro as you stared at all the evidence on your phone.

Perhaps the most incriminating bit of evidence was the man stirring next to you.

"What have you been laughing about over there?" Mumbled Pedro as his arm wrapped back around your waist, tugging you closer to him again.

You cuddle in, abandoning your phone to the side. "Oh you know, just how much you love me."

Pedro knew immediately as he grumbled, hiding himself in the soft skin of your neck. "That damn video again?"

[I hope you enjoy!! Let me know if you’d like any more Pedro,]

202 notes · View notes

aphrvdisiac · 1 day ago

Text

THE BLACKEST DAY.

ellie williams & abby anderson x fem!reader.

part three of off to the races & to lie and love.

synopsis | devotions, crimes, sacrifices. how far will ellie and abby go to make sure you’ll never escape again? what will be the ultimate decision to make for your life, and what is worth saving — your life and freedom, or them and their undying love?

tags | adult language. NC-17 rating content & dark elements; m*rder, mentions of kidnapping, obsessive and possessive behaviors, infidelity, violent behavior from ellabs, manipulation, graphic descriptions of t*rture (even psychologically), threats made with weapons, blackmail. slight adult content; fingering, slight voyerisum, double penetration, asphyxiation, usage of mommy and daddy.

author’s note | i want to say there is not much smut in here due to the fact there is great dominant focus on the relationship; we get a new light of ellabs, but they are 10x more cruel and mean. please proceed with much caution as sensitive and graphic content does exist in this story. if you find anything triggering to your wellbeing, please click off and do not continuing.

if you have decided or do decide to keep reading, you are

hereby responsible for your own media consumption.

Despite how much you did confession, you knew you were meant for eternal damnation.

However, you didn’t know that was being permanently tied to Abby and Ellie’s forever — and having to know what they would do to keep you by their side.

You thought in a span of a year after they had lured you back in, they would lighten up and make some adjustments within their behavior and emotions in order for you to live a more carefree life — which made you an idiot to think that they’d ever do that.

Things had only gotten worse since you returned, and that made absolutely sure you would never be able to escape from them again; not that you planned to, but they couldn’t put it past you anymore.

While you knew you were loved and wanted by them despite all odds, you felt like a hostage — but yet, who would put up with you like they did? They took all risks and sacrifices for you, did what they had to so you would know where you belonged.

That was understandable and reasonable enough, right?

It felt like everyday you had to lie to yourself to keep going on, to have hope and faith within the relationship.

“You cannot stab every person who looks my way!” You yelled, upset about how Ellie and Abby dragged you out of Saks earlier because a man’s eyes moved past you while you were looking at skirts. “He was simply being human by looking around!”

“He definitely wanted you. What are you not getting?” Abby wondered, eyebrows furrowed as she sipped on a glass of bourbon. “It’s common sense and knowledge.”

“This is like when that man at the restaurant last week called you love after he asked if you wanted a refill,” Ellie recalled, and you were about to break open your skull in front of them. “We are simply protecting you. Always will.”

“I’m going to take your gun and use it on myself,” you muttered under your breath.

It was the possessiveness and obsession that you once admired, now become so deadly and uncontrollable that it drove them mad. It drove you insane too, but in the perspective that this is what the rest of your life would look like.

Abby and Ellie took a seat on the couch, a few feet separated from each other as they continued with sipping their drinks.

You stood in the middle of the living room, their eyes set on you with amusing grins dancing on their lips. You crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at the pair as Ellie cocked her head to the side, Abby waiting for you to speak your mind.

You lifted up your left hand, your fresh manicure set being shown off. “You see this hand?” You asked, and they hummed. “Until it has a gorgeous Harry Winston ring on it, I don’t want to hear you both saying I’m all yours forever.”

“I don’t think we need to give you an engagement ring for you to know and understand that,” Abby stated, and you rolled your eyes, pursing your lips. “I feel like we have proven it enough; it’s you who needs to get that through your brain.”

“It’s unfair!” You said, and Ellie chuckled. “Murdering people doesn’t prove much.”

“No?” Ellie wondered. “You seem to enjoy our devotion to you, little one.”

“You enjoy this, bunny,” Abby followed up, her finger moving along the rim of her glass. “You know it yourself; you love that we would kill anyone for you. It gets you off as much as it does for us.”

You didn’t say anything back, only continuing to glare at them as they stared back. “I’m going to therapy now,” you said, dropping your arms and going to grab your purse. “I don’t want a bodyguard with me!”

“It’s for your fucking protection!” Abby yelled back, the pair hearing your footsteps fade away into the elevator, soaking in their high pride and ego.

You were taken aback when they said you should go to therapy, stating how they felt guilty you had to witness Delilah’s corpse along with the amount of childhood issues you still held, and other amounts of shit to list. You were hesitant on it, but it was good that you could talk about anything, and everything — even about Ellie and Abby.

You could talk about how they were murderers, only due to the fact they paid the therapist to keep her mouth shut — they tripled her pay grade. At least at the end, you could let everything out and cry about it, be vulnerable and honest.

A bodyguard ended up tagging along, staying three feet behind you and staying outside the therapist’s office as you sat inside, looking at your therapist, Jasmine.

“How are you today? Do we need to talk about the girls?” She asked, notepad on her lap with her pen being played around by her fingers. “I know that look. What did they do now?”

“I am so sick of this bullshit where they say I am theirs,” you started off, holding onto the therapeutic plush that she kept on standby. “Of course, I am grossly attracted to it because of the strings that come along with that, but if I was truly theirs, why won’t they propose to me? They only speak of it when we are fucking.”

“Well, have you discussed this with them?” Jasmine asked, and you nodded. “You have to understand, all three of you have your issues that are brought into the relationship; the way your parents were has led you to be in love with toxicity.”

“It isn’t that toxic,” you protested. “We have problems, but.”

“They have killed for you, they had you bare witness to it so they could prove a point,” she added, and your eyes trailed away from hers, looking down at your lap. “Ellie and Abby didn’t have their own maternal figures, they disappeared; they knew abandonment, soaked that into yours, and transformed it into something sickening.”

“You say this, but never encourage me to leave,” you stated, and she tilted her head to the side, giving you a certain look. “I… I know it is not right, what they do, and I do hate it — but my whole life has been centered around them, they have given me everything, and I cannot just dismiss that.”

“You owe them nothing,” Jasmine assured. “You are still you, with or without them. I cannot force you to leave them, but you come in every two times out of the week, crying and complaining about them, what they have done.”

“Well, that’s what therapy is for,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.

“Have you ever considered that you are in love with what they give, and not them anymore?” She wondered, and your eyes shot back up, locked into hers. “You said that they have given you everything — things that your parents couldn’t provide. You seek out that, not Ellie and Abby. You give into the things that fulfill your cravings.”

You scoffed. “And what cravings may that be?”

“Attention, love, protection,” Jasmine professed, and your brain had gone quiet. “Marriage won’t fix anything. You will continue to be in love with their providence, while they continue to be in love with violence and using you as an excuse to give into it.”

The room went quiet for a moment, being sure your heartbeat was making noise. “I do love them, I am in love with them,” you softly said, unknown to the tears that were coming out. “I do, I know I do.”

“You seem to be trying to convince yourself of that, rather than me,” she frowned, and sniffled, your head in your hands. “This relationship was built with purposes of chaos, manipulation, and violence — and that’s exactly how it will end. You know what they are capable of, and your love for them dissipated when you realized just how sick they are.”

After your session, you decided to go on a walk to clear your head further after your conversation with Jasmine. You knew you loved Ellie and Abby, you never questioned that at any time — the only things you questioned was how far they would go, and what personal sacrifices you would make; how much more your virtue and soul would be further tainted and bruised, just to satisfy their sadistic needs in exchange for their love and attention.

You knew there was darkness that clouded the relationship as they were purely responsible for it, but you gave into it — and somehow, you managed to find light within it all. Maybe it was to protect you from the cruel truth that they were psychopaths that didn’t hold an inch of remorse or mercy within their souls or hearts, not even in their minds.

And sometimes, you did wonder if they used you as an excuse to murder, that maybe this entire time you gave them the perfect key for them to feed into their desires. If that was the truth, you would rather die.

You walk back into the penthouse, taking off your shoes along with your scarf and coat. You heard your name being shouted from the girls' shared office as you careened to the sound of their voices and low jazz music that played.

You stood there at the entrance, giving them a smile. “Sorry I took a while, I wanted to go for a walk.”

“How was your session with Jasmine?” Abby asked, putting down a file onto her desk as the pair made strict and serious eye contact with you, making your pulse race.

They must have known something.

“It was okay, a really good session today,” you responded, picking at your cuticles. “It was one of those talks that just had me too in my head.”

“What did you guys talk about, though?” Ellie questioned, and you swallowed thickly. A haunting smile played on her lips, like she knew something and was trying to bait it out of you.

Because they never ask what was discussed.

They said that was your business, your privacy, and they didn’t need to know about it.

You went quiet, not knowing if you should lie though that would land your ass in hot water. You played with your necklace, fiddling with it as your mouth hung open, but nothing came out. You seemed gobsmacked, because you were.

What the hell did they know?

“I’ll tell you what was said,” Ellie started off, getting up from her desk chair, and slowly moved your way. “That fucking stupid therapist has been putting these lies into your head, and you’re believing her. Aren’t you?”

“No, no,” you shook your head, shuffling backwards. “Nothing was put in my head.”

“You hate what we do for you, little lamb?” Ellie asked, and you were on the verge of tears as she got close enough to grab your face, nearly cracking your jaw. “You think you are someone without us, hm? We can dump you back to your parents, and see if you keep thinking that.”

You sobbed, continuing to shake your head. “I–I was just talking!”

“Don’t fucking lie to us,” Abby approached the two of you, standing on the side while you looked at her. “We don’t pay her extra for no reason, and surely you are not that dumb to think we wouldn’t be keeping record of what your sessions consist of.”

You knew it was too good to be true. They just wanted to hold more stuff over your head.

“You’re really breaking our hearts, bunny,” Abby sighed, but in a faux manner. “Do you think we are sick? Manipulative?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered, and Ellie deepened her squeeze, getting a whimper out of you. “No, no! I was just too in my head!”

Ellie moved her head so you could be looking directly at Abby, your eyes glossy and tearful. “Do you know what will happen if you leave us, baby? If you even dare think about it?” She asked, her face close to yours that you could smell faint alcohol, and you shook your head. “We will fucking kill you. Your death will be guaranteed.”

“You are nothing without me! You have no fucking purpose if I don’t exist!” You shot back, and they chuckled. “You’ll go blue simply because I am the oxygen you breathe and crave; your life will be dull and boring because you have no excuse to fucking kill someone.”

“Oh, look who finally got a mouth on her,” Ellie cooed, pushing you into Abby’s arms, and you were being lifted over her shoulder. “It’s almost like you enjoyed being fucked to the point your brain is sponge; only things you’re soaking up is to remember your place and who your devotion is to.”

You were being led up upstairs, knowing what was to come. You were sure the thumping of your heart could be heard, felt against Abby’s shoulder, and nausea came over you with regret attached to it. You started to cry out a symphony of apologies, trying to find any use or way to get out of Abby’s grip but the eyes of Ellie’s was proof that it wasn’t such a good idea to do.

The wind was knocked out of you when Abby settled you roughly onto the bed, your clothes stripped off your body with the desperate yet furious hands of Ellie. “I swear I am not going to leave you or anything!” You pleaded, trying not to break into tears as your glossy eyes begged for mercy. “I–I’m sorry!”

Abby had already seized a set of bunched-up rope, loosening it as Ellie straddled on top of you to hold you down.

A part of you was getting hot and bothered by this, but the emotional state of you could not take it. After such a therapy session and a conscious part of your brain coming to life during your session, you could not even take the simplest touch of their hands on you.

“Violet!” You screamed.

You hardly used the safe word. Hardly. It has only been used twice in the span of dating the pair, and today it had to be used.

Ellie hopped off your body, Abby dropping the rope. You broke into heavier sobs, your chest moving too rapidly and your breaths were shaky.

They were trying to comfort you, but you only snapped. “Get the fuck away from me!” You kicked and crawled away to where the pillows rest, curling yourself up into a ball. “Get out, get out!”

“Baby—“

“Leave me alone!” You yelled, tossing a flower vase that sat on the nightstand towards their exact direction. To your unfortunate luck, they moved out of the way of it. “I just want to sleep. Alone.”

“Fine. Sleep alone,” Abby seethed, marching out of the room as Ellie stayed behind for a few seconds before following the blonde’s direction.

It didn’t take long until tears came running out of you, nearly drowning in your sobs. You laid down, sobbing into a pillow and brought your knees back up to your chest again, shaking and shivering.

You don’t know why it was today when you felt like you were breaking. It had been three years now, and the good girl act you kept up for them was coming to a crash, feeling it in your bones.

You couldn’t bite your tongue anymore, but you had to. Because you were much of a bad person as they were; everyone they killed or harmed was because of you, because you tattled and wanted to see how far they'd go.

And this was it. You reached the final level, and it caused you to have a psychological breakdown. You were now trapped in love with them, not in love.

Your need for love, attention, and desire caused you every sense of dignity and self worth you carried. You were nobody without them because they stripped you of who you were before them — and that made you fucking sick to your stomach.

You couldn’t stand a night in the house with them as you boosted yourself up out of the bed and moved back to the front door where your shoes and coat hung with your scarf.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Abby asked, noticing her and Ellie staying feets away from you. “It’s late.”

You turned your head to them. “I’m not a fucking child; if I want to be one, I’ll go to my parents.”

“The ones who don’t fucking care?” She spat back, and you rolled your eyes as you adjusted your scarf around your neck.

“Well, when I left you both and asked for haven, they offered it without hesitation,” you stated, grabbing your purse. “I’m sick of this shit.”

And like that, you walked out of the house before they could further protest.

Which was only the beginning of the end.

You were four dirty martinis in, elbows rested on the bar countertop as old blues music faintly played throughout the dingy bar.

A body sat next to you, hearing the man order bourbon on the rocks. There was significant silence as it was you, three other strangers, and now him sitting around in the bar smelling of old musk and lemon.

“So you’re here alone?” He asked, eyes focused on the basketball game that played on the laggy TV in the corner. “Or are your girlfriends waiting around?”

Your eyes snapped to him on cue as he met yours. “What?” You managed to sputter out. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“Well that depends,” he mumbled, slouching forward with his arms crossed onto the countertop. “You see, your girls did a great deal killing my friend, Brandon. I mean, h—he was gonna go to fucking Princeton!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, pushing away your drink. “I have to go.”

“Oh, but I’m not going to let you,” he told you, grabbing a hold of your wrist as he viciously gripped it and leaned in closer to the side of your head. “Unless you want your pretty brains blown out.”

He had a gun.

You stayed firm in your seat, his hand removed from your wrist. “How do you know me? Who are you? What do you even want?”

“Karma. Payback. Whatever they call it,” he admitted, clearing his throat as his drink finally arrived. “See, I did some good research into you and your girlfriends. Whoever is protecting them has a good way of keeping anything about them completely clear and hidden.”

“No one needs to protect them. They are good people,” you said, brows furrowed in confusion. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Oh, but you— you fucking New York princess — no one is protecting you or your family,” he grinned, and nausea consumed you. “Now, you have a good record. I guess being a goody-two shoes will do that. However, those parents of yours… well, fuck.”

“My parents have nothing to do with anything,” you said, ready to break your martini glass for shards to stab into his eyes. “You leave them the fuck out of this.”

“Let’s make a deal.”

“I don’t even know your name, freak.”

“Vincent Hayes.”

“Well Vincent,” you said, getting up from your chair, and threw down a few twenties onto the stained countertop. “I don’t give a fuck what agenda you have planned or want to succeed at, but leave me alone or I will take a gun to your head.”

“You might want to care,” he suggested, grinning. “No one wants a father who commits tax evasion and bribery, and has multiple affairs.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied, inching yourself closer to him. “And if you dare to come after my family, I’ll come after yours. Whatever you have, I’ll take it.”

“You didn’t have this much spunk before Ellie and Abby,” Vincent reminded you, and you dug your nails into the palm of your hand, a method you’d had to come to use to prevent any harmful flashbacks.”If I remember correctly, you were a loser bitch.”

“And so was your buddy,” you said, giving him a pat on his arm before you walked out of the bar, and back home. Once you were only a few miles away from the place, you took your phone out of your purse, and went to your phone app, contacting your dad immediately.

“Hello?” He answered after a few rings. “Are you okay?”

“Dad, I need to talk to you,” you started off, exhaling heavily. “Nothing’s bad happening, right? Like you would tell me if you were okay, or in trouble?”

He went quiet for a few moments, only static making prominent noise over the line. “You have nothing to worry about, okay? I am taking care of everything for this family, and I need you to continue staying with the girls because of that. Okay?”

Continue staying with the girls.

When you wanted to be out, there was always going to be a reason why you had to stay. You hung up the call, and continued to walk back to the penthouse, stifling your sobs as you walked past strangers and a violent urge to puke everywhere.

You didn’t want to go back home; in fact, you were okay with staying at a hotel or anything else for that matter. You disabled the tracker on your phone, and went on to call Jasmine. “Good evening,” she picked up after only two rings, and you sighed. “Why are you calling this late?”

“I… I don’t want to stay with them tonight. And I know this is inappropriate to ask, but may I stay with you this evening?,” you wondered, sniffling, and looked at the ground. “There is just so much that has happened tonight since the session, and I don’t have anywhere to go because they’ll find me.”

Jasmine gave you her address, and you sighed in relief, minimal anxiety being lifted off your shoulders. “I’ll run a kettle of tea for you, and I’ll be sure to give the doorman your name.”

You were curled up with a soft throw blanket on Jasmine’s couch, a warm cup of tea sitting in your hands. “Did anything particular occur today?” She asked, and you sighed, soaking in the sweet smell of lemon. “Seems like you’re extra fragile today.”

“They recorded our session today, they know what I said,” you sniffled, looking up from your tea. “I don’t know how, and of course I know they pay you to keep things a secret, but… Yeah, they know.”

“I would still be silent even if they didn’t pay me,” Jasmine confessed, and you grinned, your ears perking up, too. “Not for their sake, but for yours.”

“You’re a therapist, not my savior,” you stated, taking a sip of the tea.

“When will it be enough for you?” She asked, placing herself slightly closer to you. “You are exhausted, scared, and finished. When will you draw the line?”

You wish you had the answer to that, but you never would. You should have drawn the line the second they killed Brandon James or Delilah, but instead you ran back to them, and caved in you; you were indefinitely trapped forever, and the only way out would be death.

“You deserve better,” she whispered as you noticed her body leaning in towards yours, her head dipping to a side angle. You knew what was going to take place, and you reckoned with your loyalty as Jasmine didn’t hesitate to put her lips onto yours, you caving into the kiss.

You were loyal and submissive to Ellie and Abby — you had been for years. If they knew you were with another woman, letting her kiss you and tell you that they didn’t deserve you, they would be cutting her apart before your bare eyes.

You shifted onto her lap, the kiss turning into a messy, desperate makeout session as Jasmine’s hands found their way under your shirt, and unclasped your bra. “I got you, you’re safe with me,” she whispered between a kiss, your shirt and bra coming off during it. “I won’t let them hurt you anymore,” her lips dragged down along your neck, to your collarbones.

Guilt and shame should’ve come so sudden to you, should have allowed you to push away but you only wanted more.

It wasn’t like you were sex deprived because you weren’t — Ellie and Abby made sure sex was a continuous routine in your everyday lives. But it was the gentle touching, the soft reassurance and kisses that you missed, and Jasmine was filling that void, and that is what she was only doing.

You were using her to fill your satisfaction.

The sun cracked through the windows and flared across your eyes, forcing them open and adjusting to the brightness. An arm was wrapped around your waist, and you noticed the tattoos on Jasmine’s arms, your fingertips following the traces of them.

Your touch awoken her, and she hummed, smiling the moment she saw you. “Hey,” she whispered. “Are you okay? How do you feel?”

“I think she feels just fine,” Ellie’s voice came about, causing you and Jasmine to both jump up, your anxiety spiking. “Considering the fact our girlfriend’s clothes are off, and scattered in your living room.”

Abby stood aside, seemingly irritated and disappointed in you. However, you made out the gun that was in her front right pocket, and you swallowed thickly, nauseous and scared of what was to come. “I think Jasmine here thought she was her property,” Abby said, gesturing to the hickeys on your neck.

“Just leave her the fuck alone,” Jasmine spoke up, and you cringed to her defense, only knowing she was making it worse. “She wants nothing to do with you.”

“Oh?” Ellie grinned. “Is that true, lamb?”

You felt small and weak suddenly, not responding or moving.

“She won’t answer that,” Jasmine continued, scoffing. “She is scared of you, and she is done loving the two of you.”

“I’m really done hearing you whine, you bitch,” Abby chuckled, stomping towards Jasmine’s side of the bed, and grabbed her by a fistful of her hair. She tried to fight off your girlfriend, but it was impossible as she then dropped her to the ground, kicking her repeatedly in the lungs. “This is just the beginning of it.”

“Come on, sweet girl. We have to take these affairs somewhere more private,” Ellie said, and you glanced at her, shaking your head. You seemed like a scared, afraid puppy who had just been kicked again, and the auburn cooed at you, giving a faux pout. “You know something like this would happen, baby. Did you really think you would get away with this?”

Abby was in the background forcing a coat around Jasmine’s nude body, and slipping on her shoes. You couldn’t make out what the blonde was saying to her, but you were sure it wasn’t kind things, and possibly reassuring Jasmine that she was going to meet the end of her life.

“Get on up, sweetheart,” Ellie pulled out her gun, clocking it. “Or do I have to re-train you all over again?”

You got up hesitantly, but moved your yesterday’s clothes back onto your body as Ellie made sure to keep the gun in your eyesight. “Are you going to kill her?” You asked, voice hush and soft, on the brink of crying. “You should hurt me, not her, Els.”

“We’re gonna find out together, baby,” Ellie grinned, and cocked her head for you to start following her.

Minutes later, you and Jasmine were tossed into the back of a limo with your girlfriends. Abby had to securely put tape around her eyes and mouth the moment the doors closed behind you all, and you had to do your best to ignore her sobs.

“We weren’t paying you to fuck our girl,” Abby blurted, and Jasmine let out a sniffle. “Miss Hills… You should have known better, even after you knew how Brandon Jasmes died when he decided to be a stupid fuck.”

“But you aren’t going to kill her,” you defended. “Not her — she does have people who will miss her, and someone will find out?”

“Like who?” Abby wondered.

Your brain registered the night of last, how you met Vincent Hayes who was a friend of Brandon’s, and was warning you of what he knew, and was going to do.

“Someone’s threatening me,” you stated, and the girls shifted their eyes entirely onto you. “When I left last night, I went to the bar and this guy started threatening me – saying how he had stuff on my dad that could land him in prison.”

“And you decided to what — fuck your therapist? How fucking cliché can you be, sweetheart?” Ellie asked, and you rolled your eyes, visibly irritated and frustrated. “What’s his name? What does he know?”

“He knows your guys’ slates are clean, and you killed Brandon,” you recalled, and they hummed. “But he said my dad is committing tax evasion, bribery, and more. And then he…”

Your girlfriends shifted closer in, panicked but alerted.

“Spit it out, bunny.”

You sighed, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “He then threatened to blow my brains out.”

Abby looked at Ellie, an unsettling laugh leaving her mouth. “Jasmine… Today is your lucky day,” Ellie said, Abby giving her a curt nod. “But we still need to take care of you for fucking around.”

The car came to a sharp halt as you looked outside to see an empty warehouse. Ellie opened up the door, stepping out while Abby grabbed and dragged Jasmine out of the car, the girl kicking her legs and screamed. “Bunny, you need to see this for yourself. This is your new punishment.”

It's not like you had a choice, you had to oblige and obey. You already put yourself in a grave for letting someone else fuck you, although you continued to see it as you using Jasmine. You got out of the car, following behind all the girls, and saw a table that had multiple objects on top of them; a wrench, hammer, pilers, and rope.

Abby shoved Jasmine into a chair that stood in the middle of the large, empty warehouse. You eyed around, seeing dried blood spots scattered everywhere, and your body cringed and shivered.

So this is where the killing takes place, you thought to yourself. This is where people I caused to die last saw before they went away.

And Jasmine was possibly next.

“I don’t want to see this please,” you cried, shaking your head. “Please don’t let me.”

“But you will miss all the fun,” Ellie said, frowning. “And I told you that this is your punishment.”

Abby binded Jasmine’s arms and legs, putting some around her waist to the chair to keep her entirely strapped down. “You think we must be exaggerating when we say we would do anything for you,” she started off, grabbing the wrench. “Or when we say that you lead all these people to die, and we just have to take care of them for you.”

The wrench then hits Jasmine in the stomach, a muffled scream coming out from behind the duct tape.

Ellie stood behind you, her gun pointed to your back as her hand held and squeezed your jaw, forcing you to watch closely and attentively. “Some of those fingers of hers have to go,” she cooed, sighing dramatically. “It’s unfortunate. She was a good therapist for a while.”

The wrench went on to beat down on her legs, Abby taking a fun swing at every inch and part, bones cracking and breaking.

“Abby, take off the tape,” Ellie suggested, and the blonde obeyed, ripping both pieces off. “We are going to give Jasmine a show, baby. Take off your bottoms.”

You nodded and sniffled, your shaky hands reaching to the waistband of your jeans and underwear as you snug them off down to your ankles. Ellie’s hand went from your jaw, down to your stomach and cunt, her fingertips grazing over it. You shivered to her touch, whimpering for more — it was sick how your body immediately responded and gave into her touch, wanting and needing more.

“Who’s your daddy, angel?” Ellie asked, loud enough for Jasmine to hear. “Go on, and say who is. Let her know.”

“I–It’s you, Els. Only you,” you moaned, her fingers dipping inside of your cunt and perfectly curled in, moving at a harsh pace. “My body is yours and Abby’s.”

“You hear that, Miss Hills?” Abby wondered, dropping the wrench and picked up the hammer next. “Did you fucking hear that!” The hammer struck at her feet, a harsh scream escaping her but Abby got a cruel rise out of it, taking the hammer to her hands.

Your brain ran around with what was happening around — Jasmine being tortured, Abby finding it humorous, and Ellie fucking you for her to see.

Your climax approached you instantly, not giving Ellie a heads-up as you let it go, and continued to cry from how you wanted to cover yourself up and repent for how your body gave into Ellie’s demand.

Abby shifted from the hammer to the piler’s in the blink of an eye, and used them to break and half-amputate a few of Jasmine’s fingers. You knew what they were doing, though — they were also torturing you, wanting you to understand that they could do worse than this next time.

You knew about them being murderers, so why wouldn’t they give you a show.

Jasmine Hills ended up being discarded in an alleyway hours later with a pulp face, dangling fingers, damaged palms, and a bruised and broken body.

You decided to stay at your parents house for a few days after what you witnessed and endured. You didn’t know what to do about your girlfriends, almost terrified to even sleep around them, and you were already experiencing nightmares

“Amore, you have a guest!” Your mom shouted, and you groaned, getting up from your bed. You had been sinking in your comforters for those days, garbage of foods and cups dumped in mindless places, with you in days-old pajamas.

You shuffled into the main living room of your parents Manhattan’s penthouse. Thinking it would be about anyone else, you were met with Vincent Hayes.

You couldn’t curse him out in front of your mother, without making it suspicious. “Um, hi?” You said, and he smiled, taking a close look at you. “How can I help you, Vincent?”

“We need to have a conversation,” he told you, and you sighed. Your gut wanted you to listen and have the conversation, a part of you feeling like it was something you needed to hear. You only nodded and gestured your head for him to follow you out to the terrace.

You stepped into New York’s cold weather, sitting down at the small coffee table as he sat across from you. “So, you’re stalking me now?” You wondered. “I could have you arrested for that.”

“You’re barely with them,” Vincent said, taking out a pack of cigarettes. “I have eyes on you and them. Last thing I know is you were in some dingy warehouse.”

You sucked in tears to the memory, and he noticed, only tossing his pack and lighter to you.

“They needed to do what they did,” you defended, lighting up the stick. “Nothing horrible happened.”

“The girl is in the hospital — the NYPD categorized her as a Jane Doe because she was that unrecognizable,” Vincent professed, and you let out a heavy puff. “You don’t want part of this, and I can help you.”

“What? Who said I want your help?” You scoffed and shortly chuckled, shaking your head. “Abby and Ellie are everything to me — you just don’t understand our relationship. They have done so much for me, more than my parents ever have.”

“A friend of mine in the DA office knows who has eyes on your dad, snitching him out and stuff,” Vincent started, lighting up his own cigarette as he dazed out for a second when he let go of his first puff. “You see, there is corruption in the justice system. Some of the prosecutors in the DA office know that the girls paid somebody to plant evidence on that other person, and that they are killers.”

“And you are telling me this, why?”

“You exchange information about Anderson and Williams, and the DA office will drop everything on your dad,” Vincent confessed, and your eyes widened, your heart sinking. “You don’t want anything to do with what they are doing. You were seemingly unaware until Brandon.”

“So let me get this straight,” you paused, deadpanning at him. “You want me to betray my girlfriends — the only people in my life who truly love me — just to save my dad’s ass? For all I care, my dad deserves to be there more.”

Vincent sighed, irritated and in disbelief. “I can see that you are struggling with what to do,” he stated, almost as if he wanted to sympathize, but just couldn’t. “If they get caught, you will be in just the same trouble as them. Imagine how that will look on your parents? What will it do to them?”

“It's like you said — I didn’t know what was happening until Brandon,” you repeated, nearly out and done with your cigarette. “The reason why your friend is dead is because he decided to be a prick, and think he was a high value man or something. If it wasn’t the girls going to take care of him, someone else eventually would.”

Vincent kept a calm demeanor, but with his hands tightened into vein-popping fists, it was sure he was going to blow at any moment. Minutes passed and his hands unclenched as he stood up from the chair, and burned out the bud of his cigarette. “There’s going to be a memorial for Brandon tonight at the St. Peter church,” he told you, and you raised a brow, tilting your head to the side. “Tomorrow will be one year since he was discovered dead. Just come by… I encourage you to do so.”

He excused himself out, and you continued to sit outside, staring at the skylines and sighed heavily. You felt an immense amount of guilt for Brandon’s death, it is something you couldn’t ignore, even as you tried to justify why he died or how he came to it.

You were the only person at fault.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you took it out, seeing Abby’s contact name. For days, they have tried to ring you, text you back to back, and do anything they could to get an ounce of your attention.

You decided to answer it this one time.

“Bunny.”

The line was static for a few moments.

“Bunny, come home,” Abby pleaded, and you sniffled. “We only mean to take care of you, love you — however we mean to do that.”

“I… Tonight’s not good,” you mumbled, gnawing on the inside of your cheek. “I have something to do, and I’m not just ready to see you and Els yet. I need time.”

Abby was quiet, and it caused you to shiver. Any silence that came from your girlfriends was not a good sign, and it could only mean they were a plot being made, or they were going to do something beyond inhumane.

The line went dead, and you were left with the bustling noises of New York, your heart sinking into your stomach.

How could anything get worse?

You stood outside St. Peter’s church, frozen and paralyzed in your spot as you watched people walk in. You swallowed thickly, your fingernails clawing into the palm of your hand to give yourself any hint of ease and calmness.

Then you heard your last name being called out to you. You turned your head, seeing two older figures approaching you, a female and male. “I’m Detective Ramirez, this is Detective Adams. We are with NYPD Homicide, and we are revisiting a case involving Brandon James,” the female spoke, a smile playing on her lips to seem pleasant and kind. “It’s surprising to see you here.”

“His friend invited me,” you answered. “How can I help you?”

“Miss, you know why we are here,” Adams said, and you hummed, nodding. “You were declared a misfit for the trial, that’s why you weren’t in it, but you know what happened. And you can put them away.”

“If they were already found innocent, why retry them?” You wondered. “Doesn’t the justice system grant innocence to those who are innocent?”

“The DA wants a retrial, but it is only possible if you agree to be part of it,” Adams added, and you scoffed. “If you consent to it, the DA will let go of your dad, and stop sniffing around.”

“You are some corrupted fucks,” you laughed. “Now if you excuse me, I have to get inside.”

Ramirez momentarily stopped you in your tracks, shining a small card in front of you. “Here are our contacts if you decide to change your mind.”

You stared at her and the card, back and forth, before your hesitant hand seized it and you nodded. You walked off, putting the cards in your purse and continued inside, a crowd filling the pews while some stood off to the side talking.

“Welcome, child,” you heard the priest approach you, and you smiled, greeting him. “You are a friend of the deceased?”

You nervously smiled. “I guess you can say that, Father.”

You two shared a small, curt laugh until his eyes shifted a deep focus on you. “Something is troubling you however,” he stated, and you shivered, stumbling on your words as you tried to deny it. “The Lord never lies, my child. You are tackling something.”

“I believe I cannot confess here, Father,” you told him, and he hummed, nodding. He gestured his head for you to follow him, and before you knew it, you were in the confessional booths.

All you could think about was getting fucked in one by the girls about last year.

“Forgive me for Father, for I have sinned,” you began, blessing yourself and kissing the side of your hand shortly after. “Forgive me for I am not that religious but–”

“God accepts all,” the priest stated. “He forgives all.”

“Well Father, I think I killed a man,” you admitted, looking down at your lap. “My partners, they are protective of me, and it is in their nature. But they have taken it far multiple times, and I wasn’t aware of it until last year. And when I tried to escape them, I only allowed them back in, and now I am trapped in Hell.

“But, I love them, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to go to Hell for things they have done, or for God to hate me over it. They have killed so many people because I tattle-tale on them, and my partners showed no mercy, no kindness. And I just… I am so lost, and scared. Father, I don’t see no way out of this except self execution.”

“Self execution is a sin, I plead you know this,” he stated, and you broke into sobs, hunching over as you held yourself. “There is nothing wrong to love those who God brought into your life, child. The only sins that have been committed here are wrath, greed, and pride; and they have not been done by you. You are not responsible for the sins that have been committed, you are not destined for Hell.”

“But I have fueled their sins. I am their biggest one.”

The priest went quiet for a moment, a frustrated but saddened sigh escaping him as he himself struggled. He sympathized, knowing you were just a girl who was lost and landed herself in a wrong situation.

For the past few years, the high was blissful and could not get better than that. You thought Abby and Ellie were your angels sent from God himself, but after Brandon, Delilah and Jasmine, you realized they were fallen ones, instead. Their fair beauty and success drew you to them, and you were blinded by it so much, you could not see what they were like beneath.

They used you to excuse their drive and need to harm individuals, to let out what they were made up of.

Evil.

“Am I wrong to love the Devil? Is that what this is, Father?” You asked. “I need to know.”

“Jesus loved Judas. God loved Lucifer. Does that make them wrong? Did they let Lucifer and Judas' betrayal and sins affect them?”

You sniffled, and only nodded to yourself, assuring you that this fate was old as time. You were not wrong to come to love them, but it was only about what you were going to do next.

“I want you to do penance — charitable work, twenty hail marys for the next two weeks, and leaving these partners of yours soon,” the priest demanded, his voice tough and stern. “The Lord will then forgive you, my child.”

When everyone wanted you to stay with Ellie and Abby — even made a reason to — the voice of God himself demanded you shouldn’t.

“Thank you, Father,” you said, and walked out of the confessional booth. Walking back into the main center of the cathedral, you saw Vincent, and his eyes immediately picked up on you. You decided to let yourself approach him as a smug look was plastered onto his face, and you rolled your eyes over it.

“Something change your mind?” He asked. “Thank you for coming, it means everything.”

“I just wanted to um… pay my respects,” you assured, and he hummed. “It is my fault he is dead after all. But I can’t stay long, I have some things to situate.”

“Going to testify?” He wondered. “I saw those detectives talking to you outside.”

“Wow, you do stalk me a lot,” you bitterly joked. “I am sorry about Brandon, though. I didn’t know they were so capable of… you know. I didn’t think they would do that.”

“The only way you can truly get forgiveness is if you leave them,” Vincent said, and you knew he was right, but it wasn’t that easy. Everybody made it sound like it was the most simple action you could make, but it wasn’t.

Abby and Ellie had been your whole life, and they had committed so much towards you, and the thought of abandoning them after it all made you want to hurl everywhere. You knew that leaving them would end with catastrophic consequences, and it wouldn’t happen right away nor ever; the last time you tried to leave, you were brought right back in.

You walked out of the church without saying much else, and you were met with your girlfriends right outside. You froze paralyzed, eyes scanning for the detectives as a precaution, and you shivered to their darkening gaze that rage with hunger and madness.

“Come on, baby,” Abby beckoned you over to her car. Ellie fiddled with something in her pocket, and it made you hesitant and nervous. “We aren’t gonna hurt you, we just need to show you something.”

For once, your interest was piqued and you tried to let go of your anxiety, practically shuffling over to the car. Abby opened the backseat door, and you climbed in with Ellie trailing behind you. “I have to blindfold you, honey,” Ellie said, and you eyed her, shaking your head. “Not because of that. We are taking you to a sweet surprise, I cross my heart on that.”

“You could be killing me just for leaving,” you protested, and Ellie sighed, taking out one of her suit ties from her pocket. “No, no! I don’t want to die.”

“Oh, don’t be so hysteric,” Ellie groaned. “It is sweet and you’ll like it. It is what you have been waiting for.”

You wanted to hesitate, but instead slowly gave in and let Ellie blindfold you as your heart raced immensely under your skin, and you could feel a wave of nausea coming to you. They could be tricking you, and as foolish as you are, you had fallen for it and were about to be executed.

Maybe God heard one of your prayers, and decided to cave into it for you.

The car ride went by in quiet, the only thing surely heard being your heartbeat and the sound of you cracking your fingers as a distraction.

Ellie put her hand over both of yours. “Stop that. You know it isn’t good.”

“I’m scared.”

“We would never kill you, bunny,” Abby stated, sincerity drawn into her voice. “We know you get caught up in your head because of things we have done and put you through, but the thought of taking your life has never crossed our minds. In fact, it still stands that we would not exist without you.”

You nodded, unknowingly of the grins that played on their lips. The car came to a full stop only minutes later, and Ellie carefully escorted you out, feeling hands on each side of your waist guiding you; Ellie’s hand was cold, while Abby’s was warm.

They made sure you didn’t trip or fall down while altogether padding up a flight of stairs, always careful whenever they were the ones moving you around; you were that fragile to them. If you were to fall down on the pavement you were walking across and scrape your knees, they would immediately be kissing the wounds and tending to them, angry at themselves for being so mindless with you.

“Okay, here we go,” Ellie whispered, and the second the blindfold was off, a symphony orchestra played a version of Hallelujah – but it wasn’t the original, but by your favorite 1994 version of it by Buckley.

A candlelit path remained in front of you with rows of your favorite flowers being placed everywhere, and you could see the city lights of New York in the background.

Then you realized you were on the rooftop of Faye Academy – where history all started. Your partners moved you down the path as you broke into sobs with your face into your hands, and could not believe what was about to happen.

A proposal.

When you got to the end of the pathway, you were in a circle of roses and lilies that were in beautiful blossoms. Ellie and Abby stood in front of you, noticing them nervous for the first time ever in your life; usually they were so bold and confident, but in this moment, they were shaking and finding a way to calm themselves down.

Ellie started off by stating your name, a shiver running down your spine. “You have been the bane of our existence for a few years now, and you will forever remain as our religion, and our sole reason for living and breathing. Abby and I never thought we would find the same soulmate, but it is one of the greatest and only blessings we got out of God, and we would not want it any other way.”

“Since the first day we saw you, mindful and occupied, we were instantly drawn to you,” Abby continued on, grinning as she could recall that very memory. “The light from the sun graced you that day, and we just knew you were meant to be ours for lifetimes.”

What you had just confessed to the priest fleeted through your head, and his demands for you were sunk into nothingness in this moment. You wanted to believe they were just finding a way to further hold you hostage, but the way their face and voices softened, laced with love and genuinity, you wanted to kiss them and forgive them for everything.

At the end of the day, they were your girls and they did everything for you. They were the ones who always took care of you and defended your honor when no one did, and when you were left abandoned and alone, they came to your rescue.

You were always meant to be theirs, one way or another.

“Will you be our wife, bunny?” Abby asked, and you broke into further sobs, nodding. Ellie took the ring box out of her pocket, and you saw a beautiful Harry Winston ring that made you nearly choke onto your sobs.

“I love you!” You shouted, jumping into their embraces as they both managed to hold you close. “Yes I will marry you– Fuck, I want to be your wife.”

A wife. You were going to be a wife to the loves of your life, and your brain managed to forget everything that had happened for the past year until only a few days ago. You believed that everything was worth it to lead up to this moment, and now everything would get better and healthier; you would be wives, and you would have to live a happy marriage if things were meant to be, or if a kid would come into the picture.

“Our pretty little wife, hm?” Ellie teased, and you nodded again, earning a soft laugh out of them.

In an hour, you were between the two of them back at your shared home, Abby kissing on your neck as Ellie groped your ass and bunched your dress up to your waist to get a feel of your soaking cunt. “So soon until we put a fucking baby in you, little one,”

You purred at their touches and kisses, any ounce of purity and doubt moving out of you. You would let them desecrate you every time, and you would feel pure heaven and bliss in it, letting them own and control your body.

“We missed you so much, baby,” Abby said, kissing behind your ear. “Make us proud and get on the bed.”

You hummed, maneuvering yourself onto the bed where you slowly removed your dress as you gave your girlfriends a strip tease, with your undergarments coming off last. You bent your body down, knees and elbows sinking into the mattress, able to feel it dip heavier from behind you.

“Look at this pretty cunt,” Abby cooed, her fingertips grazing along it. “Will never be able to get enough of this; you just know how to make us want to destroy you, bunny.”

Ellie came onto the bed in front of you, her strap in front of your face as she pushed any strands of hair out your face, and gripped onto your chin. “You gonna be good for us, doll?” Ellie wondered, and your eyes softened before her primal ones, nodding.

“Yes, daddy.”

“That’s our girl. See, you still remember who you belong to,” she praised, and you giggled, putting your hand around the silicone, licking the tip. “There we go, baby. Jus’ like that.”

Abby spat down onto your cunt, rubbing it in before she roughly pushed herself into you, and you gasped harshly, eyebrows furrowing. “Left us hanging for a bit, baby. You let another girl touch you and everything; can’t lie to you, it made us wet and turned on. We knew she wasn’t better than us.”

Ellie grabbed your head and forced a mouthful of her cock into yours, earning immediate gagging noises and a glop of drool forming around the object. Your eyes rolled, light breaths coming out of you with each thrust from Ellie and Abby, your head already dizzy and cloudy.

“Oh, look at you, sweetheart,” Ellie teased, petting the top of your head with each thrust she put forth into your mouth. “She just always gets so messy, doesn’t she, Abs?”

“She’s fucking soaking and milking my cock,” Abby groaned, feeling her own wetness form under the harness. “Just needed us to fuck her and break her all over again, make her remember she can’t leave ever again.”

Abby pounding into you always feel intoxicating, you always needed to be bouncing on her cock and letting her know how desperate you were; you wanted to suck and gag on Ellie for hours, and let her fuck the back of your throat until it was hoarse and raw.

You needed them in each, every little special way that could satisfy your needs to the fullest extent. They could do that, no one else. They could make you theirs and make you feel worship with their sweet nothings, or cocks breaking into you one way or another.

Drool dripped down your chin, your eyes drooping as Ellie had to practically keep your head up to keep her cock shoving back and forth into your mouth. You allowed her to use your mouth, let her get her own sick satisfaction out of this moment, Abby doing the same thing while your cum was looping around her dick.

“Let’s break her,” Ellie said, and Abby stopped all movements into you, a whine escaping your mouth. “You need another punishment, baby. You must think we are stupid.”

Abby grabbed a fistful of your hair, forcing you to be dragged to the floor before them, and your knees slammed against the hardwood floors. “Jasmine was one thing, baby,” she began, clicking the roof of her mouth in thought. “But the police are another. Where is your loyalty?”

You frowned, staring up at them back and forth. “It’s to you. It has always been to you.”

“And Vincent Hayes?” Ellie asked. “He is awfully close to you.”

“I wanted to pay my respects to Brandon,” you admitted, sniffling. “I… I felt guilty and bad.”

“Guilty? For what? For letting that sick fuck call you a bitch?” Abby questioned, and you shook your head. “Use your brain, sweetheart. You are clearly dumb, and need us to guide you through everything in life.”

“I’m not dumb, I—I just felt really bad,” you neared breaking down, eyes shifting away. “It is my fault he is dead. It is my fault so many people got injured or died.”

“Here is what you seem to forget – and look at us, baby,” Abby demanded, and you slowly peered back up at them. “It is our sole duty for us to take care of you, and protect you. Do you know where you would be in life without us? How sick and lost you would be? People would be using you and taking advantage of you if we never existed, sweetheart.”

“I… I would have minded my own business forever if we never met,” you stated, wiping your tears away. “I won’t talk to anyone, I haven’t spoken. This ring,” you lifted up your hand, “it states that I am yours for lifetimes, and I will do anything as your wife and partner. Nothing or no one could take me away.”

The pair seemed to be satisfied by your answer because in their heads, they got you right where they needed you forever; submissive, trapped, and loyal – like a fucking dog.

It took cunning patience to mold you into this state, and make sure you would never leave again; if putting a ring on your finger was the way, so be it — at least you could not go anywhere and your loyalty was finalized by a proposal, and soon a marriage.

They could not risk you fleeing from them, and they had to keep as their pretty hostage for the rest of your shared lives; if they had to repeatedly kill, torture, and remind you where your lifetime stood, they would do just that.

After all, they loved you. They cared. Who else would?

A backhand came from Abby as she dragged you back to the bed, and in moments, you were stuck between Ellie and her. Ellie bent you slightly forward as spit went down your ass and she shoved her into your ass, and Abby wasted no time getting back into your swollen cunt.

“Tell us who you belong to, sweet thing,” Abby said. “Come on, use your fucking brain.”

“I belong to Abby and Ellie, I be—belong to you!” You cried out due to their rigorous, violent pace, being able to feel them literally and physically break your holes.

“Yeah, baby? Nobody else?” Ellie taunted, eliciting a breathy laugh. “We could fucking kill you, you know that? But we just love you so much, and wouldn’t want that.”

You shook your head, too spaced out to closely listen to what Ellie was saying; it should’ve been a sign, but you were focused on the feeling and motion of them pounding into you. “I—I love you so much, so so much,” you moaned, your back arching, and fingernails clawing into Abby’s wrist the second she put a tight grip on your throat. “So much, mommy. You don’t understand how much I love you.”

“Oh, we know baby,” Abby told you, grinning and panting. “Going to do anything for us, right?”

You nodded. “Anything for you. My loyalty and life is to you.”

“Then you are going to kill, baby,” Ellie stated, and the sexual high was shifted into terror and panic. “We are gonna teach our pretty baby how to kill, and take care of business.”

“N–No, please no!” You cried, their laughs ringing in your eyes as they sounded like maniacal psychopaths.

“You need to– hey, focus!” Abby yelled, having to keep her hands on your waist to keep you up. “You need to take care of that boy, angel. That silly idiot, okay? We’ll teach you.”

That’s when you realized — you had taken the bait. You caved right into what they wanted and needed.

And you would never have any way out every fucking again.

You broke into sobs, the sick high of pleasure and despair mixing into the heat of sex that lingeried and fully thrusted into the bedroom. Your body shook with anxiety, your climax rattling in you and took control over your nerves, the girls always finding a way to take a note.

“No, you don’t get to cum,” Ellie spat, her hand wrapping around your neck from behind you, and you gasped when her fingers pressed into your throat; hard enough to leave bruising or any fingerprints. “Be a good girl, lamb. Don’t disappoint us more than you already have.”

“Please let me cum,” you managed to cry out, her strength tightening around your throat, almost slowly cutting off any airway. “Please!”

“Why should we let you cum, bunny?” Abby panted, pinching at one of your nipples. “You don’t think this is fun? Us using and breaking you?”

It didn’t take sex anymore in order for them to find their cruel ways to psychologically torture you, but rather mock and taunt at you for everything and anything. They did it with Brandon, Delilah, and Jasmine — everyone would be killed in front of you because it was the only way for them to break you into submission.

You came anyways, and despite that they would usually stop and punish you further, they used it to their advantage and Abby’s put her hands on top of Ellie’s, both of them choking you and fucking harder into your sore, ruined holes, and your vision went blurry and you were croaking out cries and moans. It was sick that a part of you truly liked them being this vile and vicious with you, and that it would always get you off, but it was scarier that they would go further than this in the future.

The violence was covered by affection, and now by marriage.

Abby and Ellie spent weeks teaching you how to use a gun on someone, be sleath and quick with it. They wanted you to kill Vincent Hayes at the very second you could, and be out of sight when you did it. You knew you couldn’t do it; you weren’t like your girlfriends. That’s why they liked you to begin with, because you were the complete opposite of them, and at some point, that must have changed.

For those weeks, you spent time in isolation wondering what to do, what you could do without getting yourself or others killed in the process. You would stare at the ring, playing with it, and break into tears whenever your partners were around.

You were a hostage in a relationship for eternity, and the thought of escaping once more did cross your mind, but you knew what happened last time when you tried to; who knows, they could kill your parents just so you could come crawling back to them.

You avoided any discussions about the wedding or future plans because you were slowly coming to terms with your decisions, with what you wanted to do, because you just simply couldn’t think about that.

You sat in your parents home, telling the girls your mom wanted a spa day together in order to avoid suspicion; after all, you were doing well playing the sweet fiancée.

Vincent sat next to you, a cup of coffee in his hands. “You can talk to me.”

“I want out,” you mumbled. “But I need you to do one thing.”

“Well, what is it?”

You gnawed onto your cheek, inhaling sharply. “I need you to kill me.”

Silence filled the room.

“What the fuck did you say?” Vincent asked.

“I said I need—”

“No, I heard you. You just must forget that your girlfriends are insane, and will do worse to me,” he stated, and you looked at him. “Why do you want to die?”

“Not actually kill me,” you said. “I—I just need a way out, and death sounds fleeting and the only way.”

Vincent joined the quiet that tumbled back into the living room, the two of you now staring down into your cups of coffee. After what felt like hours moving by, he hums. “Okay, I’ll do it,” he tells you, and though your heart sank, you nodded. “Think of it as an eye for an eye because of Brandon. I’ll take what is most precious to your girlfriends.”

“Okay, so how should we do this then?” You wondered.

Vincent got up from the couch, putting down his cup. “You’ll come to find out. I have to make this even. But you should talk to those detectives if you want a full clean slate.”

“That’s why I’m telling you to do this,” you started, taking a sip of your coffee. “My death could be planted on them. I’m a heiress, and that would be bigger news. I’ll leave something behind to admit Abby and Ellie’s full guilt for Brandon's death.”

“No way you would do that. You wouldn’t betray them like that,” he shot back, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t leave anything behind; how do I know you aren’t setting me up?”

“I am betraying them by finding the only way out, and I know you want revenge,” you professed, realizing how calm and collected you were talking about potentially dying for good.

It was a suicide ideation, yes, but maybe Vincent would find a way to sympathize; you believed in that.

“This is the revenge I had in mind.”

You tilted your head. “It’s the perfect revenge. We both get something out of it.”

“Do you want to actually die, or are you trying to fake it?” Vincent wondered, and you shrugged your shoulders. “Do I get something from you for admission either way?”

You nodded, putting down your coffee and stood up. “I will leave something behind in my bedroom after it is done. But do not betray me, or I will fucking kill you instead.”

“That’s not very fair.”

“It is fair,” you said, brushing past him as you took the cups to the kitchen and he followed behind you. “Now if you excuse me, I have to prepare any finalizations.”

Vincent found himself out, and you went back to your bedroom, spending hours putting together forms and transferring money into offshore accounts, and even called over your family lawyer to discuss a will. The lawyer sat in front of you at the kitchen table, files out in front of you. “May I ask why you are doing this?” She asked, sliding over the paperwork. “I mean, you are so young and people usually prepare a will when they are about to die. Your parents have a will with your name in it.”

“I understand that, but I just want to be prepared,” you said, grabbing your pen. “I want all my profits to go to charities for women in shelters, to under class schools for children where they will be rewarded with new books and computers for them; along with fixing up any structures they need done. A grand total of 20K will be rewarded to research, world troubles, and more. I have put it all down.”

The lawyer knew not to pry any further, and pointed to where you exactly needed to sign, and you did it with such ease, finally accepting what was coming to the end. You were tying up all loose ends that you needed to before Vincent would take charge of your fate.

After the lawyer left and you signed away your destiny, you went back into your bedroom and grabbed a hard drive stick, putting it into the side of your computer.

You turned on the recording, and you sucked in a harsh, deep breath that came out shaky and unsteady. “Abby Anderson and Ellie Williams killed Brandon James. There was a bloody-stained shirt that had his blood on it that was burned by them only a year after his death. I know this because I told them what Brandon was doing, and they got killed. I know the other people they have injured and killed before and after him. This is my admission of guilt.”

You paused, staring blankly at the computer screen, and you cleared your throat shortly after. “They are violent killers; there is no innocence in them or this case. By the time this has turned over to the courts, I will be gone. But I will not leave without confessing the only sin that has been killing me for months.”

You stopped the recording, and made sure it was filed into the hard drive, putting it in a box on your vanity; easy access for Vincent to get ahold of.

After your admission, you took a walk into the bustling city of Manhattan, having your own headphones in to take away distractions or thoughts of anything that was to come. The girls spammed your phone, but you decided to go on airplane mode, and let yourself cruise around the city you were raised and born in.

If your death would be soon, you rather take in any last memories. Your walk went on and on, losing any track of time as you were on it. You would go home, get changed for bed, and go to sleep with the decisions you decided to commit to.

You let yourself walk and wander for hours, grabbing ice cream on your way to home. The sweet flavor gave you sweet memories of your childhood; how your dad would take you out for ice cream and sweets whenever you did well in elementary school, or how your mom would let you mix candy into a huge bag whenever you had a bad day. Those were the parents you always remembered and wanted back, but when their careers and success became bigger than you, they had shut and tossed you out.

If they hadn’t, maybe then Abby and Ellie would have not come into your life, and ruined it all.

You tossed your cup of ice cream into the bin outside your penthouse hotel, and the busboy opened the door for you as you thanked him on your way inside. The building felt colder and eerie, seeming as if no one lived inside and you were the only resident.

You were sure you were overthinking it after the day you had, and were just overly tired. After all, it was New York, and people were always going out.

You grabbed the elevator, and selected the floor of your parents’ penthouse, your hands in the pockets of your coat with your headphones and phone tucked inside of it. It took a few minutes until you reached the floor, and when you walked in, you heard the sound of glass clinking together. You paused inside the elevator, hesitating to get inside your home.

Silence entered back into the room, and you assumed it could have been your mom pouring herself a cup of wine and was making a ruckus for no reason. You sighed, walking inside anyways and when you dropped your tote bag on top of the island, you found the horror scene and sight of your butchered parents.

Your scream ripped out of your throat, falling down into their blood as you first moved to your mom. “Mom, mama!” You screamed, crying and panicking. You picked her up, lifting her into your lap, your blood-covered hand brushing her hair. “Mama, please wake up! Come on, come on, you’re okay.”

You turned over to your dad, letting your head rest on his chest which was repeatedly stabbed at. You sobbed into him, grasping onto his shirt. Your jeans soaked in their pool of blood, and you shivered, wanting to cradle into their embrace again.

Now what was there to live for?

“Eye for an eye,” a voice came behind you, and before you could see who it was, your vision went cold and black.

Waking up from a concussion was more hellish than anything.

Your eyes took their time to adjust to fluorescent lightning, feeling loose ropes around your wrists and ankles, a throbbing ache in your frontal cortex. You felt nauseous and feeble, like death was reaching out at you, and about to take you.

The second your vision and memory was intact altogether, you realized you weren't in your home anymore, or hovering over your deceased parents. Instead, you were in a quiet, dimmed room as you were strapped and hostaged to a chair, and you groaned.

“Where the fuck am I?” You groaned.

“I brought you here,” Vincent’s voice erupted through the room, and came in front of your eyesight. “I told you it would happen soon.”

You swallowed thickly, and hummed. “You killed my parents?”

He nodded.

“That wasn’t the fucking deal,” you spat. “My parents had no part!”

“Killing you was just not enough for me,” Vincent stated, and you fidgeted with the ropes. “You need to know what lose truly feels like. How it killed me when my best friend died.”

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

“The deal was I'll kill you,” he recalled, and you groaned. “But that’s just too easy. I want to have fun with it.”

Maybe he was just as fucked as your girlfriends.

“If you kick or bite, I’ll hit you,” he threatened as he moved over to you and slowly took off the ropes, you staring at him while he did it. “Play nice.”

“I could rip out your eyes and eat them right now!” You snapped, and he chuckled. “You are such a fucking asshole. I hope you see Brandon in hell.”

Vincent could only then grab a fistful of your hair, using it to crane you in whatever direction that he took you in, the two of you leaving the room you were trapped in just a second ago. You moved into another room later, and then found your girlfriends tied to chairs, and clearly unconscious.

“Abby! Els!” You shouted, sprinting over to the middle of them, shaking them by their legs. “Hey hey, wake up, baby. Come on, wake up.”

“I took pride in knowing I was able to overpower them,” Vincent confessed, and you peered over your shoulder back at him, shaking your head. “I just needed an extra pair of hands to help me out; they are a bit feisty.”

Ellie and Abby slowly awoke out of their unconscious slumber, taking their time to adjust to their surroundings. “Baby?” Ellie whispered, and you smiled, nodding. “What’s going on? What the actual fuck?”

“We are about to play russian roulette,” Vincent grabbed a gun out of the back of his pocket; a revolver being loaded with clearly only a single bullet. “I am going to answer questions; if we are all honest, I won’t kill your girlfriend. If we aren’t, I’ll make sure she is tortured in front of you, and she kills herself.”

Ellie and Abby paused, registering what deal he had just made until they looked back at you, pure concern and disappointment in their faces. “What have you done, bunny?” Abby asked, and for the first time in a while, they looked panicked and scared.

You retreated backwards, and stood up, now standing center in the middle of the room. Vincent came to the side of you, feeling the cold tip of the gun pressed up against your temple, and you sucked in every despair and anxiety that ran through you.

“How many people have you killed?” Vincent asked.

Quiet. Silence. An oath of silence.

“I’ll blow her brains out right now.”

“About a dozen, maybe fifteen. Including your shit friend,” Ellie confessed, and you sighed in relief. The revolver luckily didn’t click. “We tortured every one of them, some of them were taped.”

“What?” You gasped.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ellie brushed it off, clearly unfazed.

“What did you do Brandon?” Vincent asked another.

“Just fucking killed him, man,” Abby answered, and revolver clicked, but nothing came out. “Fuck, okay! We burned a cigarette, cut his tongue — it was a while ago, we honestly forgot.”

“You killed my best friend like he was just cattle,” Vincent spat out, and you trembled. “You’re lucky I don’t kill your girlfriend, even after she betrayed you.”

“What is he talking about?” Abby asked.

You would rather kill yourself at this point because he knew what you were referring to. You were the reason you got them into this spot, that they were so blinded by their love for you, you casted them under this spell that had caught them in these chairs, and were possibly about to witness you die in front of them.

“I… I signed my will. I told Vincent an eye for an eye,” you sucked in a harsh breath. “You were part of that agreement, but not this shit. He even killed my parents.”

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Ellie shouted; she had never shouted like this before. Her voice was laced with pure distraught and anger, like she was willing to kill you herself at this point. “What the fuck, what the fuck! Are you fucking stupid!”

“Oh, don’t act like you are such saints yourself!” You seethed, scoffing in disbelief. “You only married me so I wouldn’t leave your asses again! You didn’t marry me out of love, you married me out of pure Stockholm syndrome! You use me to fulfill your need and drive of violence; you need me as an excuse to kill people!”

The pair went absolutely silent, and that validated everything Jasmine had told you long ago.

“New game; I am going to leave this gun with you,” Vincent took it out, showing it off as he untied you a few seconds afterwards. “Your little girlfriend will decide who gets to live.” He slowly walked out of the small four by four room, only then tossing the gun your way shortly after he walked only, the trigger off and the door closed and locked.

It was you, a gun, and the loves of your life. It was now a sicker, cruel game between the three of you. You put the gun in your back pocket, going on to untie your girlfriends as they massaged their wrists and glared at you with utter betrayal, and slight disgust.

You made sure to careen yourself backwards at a steady pace, getting the gun out and instantly got the gun out of your pocket, pointing it up and direct at them. They took rapid notice, both of them raising their arms up in self defense and protection.

“Okay, bunny… I know you are probably really scared right now,” Abby started off, and your hands became shaky, the sweat from your palms forming around the handle. “Just give us the gun, and we will figure it out together, okay?”

“Please don’t make this any harder,” you whimpered, sniffling. “I should do this — you guys have put me through Hell.”

“Little one, we care about you so much,” Ellie added, and your gaze shifted over to her. “You know we do; from the first moment we saw you, we finally understood our purpose for existing in this world, and that was to protect you, to care only for you.”

Your body shivered with anxiety, your brain trying to refuse anything they were both saying to you. “You don’t understand anything,” you whispered, and you tackled with multiple options to end this moment; shoot them and kill them, shoot them in the legs and run off, or end your own life.

If you were to shoot them and run away again, where could you possibly hide? There would never be anywhere for you to go. You needed a way out but there wasn’t any, and that made you face only one true fate for yourself; you had to take yourself out.

You turned the gun onto yourself, the head kissing your temple.

“Angel, no no! Put down the gun!” Abby shouted, and Ellie carefully stepped over to you. “Els is gonna take the gun, and we are gonna get out of here. We are gonna go home and pretend none of this happened, and move on to our happy lives.”

“I have to do this, I have to!” You sobbed, and they shook their heads. “If I leave and run away, you guys will find me and kill anyone who stands in the way! You always do that, and make me witness it as your sick punishment!”

“Baby…” Ellie beckoned, and her eyes softened to you. “No more killing, no more hurting. We promise. We knew that chapter was over when we asked you to be our wife. We want to move elsewhere with you, and begin our exciting new life.”

You couldn’t decipher genuinity or manipulation that played a role in her tone, and you could not tell if she was being honest with you, given how many epiphanies you’d been having ever since the proposal. Maybe Ellie was being right for once; the way she glanced at you was pure and worried, almost like she wanted to embrace you, and let you cry into her hold.

Maybe that little hope that danced in your heart was right, and going to come true.

You slowly put the gun down, sniffling and nodding. “No more killing please,” you begged, hiccuping and sniffling. “I can’t take any more of it.”

“Just us and our happy life from here on out, babydoll,” Abby reassured, and you nodded, frowning. You held the gun out into her reach, and the second she grabbed it, the door swung open to reveal Vincent with his own gun.

“Eye for a fucking eye,” he said, and an immediate pain stung to the middle of your abdomen. You stood in shock, every nerve going numb and your brain falling quiet on you. Your hand touched down to where the ache and throbbing sensation formed itself, only to reveal a coat of blood.

Vincent ran off before the girls could get to him, and their attention landed back onto you when they heard your body thud against the ground. You stared up at the ceiling, your vision blurring in and out, and you felt eerily cold.

“Eyes here, baby,” Ellie coeed, Abby ripping a piece of her shirt off and putting it over the wound, and applied pressure. “There we go, you are gonna be just fine.”

“There’s too much,” Abby panicked. “Too much fucking blood— I’m gonna fucking kill that fucker—”

“It hurts,” you muttered, breathing heavily. “It hurts— Please, make it go away.”

“We’re trying, angel, just keep breathing,” Abby worriedly smiled, Ellie stroking the top of your head. “You are gonna be okay.”

You just nodded, even though the fluorescent lighting was dimming and their panicked voices slowly turned into echoes, your ears ringing. If there is a Heaven, you hoped it’d be kinder to you than all your years were.

Privilege does not give you anything; you have to exchange many of it, just for a little something beautiful.

ONE YEAR LATER.

“Please rise before the court,” the judge said, and everyone stood. “This trial was once again complex and complicated, I will say that. The tape we got from the deceased was hearsay, and without her here with us, the jury had to make a decision based on other testimonies. Jury, do you have a decision?”

“Yes, your honor,” a juror lady stood, a card in hand.

“What is your defense?” He asked.

“On behalf of the New York vs. Anderson and Williams, we hereby find them not guilty on multiple counts of first degree murder, manslaughter, torture,” the juror said, and the pair sighed in relief, knowing that their plans could fall back into place.

When the tape was stolen and found from Vincent, he turned it over to the police which then resulted in the girls arrested. The trial took a while to begin, evidence being enough to upstart one, but they knew it would not conclude how Vincent intended for it, too.

You died horrifically before their eyes, and a funeral was held for you, and everyone attended for you; they knew you would have loved the turn out. You would have loved how Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley played for you, and how it is the only way they can easily cry.

But Vincent decided to go hide away, and what they did best was play cat and mouse. Vincent Hayes thought he could escape by murdering you, and trying to turn over your partners, but they love a good chase, and better yet – a needed murder.

“Miss Anderson and Williams, you are hereby dismissed and free,” the judge announced, and they cheered, hugging their top-tier lawyers.

When Abby and Ellie left the courthouse, they took a trip to the cemetery and visited your grave. They sat down on the moppy gross, setting down flowers near your headstone.

‘Beloved Daughter, Friend, and Wife’

“We did it, angel,” Abby said. “We did it – and now we are going to avenge you. We promise.”

Abby and Ellie knew what they were going to do, and how they were going to get Vincent Hayes. They knew at the end of the day, it was the only way to remember you, and seek justice for your soul.

To the ends of the Earth.

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sayyestoheav3nn · 1 day ago

Text

Bad Idea:one-shot

roman x black!oc

warnings: smut

word count: 2.9k

a/n: lowkey realizing roman might be slightly very toxic in this. idk, i was ovulating. i’m just a girl…..

if you would like to be added to my tag list, click here

A nightclub was the last fucking place Roman wanted to be at. However, considering the fact that it was the twins birthday, he knew he had no choice but to bite the damn bullet.

An hour had passed, most of which he spent keeping to himself in the V.I.P lounge he had sectioned off.

Truth be told, it was his preference. The less people he had to interact with, the better.

The loud thuds of the bass and music, added with the constant blinking lights were overstimulating as hell. Yet, it was nothing compared to the annoying bitch that was currently wrapped around his arm.

Why he let Daya invite herself in the first damn place was beyond him. Sure, she was a pretty girl and her head game was out of this fucking world, he’ll give her that. At the end of the day, nothing changed the fact that chemistry between them was non-existent. Any moment he spent with her that didn’t include bending her over, felt like a fucking waste of time.

The way she was constantly in his ear blabbering was starting to give him a damn headache. Roman stayed silent as he quickly chugged some of his whiskey hoping it would eventually drown out her whiny ass voice. And to his relief, a few of the women Naomi had invited managed to grab her attention and pull her away.

As more time passed, his irritation and boredom had him ready to call it a night. That was until his assistant, Sierra walked in.

Roman’s gaze instantly focused on the outfit she was wearing, noticing the way it perfectly hugged every curve of her body, accentuating her big breasts and ass. His mind instantly began to flood with filthy thoughts as he watched her.

She was stunning, there was no denying it.

But, sleeping with his assistant is a line he told himself he wouldn’t cross, which was something he was fucking forcing himself to remember in this moment.

Sierra’s presence alone captivated Roman, which was something Daya must have caught on to, because before he knew it, she was back by his side with her arm around his again.

“The hell are you doing?” Roman pulled his arm away from her, ignoring whatever the fuck she was spewing. One thing he made very clear from the beginning was that she was his fuck buddy, nothing more. This territorial shit she was trying to pull was something he made sure to nip in the bud then and there.

As Sierra greeted Naomi and the twins she could see from the corner of her eye Roman arguing with what seemed to be his current flavor of the month. And while, it wasn’t exactly her business who her boss did or didn’t fuck, Daya being one of the rudest bitches she’d ever met, made this situation dreadful. But, she knew this interaction was inevitable, so she figured she might as well get this shit over with.

She sighed and began to make her way towards their section. The closer she got, the more her stomach began to tighten. Even though she had been working for Roman for a few months already, being around him still seemed to make her nervous. And the fact that he was easily the most attractive man she’d ever been around, didn’t fucking help.

Romans eyes instantly met with Sierra’s as she approached them, causing her to hesitantly look down. He watched as Daya eyed her from head to toe with a dirty look plastered on her face, “We’re busy right now, why don’t you be a doll and bring us another drink?”

At that Sierra looked up, visible discomfort etched on her pretty face,“Excuse me?”

The last thing Roman needed was for this entitled bitch to disrespect her for absolutely no reason, “What the fuck is your problem?”

Daya glanced back at her with a smug smile, “I mean…that’s literally her job, isn’t it?”

Sierra’s patience with this egotistical bitch was running very thin, she had to remind herself to keep her composure, especially knowing how easily this situation could escalate if she really spoke her mind. While, this was far from the first time Daya had been disrespectful to her, she’d never actually been bold enough to do it in front of him. Roman intervened before she could even respond, “She’s my assistant, not my fucking servant. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I was basically doing her fat ass a favor, she could use the walk if you ask me,” she sneered.

“Fuck you, Daya.” Sierra pushed past a few people that were in the way, and made her way out of the V.I.P area. It took absolutely everything in her power to not go off, but she refused to give Daya the satisfaction by stooping down to her level. The last thing she needed was to cause a scene involving the man she just started working for.

Roman’s jaw clenched as he stood up turning to face Daya,“Get the fuck out.”

“Roman, are you serious right now?” She scoffed, with a look of disbelief carved on her face.

His frustration was beginning to reach a new level. At this point, he was wondering if he needed to fucking spell it out for her. He took a deep breath, his tone low and agitated, “Daya, I’m not going to fucking repeat myself. Leave.”

Before Roman could even process what the hell was happening, Daya slapped him as hard as she could and stormed out. The twins, who were now clearly tipsy, seemingly popped up out of nowhere with dumb ass smiles on their faces. “Damn, she slapped the shit out of you,” Jimmy chuckled.

Roman rolled his eyes and sat back down.

“You wanna talk about it, uce?” Jey asked, while sliding in the booth next to him.

“Nah, I’m good.” Roman poured himself a second drink, in attempt to calm himself down. After a few minutes he eventually broke the silence, “Have y’all seen Sierra?”

Jimmy shrugged his shoulders, “Last I saw, she was talking to Naomi and Jordan.”

At that, Roman instantly tensed again, his hand gripped his drink tightly as he slowly took a sip.

He stood up, setting his drink down harshly on the table, “Fuck that.”

Roman had no right or reason to be pissed, he knew that.

But, it didn’t change the fact that he fucking was.

Seeing the way Sierra was dancing with Naomi’s brother, Jordan, had his blood boiling. His jaw tightened as he watched the way he pressed her body against his as she slowly began to grind on him.

Seconds of watching this bullshit, to him felt like an eternity. The more time that passed, the more he felt his temper rise.

Roman wasn’t fucking stupid. He’d seen on more than one occasion the way Jordan looked and interacted with Sierra, it didn’t take a genius to know exactly what the fuck he wanted from her.

He’d be dammed if he let it happen.

Jordan began to lead Sierra away, when she just so happened to look back and see him. It didn’t take much to notice he was furious. Roman walked towards her grabbing her arm, while completely disregarding Jordan’s presence, “C’mon, we’re leaving.”

What the fuck? Sierra pulled back slightly hesitant, “Roman, what the hell are you doing?”

Jordan walked past Sierra, “Last I checked, Sierra isn’t on the clock, Roman. You can talk to her any other time, not tonight.”

Roman smiled to himself before stepping right in front of him, “Does it look like I was fucking talking to you?”

Sierra had been around Roman long enough to know that if she didn’t deescalate the situation, things would only take a turn for the worse. She pulled Roman by the arm, creating distance between the two, “Roman, that’s enough.”

Jordan focused his attention back on her, “Sierra, don’t tell me you’re actually going with this bitch.”

She studied Roman, who now looked like he was practically milliseconds away from swinging on Jordan.

She had never seen him this mad before, and to be completely honest…. she hated the fact that it was slightly turning her on. Not to mention, the way he made a simple black shirt and dark jeans, look so fucking good, it was almost distracting.

That was besides the point.

Roman didn’t even give her a chance to respond to Jordan, because before she knew it, he had her by the arm again, guiding her away from the crowd.

How in the hell he actually managed to find a quiet, empty dressing room, was beyond her.

Sierra leaned against the vanity mirror as she waited for him to speak. One thing she knew for damn sure, was that he’d better have a good fucking explanation for the shit he just pulled.

His deep voice cut through the quiet room, “Want to tell me what the hell you were thinking?”

Although Sierra wasn’t initially sure why exactly Roman was so pissed off in the first place, she most definitely wasn’t expecting this. “Excuse me?”

“You may not see it, but I do. Jordan doesn’t care about you, Sierra. He just wants to fuck you.”

The professionalism she was trying so hard to keep, was starting to go out the window, “He’s my friend, Roman. And why should I even have to explain anything to you, of all fucking people?”

Roman’s eyebrows furrowed, “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

She scoffed while crossing her arms, “Did I ever complain to you, when I had to deal with the rude ass bitch you sleep with?”

“Sierra, how was I supposed to know, if you never told me? I know now, so I handled it, you don’t have to worry about her anymore.”

“Roman, I appreciate that. But, it doesn’t mean you have the right to tell me what to do.”

“Sierra, I don’t want you talking to him anymore.”

“Roman, you’re my boss, that’s it, nothing more. You don’t get to control who I can or can’t speak to.”

Roman stepped closer towards her. She felt her breath hitch in her throat as his huge frame towered over her. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air surrounding her.

“If i’m just your boss, why do you think of me when you touch yourself?”

“W—What?” Sierras eyes widened, she could feel her heart begin to pound out of her fucking chest.

A small smirk formed on his face, “Hotel walls are pretty thin, sweetheart.” Roman slightly dipped his head down, his lips now hovering over her ear, “I could hear the way moaned my name as you came.”

The embarrassment Sierra was feeling was indescribable. Memories of that drunken night, were almost a blur. What started out as something as simple as getting drinks with Naomi, ended in her going back to the hotel tipsy, pleasuring herself to the thought of him.

She was speechless.

Never in million years, did she even consider the possibility he could actually hear her.

And as humiliating as this was, she couldn’t help but to be distracted as she felt his bulge slightly pressing against her. Roman ran his thumb across her cheek, “Just give me the word, beautiful.”

The effect he had on her was powerful, such a simple touch, sent chills down her spine. Sierra nervously bit her bottom lip as she nodded yes.

He smiled as he slid his fingers behind her hair, wasting no time in pulling her in for a kiss. His thick lips felt so soft and warm, she melted into him. Roman kissed her with such tenderness and passion, she felt her knees weaken.

“Shit,” Sierra’s breath became unsteady when he began to slide his hands down her body, gripping her ass as he pressed her against him, his hard erection practically poking her. She threw her head back as he began to kiss and suck on her neck, “Been wanting to kiss you, since the day I met you.”

Roman’s hand began to travel down to the delicate spot between her legs, a light moan escaped her as his fingers grazed over her soaked fabric.

“Shit, you’re so wet,” his lips found hers again as he unzipped her outfit. Roman stared at her body in awe. He could tell she was shy. If only she knew, she practically had his mouth watering.

He picked her up, hoisting her on his hips, “You’re beautiful, Sierra.” She looked at him with that pretty smile of hers, “Says you.”

He carefully set her down on the vanity, proceeding to slide her panties down, her moist folds instantly made his dick twitch.

“I want you to keep your eyes on me,” Roman got on his knees and put Sierra’s legs over his shoulders, he watched her reaction as his tongue made contact with her clit. Using his fingers to spread her folds, he began to eat her out like there was no tomorrow.

“Oh fuck,” Sierra’s moans instantly filled the room as Roman devoured her. His tongue licked and flicked her cunt, as if he was starving.

His grip on her thighs was tight, making sure she didn’t squirm away as his overly talented tongue worshipped her.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” Roman began to unbuckle his belt, pulling down his jeans and briefs. Sierra’s eyes widened in shock, hell, disbelief, as his monstrous dick sprung free.

Seconds later, Roman was back on his knees with his mouth on her drenched pussy. Her fingernails held on to his messy bun, as she slowly began to grind her pussy on his face.

“Shit, just like that. You’re doing so good for me,” he praised. And as if things couldn’t get any fucking better, she watched as he began to stroke himself. Roman’s light grunts and moans as he teased and played with her clit, had her seeing stars.

“Fuck, Roman i’m—”

“I know, baby. Come for daddy.”

Sierra squirmed against his mouth as her orgasm took over. Her back arched as Roman continued to lap her swollen cunt, not letting a single drop of her cum go to waste.

He stood back up, his lips quickly found hers again. Their kiss was sloppy and sensual, she moaned as she tasted herself on his tongue.

Roman gently picked her up and set her down, “Turn around.” Sierra quickly obliged, facing the vanity mirror, she watched him as he went to grab a condom from his jeans.

“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?” He waited for her nod of approval before he slowly began to sink his thick tip inside of her.

“Fuck,” Roman’s eyes shut as her tight, wet opening, welcomed him. His hands gripped her waist as he began to thrust inside of her.

“You good?”

“Shit, yes…” The stretch of him was unfamiliar, yet, felt so good. Sierra took a deep breath as his big dick went deeper, her back arched as he slowly slammed into her.

“Fuck, Sierra, you’re so tight,” Roman watched her mouth fall open the moment he began to quicken the pace. He started pounding into her relentlessly, her loud moans only fueled his motivation.

“You look so pretty taking this dick,” Sierra proceeded to throw her ass back on him, attempting to meet his thrust.

“Promise me, you won’t let him fucking touch you again…”

Sierra nodded, clearly too fucked out to speak.

Roman craned her neck back, by gently tugging her hair, “Nah baby, I want you to use your words.”

“I-I promise.”

He smirked, “Good girl.”

Sierra’s pussy felt like ecstasy to him. The way her ass bounced against him, had him on the verge of nutting. She was close too, he could feel it. Roman kept one hand on her waist as the other reached in front of her to play with her clit.

“Oh, fuck!” Sierra threw her head back as her pleasure took over. The way her pussy clenched around his dick as she came, made him follow immediately after her. His seed emptied into the condom as his body jerked against hers.

Roman turned Sierra to face him, he gently moved a few hair strands that were blocking her sight and kissed her. Their kiss grew so needy, to the point they weren't even giving each other a chance to breathe.

As more time passed, they eventually had to pull away from each other and get dressed. Roman chuckled to himself as he saw she was slightly struggling with her outfit. He walked behind her and assisted her by pulling up her zipper.

She smiled, “Thanks.”

As they went to exit the room Roman reached his hand out to grab hers, leaving her slightly stunned.

It’s almost as if he sensed her initial hesitation, “Come with me.”

She placed her hand in his as he guided her out the club.

Deep down, Sierra knew fucking her boss would more than likely end badly. The only way a situation like this could end, would be in heartbreak.

But the way he made her feel tonight was more than she’d ever experienced in a lifetime.

In her mind, or maybe just in this moment, she decided it was a risk she was willing to take.

#roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns smut #roman reigns x black!oc #roman reigns x black reader #roman reigns x black oc #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns x oc #roman reigns

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grayandthyme · 3 days ago

Text

Something like Easy | 1

masterlist | next chapter

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x teacher!reader

synopsis: in a small Texas town in early 2002, a young English teacher is barely keeping it together. her car is barely drivable, her students are restless, and her lesson plans are falling flat. though, a shitty car leads to an unexpected carpool arrangement with her next-door neighbor, Joel Miller, a single father with a quiet drawl and a soft spot for his daughter.

warnings/tags: each chapter will have separate tags.

no use of y/n, reader is referred to as 'ma'am' on occasion, domestic fluff, slow burn, tension, maternal fluff, bonding over sarah, dialogue heavy.

w/c 8.3k

2002

Coffee pot. Turn it on. Turn on the damn coffee pot. Shit—grab the other bag. Lipstick. Where’s the lipstick? Did you brush your hair? What were you going to pack for lunch—too late now. Way too late. Shit. Coffee. Just turn on the coffee pot.

You were late. Not just a little late—thirty solid minutes behind. You should’ve left long ago. You should’ve been in the classroom by now, setting up, printing handouts, doing everything you promised yourself you’d stay on top of. But the alarm had gone off at five, and your hand found the snooze button. Again. And again…. Six, maybe seven times.

You tore through the house like a storm, leaving disarray in your wake—papers, bags, a half-eaten granola bar. Coffee splashed into a tumbler. Fingers dragged through tangled hair. You shoved open the car door, tossed everything inside, slid into the seat, and went to start it.

Brrsshk.

Start it.

Brrsshk.

Start it... ?

Brrssshk.

The engine tried. It coughed. It gave up. No ignition. Just that hollow, broken sound.

No. No, no, no. The car can’t be dead. Not today. Did you leave a light on? Is it the battery? Or the engine? It's practically an antique—twenty years old, if not older.

Fucking antique.

You slammed your palms against the steering wheel, more theatrics than solution, but it was something. Something to relieve the stress coiled in your stomach.

It wasn’t even eight o’clock. And everything had already come undone.

"Trouble?”

The voice was low, rough around the edges—one of those gravel-laced laughs that came from somewhere deep in the chest. You glanced toward the next driveway over.

“Been a hell of a morning,” you said, eyes landing on your neighbor—and his daughter.

Sarah. She’d been in your class since the semester started, the quiet one who always raised her hand and turned things in early. You recognized her face the moment roll was called back in January.

The girl next door. Her dad was around your age, blue-collar, kind, and easy to be around. The kind of man who knew his way around town and made it a point to invite you over whenever there was too much food. Nothing complicated.

Just… neighborly. Yes, neighborly.

“Good morning, ma’am!” Sarah called out, already halfway into the passenger seat of the truck.

“Morning, Sarah,” you replied, offering a quick smile—one that lingered just a little longer when it shifted to her father.

“Well,” he said, arms crossed and shoulder propped casually against the truck, “… since you’re both headed to the same place, I can give you a ride. Tight squeeze, but it’s better than being stranded.”

There was something calm about the way he said it. No pressure. No teasing. Just an open door when you needed one.

“I’d really appreciate that, Mr. Miller,” you said, exhaling a laugh that scraped out more nervous than light. “If I don’t show up soon, I think they might just about fire me.”

It took a moment to gather your things, every motion feeling slower than it should. The weight of the morning still clung to you. But when you climbed into the truck, the world felt just a little more manageable.

The fit was snug. His truck—an old Chevrolet C/K 10, dark blue and time-worn—smelled faintly of wood and sun-warmed fabric. It was dirty enough to show the dust of long days and dirt roads, but not enough to be neglected.

You sat in the middle—knees brushing lightly against his, careful not to crowd Sarah. The cab was quiet but not tense, broken by the hum of the road and the occasional rattle of something loose behind the seat. Screwdrivers, maybe. A toolbox.

“Are we going to go over the reading chapters today?” Sarah asked, turning from the window, her voice gentle and curious.

“Chapters five and six,” you replied, straightening the collar of your shirt, which still felt slightly wrong after the rushed morning. “Did they bore you?”

It wasn’t the question of a teacher, not really. Just a sincere check-in—human to human.

“I liked it,” she said, smiling. “I like the bird."

Her gaze drifted back out the window, toward the wide fields stitched with fences and the occasional slow-moving cow. You liked that about the countryside. Never saw cows when you were a kid.

Joel’s voice chimed in, warm and casual. “You guys are readin’ a book?”

His left hand rested on top of the steering wheel. The right tapped absentminded rhythms against his thigh.

“Jonathan Livingston Seagull,” you said, returning the smile. “It’s good for students to read allegorical satire. Helps them start asking questions they didn’t know they had.”

He let out a short breath of a laugh. “Never heard of it. Never read it. And, don't ask me what a fuckin' allegorical is.”

You glanced over. “You’d probably like it more now than you would’ve in school.”

“Back in school,” he said with a smirk, “I wasn’t much for readin’. Could barely sit still long enough to get through a page.”

“Most people can’t. Not really,” you said. “It’s a skill you grow into—if life lets you.”

There was a pause, not awkward, just thoughtful. But no one was in a rush to dive in, the morning still clinging to your consciousness.

The road stretched out ahead, light and cracked, under a sky washed pale by morning sun. A few questions bounced between father and daughter, easy and familiar, their rhythm well-worn. You listened more than you spoke, content in the quiet, in the soft country drawl of their conversation and the hum of the road beneath you.

It was peaceful.

You didn’t feel like a guest. You didn’t feel like a burden. And for a morning that had begun in chaos, that was saying something.

The school crept up on the horizon—its brick walls catching the morning sun, buses already lined along the curb. In a blink, the truck eased to a stop at the front.

“Hey,” you said, your hand pausing on the door handle. “I really appreciate this. A lot.”

Joel turned toward you, eyes meeting yours with a brief, searching look—like he was trying to read something unspoken in your face. Then he smiled, easy.

“My kid can’t learn if you’re not there to teach,” he said.

Touché.

He cleared his throat, almost like he hadn’t meant to say the next part. “What time do you get off? I’m usually back around three to pick Sarah up.”

“Three forty-five. I’ve got bus duty,” you said with a faint shrug. You glanced toward Sarah, who was a few steps ahead, idly rolling a small rock under her sneaker, waiting.

“How about dinner as a thank you?” The words came out lighter than you expected, almost airy—your fingers fidgeting at the strap of your work bag.

Was that your heart picking up a little?

Get a grip, girl, oh my god.

Joel’s brows lifted slightly, surprised—not put off, just maybe not used to being on the receiving end of offers like that.

“You cook?” he asked, a teasing note there, but gentle.

“Only on days when my car dies,” you deadpanned, smiling.

He let out a low laugh, hand brushing over the back of his neck. “Alright then. Deal.”

Sarah glanced back at you both with a curious tilt of her head, then turned toward the school doors.

You stepped back onto the sidewalk, the truck rumbling into motion behind you. And for a second, you let yourself watch it pull away—feeling just a little more awake than you had an hour ago.

The school day wasn’t bad. In fact, it moved with a kind of ease—fluid, almost gentle. Most of your students stayed on task, heads down in their books, pens scribbling half-heartedly in the margins. The lessons were simple: annotation, discussion, light analysis. Theories floated through the classroom like soft echoes, some half-baked, others surprisingly sharp. It was steady. Predictable.

At lunch, you slipped into the cafeteria like a teenager sneaking out of class, leaning across the counter to charm an extra salad out of the lunch lady. It wasn’t great—but it filled the space, the kind of space that had been gnawed open earlier that morning by a dead car and a voice that wouldn't leave your head. The space that was only filled by rushed coffee, and no breakfast.

That voice.

Rough around the edges, like a match dragging across gritted paper. Those dark brown eyes, heavy-lidded and knowing. And his arms—tendons of muscle flexing casually beneath a worn t-shirt.

Distracting.

But he was a parent. Your student’s father, specifically.

That made it all feel dangerous in a way that wasn’t thrilling. Like walking a little too close to the edge of a cliff, one you’d promised yourself you’d never climb too high on.

Still, the thought lingered, and it crept in between stacks of ungraded essays and half-finished lesson plans.

By the time dismissal rolled around, you were decaying. Bus duty was its usual slow, aching pace—standing beneath the heavy Texas sun, watching yellow buses puff clouds of smog into the air. Your sundress, collared and ironed just hours ago, now clung to your skin like a second, far less glamorous skin.

You adjusted your sunglasses and scanned the parking lot, squinting through the thick, warm air. A familiar blue truck rolled into view, crawling forward beneath the glare.

And there he was.

Joel Miller, one arm hanging out the window, looked just as effortlessly composed as he had this morning.

You hated that. And also… didn’t. Maybe.

He pulled up slowly, the engine humming low. Sarah hopped out from the group of kids, waving once before trotting toward the truck.

“Still standin’, huh?” Joel called, his voice lazy and amused.

You arched a brow. “Barely.”

He chuckled. “You still up for that dinner?”

Were you? You weren’t sure if it was sweat or nerves prickling at the back of your neck.

Ugh, you're so fucked. Why did you offer that in the first place? Could have sent yourself into a nice, cooled, ice cream rotted binge on your couch.

You nodded anyway. “Yeah,” you said. “I think I’ve earned some of your air conditioning.”

Joel leaned across the center seat, hooking his finger in the door and opening the passenger side. “Then climb on in, teach'. Let’s get you somewhere you can breathe again.”

The ride back was nice—windows rolled down, the late afternoon air sweeping in to soothe your sun-warmed skin. It carried the scent of cut grass and hot pavement, of summer sweeping into the Spring semester. It was roughly mid April. Your sundress fluttered at the hem, and you leaned into the breeze like it might cool something deeper than just the sweat on your back.

Maybe it'll blow away your stress along with it.

Sarah had launched into a breathless recap of her day somewhere around the end of the school parking lot. Now, she was mid-rant—animated, scandalized—telling a story that involved two classmates, an on-again-off-again relationship, and a betrayal. Middle school drama.

“They’re eleven—You're eleven,” you murmured, half to yourself, half to the open air.

“You better not be datin’,” Joel cut in from the driver’s seat, voice rough with playfulness. He flicked his eyes toward the rearview mirror with a practiced kind of ease. “You’re too young to be dealin’ with heartbreak.”

“Ew, Dad,” Sarah groaned from the side, dragging out the word like it physically pained her. “No. God.”

You laughed—genuinely—and shook your head. “The things I’ve overheard from these kids will always blow my mind,” you said, flipping your sunglasses up to rest on your head. “They talk like they've lived three lives already.”

Joel smirked, hand resting casual on the wheel. “Middle school’s a war zone now. Nothing like when we were that age.”

You nodded. “Now it’s pager beeps… sneaking their iPod into class… myspace…"

Sarah cringed, visibly. Old people.

He let out a low whistle. “I’d never survive.”

“Mmhhmm,” you hummed, softly. And for a second, you both just listened to the road.

The sky was shifting now—smeared with burnt orange, the sun dipping low enough to cast long shadows on the dashboard. The quiet between stretched, not awkward, not strained.

“Home’s just ahead,” Joel said, his voice gentler now.

You turned your head, looked at him—really looked this time.

“I can bring wine,” you said. “Figured it was safer than tryin' to cook with a power tool…” Lacey accent slipping off of the edge of your words.

He chuckled, the sound deep and raspy. “Good call. I’ve got ribs that need finishin' on the grill.”

Sarah practically cheered, a dramatic, “I love when you make ribs!”

“Then it’s settled,” Joel said, pulling into the driveway with the practiced motion of someone who’s done this a thousand times—but today, it felt different. Like a routine just slightly rewritten. You're an extra character, perhaps.

You stepped out of the truck and into something that, maybe, wasn’t so routine at all.

It didn’t take long—just enough time to slip home, peel off the sundress that had long since clung to your skin, and breathe for a minute in the stillness of your space. The kind of stillness that only exists in the hours of the afternoon, when the light comes in low.

You changed into something casual—soft. Nothing bold, nothing inappropriate. But not something you’d ever wear to teach sixth graders about symbolism either. The fabric settled gently over your arms, still chilled from evaporated sweat, the heat of the day finally breaking.

A bottle of wine—cheap, screw top, a last-minute grab from the grocery store last week. A Tupperware of homemade cookies from a restless baking spree the night before. Some fruit, slightly bruised but still sweet, collected into a bag you tied off with a ribbon you found in your kitchen drawer. It was an offering, of sorts. Not extravagant. But thoughtful.

Honest.

Shit, did you want to impress him?

As you locked your door and stepped back into the fading gold of afternoon, it occurred to you how strangely normal this all felt. Like you’d done it before. Like you might do it again.

Hoped you'd do it again.

You made your way next door, your arms full, your heart doing that quiet, uncertain stutter it sometimes did when life shifted just a little out of its usual orbit.

Joel was already on the back patio, sleeves rolled, one hand gripping a pair of tongs as he turned a rack of ribs with practiced nonchalance. The scent hit you before you even rounded the house—smoke, spice, a hint of char.

He glanced up as you approached, and gave a nod like you were right on time.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he said, the side of his mouth lifting. “We don’t mess around when it comes to ribs in this house.”

You held up the wine and the cookies like a peace offering.

“Well,” you smiled, “I figured I’d at least try to earn my keep.”

Dinner was simple, but good—the kind of meal that stuck to your gut and made the world feel a little smaller, maybe your pants too. Joel plated the ribs with a quiet sort of confidence, tossing a bowl of greens beside the meat like an afterthought.

Sarah had eventually taken her plate to the living room, sprawled on the floor with a tv-show humming from the television, volume low enough to let the hum of cicadas sneak through the open screen door.

You and Joel stayed outside, the patio lights strung overhead flickering to life as the sun dipped low. The wine was already half-gone between the two of you, and the fruit sat untouched on the table—sweating in the heat.

“You always cook like this?” you asked, moving around food with your fork.

He huffed, almost sheepishly. “Only when I’ve got a reason to. Usually it’s just whatever Sarah’s willing to eat without a fight.”

“She’s a good kid,” you said, tone softer now. “Sharp. Thoughtful. Sometimes I catch her looking out for the other students when she thinks no one’s watching…”

Joel leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed like he was weighing something. “She likes your class. Says you don’t talk to ‘em like they’re stupid.”

“Well, they’re not,” you replied. “Even when they act like it.”

That earned a low chuckle, his head tipping back, the sound rattling in his chest.

The silence after it wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavier.

You glanced at him—really looked—and felt that slow, creeping awareness settle in again. The line. The complication. The tension that had existed ever since this morning when you’d slid into the passenger seat of his truck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The stares between bringing the mail in, or doing yard work in the summer.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said, after a pause too long to be casual.

You blinked. “What did you expect?”

He shrugged, then shook his head slowly. “I dunno. Most teachers I’ve met don’t come over with cookies and wine. Or talk about books like it’s gospel. Or…” He stopped himself there, jaw working as he looked away.

You swallowed. Your fingers fidgeted with the stem of your wine glass. “Or…?”

He didn’t look at you when he answered, voice lower now. “Or make me wonder if it’s a bad idea to enjoy the way you laugh.”

That silenced the evening air. Even the bugs seemed to pause.

Fuck.

You weren’t sure if it was the wine or the warmth or just exhaustion, but your voice came quieter than you meant it to:

“She’s your daughter. I’m her teacher.”

Joel’s gaze lifted, met yours. Steady. Serious. “I know.”

You didn’t look away.

“Doesn’t make it go away though, does it?” He said, almost a whisper.

The porch light buzzed above you, moths circling like they knew something you didn’t.

From inside, Sarah laughed at something on the TV. A reminder. A tether.

You stood, smoothing your flannel, suddenly aware of the way the night had curled itself around you.

“I should head home,” you said, not moving just yet.

Joel didn’t try to stop you. He just nodded once, like he understood exactly what you meant—and also didn’t. He didn't want to ask. Didn't want to know.

“Thanks for dinner,” you added, voice a little shakier than you wanted.

He looked up at you then, and his voice was quieter now. “Thanks for showin’ up.”

You turned to go, your shoes quiet on the worn patio boards, when his voice caught you—gentle this time, like it didn’t want to startle you.

“Wait—”

You stopped, half-glancing over your shoulder. The wind fizzling out against you, carrying with it the scent of smoke and sugar, and something that lingered between the two of you.

Joel stood slowly, one hand running along the back of his neck, the other dangling at his side, “I wouldn’t ask unless I really needed it,” he began, already cautious, already apologetic. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, I know. But I gotta run down to Tommy’s place. His breaker’s been out since Tuesday and he’s useless with wires.”

You don't question who Tommy is, guessing you'll find out sooner or later.

He smiled faintly—just enough to take the edge off the ask. “Figured it’d only take me half the day. Was wonderin’ if maybe you could… keep an eye on Sarah?”

Your brow arched, not from offense, just surprise. “You want me to babysit?”

He huffed, shaking his head like that word didn’t sit right with him. “She’s eleven. Barely needs watchin’. Just someone around. Someone she trusts.”

Questionable.

You hesitated—not because you didn’t want to, but because it suddenly made everything feel a little closer, a little less theoretical. You weren’t just a neighbor now. Not just her teacher. This was something else.

No, this is something entirely different.

“She’s welcome to come to my place,” you said finally, voice careful. “I’ve got air conditioning, cable TV, and leftover cookies. That should be enough to keep her entertained.”

Joel’s mouth lifted into a genuine smile. Not cocky. Not performative. Just grateful.

“I appreciate it. Really.”

You gave him a look—measured, but warm. “You're lucky I like her...”

“Have her knock around ten?”

He nodded, and for a second it felt like something else passed between you. A thank you, unspoken.

As you finally stepped back toward your own yard, his voice floated out behind you—low, but not uncertain.

“Night.”

You paused, smiled without turning. “Night, Joel.”

. . .

Ten came quicker than expected. The morning had been gentle—sunlight pouring through the kitchen window as you swept the floor barefoot, your coffee gone lukewarm on the counter. Cracked the windows to let in the breeze, the sound of birds and distant lawnmowers carried through the air. You’d even lit a candle, something citrusy and clean.

You weren't doing this for her, per se, but it did help spur your motivation.

When Sarah knocked, it was exactly on time.

She stood on your porch with a small canvas tote slung over her shoulder, the strap nearly sliding off. “I brought homework and bracelet stuff,” she announced, stepping inside like she’d done it a hundred times before.

“Good,” you smiled. “I’m making you do all my grading.”

She laughed, setting her things on the coffee table and plopping down on the floor. Out came the beads, a half-finished paperback, and a spiral notebook with messy notes in the margins. She settled quickly, legs crossed, humming softly as she untangled some elastic string.

The morning unfolded easily.

You sat on the couch, red pen in hand, a pile of essays to your right, and your planner open on the cushion beside you. The rhythm of your work was slow but steady. Sarah didn’t talk much, but the silence wasn’t strained. Every now and then, she’d ask a quiet question—about the reading, or if you liked a certain color pattern for the bracelet she was working on. You answered without looking up, then looked up anyway.

She was comfortable. Focused. There was something familiar about it, something that softened you without asking permission. The quiet company. The peacefulness of just being in a room with someone, no performance required.

You caught yourself looking around once, eyes drifting across the living room: the soft sunlight over the coffee table, the slow spin of dust in the air, her bent head over a half-tied knot in the string. Coiled brown hair that was messily tied up. It hit you how still it all felt—how whole.

The thought unsettled you. In a good way. In a scary way. One you felt like you might not deserve.

Sarah looked up, suddenly, like she felt you were thinking. “Do you think I should make one for my dad?”

You smiled, leaning back into the couch. “Would he wear it?”

“Probably not.” She twisted the beads between her fingers. “But he’d keep it.”

“Then yes. Definitely.”

She nodded, satisfied.

You went back to your grading, and the clock kept ticking. The day crawled in that slow Saturday kind of way. And still, neither of you felt any rush to break the moment.

Around noon, you made sandwiches—simple ones. Toasted bread, turkey, tomato, a bit of mayo, nothing fancy. You called Sarah to the kitchen, and she wandered in with a half-finished bracelet still looped around her fingers.

She stood beside you while you cut the sandwiches diagonally, eyes following the knife. “You always eat lunch this late?” she asked, biting into a pickle from the plate you slid her way.

“Only on weekends,” you stated. “School days, it’s usually whatever I can sneak between grading and yelling across the room to keep kids from doodling that damn S in their essays.”

Sarah snorted. “Justina wrote about teen vogue in her book report last week.”

You gave her a look. “You’re kidding.”

“Swear.”

You both laughed and sat on the barstools at your little kitchen island, legs swinging absently under the counter.

Halfway through her sandwich, she asked, “Did you always wanna be a teacher?”

The question came out of nowhere, but not in a challenging way. She just sounded curious. Genuinely interested.

You chewed thoughtfully, then gave a shrug. “I think I did. I liked books. I liked figuring people out through how they wrote. And… I liked the idea of being someone who noticed things when no one else did.”

Sarah nodded like she understood that more than someone her age probably should.

After a beat, she asked, “Do you like it?”

You leaned your elbows on the counter and looked at her—really looked. Tan skin, freckles. “I do. Even when it’s chaos. Even when it’s too hot and no one read the chapter. And someone’s crying in the bathroom. And another kid’s sneaking cheeto puffs under their desk… I still like it.”

That made her smile. Not just polite—but full, like she was letting you in on something private. “You’re good at it.”

You blinked, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She twisted her straw around in her drink. “You don’t talk down to us. You don’t act like we’re stupid… And, you're funny."

“Well,” you said with a small grin, “…. some of you are suspiciously smart.”

She took a long sip of her juice. “Do you have a family?”

You paused—less because of the question, and more because it reminded you how rarely you got asked anything personal by your students. It just wasn't the type of thing they were curious about.

It was obvious you lived alone.

“Not really,” you said gently. “My family’s kind of scattered. A few phone calls here and there, but I’ve made my own little version of it along the way.”

Sarah looked at you. Not pity. Just a kind of knowing. “I think my dad’s doin’ that too.”

You didn’t say anything to that—just reached over and gently nudged the plate of cookies toward her.

“Eat another, that’s your payment for getting deep on a Saturday.”

She giggled and took one. “Deal.”

. . .

The night had crept in without warning. You hadn’t even noticed the sun setting, not really. One moment, the room was bathed in gold, and the next, it was all deep, dark, and warm lamp light. The hum of your box fan filled the background as Lilo & Stitch played on your TV, slightly fuzzy.

Sarah had curled up beside you with a blanket around her shoulders, popcorn long abandoned. At some point, she’d pressed a throw pillow into your lap and laid her head down on it without a word. It felt natural.

Like this wasn’t new.

You sipped from your mug of tea, still warm in your hands. The weight of her head on your lap wasn’t heavy—just present. Comforting. Her hair smelled like cheap shampoo and sun—like Joel clearly didn't know what hair products to buy for her—like maybe you'd have to fix that too.

You watched the movie for a while, but your eyes kept drifting to her instead.

She looked peaceful. Deep asleep, breath even, lashes soft against her cheeks. You reached for the remote slowly, lowered the volume down to a murmur, letting your other hand rest loosely on the arm of the couch

It made your chest feel oddly full. Not in a heavy way. Just full.

You liked it. You liked this.

And then came a knock. Soft. Three times.

You looked toward the front door and instinctively glanced at the clock. A little past ten.

The door creaked open before you could get up—Joel stepped in, gently closing it behind him as he spotted you on the couch. He didn’t speak at first. Just took in the sight.

Sarah, asleep. The dim TV light flickering across the room. Your hand halfway frozen mid-sip.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to wake her.”

“She’s out cold,” you whispered with a soft smile. “Movie night hit harder than expected. It was a rager.”

He walked in a few steps, careful like the floor might creak too loud. His eyes moved from his daughter to you, then back again. “Looks like she made herself comfortable.”

You nodded. “She’s good company, don't worry.”

Joel’s mouth tugged into a soft smile. The kind that didn’t flash—it just settled there. “You’re good with her,” he said after a moment. “I mean—I knew that already. School and all' but this…”

He looked down at his boots for a second, almost like he wasn’t sure if he was stepping over a line just being here.

“I appreciate it,” he added, quieter this time. “Today. All of it.”

You swallowed and nodded, fingers curling around your mug, “Of course.”

There was a pause then. Just long enough for it to stretch a little. He looked like he had more to say, but didn’t know how to frame it.

“I can carry her out,” he offered, voice still soft, stepping forward.

You nodded and gently began to shift. “Let me help.”

Joel leaned in carefully, one arm sliding under his daughter’s legs, the other under her back. She stirred only slightly, murmuring something in her sleep as he lifted her with practiced ease.

She fit into his arms like it was the easiest thing in the world. A practiced ritual. Love and devotion.

You stood nearby, arms crossed gently over your chest, mug long discarded, watching him adjust her in his hold.

He looked at you—really looked.

“Maybe next time,” he said, “we make it dinner and a movie.”

Your breath caught, just a little. Then you smiled, faint and genuine.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Maybe we do.”

Joel nodded once, Sarah curled against his chest, and turned to the door.

But it didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like the first page of something. Quiet. Earnest. Real.

He was halfway down the walkway when you spoke—quietly, but with enough clarity to carry through the still evening air.

“Joel?”

He paused, turning just slightly over his shoulder. The porch light spilled a golden hue across his back, catching the faint tousle of Sarah’s hair as she slept, her head tucked close against his collarbone. Hair slightly messed from the long day of wearing a hat.

You stepped forward, one hand bracing the doorframe. You weren’t sure exactly what gave you the nerve—maybe it was the way he looked standing there, solid and warm in the night. Maybe it was the weight of Sarah’s sleepy trust still lingering in your lap. Or maybe it was just the ache of wanting company.

“When you put her down,” you said, voice quieter now, “… you can come back. If you want.”

Joel tilted his head. Not in surprise—more like consideration.

“I’ve got whiskey,” you added, your tone lighter, a little smile playing at the corner of your mouth, “Might not be top shelf, but it’s not the worst.”

For a second, he didn’t move. Just stood there holding his daughter, looking at you like he was seeing something he didn’t know he needed to find.

Then came a nod. Slow. Sure.

“I’ll be back in ten.”

You watched him go, the weight of that promise hanging in the air even after he disappeared down the drive.

Ten minutes stretched, but not in a bad way. You rinsed your mug, straightened a blanket. You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t change your clothes or fix your hair. This wasn’t a date—it wasn’t anything like that.

And still, your heart thudded a little when the knock came again.

You opened the door, and there he was—no daughter this time, no arms full of responsibility. Just Joel. Shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair a little tousled, eyes softer than you’d seen them all day.

“I brought glasses,” he said, holding up two tumblers from his own kitchen. “Didn’t know if yours had dust in ‘em.”

You grinned. “You don't take me for a whiskey girl?" The jest came out easy.

The two of you ended up back on the couch—poured the whiskey, handed him a glass, then settled back with your knees pulled up beneath you.

At first, it was small talk. Work. The heat. The horror that was sixth grade social dynamics. You laughed more than you meant to. So did he.

And then, somewhere between the second to third pour and the second silence that followed it, the mood shifted—not heavy, just quieter. The kind of quiet that stretches like a soft duvet, not a wall.

Joel swirled the whiskey in his glass. “She adores you, y’know.”

Your brows lifted. “Sarah?”

He nodded. “You’ve only been her teacher for a little while, but… she talks about you. More than I think she realizes. Always been a little cautious with people. But you? She lets her guard down… and I'm sure I'll never hear the end of tonight.”

You exhaled, your fingers tracing the lip of your glass. “She’s easy to care about.”

Joel glanced at you, then looked down at his lap, his thumb rubbing the base of the tumbler. “So are you.”

That stopped you.

Not because it was forward. But because it was honest.

You didn’t answer, not at first. Just let the moment hang there, warm and undemanding.

Then you gave the softest response you could manage, your voice barely above the hum of the fan:

“You didn’t have to say that.”

He looked over. “I wanted to.”

Another pause. Your legs shifted, stretching out toward the edge of the couch, and Joel turned slightly to mirror you. Closer now. Not touching. But close enough to feel it.

You lifted your glass between you. “To honesty, then.”

He clinked his against yours. “To whatever this is.”

And you both drank.

. . .

Sunday settled heavy over the neighborhood, the heat of the day finally loosening its grip as night crept in through the windows.

It's hot as fuck, per usual.

You’d spent the day on the phone—tow truck, auto shop, then the shop again. No answer. Then one more call that went straight to voicemail.

The car wasn’t going anywhere. And neither were you.

By early evening, you were pacing your Livingroom barefoot, fingers curling around the hem of your shirt as you weighed your options. The silence in your house only made it worse.

You weren’t stranded, not really. You could call a Taxi. Call a coworker. Figure something out.

But you didn’t want to do any of that. It costs money. It costs social awareness you lacked with your older co-workers.

So you grabbed your keys—habit, really—and crossed the short driveway barefoot, the concrete still warm beneath your soles. You didn’t knock immediately. Just stood there for a second, hand raised, heart giving a small, stupid thud.

Then you knocked—three soft taps.

It didn’t take long.

Joel opened the door in a T-shirt and jeans, hair still damp from a shower, towel slung over his shoulder like he’d been doing dishes. He blinked at first—surprised, but not unpleasantly so.

“Hey,” he said, that familiar rasp curling around the word like warmth.

“Hey,” you echoed, then glanced down, “I—uh—I hate to bug you, especially two nights in a row, but I think my car’s officially given up on life.”

Joel leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. “That the same one you tried to nurse back to health Friday?”

“The very same,” you sighed, arms crossing in mirror of his. “I’ve called the shop three times today, and nothing. Was hoping you might have a mechanic, some advice? A brand new supercar?”

Joel didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I know a guy—used to work with him. He’s good, won’t try to fleece you.”

Relief bloomed in your chest, enough to make your smile genuine. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Lemme grab his number,” Joel said, pushing the door open wider in invitation. “C’mon in. You might as well get comfortable while I dig through the drawer.”

You stepped inside, that familiar warmth of his home wrapping around you. There was something about the smell—cedar and clean laundry and something that felt lived-in. Sarah’s backpack was dropped by the couch, her sneakers nearby. Brown paint clung nicely to the walls.

Joel wandered off toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Want some water? Or whiskey again?”

“Water, please. I’m trying not to turn into a problem,” you called back, a small jest.

He returned a minute later with a glass in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other.

“Here’s the number. Name’s Eli. Tell him I sent you, he’ll probably bump you to the front of the line.”

You took both, fingers brushing his—barely. But it was enough to send a small jolt through your system.

Easy, girl.

“I owe you,” you said, softly.

He looked at you then, for a beat too long. Not in a way that asked anything from you. But in a way that made your stomach flutter and your breath slow.

“Nah,” he murmured. “You don’t.”

A silence fell. Not awkward, not pressing. Just… open. You stood in his living room, water glass sweating in your palm, and felt that strange comfort again—like you belonged there more than you should.

You cleared your throat gently. “I, uh… I’ll let you get back to your night.”

Joel didn’t move. “You don’t have to rush off.”

You raised a brow inquisitively.

He shrugged, one hand running down the side of his neck. “Just sayin’. Sarah’s already asleep. It’s quiet. I’ve got a couch and a half a pizza left in the fridge.”

You tilted your head, smiling despite yourself. “Is that your way of asking me to stay for dinner?”

“I’d say it’s more of an open invitation,” he replied, eyes soft, “No pressure.”

You lingered in the doorway, fingers curling tighter around the cool glass in your hand. There was something disarming about the way he looked at you—like you were someone who mattered. Like this quiet exchange, wrapped in casual tones and easy smiles, meant more than either of you wanted to admit.

But your mind pulled elsewhere. You had a stack of unfinished grading waiting at home, a lesson plan to finalize, a classroom to reset before Monday at eight. As much as you wanted to sit back on that couch with him, legs tucked beneath you and the low hum of some old movie playing in the background… reality tugged at your sleeve.

Fuckin' reality.

“I’ve got papers to grade,” you said softly, your voice an apology more than anything. “And a few things to prep for tomorrow. My classroom’s a mess and the kids are expecting answers to questions I haven’t even thought of yet.”

Joel gave a small nod, not disappointed—just understanding. “Yeah,” he said, that low drawl, “Duty calls.”

You smiled faintly, setting the glass down on the kitchen counter. “I wasn’t expecting to be here this long, anyway.”

“Didn’t seem like you were in a rush,” he offered, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

“No,” you agreed, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. “I wasn’t.”

You crossed the room slowly, letting the silence fall again. At the door, he opened it for you, the night air brushing cool against your skin.

“You’ll let me know if the car gives you more trouble?” he asked.

You looked back at him. “Promise.”

His eyes held yours for a moment too long again—warm and steady, like he saw straight through to the parts of you you kept hidden.

“Night, Joel.”

“Night,” he said, voice low. “Grade easy.”

You stepped out into the dark, your heart just a little heavier in the best way.

Back home, your papers waited. But so did the memory of the way he’d looked at you—not asking for anything, not needing to. Just seeing you. And that, somehow, was the part that lingered the longest.

. . .

Monday rolled in like a wave—heavy, gray-skied, and a little too fast.

You rubbed your eyes in the soft glow of your kitchen light, coffee in hand, toast forgotten in the toaster. It was too early, your body still half-asleep, and the stress of the week already sat on your shoulders like a full backpack. Ironic, right?

Your car still wouldn’t start, and the mechanic hadn’t gotten back to you over the weekend. The thought of repair bills danced in the back of your mind—bitter. Bills you might not be able to pay. Bills you know you aren't going to be able to pay.

At exactly 6:53 a.m, the familiar rumble of Joel’s truck echoed outside your window. You peered through the blinds and saw Sarah swinging her backpack onto her shoulder, Joel stepping around the truck to help her up with an ease that made your chest ache in some unspoken way.

You met them outside, travel mug in hand, your sweater pulled tight around you to fight off the last of the early morning chill. Joel gave you a nod as you climbed in—Sarah already chatting from the passenger seat about some comic she’d stayed up too late reading.

“Morning,” Joel said, voice still gravelly with sleep, “You alright?”

“As good as someone without a working car and a pile of essays to grade can be,” you muttered, flashing him a tired but honest smile.

He glanced over at you, one hand on the wheel. “You hear anything from the shop?”

“Not yet. I’m hoping it’s just the battery,” you sighed. “But knowing my luck, it’s probably the whole damn engine.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question. Just fact.

That small sentence landed heavier than you expected.

We’ll. As if this was shared. As if your problems were something he was already invested in. It was comforting, and terrifying all at once.

Sarah turned toward you from the passenger seat, holding up the beaded bracelet from the day previous. “If your car’s still busted tomorrow, I can make you one of these. For good luck.”

You smiled, genuine and soft. “How'd you know that's exactly what I need?”

The rest of the drive was quiet in that peaceful early-week kind of way—radio low, wind slipping through a cracked window, Sarah humming something tuneless in the front seat. Joel didn’t say much more, but you felt his presence beside you like a steady drumbeat. Reliable. Unspoken.

When the school came into view, you felt yourself straighten, the teacher version of you slowly surfacing.

But before you unbuckled, Joel’s voice cut gently through the quiet.

“After school,” he said. “We’ll go to the shop,"

"Together.”

You looked at him.

Tired, maybe.

A little stressed.

But steadier now.

“Okay,” you said, your voice soft.

. . .

The day was rough from the start.

Your first-period class barely looked up when you entered. Heads on desks, a few pencils half-heartedly scratching at papers. Jonathan Livingston Seagull sat untouched on more than one corner of a desk. You gave the same opening you’d practiced—about individuality, purpose, flying beyond expectations—but it landed with a thud.

By third period, someone asked if Jonathan was just suicidal, and another asked if they could switch to reading The Lorax instead. You scribbled a note to rework your discussion questions during your lunch break.

Damn kids.

Lunch came late and cold. The meat was… questionable. You ate a granola bar instead and skimmed through a few ungraded reflection assignments.

A few of them weren’t bad. Most of them wrote, 'he just wanted to be alone and fly,' in different ways.

Good observation. It's not like he's a fuckin' bird or anything.

The copier jammed halfway through printing your last worksheet of the day.

By the final bell, your nerves were strung tight. Your voice felt hoarse from repeating yourself. Your lesson plans for the next day were untouched. And your car was still out of commission.

You walked out into the bright Texas sun, slinging your bag higher on your shoulder, the heat already slick on the back of your neck. And there it was: the blue Chevy, idling quietly in the car line.

Joel gave you a small nod when you opened the passenger door. “Survived the day?”

“Barely,” you said, sliding in. “I think the seagull’s going to be the death of me.”

He gave a low, amused sound—not quite a laugh. “Still on that book?”

You buckled your seatbelt. “Yep. Today’s takeaway was that he should’ve just stayed with the flock.”

Joel didn’t look over, but you could see the smile pulling at his cheek. “Not exactly the message, huh?”

“No. But I’m not sure anyone in my third period cares much about metaphors.”

He adjusted the gearshift and pulled away from the curb. His forearm rested lightly against the wheel, steady. You let yourself sink back into the seat, eyes half-closed against the sun filtering through the windshield.

“How’s the car?” he asked after a few moments.

You sighed. “We talked on the phone. Mechanic's ordering a part. Might be a few days.”

He nodded. “Well—I’ll be here.”

You glanced over, surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, not missing a beat. “I mean, it’s not out of the way. Sarah likes the company. And I don’t mind.”

You looked back through the window, a small smile curling in despite the heat and the bad day. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

That made you glance over. He didn’t look at you when he said it. Just kept driving, a slight edge of amusement in his voice.

You shook your head, but you didn’t stop the smile.

"Speaking of Sarah," you murmured as you settled into the truck seat, tugging your bag into your lap, "Where is she? Doesn’t she do a sport?"

Joel kept his eyes on the road, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the open window ledge. “Yeah. Soccer. Practice runs a little later on Mondays. I'll swing back ‘round after I drop you off.”

You nodded, letting the quiet hum of the engine fill the pause.

“Soccer, huh. Is she any good?”

“She’s scrappy,” he said, mouth pulling into the start of a grin. “Got no fear. Don’t matter how big the other kid is—she’ll steal that ball like it’s hers by right.”

That made you smile. “Sounds about right. She’s sharp. Doesn’t say a ton in class, but I can tell her wheels are always turning."

Joel glanced over at you briefly, brow lifting. “Yeah? She don’t talk much about school, other than about you. I ask, but y’know—middle schoolers. Everything’s ‘fine’ or ‘I dunno.’”

“Well,” you said, chuckling, “… she was one of the only ones who turned in her seagull reflection on time. So she’s already ahead of the curve.”

That got a low, amused noise from him. He clears his throat, dramatizing, “She said that book was ‘weird but, like, kinda deep.' Her exact words.'

“She’s not wrong,” you replied, settling a little more comfortably against the seat. “Bird’s dramatic, sure. But you can’t knock his drive.”

Joel didn’t respond right away. He just drove, letting the warm spring breeze drift in through the window. Town rolled by, familiar and soft around the edges.

After a minute, he spoke again. “You got a second to breathe tonight, or you buried in papers again?”

You laughed under your breath. “A little of both. I always trick myself into thinking I can stay ahead. Then I assign open-ended questions and immediately regret it.”

“Rookie mistake,” he teased, lips twitching. “You’ll learn.”

“Oh, so now you’re givin’ me pointers?”

He shot you a side glance. “Hey, I know how to spot a burnout comin’. Seen it plenty. You teachers push too hard, too fast.”

You raised a brow, but the smile that crept in was genuine. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” he said, then with a quieter edge, “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with askin’ for help, y’know. For what it’s worth.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. You looked over, but he was already turning onto your street.

“I’ll keep that in mind too,” you said gently.

He pulled up in front of your place and let the truck idle.

“I’ll let you get to it,” Joel said, nodding toward your bag. “Unless you’re plannin’ to school me on seagull philosophy.”

You laughed, reaching for the door handle, “Careful, I might. I’ve got quotes.”

He smirked, voice low and teasing, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You stepped out, the truck door closing behind you with a soft clunk. As you walked up your porch, you glanced back.

He was still there. Engine still running—but he didn’t pull away until he saw you fully enter your house.

Shit.

This is going to be the start of something pretty dangerous, huh?

author note:

omgheyyyy... guess who is hooked to this idea (me, it's me). i think this is going to be my first thorough series. very slice of life and fluff heavy. eventual smut chapter... and ofc it'll lead all the way up to outbreak because angst, and I'm evil? maybe okay anyway thoughts r appreciated...

comment for next chapter tagging.

162 notes · View notes

rosiebbydoll · 2 days ago

Text

The Right Time - Sukuna x Reader - Chp. 3

Chp. 2 - Chp. 3 - Chp. 4

summary: Your life was blissfully chaotic. Being a single mom and raising a daughter with a bigger attitude than yours was a challenge, but you love every second of it. You decided to move to the city to be closer to work. You’ve been at your new apartment for about three weeks now and everything has been great. Until, your annoyingly hot neighbor decided to open his mouth.

cw: female reader, modern au (no curses), 18+, enemies to friends to lovers, mechanic!sukuna x librarian!reader, slow burn, fluff, smut, crack, angst, toxicity, Sukuna is emotionally constipated, Nobora is readers daughter, Choso and Yuji are Sukuna’s nephews, Toji is a present father in this, LOTS of family fluff, manga spoilers? (more tags will be added)

wc: 10.2 k (I got carried away)

chp warning: Toji & Sukuna pov, fluff, tension, angst, crack, sexual content, toxic traits (from reader & Sukuna), mentions of violence, the kids being cute

a/n: time to meet the baby daddy and play uno! enjoy! <3

Saturday morning's hangover had been absolutely brutal - a fitting punishment for your late-night adventures. You'd woken up to find Toji passed out on your couch, his muscular frame sprawled awkwardly because he's too big for normal furniture. He was drooling all over your fancy throw pillows that you spent forever picking out. The sight would have been amusing if your head wasn't pounding like a bass drum. So, you just trudged slowly to the bathroom to search for medicine to ease the hangover away.

To add to the mess, you were still wearing Sukuna's shirt like some twisted walk-of-shame souvenir. The memory of that infuriating wink and the way his scent lingered on the fabric came rushing back with nauseating clarity. You were dreading the moment you would have to return it back to him. It was honestly more embarrassing he saw you completely wasted. Returning a shirt from a one night stand would have been nothing compared to the events of Friday night.

Toji didn't say much that morning. It didn’t feel like he was walking on eggshells or anything. He just knew you were truly upset and sometimes words don't solve shit. A simple "sorry" wouldn't fix anything, so instead, he'd been trying to make it up to you in his own way. Helping with errands, bringing you coffee, doing all the little things a best friend should.

It wasn’t like Toji had actually done anything wrong. The irritation came from somewhere messier—the fact that he was friends with the one person you decided to be your mortal enemy. Yeah, maybe that sounded dramatic, but in that exact moment, it felt like the entire world was conspiring against you. For the longest, it had been just you, Toji, and the kids against everything else, and that made it feel both comforting and isolating at the same time. When you spotted Toji walking up the stairs, something in your chest tightened, and for a brief second, despite all the noise around you, you felt utterly, painfully alone.

There was no need for words about what happened—none were said, and none were needed. Yet Toji understood deep down that your anger wasn’t real, not the kind that lasts. When you woke up and quietly made breakfast for the two of you, it spoke volumes more than any apology ever could. In moments like that, silence carried a weight no conversation ever could, filling the space between you with a quiet understanding.

That was four days ago.

Now it's Wednesday, and you're even more pissed at Toji than before. Poor guy landed himself in the same boat as Sukuna. This time around it's honestly your own fault- actually no, it's not. The motherfucker should have had his door closed. Basic office etiquette, really.

You'd left work early today to have Toji look at your car. The old Honda had been struggling to start most mornings, requiring a jump just to sputter to life. You'd been avoiding the inevitable repairs for months until Toji finally convinced you to let him take a look. After much hesitation, you'd agreed.

It’s not that you don’t trust Toji with your car—he’s reliable, and when he’s focused, he knows his stuff. But there’s a reason that man ended up a landlord and not a full-time mechanic. His “fix-it” methods sometimes feel more like experiments, and you’ve learned to brace yourself for whatever creative solution he’s about to try next. Still, when it comes down to it, you’d rather have his questionable skills than having to pay for it.

So, here you are on a beautiful Wednesday afternoon, heading to Toji's office at the apartment complex. You'd texted him four times already to confirm it was okay to come by, and he'd responded with his typical one-word answers.

He's always been a painfully dry texter - the kind who responds to paragraph-long messages with "k" - so you can never really gauge his mood through messages. But nothing could have prepared you for what you saw when you walked in without knocking.

Toji getting head from some random woman, right there in his office chair.

Now, you love Toji. Truly, he's like your brother and has been there through everything. But there was a shift after his wife passed, and he transformed into a total manwhore. It annoys you to no end, but what can you do? The man's grieving and coping however he can. He's also a single father, handling that responsibility as best he knows how. As his best friend, you reserve the right to get pissed off and make fun of him for his escapades.

Today you were already on edge, probably because of your car troubles. Though for the past week and half, you'd been blaming everything on Sukuna, that walking pain in your existence. So naturally, this was somehow his fault too. Maybe he put Toji up to it just to get under your skin.

Okay now I’m just being ridiculous.

As you stand there in shock, Toji immediately shoves the girl off and hurriedly tucks himself back into his pants. The woman looks stunned to see you standing there like some disapproving mother, while Toji just chuckles and shakes his head, completely unfazed.

Sukuna may have been wrong about many things concerning you, but he wasn't wrong about Toji and his women.

"Hey pretty, did ya come to join us-" You immediately raise your hand to shut him up and turn to the girl.

"You know he has a wife, right?" The words tumble out before you can stop them, and now you're committed to this lie. Toji stares at you like you've completely lost your mind.

The girl cocks her head to the side, confusion written across her features. "What?" She turns to look at Toji, who lets out a long-suffering groan.

Well, now you feel bad - kind of. This girl looks about your age, and Toji's only four years older than you, so it's not that inappropriate. But you did just bring up his wife - who is very much deceased. In your defense, the man had to have known you were coming. You'd texted him enough times to fill a novel. But now you look like the bad guy, yelling at this random ass woman.

God, I hate all men.

Toji pushes back from his chair, slipping an arm around the girl’s waist and starts guiding her toward the door. You, on the other hand, don't want to stick around to hear the inevitable lecture that’s about to come crashing down. Instead, you make a beeline for the exit, practically bolting as if the floor might swallow you whole if you linger any longer.

"Uhm, I'll talk to you later! You guys have fun!" you call out as Toji deadpans at your retreating form.

The girl looks up at him with raised eyebrows. "I thought you said your wife passed away?"

Toji lets out a low, soft hum, the kind that carries more weight than words. “She did.” Without missing a beat, the girl steps closer, giving him a gentle side hug and rubbing the tension from his back.

“And who was that?” she asks, her fingers now absentmindedly playing with the dark strands of his hair.

Toji chuckles, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. "My deranged sister."

The woman hums again, a casual, almost teasing sound, as her fingers absentmindedly play with Toji’s hair. It’s the kind of touch that’s more about passing time than comfort—light, easy, with no promises or weight behind it. Just a moment of distraction, nothing more.

Meanwhile, you're stomping up to your apartment, absolutely fuming. You're mad at yourself again, wondering why shit like this always happens. And why does Toji have to be such a whore-

BAM!

Lost in your internal rant, you slam right into what feels like a brick wall. As you wince in pain, you look up to see that shit-eating grin that's been haunting your dreams.

Oh. Not a wall - you ran straight into him.

"Shit, my bad," you mutter, backing away and picking up your tote that fell during the collision with this mountain of a man.

Sukuna's smirk widens, flashing those perfect teeth. "Damn, it's only noon. Already drinking, drunky?" He laughs and bends down to retrieve your phone from the floor.

"Don't call me that," you snap, digging through your tote for your keys. Your stomach drops when you realize they're missing.

"Fuck," you sigh, scanning the ground.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asks, with one eyebrow raised. You noticed that they both had slits, which was incredibly hot-

Focus.

"Lost my keys."

"Need help?"

You turn to him with the fakest smile you can muster. "No, I'm good, thank you though."

Sukuna rolls his eyes with a dramatic sigh and strides past you without a second glance. You catch yourself trailing behind him like a shadow.

He turns back before entering the parking garage. "Which one's yours?" he asks, nodding toward the sea of vehicles.

You point toward your silver Honda CR-V parked near the far end, its familiar dents and scratches standing out against the polished rows of newer cars. Sukuna’s gaze locks onto it, and without hesitation, he strides toward the car with that unmistakable air of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. You huff under your breath, a mix of irritation and reluctant amusement bubbling up as you realize what he’s doing.

"I'm not an idiot. I wouldn't leave my keys in my car," you shout as he approaches the vehicle.

Sukuna waves off your protests like they’re background noise, leaning in to peer through the car window with a sharp scoff. “Ya sure about that, drunky?” he says, voice dripping with skepticism.

You roll your eyes but can’t help following him over to the car. He looms over you, his shadow stretching long as you both fix your eyes on the keys sitting there in the ignition, like some cruel joke. And, of course, the doors are locked tight.

You groan, pressing your forehead against the cold, unforgiving glass, the chill doing nothing to cool your rising frustration. “I’m going to scream,” you mutter, voice eerily calm despite the chaos of the moment. Sukuna just huffs, amusement flickering in his eyes.

Curious, you glance up to find him already pulling out his phone, fingers flying over the screen as he texts someone.

“My guy’s on his way to unlock the car for you,” Sukuna says like it’s no big deal, his tone casual as if this is just part of the daily routine. You tilt your head, suspicion creeping in. “Your guy?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Sukuna shrugs. “Yeah, one of my workers at the shop. He’s also a locksmith, so he can handle this kind of mess.”

You nod slowly, the pieces clicking together in your mind. So that’s the mechanic friend Toji mentioned too many times without actually saying his name. Suddenly, this whole situation feels a little less hopeless.

As you wait, a thick, awkward silence stretches between you, broken only when Sukuna finally turns to you with that trademark smirk. “Have you gotten that Gameboy fixed yet?” he asks, eyes glinting with mischief.

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden question, then let out a tired sigh. “No, haven’t had the time, honestly. I’m thinking I might just replace it instead of fixing it.”

Sukuna hums, tapping his fingers against his leg as if weighing the options. “I know a guy who could probably fix it, and it wouldn’t even cost much.”

You raise an eyebrow, a small giggle escaping. “Do you have a guy for everything?”

He can’t help but smirk at that, his laugh low and genuine, like a rare crack in his usual cool exterior. The silence that settles afterward isn’t uncomfortable—it’s different. Almost peaceful, like two people sharing a moment without needing to fill the space with noise.

The locksmith pulls up shortly in his battered truck, the engine settling into a low rumble as he hops out with practiced efficiency. Within minutes, he’s unpacked his tools beside your driver’s side door, moving with the kind of calm confidence born from doing this a thousand times before. Then, with a satisfying *click*, the door pops open.

Caught up in the relief and gratitude flooding through you, you do the last thing you expected—you sprint over and wrap your arms around Sukuna in a spontaneous hug.

“Thank you! I owe you—” The words catch in your throat as the reality of what you’re doing hits you mid-sentence.

Sukuna’s face goes unreadable, a mask hiding the chaos inside. His heart is pounding so hard he’s pretty sure it’s audible. You pull away quickly, cheeks burning, stammering apologies as you turn to thank the locksmith properly.

Sukuna leans against the car, watching you interact with the locksmith, fighting to steady his breath. That hug had knocked him off balance—so genuine, so warm, so unexpectedly... right. And now, of course, he’s pissed for feeling this way. Toji had made it clear not to mess with you.

The locksmith nods toward Sukuna, holding out a hand. Sukuna blinks out of his thoughts and steps forward. “Thanks, man,” he says, the dap quick but solid.

The locksmith climbs back into his truck and drives off and you're still burning with embarrassment but trying to act normal. "I really do mean I owe you one."

Sukuna’s smile is slow, knowing, and it twists your insides in the best and worst ways. “Don’t worry about it, drunky.”

Fuck.

Sukuna opens his mouth to say something else, but just then your phone blares an alarm—Nobara’s pick-up time. Your eyes snap wide as you glance at the clock.

“Shit!” you blurt, fumbling to unlock your car. “I’m supposed to pick up Nobara in fifteen minutes!”

“Fuck,” Sukuna mutters at the same time, pulling out his own phone. “I totally forgot about Choso and Yuji.”

You both share a quick, knowing look—the universal parent panic that hits when you realize you’re about to be late. Without a word, you jump into your car while Sukuna strides toward his Mustang parked a few spots away.

As you pull out of the lot, your eyes flick to the rearview mirror, catching his car turning the opposite way. Your mind drifts, the warmth of his chest during that hug lingering like a soft echo. It had been solid, grounding even, before reality slammed back in. And that smile he gave you afterward—different from his usual cocky smirk—something quieter, almost genuine.

Meanwhile, behind the wheel of his Mustang, Sukuna takes the back roads, trying not to dwell on how perfectly you fit against him in that brief hug. Or how your laugh actually sounded real this time, not the usual forced thing you do around him. His fingers drum against the steering wheel, annoyed at himself for noticing.

You both arrive at the preschool from opposite sides, parking in spots that feel deliberately far apart. Across the lot, he catches your eye and gives you a small nod—not his trademark cocky head tilt, but something softer, almost friendly.

You find yourself returning the nod with a slight wave before heading inside to grab Nobara. Something’s shifted between you two, though neither could say exactly what.

Maybe running into each other—literally—wasn’t the worst thing after all.

It’s been almost a month since you met Sukuna, and you’ve given up on trying to completely ignore him—mostly because it’s impossible with how often your kids spend time together (not because he makes your heart race every time you see him, of course). Nobara, Yuji, and Choso have become inseparable, their friendship blossoming with that effortless, instant connection only kids can pull off.

You and Sukuna at least nod at each other in the halls now. Sometimes the kids knock on each other’s doors, claiming they’re just being “neighborly”—though Choso always apologizes quietly for bothering you, his polite seriousness is a stark contrast to Sukuna.

Sukuna had slowly started to learn more about you. Yuji and Choso would talk about how you’re the “book fairy”. Nobora started bringing books over and to school to show them. They thought you were magical and Sukuna soon peaced together that you were the librarian friend Toji had talked about for years.

At school pickup, you watch Nobara, Yuji, and Megumi walking out together, hands linked, chatting about who knows what. Nobara’s always been a social butterfly, but seeing the usually reserved Megumi warming up to the crew is a small joy.

Of course, this new peace between your families means you’re forced to interact with their infuriatingly attractive uncle more than you’d like. The way Sukuna leans casually against the wall waiting for the kids, or how his eyes crinkle slightly when he actually smiles—not the usual smirk—at something the kids do, it’s getting harder to keep up your carefully crafted wall of annoyance.

Meanwhile, Toji’s been busier than ever. Some tenants moved out recently, so he’s been knee-deep in renovations, hustling to fix up the place. You’ve been helping when you can—picking up Megumi, running errands, juggling whatever needs doing.

Sukuna’s been pitching in too. When he’s not at his shops, he’s at Toji’s place, laying down new flooring or handling whatever handyman work needs doing. The trio of you working together has become the new normal, even if it sometimes makes your head spin.

None of you have really been able to hang out. Just catching glimpses of each other here and there—quick hellos in the hallway or passing nods during pickup. Hell, the kids get to see each other more than you do, their laughter and chatter filling the spaces where you and Sukuna barely find time to exchange more than a few words. It’s strange how your lives have intertwined through the kids, yet the grown-up connection still feels like a fragile thread stretched thin across busy days and competing schedules.

Work for you had been going great. The library feels unusually quiet—Ino’s out sick, dramatically claiming he has “definitely the plague,” though you’re pretty sure it’s just a stubborn cold.

You’ve spent most of the day setting up a brand-new “What’s Hot” section for readers, meticulously arranging everything from the latest spicy romance novel to that thriller everyone’s been buzzing about. The display is your pride and joy. You even made little handwritten recommendation cards, something that never fails to bring a smile from the regulars who stop by.

Between organizing the new section, you’ve sat through a handful of meetings about upcoming visits. The local elementary school is gearing up for their annual field trip—you’re already bracing yourself for the inevitable chaos and the senior center’s book club wants to reserve the conference room for their monthly gatherings. The day’s been busy but somehow flew by, maybe a little too fast.

You’re wrapping up around three, ready to head out. Nobara has art club until five today, so you figure there’s enough time to knock out some errands and sneak in a quick catch-up with her dad. It’s nothing heavy—just your usual monthly check-in to go over Nobara’s schedule and make sure you’re both on the same page. Between both of your packed workdays, once a month is about the only window you can carve out to sync up without juggling too many balls at once.

There’s no drama between you—just two adults trying to navigate the business of co-parenting with as much grace as possible. Today’s meeting follows the usual rhythm: reviewing Nobara’s upcoming activities and making sure nothing falls through the cracks. She’s buzzing with excitement about starting jujitsu, which has you freaking out more than you’d like to admit. On top of that, she’s just signed up for the art club and of course, summer camp is right around the corner, adding another layer to the carefully balanced schedule you both work hard to manage.

Every day, you silently thank the universe that her father is such a wonderful person. It’s almost annoying how wonderful he is. But you’re beyond grateful. Without him, you’d be lost. What you don’t realize is he feels the same way about you, and that thought lingers quietly between both of you, unspoken but deeply understood.

Now you’re finally stepping out of the library, already tasting the sweet reward of a well-deserved sweet treat from the coffee shop before heading over to his office. You’ve been holding your breath every time you start your car since that day—Toji never actually fixed it, and you haven’t had the nerve to bring it up since. The memory of that afternoon lingers too heavily, so you refuse to mention it again.

“Come on, you piece of...” you mutter under your breath, turning the key once more. The engine responds with a sad, pitiful clicking sound that definitely isn’t normal. After the fifth failed attempt, you throw in the towel and dial Toji—the guy who’s become your unofficial mechanic, ever since he tried to bring your radiator back to life with duct tape and a prayer.

“Pretty, I can’t come right now. Megumi’s got a dentist appointment,” Toji’s voice comes through, distracted and full of background noise. Megumi is firing off endless questions about whether dentists are actually certified. “I’ll send someone over for you.”

You start to ask, “Who—?” but the line’s already dead. Typical Toji. One of these days you swear you’re going to give him a good punch in the arm.

Fifteen minutes later, the low rumble of a motorcycle rolls into the parking lot, and your stomach twists into knots. A familiar figure pulls up next to your car, the sleek black Kawasaki purring as if it owns the place. The bike’s dangerous curves mirror its rider perfectly—smooth, powerful, and impossible to ignore.

Of course. Of fucking course Toji would send him. Which honestly you’re grateful a mechanic is actually here. But you would never say that to his face.

Sukuna swings off the bike with that maddening grace, peeling off his helmet to reveal that stupid, infuriating smirk you’ve come to both dread and anticipate. His white t-shirt clings to a chest you’ve tried not to notice, his arms covered in intricate tattoos flexing as he runs a hand through his helmet-mussed hair. The pink highlights catch the afternoon sun, and you hate that you even notice.

You raise an eyebrow, folding your arms as he approaches. “I didn’t know you had a bike.”

He smirks, eyes flickering to your car. “Car trouble, drunky?” he asks, completely ignoring your question as he saunters over like he owns the whole damn lot. His boots scrape against the asphalt, each step deliberate, measured, and annoyingly confident.

You cross your arms tighter, leaning back against your car door. “No, I just love standing in empty parking lots. It’s my hobby.”

He chuckles, closing the distance between you. “Don’t you need my help? Play nice for once.” That damn smirk stretches wider, and you shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“Did Toji tell you what’s wrong?”

“Nah, just said you needed help.” Now he’s close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne mixed with motor oil and leather—a dangerous mix you stubbornly refuse to admit affects you.

“Pop the hood.”

You nod and pop the hood, stepping back as Sukuna leans over the engine bay. The way his shirt rides up just enough to reveal a strip of tanned skin makes your eyes drift, catching the edge of a tattoo winding beneath his waistband.

“See something you like?” he asks without looking up, voice teasing.

You snap back to reality, realizing you’ve been caught staring. “Yeah, a functional car. Think you can manage that?”

He chuckles, rolling his eyes as he moves to the steering wheel and tries the ignition again. The same pitiful clicking noise greets you.

Sukuna straightens, wiping his hands on his jeans with a sigh. “Starter’s shot. I can have one of my guys come pick it up and get it fixed by tomorrow. We’ve got the parts at the shop.”

“Tomorrow?” You groan, dread sinking in. “How am I supposed to get home?”

He pats his motorcycle with a grin, the black paint gleaming under the afternoon sun. “Got a spare helmet. Even padded for that hard head of yours.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Scared?” His eyes glint with challenge, and for the first time you notice a fleck of gold shining in one iris, sharp and mischievous.

“I’ve never been on a motorcycle in my life,” you admit, trying not to let the nervous edge creep into your voice.

“I may not be the best at first impressions,” he says with a cocky grin, “but I’m pretty damn good at driving.” He winks—again. Seriously, there should be laws against being this annoying and this attractive at the same time.

You roll your eyes and scoff, but beneath you feel your resolve is starting to crumble.

Focus. You’ve got shit to do.

While Sukuna calls his shop, you try hard not to get distracted by how effortlessly competent he looks taking charge—his voice sharpening into business mode, calm and controlled. You catch him absently chewing on his bottom lip as he listens to his employee’s response, fingers tapping out a steady rhythm against his thigh. The sunlight catches the silver rings on his hands, glinting just enough to pull your gaze again. You definitely don’t notice any of that. Nope.

“Car will be ready tomorrow afternoon,” he says, ending the call with a satisfied snap. “Tow truck’s on its way. Now…” He holds out the spare helmet—a sleek black with a subtle red pinstripe running along the side. “You coming or walking?”

You eye the helmet like it might bite. “If you kill me, Nobara will never forgive you.”

He smirks, voice softening just a touch at the mention of your daughter. “Guess I better keep you alive then.”

“That’s not very convincing coming from you,” you retort, trying to keep the edge in your voice.

His grin widens as he steps closer, the air between you thick with tension. “I can be very convincing when I want to be.”

You take the helmet, partly just to have something to do with your hands, and clear your throat, turning your head away. “I’ve got a few stops to make before you take me home. That cool?”

You try to sound tough, but the edge is fading fast.

He just smiles and nods. “Tell me where we need to go, drunky.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Whatever you say, baby.” He winks, and you mentally groan.

Rolling your eyes, you swing a leg over the bike. Sukuna’s hands are surprisingly gentle as he helps strap the helmet on. The soft touch sends an unexpected jolt straight to your nerves.

“Alright, where to?” Sukuna asks, already shifting the bike into gear.

“Downtown. I need to meet Nobara’s dad at his office,” you say quickly, like ripping off a band-aid.

He squints, the gears in his head clicking. “What’s his office? I’ll GPS it.”

You mumble the address, watching his expression twist as the name sinks in.

“Higuruma & Associates?” His eyebrows shoot up, like you just dropped some wild secret on him. “Wait, the law firm?”

“Yeah.”

“Your baby daddy is a lawyer?” His tone is tinged with skepticism and a hint of amusement.

You roll your eyes. “Yes, Sukuna. Her father is a lawyer. Is that so hard to believe?”

He repeats the name slowly, testing it out like it’s a foreign word. “Hiromi Higuruma? The top lawyer in Tokyo? That’s who you…” He trails off, waving a vague hand.

“Had a baby with? Yep.” You’re enjoying his discomfort a little too much. “Why? Expecting some deadbeat?”

He shakes his head, turning the bike on with a low growl. “Nah, you just keep surprising me.”

“And what does that mean exactly?” You wrap your arms around his waist as he pulls out of the parking lot, trying to ignore how solid he feels beneath your hands.

“Just surprised you’re making poor life choices,” he calls over the roar of the engine. “Like getting on this bike with me.”

You squeeze his middle harder than necessary. “Just drive, asshole.”

The ride downtown is a blur of honking horns and flashing lights, but you’re too focused on the close contact to notice much else. Holding on to him feels oddly natural—his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt, the way he instinctively shields you from the wind when rounding corners. It’s unsettling how easy it is to fall into the rhythm.

As you approach the towering glass facade of the law firm, Sukuna’s disbelief only seems to grow heavier, his eyes narrowing as they scan the sleek, polished building like it doesn’t quite fit the story he’s piecing together. He eases the bike to a stop with a low whistle, the engine’s rumble fading into the hum of the city. His gaze lingers on the reflective windows, tracing the sharp lines and glossy surfaces with a mix of skepticism and something else—curiosity.

“Can you wait out here? I won’t be long.” You begin to tug off the back of your helmet, feeling the cool air hit your hair as Sukuna steadies the bike beneath you.

“I gotta piss,” he announces abruptly, already swinging his leg over the side to dismount.

You raise a brow, exhaling a tired sigh, and mutter a distracted ‘whatever’ as you start up the steps toward the entrance.

Sukuna doesn’t really have to piss. It’s just his way of sneaking a peek, a subtle excuse to linger and get a better look at this ‘famous’ baby daddy of yours.

At the security desk, the guard looks up and immediately recognizes you. “Good afternoon! Mr. Higuruma is in his office,” he says with a nod, opening the way.

Sukuna’s eyebrows shoot up as the receptionist waves you through without a second glance. The elevator ride up is quiet, but you can feel his gaze on you. You avoid eye contact at all costs by staring at the polished linoleum.

The law firm’s reception is all sleek surfaces and expensive artwork, the kind that screams power and money without saying a word. By the window stands a tall man in a perfectly tailored suit, his dark hair slicked back with precision. When he turns, his stern expression softens just a bit when he sees you.

“You’re late,” Hiromi says, but there’s no real bite behind the words.

“Car trouble,” you reply, nodding toward Sukuna. “This is my… neighbor. He gave me a ride.”

Hiromi nods and gives you a hug and a kiss on the cheek. His sharp eyes flick to Sukuna, taking in the tattoos, the motorcycle helmet in his hand, the way he stands just a little too close to you. A flicker of something knowing crosses his face.

“Appreciate you bringing her,” Hiromi says formally, extending a hand. “Hiromi Higuruma.”

Sukuna shakes it, and you have to bite back a laugh at the nearly imperceptible shock on his face. No doubt about it now—Hiromi’s face has been on magazine covers and news stories enough to be instantly recognizable.

“I’ll wait outside,” Sukuna mutters, giving Hiromi one more look.

As he steps away, you catch Hiromi’s subtle smirk. “Neighbor, huh?”

“Don’t start,” you warn, already bracing yourself. “Let’s just talk about Nobara’s schedule.”

Still, you can’t help stealing a glance at the door, knowing Sukuna’s probably out there, trying to wrap his head around how you—the mouthy librarian next door—ended up having a kid with one of Tokyo’s top lawyers.

Hiromi chuckles, settling into his chair with that same effortless elegance he’s always had. “Ah yes, our little firecracker wants to try jujutsu.”

You smile despite yourself. ‘Our little firecracker’—that’s what Hiromi’s called Nobara ever since she came screaming into the world, loud enough to shatter everyone’s eardrums. It’s strange how you look at Hiromi now — layered with years of history. One wild night at a bar sparked something neither of you expected, something messy and imperfect, but precious all the same—even if romance was never part of the equation.

“She won’t stop talking about it,” you say fondly. “Megumi’s been showing her some moves during recess.”

“Fushiguro’s boy?” Hiromi raises an eyebrow, rifling through papers. “She talks about him constantly. Along with… Yuji and Choso?”

“The neighbor’s nephews,” you say, trying to sound casual. Hiromi hums as he watches Sukuna through his glass office walls.

“The tattooed neighbor who’s making my receptionist nervous?” His eyes twinkle with amusement. “She’s usually unflappable.”

You cut in before it goes further. “Can we focus on summer camp? Registration ends this week.”

“Already handled,” Hiromi says, sliding a neatly organized folder across the polished surface of his desk. The soft thud of the folder hitting the wood feels oddly reassuring. “Both the regular camp and the jujutsu classes are taken care of. And before you start,” he holds up a hand, cutting you off with that familiar, knowing look that tells you he’s been through this dance a hundred times, “I know you can pay for it, but I want to, so don’t even think about complaining.”

You accept the folder, the weight of it somehow grounding you. His straightforward approach is exactly what keeps your complicated arrangement from unraveling. Just two adults who created something incredible together, and who have learned to make it work on their own terms.

“Thank you,” you say softly, meaning every word. “She’s going to be so excited.”

Hiromi raises an eyebrow, a playful glint lighting his otherwise serious eyes. “She gets that energy from you.”

You can’t help the quick retort that flies out, “Pretty sure her attitude is all you.”

He laughs, the sound rich and warm, filling the room like a familiar melody. “Speaking of attitude… the neighbor?”

You shoot him a warning look. “Stop it.”

But you catch the corner of your mouth twitching, betraying your amusement.

“As the father of your child, I feel obligated to point out you’re blushing.”

You roll your eyes. “And as the mother of your child, I feel obligated to tell you to fuck off.”

His expression softens, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that makes your heart ache a little. “It’s good to see you flustered over someone. It’s been a while.”

“I’m not flustered,” you say quickly, though even your own voice sounds uncertain.

“Of course not,” he replies smoothly, his tone laced with gentle teasing. “Just like you weren’t flustered that night at the bar when you told me my tie was stupid.”

“It was stupid. Still is.” You gesture to the tie he’s wearing now—exactly the same one from that night, a stubborn little emblem of how little things change.

He adjusts it with exaggerated dignity. “It’s classic.”

“Yeah, boring,” you shoot back.

He smirks, undeterred. “Says the woman who rode here on a motorcycle with a man covered in tattoos.”

You roll your eyes, laughter bubbling up despite yourself. Then, suddenly, the room slips into a quiet that feels heavier than it should.

“Hey, can I talk to you?” His voice is softer now, serious.

You look at him, brow furrowed in concern. “Yeah, for sure. You okay?”

He hesitates, swallowing before he speaks. “I’m fine. I just… need to talk.”

His formal tone tightens the knot in your stomach. Hiromi’s never this hesitant unless something’s up.

“Well, that’s never good,” you try to joke, but your voice wavers, and a wave of nausea creeps up your throat.

“So… remember that woman I told you I started talking to?”

You nod slowly, the memory of that passing mention during Nobara’s last pickup still fresh.

“Well, we’re getting serious,” he says, gaze steady. “And I want to know if it’s okay if I bring Nobara around her. Actually…” He pauses, fingers nervously fiddling with the edge of his tie, a rare crack in his usual composed armor. “I was hoping to introduce them to eachother tonight.”

You’re stunned.

Stunned for two reasons.

First, because he actually asked for your permission. That’s never been a written rule between you two, but it’s a line he’s always respected without being asked. Hiromi values your role as Nobara’s mother in a way that’s quietly steady and sincere—a rare kind of respect that means more than words.

Second, because another person in your life is moving into something serious—like a whole new chapter that you never quite saw coming. The universe must be having a private joke at your expense, watching you stumble through your own tangled mess while Hiromi steps forward with someone else.

It’s a strange mix of emotions swirling inside you: a pinch of envy, a stab of loneliness, and beneath it all, a reluctant sense of relief. How pathetic it feels to be caught off guard by this, to realize that while you’re still wrestling with your own chaos, life keeps moving forward for everyone else—sometimes faster than you’re ready to catch up.

“Of course it’s okay,” you manage to say, pushing down the swirl of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. “You don’t need to ask.”

“I do, though.” He leans forward, earnest and raw in a way that catches you off guard. “You’re her mother. Your opinion matters. Always.”

You swallow hard, the question catching in your throat more than you expected. “What’s she like?”

Hiromi’s entire demeanor shifts—softens in a way you haven’t seen before, like a mask peeling back to reveal something quieter, more vulnerable. His eyes soften, and a faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as if recalling something precious. “She’s a professor at the university,” he starts, voice low and almost reverent. “She teaches philosophy—always questioning everything, pushing boundaries. Sometimes to the point of driving me crazy, honestly. But that’s part of what makes her so... sharp. Fiercely independent, but with this unexpected warmth that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. The kind of person who remembers the smallest details—your favorite coffee, how you take your tea—and somehow manages to make even the toughest days feel lighter just by being around.”

Hearing him speak like that, you feel a strange ache in your chest—not jealousy, but something softer, more complicated. It’s the quiet, almost boyish affection in his voice that unsettles you, seeing this usually composed man become so openly tender.

“She sounds perfect for you,” you say sincerely, the words catching in your throat. “I’m happy for you, Hiromi.” Without thinking, you reach out and pull him into a hug. He wraps his arms around you without hesitation, grounding you in the moment.

“Thanks,” he murmurs softly, and you hum in response.

But then his expression shifts, growing serious again, searching. “You’re sure you’re okay with this? With tonight?”

You meet his gaze, feeling the weight behind the question settle deep in your chest. “Hiromi,” you say softly, voice steady despite the storm inside, “all I’ve ever wanted is for Nobora to be surrounded by people who love her. If she makes you happy, if she’s good to our daughter... that’s all that matters.”

He studies your face carefully, eyes probing for something beneath your calm. “There’s something else. You look... sad.”

You shake your head quickly, denial rushing out before you can stop it. “I’m not sad.” But the words ring hollow even to your own ears. “I’m just... everyone’s moving forward, you know? And I’m still just...”

“Still just being an incredible mother, building a career you love, and apparently making my receptionist question her life choices by showing up with a man who looks like he could bench press my desk?” His voice lightens, teasing, but with unmistakable warmth.

You roll your eyes, but can’t stop the smile creeping across your face. “Shut up.”

He leans in, voice dropping to that gentle-but-firm tone he uses in court—the one that demands attention without raising volume. “You’re not standing still. You’re choosing your pace. There’s a difference.”

You stand, gathering your things, the flutter of nerves and uncertainty still humming beneath your skin. “Pick her up at five? Her club’s done by then.”

“Perfect.” Hiromi rises too, and before either of you can stop it, you pull him into a quick, unexpected hug.

“Good luck tonight,” you murmur, stepping back. “Try not to be so... lawyer-y.”

He adjusts his tie with mock offense. “I’m always lawyer-y. It’s my charm.”

You roll your eyes again, turning toward the door, but your mind is already racing—thoughts swirling about tonight, about Nobora meeting someone new in her father’s life, about how everything is shifting faster than you’re ready for.

When you step out, Sukuna straightens from where he’d been leaning against the wall, his eyes flickering briefly to yours. You walk past without a word, jabbing the elevator button maybe a little harder than necessary, your chest tight with a tangle of emotions you’re not quite ready to untangle.

The elevator’s silence wraps around you like a thick fog, heavy and electric. You can feel his eyes on you—watching every subtle shift, every flicker of tension in your shoulders, the way your bottom lip catches between your teeth like you’re holding back a secret. It’s obvious he’s bursting to ask something, but he holds it back, the question hanging unspoken between you.

Somewhere between the twelfth and eleventh floor, the pressure becomes too much. You let out a dramatic sigh that echoes in the cramped space, loud and deliberate.

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, waiting patiently, his gaze sharp but unreadable.

“You got any plans tonight?” The words slip out before you can stop them, raw and unfiltered.

He quirks a smirk, the corners of his mouth turning up in that irritatingly confident way. “Why? Ya asking me out, drunky?”

You flush, heat rising to your cheeks. “Never mind,” you scoff and roll your eyes, but he closes the distance between you, stepping in with that infuriatingly casual ease, invading your space like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“My dad’s got the boys this weekend,” he says, voice low, almost a hum. You nod, caught off guard by the softness in his tone, the way his presence suddenly feels less like a challenge and more like an anchor.

The motorcycle ride home is different—lighter, somehow. The usual tension that had wrapped around you both like armor has softened, melted away into something unspoken but real. Without thinking, you rest your head against his back, arms looping around his waist in a grip that feels both desperate and comforting. It’s strange—only a month ago, you barely tolerated him, kept your distance like he was a storm you wanted to avoid. And now, here you are, clinging to him like he’s the only thing steady in a world that’s suddenly spinning too fast.

When you asked about his plans, Sukuna probably pictured something entirely different from what was unfolding now. Here you were, sprawled across your cramped living room floor, deep into a heated, slightly slurred game of drunk Uno. The night had slipped away faster than either of you expected, empty beer bottles scattered around like markers of chaos. The game had long since abandoned any semblance of normal rules, devolving into a ridiculous mess of house-made additions and laughter that echoed off the walls.

“Draw four!” you shouted, slapping your card down with way more enthusiasm than skill, a hiccup punctuating your excitement.

Sukuna narrowed his eyes, suspicion flickering across his face. “You’re cheating.”

You shot him a challenging grin. “Prove it.” A giggle escaped despite your best attempt at a serious poker face.

Yuji’s old Uno deck was a little worse for wear—sticky here and there, evidence of a long-forgotten juice spill—and Sukuna had found it buried in a drawer somewhere. Neither of you cared that the cards were far from pristine.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how the rules work,” Sukuna muttered, reaching for another beer, his voice low but amused.

You mimicked his gruff tone perfectly. “I’m pretty sure I don’t care,” you shot back, and that was the exact moment he hurled a card at your head.

The apartment was chaos—a fortress of couch cushions tossed on the floor, your work bag abandoned near the door, and a half-eaten pizza sitting forgotten on the coffee table. But none of it mattered. Not tonight.

“Your turn,” you hiccupped, waving a hand in his direction.

Sukuna just stared at you, that look sharp in his eyes like he was trying to solve a puzzle. A puzzle made of you, this night, and whatever unspoken tension simmered between you.

“What?” you pressed, your voice a little too loud in the quiet room.

“Nothing,” he said too quickly, too sharply. The kind of ‘nothing’ that always meant something.

The game went on, each round more competitive, more ridiculous, and more drunk than the last.

“Red!” you shouted, slamming your card down like it was some grand victory.

Sukuna took a shot of tequila—because why the hell not—and that’s when you spotted it. A glint of silver when he stuck out his tongue, muttering a curse under his breath at your move.

“Holy shit,” you blurted, eyes widening. “You have a tongue ring?”

He smirked, deliberately flicking his tongue over his teeth. “Observant, aren’t ya?”

“When did you get that?”

“I was sixteen,” he said, tossing down a draw-two card with casual defiance. “Rebellious phase. Pissed off my old man.”

You snorted, disbelief coloring your voice. “You? Rebellious? Never would have guessed.”

“Fuck off,” he laughed, low and rough. It was the kind of laugh that held memories, a little rough around the edges but genuine all the same.

“I bet you were a handful,” you joke, nudging him with your elbow.

Sukuna throws his head back and sighs. “I was a little shit,” he admits, eyes sparkling with mischief. You both keep laying down cards, the game slipping into a rhythm that feels surprisingly easy.

The room falls into a comfortable silence for a moment. You take another slow sip of your drink, the warmth spreading through you.

“Ya know,” you start, voice softer now, “Toji talked about his mechanic friend for years. I was honestly surprised it was you.”

He raises a brow, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Surprised?”

“Yeah,” you giggle, sticking your tongue out teasingly. “For a huge asshole, you’re pretty successful.”

Sukuna’s face heats up just a little, a rare flush that makes him look almost boyish. He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah? Well, Toji always talked about his gorgeous best friend who’s a librarian and a great mom.”

He pauses, and you catch him taking a slow sip of his beer. The silver glint of metal flashes again as he flicks his tongue—your eyes lock on the subtle tongue ring for a second longer than you mean to.

“Guess you’re not too bad,” he says, raising a brow and pouring you another drink. You laugh, the sound easy and genuine, and for a moment you forget about everything else.

This is actually fun. You don’t know why you invited Sukuna—of all people—over, and you’re not sure why it’s so damn easy to talk to him. It’s annoying, really.

“So,” Sukuna breaks the silence, voice low and deliberate, “the lawyer.”

You freeze, card halfway in the air. “What about him?”

He gestures vaguely between you. “You two… how’s that work?”

You laugh, sharp and a little bitter. “One night stand turned co-parenting. Definitely not a romance novel.”

“Seriously?” His eyes widen, genuinely surprised.

“Hiromi was just… a good guy. Smart as hell. We were both in a place where we needed something. Ended up with the best thing either of us could’ve imagined.” You slam down a draw-two card, your tone firm. “Draw two.”

Sukuna takes the cards, studying you like he’s trying to read between your words. “You never thought about getting back together?”

“We never were,” you say, rolling your eyes. “We’re friends. Good friends. But romantic? Nope. We’re better as Nobara’s parents than we ever would’ve been as a couple.”

“Huh.” He seems to be processing it all. “Most people would’ve tried to make it work—for the kid.”

“Most people aren’t us,” you say simply, flipping a card triumphantly. “Uno!”

He groans and throws a pillow at you. The game might be falling apart, but neither of you cares.

Suddenly, the door swings open and Toji walks in, key still in hand, freezing at the chaotic scene before him. Two drunk adults sprawled on the floor, Uno cards scattered everywhere, empty beer bottles littered around like casualties of a war.

“Just because you’re my landlord doesn’t mean you can barge in,” you tease, barely looking surprised.

Toji blinks, taking it all in. “What the hell are you two doing?”

Sukuna doesn’t even glance away, raising his beer with a lazy grin. “Uno.”

“Drunk Uno,” you clarify with a shrug, as if that explains everything.

Toji’s eyes flick between the two of you, a mix of confusion and something else—was it amusement? Suspicion?—softening his usual guarded expression.

“Your turn,” you say to Sukuna, completely ignoring Toji’s sudden presence like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Sukuna’s grin broadens, the silver flash of his tongue ring catching the light as he flicks a card down. “Red.”

Toji sighs, drops his keys onto the cluttered table, and slides down onto the floor beside you both. “Scoot over,” he says, settling in like he belongs here.

“Thought you were at the dentist,” you tease, nudging him with your elbow.

“Got done about an hour ago. Megumi’s with his grandparents,” Toji replies, grabbing a beer from the half-empty six-pack. “Deal me in.”

Sukuna picks up the deck and begins reshuffling with practiced ease. Even through your drunken haze, you can’t help but notice how big his hands are, how effortlessly they move as he splits the deck and deals the cards evenly.

He smacks a card down with a grin. “You first, drunky.”

You roll your eyes at the nickname but play along, laying down a yellow five.

Toji methodically organizes his cards, taking a long swig of beer before asking, “Where’s Nobara?”

“With her dad,” you say, tossing down a blue card. “Hiromi’s introducing her to his girlfriend tonight.”

Toji’s brow arches in surprise. “Girlfriend?” Sukuna raises a brow too, and suddenly it clicks why you acted that way in the elevator.

“Yeah,” you explain, voice steady but quiet. “Seems nice. From what he’s told me.”

Toji studies you carefully, eyes sharp despite the beer. “You okay with that?”

You snap back, a little sharper than you mean to. “Why wouldn’t I be?” But there’s a flicker of vulnerability in your voice that betrays you.

Before things can get heavier, Sukuna cuts in, slamming down a card. “Draw four.”

“Asshole!” you laugh, but the relief of the distraction is clear in your smile.

Toji watches you both with a knowing smile tugging at his lips. Whatever’s shifted between you and Sukuna, he’s picked up on it—and he isn’t missing a thing.

"Your deal," Sukuna says, sliding the deck toward you. His fingers linger a moment too long as you take the cards.

A crash of thunder makes you jump, cards scattering everywhere. None of you had noticed the storm rolling in, too caught up in the game and drinks.

"Shit," you mutter, looking out the window at the now-pouring rain. Lightning illuminates the sky, and the lights flicker ominously.

Toji checks his phone. "Power's out in half the building already." He stands, landlord mode activating despite the beer. "Should check on the other tenants real quick."

"Need help?" Sukuna offers, but Toji waves him off.

"Nah, stay here. Make sure this one doesn't burn the place down trying to find candles." Your face deadpans and you flip him off as he grabs his keys, already heading for the door. "I'll be back after I check everyone's okay."

The moment the door shuts, the lights go out.

"Perfect," you mutter, fumbling for your phone. The flashlight beam catches Sukuna's face, shadows playing across his features. You try not to notice how the darkness makes his eyes seem more intense.

"Scared of the dark?" he teases, but he's already moving to help you find candles. You start opening drawers and boxes in the kitchen, not remembering if you had unpacked them yet.

"I fucking hate this" you grumble, trying not to notice how close he is as you both search through your kitchen drawers. "I hate-"

"Me?" he finishes, his voice low and amused. He's standing right behind you now, close enough that you can feel his warmth.

Lightning flashes again, illuminating the kitchen. For a split second, you see his reflection in the window, the way he's looking at you.

You turn around slowly. "I was going to say I hate how unorganized I am, but yeah, you too." You suddenly see the package of candles under some paper in the box you had yet to go through and grab it in defeat.

He laughs softly, taking the candle from you. His fingers brush yours in the darkness. "I can help you unpack the rest of your shit one day, drunky." He sits the candles in the counter and you ignore his statement and begin to search for matches.

It becomes silent again. Only the roar of the rain can be heard. Another crack of thunder, closer this time. You definitely don't jump, and he definitely doesn't notice how you instinctively step closer to him.

"Found matches," you say, trying to maintain some distance - physical and emotional. But in the small kitchen, with the storm raging outside, distance feels impossible.

Sukuna lights the candle, the small flame casting a warm glow between you. "Better?"

.You open your mouth to answer, but your phone buzzes sharply. A text from Toji, “Checking basement circuit breakers. Stay put, doesn’t look like it's gonna die down.”

"Looks like we're stuck here," you say, showing him the message.

Sukuna could easily head back to his own apartment—his place is right next door, after all. But you haven’t said a word about him leaving, haven’t even hinted that the night’s over. So here he is, standing in the dim light of your kitchen, just watching you. His posture is relaxed but there’s an intensity in the way his eyes track your every small movement.

He lets out a dry, sarcastic, “Terrible,” but there’s something softer beneath the edge—a flicker of concern that catches your attention. He glances at you, noticing the way your eyelids are heavy, the subtle slump in your shoulders, the exhaustion etched across your face.

Lightning flashes again, casting flickering shadows across your features, the candlelight dancing over your figure and it mesmerizes him for a moment.

Without a word, Sukuna steps closer and gently reaches out, steadying you as you wobble slightly. “Hey, you look wiped. Come on, let’s get you to bed baby.”

You try to protest, but the exhaustion weighs too heavily. He gently guides you toward the couch, his touch softer than you’d expect. With surprising tenderness, he eases you down into the cushions. The moment your body sinks into the familiar fabric, the night’s weight crashes over you like a wave, dragging you toward sleep.

Sukuna doesn’t move away. Instead, he lowers himself to the floor beside the couch, leaning back against the worn fabric with a slow, steady sigh. The silence between you thickens but doesn’t suffocate—there’s an unspoken understanding in the stillness.

Your breathing evens, eyes fluttering shut. He notices the slight tremor in your shoulders and, without thinking, pulls a blanket from nearby, draping it over you with care. His fingers linger a moment on the fabric, smoothing it as if to shield you from more than just the cold.

Minutes pass in quiet comfort. The storm rages on outside, but inside the room, the soft glow of candlelight and the rhythmic sound of your breathing create a fragile peace. Sukuna’s head slowly tilts back against the couch, eyes growing heavy. Before long, he’s dozing, the steady rise and fall of his chest mirroring yours.

Suddenly, the door creaks open, and Toji steps inside, pausing as he takes in the scene. There you both are—fast asleep, you curled on the couch, Sukuna slumped on the floor beside you, leaning against the couch like a watchful guardian who finally gave in to exhaustion.

Toji lets out a sigh and decides to crash on your bed because he refuses to deal with whatever the hell is happening between you two and your bed is much comfier than that stupid recliner.

But for real, what the hell is happening between you two?

summary/notes: hello my lovelies! I am oh so sorry it took me forever to update. I graduate university in two days. So, I’ve been a busy gal. I do plan to start posting more with the free time I have!

Anyhoo, I really loved writing this chapter so much. I read it out loud to my bf and he’s very invested in the plot lmao (he’s a sukuna and toji simp). I also had to add Hiromi because I’ve been obsessed with him since I read the bath scene years ago.

Please let me know what you guys think! I love to hear your input and suggestions! I love you all so much! <3

taglist is open: please comment and let me know if you want to be on it!! (:

@sukubusss @poopooindamouf @tojiswifeforlife @emochosoluvr @bookfreakk @withtanxp

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#jjk #sukuna #jjk sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #jujitsu kaisen #sukuna x you #jjk fluff #jjk angst #sukuna fic #dividers by @enchanthings - a

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