#always either with a parent or family or a nanny.

[anaalnathrakhs]

...i'm starting to wonder if i wasn't actually pretty often failed by the adults in my life as a young kid tbh.

#i'm always doubtful where to put the blame #in a morally neutral causality kind of way to be clear #because like. i dont know. if i was the adult. confronted to the opaque behavior of a child. would i have done better? #but also i can't help but think #why the fuck did they make me skip a grade (last grade of primary on top of that) when i was notorious for never doing my homework #and was incredibly inconsistent across topics #like i sucked at math. like ''needs to count on fingers to do a simple addition or substraction'' sucking at math. #like i never learned any multiplication tables sucking at math #like i never got how to pose divisions and still can't at age 18 because logicomathematics are completely counterintuitive to me #and just. the work was never done to make me Get It. my work or teachers' work who knows. but perhaps skipping a grade wasnt the solution #or like #apparently when i was three years old the pediatrician suspected smth was up with me #either autism directly or ''generally suspicious child'' we're not clear on that #but he told my parents. and everybody said ''we better test that'' and then. nothing. idk. #they filled a parental report of behaviors questionnaire for... adhd i think? autism maybe. and that's it. never fucking heard about it. #god. i just remembered my mom saying proudly they almost never put me in the nursery as a kid. #always either with a parent or family or a nanny. #and perhaps mother. you could have foreseen that a kid with no siblings no pets no kid neighbors no playdates. would end up socially fucked #i remember the teachers scolding late students and showing us that we were supposed to be in bed by 9:30 or something #and internally i was like BUDDY AT 9PM WE'RE HALFWAY THROUGH DINNER #MOM'S BEEN HOME FOR LESS THAN AN HOUR #and shit. i don't know. i was scared of the dark as a child. to the point that even with the compromise #of keeping the door ajar and lights in the hallway (which i had to fucking advocate for btw) #i still slept curled up in the bathroom on a towel sometimes when it got too scary #and i would cry and scream before going to bed. i would beg my mom for sleeping pills from a young age. #i would often find myself in the morning sleeping with my face smushed between the pages of the book i literally fell asleep on #because i read until my eyes gave out #and a couple years later when i got a 3ds i'd play at night and if my dad caught me he'd storm into my room and i'd hide under the comforte #and he'd punch a couple times and whisper-yell at me not to do that and go to sleep #it took until i was about 15yo for me to see a sleep specialist

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Royal Children - Heirs and Spares

The lives of Princesses and Princes are of interest to most fantasy writers, it's where many of our heroes, side characters and antagonists hail from. But what is there life like? Is it always ballgrowns and servants? Or something more?

A Strict Order of Precedence

The first thing to know about royal children and siblings is that there's a very strict precedence of importance. Is it fair? No. But this is a system, it doesn't have to be fair. The heir comes first without argument. They are the most important child, they are always greeted first, they are the one to stand next to the monarch or their parents at occasions, they literally go first - and this doesn't change with age, if the heir is the youngest, they still have precedence over their siblings. After the heir, order of predence goes by age and the order effects the life of the children. For example, the older sister will marry begore any of her sisters. This order of deference will be so engrained in your character's life that they will believe it the norm and rarely question it, it probably won't spark any in-fighting.

Accommodation & Staff

Royal children are usually raised one of two ways. Either they are raised at court, in the same Palace as their parents or they are raised away from court under the care of trusted servants. Being raised away from their parents isn't a sign of remoteness or dislike or terrible parenting, it was a way of break a child into the constraints of royal life while giving them freedom of scrunity or danger. Usually these children are raised in the countryside for their health, as cities are usually cesspits for disease. Their parents would come to visit them or allow them to visit them at court. Children raised at court are raised with a higher level of scrunity and attention. They will be in the public eye.

Royal children will always be surrounded by staff. There will be nurses to wash and dress them, nannies to discipline and direct them, guards to protect them and usually, a guardian known as a governess to run their household and care for their needs. Staff are not allowed to hit royal children and must obey their commands. Some royal children were very close to their staff:

Kat Ashley and Elizabeth I

Baroness Lehzen and Queen Victoria

Klementy Grigorievich Nagorny and the Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich

Lala Bill and Prince John

However, some royal children faced neglect from their staff. George VI was abused by his nanny, who would pinch him during important occasions, openly favour his elder brother over him and deny him food, which many have been a cause of his speech impediment. After the Russian Revolution, another of the Tsarevich's nannies proved less loyal than the other. Andrei Yeremeyevich Derevenko abandoned his charge, but not before ordering the boy around and insulting him.

Day to Day Life

Royal children would be educated withing their home by tutors. They would usually take lessons all together (the heir may take other lessons). A royal child would recieve an education in languages, arithmetic, geography, etiquette, dancing, music, sports such as riding and literature. Sometimes they would even share lessons with the children of trusted nobles or their cousins. Only the heir will be taught statecraft and how to reign. There is no rhyme nor reason a spare would learn how to rule.

Some royal children are taught the value of their position. Many royal children will be raised strictly to adhere to their social standing and their place in it. Some children may be raised in isolation, kept from mingling and raised to think of themselves as higher than those around them. Some royal families preferred to raise their children as "normal" as possible. The last Romanov children slept in camp beds, with no pillows and we're expected to tidy their own rooms and help the servants. They didn't even use their proper titles, they were called by their names and given a tight monthly allowance to spend. Alexandra of Denmark and her sisters used to make their own clothes. Some royal children could even be encouraged to play with the children of servants and staff as well as nobility (Kolya Derevenko and Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich, Winifred Thomas and Prince John). Companionship was a great honour for noble and common child alike as sometimes, they would be invited to live or be educated alongside by the royal children.

Royal children will not undertake royal duties until they are of age. Younger children be be present for large scale events such as jubilees but would not be expected to partake in any duties themselves. When they are of age, they will usually be granted an annual allowance, be invited to social events, invited to be patrons of charities and participate in royal duties.

Heir Vs Spare

Heirs have more responsibility, all the prestige, more power but they have less freedom, less room to explore their own lives and be expected to always be the epitome of perfect. Heirs will be given responsibilities in government, sitting in on state meetings or undertaking state duties.

Spares have little in the way of real power but have the ability to live less regimental lives and gave more agency in their personal lives. Spares may act as ambassadors to other nations or undertake state visits on behalf of the monarchy or even take positions in the army. Spares are encouraged to find positions to support themselves outside the family, either in a marriage or undertaking some service to the country. Spares who stay in the country, tend to act as unofficial advisers to their sibling when they become monarch.

All Grown Up

When royal children grow up, there are usually certain expectations and limitations.

Heirs will be married quickly, the lineage must be secure. Heirs will usually marry either as part of a political alliance or marry somebody suitable - from a good family, the right background, and able to fit into a certain mould (i.e malleable, amiable and loyal). They will be expected to focus on the country, it's needs and support the monarch at all times. Their social circles will be scruntised, their every move will be noted and remarked upon. Heirs will never gave to worry about funding their lifestyle, the Crown is their job and it supports them.

Spares can marry or remain single if they choose, (but if the monarch instructs them go marry they must). Spares can travel, they can be idle, they can even persue amusements not permitted for the heir. Spares can win glory on the battlefield and mix with all sorts of people. That isn't to say spares are useless, spares often occupy very important spaces in society and government. Spares will usually take these positions not for just status but also for the pay. This is why spares are granted royal titles such as dukedoms (they can make money off the lands, be able to build a dynasty for themselves and their heirs and gain status).

#Fantasy Guide to heirs and Spares #Fantasy Guide to Royal Children #Fantasy Guide #write #writing #writeblr #writing resources #writing reference #writing advice #writers #writing advice writing resources #spilled ink #Writing reference writing resources #Writing resources writing reference #Writing advice writing reference #Writing advice writing resource #Royal children #Writing royal characters #Royalty #Writing royalty #Writing royals

[bornonthesavage]

It was an undeniable fact that Steve was lucky. He had been told it more times than he could count, from all sorts of people, so it must be true. His friends at school told him he was lucky that he had no one at home to give him a bedtime or make him eat vegetables. The housekeeper that came to bring him groceries and to clean once a week told him he was so lucky to live in such a nice house. Ever since he could remember, his parents had told him that he was lucky to be born to an upper-class family. And when others were around, Steve kept up the façade. He could pretend that he agreed, with bright smiles and boastful words. But in the late hours of the night, when he was all alone in that big house, lucky wasn’t the word he thought about. No, what Steve really was, was lonely.

Even at twelve years old, Steve was pretty sure it wasn’t normal for his parents to leave him alone for up to a month at a time. When he was young, they had hired nannies to care for him while they were away. That hadn’t been great either, but at least there had been someone else in the house with him. Someone to talk to and watch TV with and to make dinner. Then, on Steve’s twelfth birthday, his parents had told him he was old enough to look after himself while they were away. They trusted him to not burn down the house, at least. That had been six months ago.

Now, six months later, Steve sat alone in his living room. His parents had left earlier in the week, promising to be home before the end of the month and told him to call if he needed anything. He never called. What would be the point? It wasn’t like they would come home. No, if he needed something, he would figure it out on his own.

Steve pulled his knees up to tuck against his chest as he sat on the couch, watching a rerun of Gilligan’s Island. A half-eaten bowl of popcorn sat on the coffee table along with an empty coke can. He had heated up a bowl of chicken noodle soup for dinner, which he’d eaten with crushed up saltine crackers, but he always found himself craving a snack before bed. It was almost ten o’clock, but he wasn’t yet tired.  

When the episode ended, Steve stood and began to make his way toward the kitchen. He could go for one more coke before bed. But before he even made it out of the living room, a loud clatter from the back yard made him freeze. He turned, creeping slowly toward the glass door that overlooked the pool. It had sounded like it came from the shed, which sat beyond the pool deck, nestled almost among the trees. His hand shook as he reached up to flip on the back light. A part of him was convinced he would see a horrible monster racing up his yard toward the house, ready to devour him. But that was ridiculous. There was no such thing as monsters.

The yard was completely empty, the pool glowing an eerie green in the night. Steve scanned the perimeter until his eyes landed on the shed. Though it was dark, it looked as if the door was slightly ajar. Now, Steve knew the sensible thing to do was to ignore it until morning. But then he remembered that Kasie Jones, the girl who sat in front of him in math class, had found an injured mother cat behind her house just one month earlier. It was Springtime, she had said, which meant lots of animals would be having babies. If she hadn’t found them, the mother cat and her babies could have died. Steve couldn’t live with being responsible for that.

So, with only a mild amount of fear, he grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and slid open the glass door. It was early April, so while the days had grown warm, the nights still held a bit of a chill. Steve slid on his outdoor sandals and began to make his way across the yard. Everything was quiet now, except for the crickets. He approached the shed, tilting his head to see if he could hear any meowing. There was nothing.

It wasn’t until he was directly outside the shed that real fear began to prickle at the back of his neck once more. He was far enough from the house that if anything burst out and took chase, he likely wouldn’t make it back without getting caught. Steve took a deep breath and remembered what his dad was always telling him.

“Be a man. Real men don’t shake like little babies.”

Right. Be a man. He stepped forward and grabbed the edge of the door, which had been swaying slightly in the wind, and yanked it open. There wasn’t much inside the shed, just pool equipment and a few yard tools. Steve leaned inside, casting his light around for any sign of an injured cat. He took a step inside, letting the door swing partially shut behind him. The light caught on random items as he scanned. An old broken truck from when he was little, the pool noodles he liked to use when the weather was warm enough, a leaf blower, a pair of human eyes.

Steve screamed, his heart slamming up into his throat as he stumbled backward and dropped the flashlight. His back hit the wall and he fell, his legs giving out with the sheer force of terror he felt in that moment. There was someone else in the shed with him, someone curled up beneath the work bench on the far wall. The flashlight had rolled away from him, its beam pointed in the wrong direction for him to see. Steve glanced at the door, wondering how quickly he’d be grabbed if he made any sudden movements. A quiet voice spoke from the shadows.

“H-hey. It’s alright. You don’t have to be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.”

That made Steve pause. Whoever it was sounded young, probably close to his age, and they also sound afraid. But what was another kid doing in his shed at night? Steve took a moment to let his heart rate slow before speaking again.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

For a few seconds it was silent, but then he spoke again. “Eddie. My name is Eddie. I was… I was just looking for a safe place to sleep.”

“To sleep?” Steve asked, furrowing his brow. “Why would you want to sleep in this dingy old shed? There are like, a hundred spiders in here, I’m pretty sure.”

He heard the other boy shift around a bit. “It’s better than outside.”

Well, maybe that was true, but it still didn’t explain much. Slowly, Steve moved onto his knees and crawled forward to grab his flashlight. This put him closer to the other boy, with Steve knelt in the middle of the small room. He raised the light until it fell on the other’s face.

Steve had been right that he seemed to be around his age. With dark curls that fell around his ears and big, pretty brown eyes, Eddie didn’t look like much of a threat at all. In fact, he seemed to be in bad shape. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and his cheeks looked a bit sunken in, as if he hadn’t eaten in a while. His knees were tucked up against his chest, but Steve could tell the jeans he wore were dirty and tattered.  

“Are you homeless?” Which, okay, maybe that was a rude thing to ask, but Steve thought it was a fair question.

Eddie looked away, his brows lowering slightly. “I’m- I mean… Yeah, I guess so.”

Steve tilted his head. “Where are your parents?”

Something in Eddie’s expression became tight, before crumbling. “They’re dead. My mother died a year ago, my father just last month.”

“Shit,” Steve mumbled. That really sucked. He had never met someone who had lost both their parents. “Do you not have any other family?”

Eddie shook his head. “It’s just me.”

“Oh.” Steve shifted off his knees so he could cross his legs. “But, there are places you can go, aren’t there? Like, an orphanage or something? I could probably call the police and they could—”

“No!” Eddie snapped, his eyes darting up to Steve’s. “No, please, nobody can know about me.”

Steve frowned. That was definitely an odd reaction. “Why? Are you some sort of criminal?”

Eddie snorted, the corner of his lips twitching, as if he found that amusing. “No, not really.”

“Not really? Either you are or you aren’t.”

“I’m not,” Eddie insisted. “I’ve never hurt anybody that wasn’t trying to hurt me. But… There are people. Bad people, who would hurt me if they ever found me. So, I’ll leave if you want me to, but you can’t tell anyone about me.”

Steve stared at the other boy. His eyes were wide and serious, his mouth set into a hard line that told Steve he wasn’t joking. Whatever this kid was mixed up in was dangerous, he could tell that much. It would be smart for Steve to tell him to get lost, to find somewhere else to hide out. But, still. He didn’t want him to just leave.

“Where would you go? If I told you to leave, I mean.”

Eddie let out a breath, his shoulders dropping. “I don’t know. Maybe someone else’s shed. Maybe try and make my way to Indianapolis.”

Steve fiddled with his hands. “That sounds dangerous. You can’t go off to the city all by yourself. You’re just a kid, like me.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Eddie’s lips. “Not just like you. I can take care of myself.”

That struck Steve somewhere in his chest, the sentiment all too familiar. “Yeah, so can I, but that doesn’t mean you should have to. You should have someone to look after you.”

Eddie tilted his head, his eyes searching Steve’s face. “Are you always alone?”

“What? How- how do you know that?”

“Oh, um,” Eddie averted his eyes, suddenly looking a little bit guilty. “I’ve been here for a few days. I wasn’t trying to spy on you, but I saw that it’s just you in the house. Nobody else ever came or went, but you must have parents, right?”

Steve huffed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I have parents. They just… they go out of town a lot for business. And I can’t go with them, because they don’t need a kid running around while they do work. But, it’s like, fine. I have the house all to myself, and I don’t have a bedtime, and I can eat whatever I want.”

Unlike all the other times Steve had told another kid this, Eddie didn’t look all that impressed. If anything, he looked sad. Which… was stupid. So stupid. Steve was lucky. He had everything he could ever want. He didn’t need some orphan, who clearly didn’t have anything this nice, feeling sorry for him.

Eddie rested his chin on his knees. “That sounds really lonely.”

A heavy pit settled in Steve stomach. Nobody else had ever acknowledged that before, and he didn’t really know what to do with it. His first instinct was to defend his parents, to tell Eddie that it was fine, and he didn’t know what he was talking about. But another part of Steve, a stronger part, felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It settled something inside Steve, hearing someone else say the words he’d been keeping locked inside for so long. It was validating.

Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah, it can be. But, that’s just the way it is.”

Eddie didn’t look convinced. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but before he could, a violent shudder shook his whole body. Steve’s eyes wide at the look of pain that crossed Eddie’s face and he hesitantly reached out a hand. Only, that seemed to make it worse, as Eddie flinched away from his touch.

“No, don’t come closer!” Eddie warned. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Steve furrowed his brow. “Hurt me? Why would you hurt me?”

“No, I don’t want to, but… I haven’t eaten in a week. I’m afraid I won’t be able to control myself.”

A week? What the hell? That was way too long for a person to go without food! No wonder Eddie looked so sickly. He was starving to death.

“Hey, if you’re hungry, come inside with me. I can get you something to eat, no problem!”

But Eddie only shook his head, his face still pained. “No, Steve, it’s not… It’s not that simple. There’s nothing in your house I can eat. Well, nothing that I’ll allow myself to have.”

“What are you talking about?”

A look of resignation came over Eddie’s face. “Steve… I’m not- I’m not normal. You should leave. You don’t want me to come into your house with you.”

He really wasn’t making any sense now. Did Eddie think that just because he was homeless and without parents, he was undeserving of kindness? That was ridiculous. If anything, it made Steve want to help him even more. “Uh, yeah, I do. That’s why I invited you.”

His arms tightened around his legs, as if he were protecting himself. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Eddie’s eyes flashed up to meet Steve’s. “Invite random strangers into your home. It’s dangerous.”

Steve snorted. “I don’t think you’re dangerous, Eddie. You look one minute from keeling over.”

“Yeah,” he said, letting out a humorless laugh. “And that makes it even worse.”

Alright, Steve was starting to grow tired of arguing about this. “Dude, come on. You have to eat something.”

Eddie made a little sound, like a whimper in the back of his throat, and closed his eyes. “If you knew the truth about me, you wouldn’t say that. If you knew the truth, you would run away. Or maybe even try to hurt me.”

“Whoa, hey, no. Eddie, I promise I won’t hurt you. I’m just trying to help.”

Outside the shed, it sounded like the wind began to pick up as the structure creaked ominously. Steve pulled his jacket more firmly around himself and couldn’t help but think that Eddie’s thin hoodie didn’t seem warm enough. Maybe Steve could give him some of his clothes. It’s not like his parents would ever notice. The look Eddie gave him when he opened his eyes was filled with sorrow.

“Yeah, I know. You seem really nice, Steve. And I’m afraid that if I come with you, I’ll hurt you without meaning to, and then I’ll be a monster, which I don’t want to be.”

Steve was trying to understand, he really was. People called him stupid sometimes, which he didn’t really agree with, but now he was struggling to follow what Eddie was saying. How could Eddie hurt him without meaning to?

“Eddie, I don’t understand. Please, you can tell me the truth. I won’t run away, I promise.”

Eddie shook his head, casting his big eyes down. “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Hey, look at me.” He waited until Eddie did, then scooted forward on his knees. Slowly, without making any sudden movement, he held up his pinky. “I pinky promise I won’t leave you. And I always keep my pinky promises.”

A hesitant smile grew on Eddie’s face, though he still seemed extremely uncertain. Finally, after what felt like forever, Eddie brought his pinky up and wrapped it around Steve’s. It was slightly shocking, just how cold Eddie was. Like his skin was just a thin layer of ice, molded around bones. That couldn’t be good. Steve really needed to get him inside. Before he could pull away, Eddie spoke.

“And I promise to do my very best not to hurt you.”

Steve grinned. “Well, there you go. So, go on then. Tell me what the problem is.”

Eddie sighed, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “Okay, I guess I might as well. I don’t have anything else to lose. Um, have you… have you heard of vampires?”

“Vampires?” Steve asked, scrunching up his nose. “What, like Dracula? Or The Count on Sesame Street?”

Eddie snorted and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I mean sort of. But also, no. What if… what if vampires were real?”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “I don’t understand. Vampires aren’t real, so what does that have to do with anything?”

A look of frustration crossed Eddie’s face. “Steve. I’m trying to tell you. Vampires are real. I know, because I am one.”

For several seconds, Steve didn’t speak. The only sound to be heard was the shifting of trees outside and the quiet breathing of the two boys. Finally, Steve let out a laugh.

“Yeah, right, okay. Look, I don’t know why you don’t want to tell me—”

“Steve—”

“But it’s fine, I guess. You don’t have to trust me, I guess.”

“Steve, I am telling you the truth! See, this is another reason I didn’t want to tell you. Humans never believe in anything beyond what they see in the daylight.”

“Oh, come on,” Steve said, dropping back off his knees to sit on his butt. “I get it, you’re trying to prank me, for whatever reason. But I can’t help you unless I know the truth. Or at least until you tell me what the real problem is. You’re not a vampire.”

“I am!” Eddie insisted, the corners of his lips turning down in a frown. “Do you want me to prove it to you?”

At this point, Steve was getting a little bit annoyed. The joke wasn’t that funny. He was cold, and the dirt on the cement floor was digging into his backside, and he really just wanted to get back inside. So, with a jeering smirk, he leaned forward.

“Yeah, sure, go ahead. Prove that you’re a vampire.”

Eddie didn’t move at first, just continued to stare at Steve with his too big eyes. It was a little unnerving, to be honest, the way he didn’t seem to blink or even move. And then, in a flash of movement too fast to be humanly possible, Eddie shot forward. Steve flinched at the unexpected movement, falling back onto his elbows with a small shout of surprise. He half expected to be attacked, to maybe feel Eddie’s hand around his throat or a fist against his cheek. But it never came.

Slowly, Steve opened his eyes. Only, Eddie was nowhere to be seen. The spot beneath the bench was empty, and when Steve looked around, he didn’t see Eddie anywhere. Had he slipped out the door and run away? Why? Steve didn’t understand. But then, Eddie spoke.

“Steve. I’m up here.”

A chill ran down Steve’s back, some primal part of him that had been dormant waking up at hearing the voice from above. Slowly, Steve tilted his head back. What he saw defied all explanation. Eddie was on the ceiling. He was crouched upside down, his hands gripping the wood beam and his feet planted flat on the roof. Eddie blinked down at him, his hair dangling away from his face.

Steve opened his mouth to scream, a natural response he thought. But before he could utter a sound, Eddie was off the ceiling. He landed on top of Steve, his hand pressed firm to his mouth to stop any sound from escaping and his other hand holding Steve to the ground. For a wiry looking kid, he was sure strong.

“Please, Steve, don’t scream,” Eddie begged, his wide eyes earnest. “I promised not to hurt you, and I won’t. You’re safe with me, okay?”

For a few seconds, all Steve could do was stare up at him. He shouldn’t believe him, logically he knew that. Vampires drank blood, human blood, which Steve had. But if Eddie had wanted to hurt him, surely, he would have already. He could even do it right now. Steve was trapped beneath him, his movement completely restricted. So, slowly, Steve nodded. Eddie chewed his lip, before removing his hand. Steve took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart.

“Holy crap. You’re like, a real vampire?”

Eddie nodded, still looking concerned. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Wow. How long have you been a vampire for?”

“Uh, my whole life?” Eddie said with a chuckle.

Steve frowned. “Wait, what? But I thought vampires were made by being bitten.”

Eddie finally climbed off Steve, sitting cross legged in front of him while Steve sat up and matched his position. “Yeah, some. Some vampires are humans who were turned. But others, like me, were born as vampires. Both of my parents were vampires, and they had me.”

Huh. Steve had never heard of anything like that before. “But what about, like, mirrors and blood drinking and stuff?”

“Eh, I mean, most of the stuff humans know about vampires was made up by them. Except for the blood drinking, that’s true.”

“What about sunlight?”

Eddie scrunched up his nose. “Well, I won’t burst into flames if I’m exposed to it. But it does sting my skin and hurt my eyes, so I avoid it if possible.”

Steve nodded, taking that it. “So, that’s why you’re hiding out here in my shed?”

Eddie nodded.

“Hmm, ok. Well, you know, you might be more comfortable inside the house.”

“You… would invite me into your house? Even knowing what I am?”

Steve shrugged. “Yeah, why not? I believe that you won’t hurt me, and it doesn’t sound like you have anywhere else to go. Plus, I’m getting pretty cold.”

He pushed himself to his feet and held his hand out for Eddie, who hesitated. He looked unsure, and maybe a little bit afraid, though Steve couldn’t imagine of what. It wasn’t like he was going to hurt Eddie. When Eddie didn’t immediately take his hand, Steve gave it a shake.

“Come on. It’s okay.”

Finally, Eddie reached up and took it. Steve hoisted him up, then still holding his hand, led him out of the shed. Eddie looked around as they crossed the yard, as if afraid someone was going to pop out and do a sneak attack. They got to the sliding glass door and Steve pushed it open, stepping into the wonderfully warm living room. He tried to pull Eddie in after him, but the other boy hesitated on the threshold.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you sure? Are you sure you want to invite me in? Once you do, you can’t take it back.”

Steve sighed. “Eddie, I don’t understand. You promised you won’t hurt me, and I’m not going to hurt you, so what’s the problem?”

Eddie chewed on his bottom lip. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to help myself. It’s just… I’m so hungry. I haven’t eaten anything in almost a week, and you… you smell really good. And I don’t want to hurt you, I promise. But what if I lose control?”

Steve blinked a few times. Oh. He hadn’t really considered that. “And… you need to drink blood? That’s all you eat?”

Timidly, Eddie nodded.

“Right. Okay. Well, maybe I could give you a little bit of my blood, just to hold you over, and then—”

“No!” Eddie shouted, ripping his hand out of Steve’s. “No, Steve, please don’t offer me that. I’m too hungry, I know I won’t be able to stop once I’ve started. I’ll kill you, and then… then I really will be a monster.”

Steve chewed his lip, wavering in the doorway. “What do you normally do when you’re hungry?”

“I hunt animals, usually. But… I waited too long. I’m too weak to catch anything on my own now.”

Right. That made sense. Steve was a little relieved to hear that Eddie usually hunted animals. If he could only drink human blood, they would definitely be in a bit of a pickle.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” he said, “Tonight, you’ll come in and sleep somewhere cozy. You won’t kill me or try to drink my blood. Tomorrow I’ll skip school and go to the butcher in town. I know they stock cow blood, because my nana bought some a few years ago to make this really gross pudding.”

Eddie’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling open slightly. “You’d do that? You’d really go out of your way to help me?”

Steve grinned wide, taking his hand once more. “Of course! We’re both on our own right now, so we should look after each other, shouldn’t we? And my parents left me plenty of money for snacks and stuff, so they won’t even notice if I use it for something else.”

There was something warring in Eddie’s big brown eyes, a well of emotion that Steve couldn’t guess at. All he knew was that he wanted to help Eddie, and so he was going to. When Eddie still didn’t make any move to come inside, Steve tugged gently on his hand.

“Come on. I’m inviting you inside. You’ll be okay.”

Eddie took a deep breath, then nodded, as though coming to a decision. Hesitantly, he stepped forward, bringing one foot over the threshold. He stared down at his foot, as if half expecting it to burst into flames. Could that happen? Steve really hoped not. Finally, Eddie brought his other foot inside. Steve smiled, nodding encouragingly.

“See, that wasn’t so hard.”

He slid the glass door shut behind them and locked it before closing the curtains. Eddie had wandered a few more paces in, standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room. His baggy sweatshirt hung loosely from his limbs, and in the light, Steve could see smudges of dirt on the other boys face. It must have been a long time since he’d had a bath.

“Do you want to use my shower before bed?”

Eddie glanced at him over his shoulder, his brow furrowing. “Are you saying I stink?”

“What? No! No, I wouldn’t say that, I promise! It’s just—”

He stopped when he saw Eddie chuckling. “I’m only joking. I do smell. That’s what happens when you live in the woods for a couple weeks.”

Steve huffed and rolled his eyes. “Ha ha, very funny. Come on, follow me.”

He shut off the tv as they passed it by before switching off the lights and leading Eddie to the stairs. The other boy followed close behind, and when Steve turned to look at him, saw he was taking everything in.

“This place is like a castle,” Eddie murmured.

“Eh, not really. Castle’s have a lot more people in them. It’s just me here.”

“Why don’t your parents want to live here?”

“They do!” Steve said, defensive. “They do live here. They just… go on a lot of business trips. They’re super busy.”

Eddie hummed, not commenting on it any further, which Steve was grateful for. He didn’t want to talk about his parents. All that ever did was make him sad, and he wasn’t in the mood to feel sad. He had a vampire in his house. A vampire who might want to be his friend. He couldn’t entirely wrap his head around it.

They reached the second landing and Steve led Eddie down the hall to his room. He flicked on the light and moved to sit on the bed, watching Eddie as he looked around the room. For some reason, the corners of Eddie’s mouth turned down in a frown.

“What, you don’t like my room?”

Eddie shrugged, walking to stand beside his dresser with the ribbons he’d won at his school’s field day. “It’s not very… you, is it?”

“What do you mean.”

“I don’t know. Where are the pictures? The posters of your favorite bands and movies? Where’s the mess?”

Steve looked around, forcing himself to see his room from someone else’s perspective. “My mom doesn’t like messes. And I just, I don’t know, haven’t really thought about adding anything to the walls.

Eddie hummed again. “Well, you should. Give this checkered monstrosity a little life.”

“Hey, it’s not that bad.”

“It sort of is. Let me guess, your mom picked it out?”

Steve rolled his eyes. Eddie sure was a lot sassier now that he’d come inside. Hopefully that meant he felt comfortable. “Yeah, so? I don’t mind it, so why does it matter?”

Eddie held up his hands. “Hey, as long as you like it.”

“Right. Well, if you want to take a shower, it’s right through that door,” he said, motioning to his on-suite. “I’ll put a towel and some pajamas you can borrow on the counter for when you get out.”

“Yeah, ok, cool.”

Eddie stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, leaving Steve alone to sit on his bed. Right, this was totally normal and okay. He had a vampire in his house, one that was apparently his age and who had nowhere else to go. If his parents found out, they’d flip. Luckily, they weren’t home, so there was no need to worry about that. Unless… well, unless Eddie decided he wanted to stay. Surely being here would be better than going to the city alone, to ask a bunch of creepy older vampires if he could live with them. That sounded pretty terrifying, if you asked Steve.

Because really, what could they have that Steve didn’t? Did they have a twenty-seven-inch screen tv? No, he doubted it. Would they have a pool, or a whole forest behind their house for privacy? In the city? Yeah, he didn’t think so. Which, okay, maybe he was getting ahead of himself. He had just met Eddie, he couldn’t ask him to stay with him. Even if he wanted to.

It would be pretty cool to have someone else his age who lived in his house, though. Someone who wouldn’t leave on trips for most of the month. Someone he could watch tv with and play games with and stay up talking to. It would be like having a live in friend. That sounded… that sounded really nice.

Steve was jolted from his thoughts at the sound of something clattering in the shower.

“Sorry!” Eddie shouted. “Dropped the shampoo.”

Ah, right, he needed to get Eddie a towel and some clothes. He grabbed one of his fluffiest towels from the cupboard and then took out his second favorite set of pajamas. He’d gotten them from his grandma last Christmas, and they had Snoopy on them. Trying to be as quiet as he could, he placed the items on the bathroom counter before scurrying out again.

The water turned off a few minutes later. Steve climbed into bed to wait, pulling the blankets up and leaving his bedside lamp on. The door opened and Eddie stepped out. Despite being a year older than Steve, the pajamas still hung a little loose on him. His dark curls dripped on his shoulders as he looked around.

When he spoke, he sounded unsure. “So, um, is there another bed I can take? Or I can lay on the floor if you want, I don’t mind.”

Steve scrunched up his nose. “What? I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor. My bed is plenty big, just sleep with me.”

Eddie hesitated, but after it became clear that Steve was serious, made his way to the other side of the bed. “You really don’t mind sleeping next to me? Even knowing what I am?”

“I already told you I don’t. But, I mean, if it’ll be a problem for you, you don’t have to.”

“No, it’s just, I probably won’t sleep. I usually sleep during the day, so I’ll probably sit here until I feel tired. Which, yeah, will probably be when you’re waking up.”

“Oh.” Steve hadn’t considered that. “Right. Well, you can go downstairs and watch tv if you want. I’ve got lots of movies.”

Eddie bit his lip, the unnatural sharpness to his fangs all the more obvious in the lowlight of the bedroom. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll just lay here with you. I think I’ll feel too weird, sitting downstairs by myself.”

Steve wouldn’t admit it out loud, but that was secretly what he’d been hoping Eddie would do. He’d been to his fair share of sleepovers, and while he loved a lot of different aspects of them, his favorite was falling asleep next to another person. The feeling of closeness, of safety, that being close to another person brought… there wasn’t really anything else like it. So, Steve wasted no time in pulling back the blanket on Eddie’s side of the bed and urging him to climb in. Only once they were both laying down, with only a few inches between them, did Steve finally shut off the light.

It was late, way later that Steve normally went to bed on a school night. At least he’d already decided he wouldn’t be going into school tomorrow. He would still wake up early, so that he had enough time to bike down to the butcher and get back before Eddie woke up. Despite all the excitement of having a new vampire friend, Steve felt the unavoidable pull of sleep as he snuggled further into his blankets. Before he could drift off, however, Eddie’s voice came from right beside his ear.

“Steve?”

He blinked an eye open, unable to make out the shape of the other boy, having closed the curtains to protect Eddie from the early morning sun. “Hmm?”

For a few seconds, it was quiet. Steve almost wondered if he’d imagined Eddie’s voice, until the other boy spoke again. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he murmured.

“For helping me. For letting me into your house. For… for just being a good person. I don’t know very many off those.”

Steve hummed, smiling sleepily. “Me either. I guess we’ll just have to be good to each other.”

A puff of breath ghosted across Steve’s cheek, leading him to believe Eddie was even closer than he’d thought. He could probably see Steve perfectly, with his superior vampire vision. The thought should scare him. It didn’t.

“Yeah,” Eddie said quietly. “I guess we will.”

Steve wasn’t sure if he said anything else after that, as he drifted off. But when he dreamed of a creature hiding beneath his bed that night, it wasn’t a nightmare. Because he knew, despite what the movies told him, that this monster wouldn’t hurt him.

#steddie #steddie fic #steve and eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #My writing #this is heavily inspired by the mid 2000s film Let Me In #I posted this once before but hardly any one saw it #so posting it again

[shibaraki]

FILL MY LITTLE WORLD (RIGHT UP) ┊ AIZAWA SHOUTA

synopsis: you are employed by aizawa shouta to nanny for his vulnerable adoptive daughter eri while he’s at work. as time passes you find yourself equally smitten with them both, longing for a more permanent place in their family.

tags: AFAB reader, no quirk au, single dad aizawa (+ adopted daughter eri, + prev. foster son hitoshi), professional nanny reader, falling in love, fluff and angst, slice of life, child ptsd + past child abuse (eri), aged-up characters, best friends touya + rumi, brief talk of a parent with addiction (hitoshi), domesticity, handling of child trauma, finding your place in a family, eventual smut, vaginal oral sex (reader receiving), a lot of kissing, no power dynamic 

wc: 20k+ (oops) 

The address the agency had given you is still open and blinking in your Maps app, a congratulatory finish-line flash to indicate the end of your journey. Given the lack of response after five minutes of firm knocking, you’d have half a mind to consider that perhaps, this was the wrong house. 

“Maybe I should call…” you mutter under your breath, fiddling with the touch screen and huffing as you rebalance the slipping rucksack back onto your shoulder. Despite all your years of professional nannying, the first face to face meeting always left you slightly anxious. You’d been granted access to your new employers profile after your initial verbal interview — Japanese male in his thirties, over six foot tall and employed as a criminology professor at an esteemed university, unmarried with a single adopted daughter — but all the contact you’d had with Aizawa had been either mediated by the agency or over the phone. No photographs. The only thing you truly knew about the man thus far was the low baritone of his voice.

Not forgetting the air-tight requirements that came with caring for his daughter. You had been chosen specifically for your experiences with vulnerable children, and apparently for the fact that you held some modicum of self defence skills. A protective parent, then. While the gritty details had not yet been shared with you, it didn’t take much to put two and two together. Eri, a young girl of only six years, would be in need of more than just someone to keep her occupied; you would have to be a genuine care giver, someone she could really trust. Another adult in her life that signified safety. 

The title of a ‘Nanny’ was typically looked down upon. Armed with a bachelor's degree and qualifications in child development, professionals still viewed you as nothing more than a glorified babysitter. But you loved your job, and not just because you were good at it. You liked the kids. Their odd sense of humour and their thought processes, their imaginations and the lens through which they viewed life. You enjoyed expanding their worlds, and the simple yet joyful way that they would expand your own. 

More than that, the kids liked you. They appreciated your honesty, how you would treat them with respect and truly make the effort to listen to their thoughts. Given that your services were hired, the adults around them were often too caught up in their careers and personal affairs to indulge in anything more than provision of the basics. It wasn’t something you could judge them for —  the new parents you have worked with in the past were genuinely wonderful and most, if not all, carried a large amount of guilt for having to leave their children at home. 

You only hoped that you could help this family, too. 

Tongue pressed into cheek, the pad of your thumb hovers over the contact name. Aizawa Shouta. Just as you're about to hit call, you are startled backwards by a series of weighted clicks. Counting, it sounds like there are two locks alongside the turning of a key, and soon you are meeting the gaze of a slightly dishevelled man. 

He appears out of sorts, as if he’d only just woken up. You think, absentmindedly, that he is handsome. Broad and built beneath his loose black shirt, square framed glasses low on the bridge of his nose and overnight stubble shadowing his jaw. He pushes the hair loosely curtaining his face back and tucks it behind both ears, sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows. The good looks are almost enough to distract you from the neon pink sweatpants. 

“Ah… hi,” you smile sheepishly, straightening your back and withholding a wince as your bag almost slides from your shoulder a second time. “You’re Aizawa Shouta, I presume? We spoke over the phone”. 

The man grunts an affirmative, scratching idly at his cheek. He inhales deeply, sharp eyes almost too quick to catch as they appraise you in the doorway. “Yeah. You’re from UAtots?” 

You nod, “I am”. 

He mirrors the action, though the movement of his head is heavier, swaying him forward. Part of you is concerned he’s falling asleep on his feet. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” stepping back into the threshold, he beckons you into the house, “we were taking an afternoon catnap”. 

You step inside, a zip of apprehension along your spine at the proximity. He’s warm at your back where he waits to lock the door behind you. “Catnap?” you smile, sliding off your shoes and lining them up neatly by the others. You step aside so he can bypass you into the hallway, inhaling to steady your nerves and catching the smell of his cologne. 

“Eri likes to sync weekend meal times alongside the cats so she can nap with them afterwards, since eating makes her tired,” he explains, walking you further into the house, his voice entirely monotonous as if the answer should have been clear to you. “I’m sure if this goes smoothly you’ll be subject to plenty of them yourself”.  

Well, you’re not sure you could object being paid to nap. 

You’re shown to the living area, finding it littered with evidence of a young child. Toys, colouring pencils, storybooks. Chaotic, but it is organised chaos. Splayed out in the centre of the main room is a double futon, covered with wrinkled mismatched blankets that have been thrown aside. You take note of the shelves and bridge-like structures built into the walls, some leading to little alcoves or cushioned platforms. One looks to be occupied by a mass of black fur. 

Right, cats. Aizawa hums contemplatively. “She must’ve run off to her room after I left to answer the door. Not a fan of strangers”. 

“Can’t say I am either,” you reply empathetically, chewing the skin of your inner lip at his lack of response. He guides you towards the kitchen; somewhat narrow in comparison to the other rooms, but still bright where the sun bleeds in from the large patio doors. The cabinets are a deep green, almost black in colour, and there are potted plants dotted along the windowsill. One particular pot has a small sign pierced into the damp soil that reads property of eri. 

In your distraction, Aizawa has returned to your side with a full binder of paperwork. He sets it on the counter and pulls back the cover, revealing a numbered contents page. “I don’t expect you’ll read this now, but it’s a detailed folder of Eri’s circumstances and conditions,” he continues on the end of a shallow sigh, “I’ve also written up a list of instructions for a number of issues that might arise in my absence, along with emergency phone numbers — both my personal and my office, as well as some others in case you can’t reach me”. 

The folder was fine. Appreciated, actually. You had endured far more peculiar parents than him, and his anxious preparation warmed you. Nerves were always to be expected, and not just from the children. 

“I’ll make sure I familiarise myself before my next visit. Thank you, Aizawa-san,” you say, awkwardly gripping the strap of your bag. Drawn to the movement, his eyes squint somewhat at the things you were still carrying. 

“Drop the honorifics, I hear that enough at work. And you’re welcome to leave your bag somewhere. Take a seat and I’ll bring out something to drink”. 

Sitting on the far left of the couch, your rucksack tucked beneath the side table to avoid any accidents, you spend the brief wait absorbing the smaller details of the room. A fair few of your wealthier clients were largely minimalist, their homes brimming with things that sticky fingers should not touch. This house, while big for a two person family, is lived in. You think there might be nothing better than a well loved space. 

When he hands you the hot mug of herbal tea, your fingers slip through the ringed handle with care. Even the kitchenware is well loved, a pattern of multicoloured paw prints surely but steadily scrubbed away from the ceramic with each use. “Thanks,” you murmur, ducking to blow against the rising steam. 

The cushions dip as he sits adjacent to you, appropriately distanced. “Eri will be out once she’s ready,” he tells you after a drawn out sip of his drink. You can’t help but wonder how it didn’t scald his mouth. “I thought I could tell you a bit more in the meantime”.

You nod eagerly and take a sip of your own. It burns, and your tongue numbs. 

“I’ve legally been Eri’s father for around a year and a half now, and she’s not a difficult kid by any means. Though she is quiet and struggles with anxiety she’s still kind, still curious,” his voice drops into something gentle, staring at the rumpled blankets and warming at the sight. “She’s always thinking of others first. She loves to read fantasy books about heroes and villains. Her imagination is vast, and because she can’t write well yet she has taken to acting out stories”.

“Very rarely does she fuss, and she loves to help with chores and cooking, which I can’t complain about, but,” Aizawa continues to speak and you drink while you listen, the tea cooled and more tolerant as you swallow, “…it doesn’t sit right knowing they’re done in an effort to placate me”.

To placate, to appease. To keep the peace, and keep their caregiver happy. After all, a happy caregiver is one that doesn’t raise their voice, or their hand. “It’s entirely normal for you to think that,” you offer comfort in the brief silence, “you aren’t the first parent who has felt that way”. 

He finally turns his head to meet your gaze, and you find yourself remaining firm under his scrutiny. Then, imperceptibly, his eyes soften. “I just want her to feel safe. To act her age and enjoy her childhood,” then you hear a huff that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, “I might actually shed a tear the day she finally throws a tantrum”. 

You laugh with him, close mouthed and short. An amused hum to cover the twist in your chest. Working with vulnerable children never got any easier to stomach. Some would respond to neglect by loudly seeking your attention, creating mess and yelling until their stomachs hurt. Others, like Eri, would shape themselves into timid dolls that never spoke out of turn, because attention often meant harm. 

With lips parted to speak, you’re stopped short by an inconspicuous creak from the hallway. Observing from behind the door frame, only partially visible from where you’re sitting, is a little girl with silver hair. Your eyes meet, and she flinches back into hiding. 

“One sec…” Aizawa mutters offhandedly as he gets to his feet, first leaning down to set his cup on the floor. Footfalls loud enough to be heard, the slight clearing of his throat to announce his approach, he slips into the hallway. 

Like him, you place your drink down and listen. Minutes pass, and while you aren’t privy to the conversation you do hear a pair of muffled voices. Aizawa’s tone is soothing, and he waits patiently for his daughter's timid responses. Eventually, he reappears with her shielded behind his thigh, and weaving between her feet is another cat; chunky, flat faced and grey. Unperturbed by the uncomfortable atmosphere, it slinks into the room to sniff the abandoned mugs and ignores your presence. 

Wordlessly asking permission to greet her, Aizawa encourages you forward with the tilt of his head. Luckily, you had a fool proof introduction when it came to children, one that covered all the bases. Eri’s grip on her fathers pink sweatpants visibly tightens as you close the distance, but she doesn’t run. 

Lowering yourself to her height, you begin with a smile and your name, then you give her your birthday. What follows is your favourite animal, then your favourite colour, one thing you like and one thing you don’t. 

It’s easy, simple, and likens you to them in a way they can understand. To a young kid, that’s all the important stuff. 

Knowing more about you seems to set her at ease somewhat, and she steps out from behind her father after an encouraging look from him. In an abrupt motion she considers holding out her hand, but then chooses to clutch the hem of her knitted sweater. 

“My name is Er— Aizawa Eri. My birthday is the twenty-first of December…” she glances towards Aizawa once again for his approval, only continuing with his assurance. “I like cats and the colour green. I think apples are the best fruit and… I don’t like mean people”. 

You nod, humming in agreement to assuage her anxiety. “Mean people can be pretty scary. And I like cats, too,” — the grey-coated feline by the futon chooses that moment to yowl, pawing at Aizawa’s half empty mug — “I haven’t been able to properly meet yours yet. I’d love it if you could introduce us”. 

Give her a chance to control the narrative, and in doing so allow her to tell you about something she feels confident about. It’s an infinitesimal thing, but all things are so much bigger when you’re young. 

She straightens her back, shoulders no longer hunched forward to make herself appear small. Unobtrusive. No — there is now a dim glimmer of pride in her eyes as she shuffles forward, leading you back over near the sofa and pointing ahead at the noise-maker. 

“That’s Bastard. He’s old and kinda grumpy but that’s just ‘cause he’s scared,” Eri looks almost as if she is pleading with you, concerned you might misunderstand her beloved pet’s behaviour. “Some people hurt him before, so… so he’s just trying to protect himself. If you’re slow and let him sniff you I think it’ll be okay”. 

Some people hurt him, huh. Your thoughts subdue your initial amusement, though you try not to let it show in your expression. Heeding Eri’s guidance, you crouch at her side and allow her to extend your arm towards Bastard with her chubby fingers clasped around your wrist. He glares suspiciously between the two of you, but eventually his tail lifts into a clear signal of hello as he leans forward to huff at your fingertips. 

He turns his nose up at you in what you read as disgust and stalks off to the other end of the room, but according to Eri’s bouncing feet it was a success. “He didn’t bite you or anything,” she pats your shoulder in a reassuring manner and Aizawa snorts as he collapses into the sofa cushions. 

You’re pointed in the direction of the other cat — the black mass that has been curled into a ball atop one of the shelved platforms since you arrived. “Her name is Sourpuss. She likes to sleep a lot and we cuddle sometimes,” she explains seriously, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. Following a pause she adds, “don’t worry. She won’t bite you either”. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” you reply, a pleasant kindling in your chest at her efforts, “I look forward to getting to know you all better”. 

“Bastard and Sourpuss aren’t related but they are brother and sister. Just like me and ‘Toshi, right?” Eri glances over to her father to wordlessly seek his reassurance, cheeks dipped in pink. For a moment, the exhaustion in Aizawa’s body seems to bleed away, and he smiles affectionately. 

“Exactly right, Eri,” he murmurs. 

You straighten your knees at the sound of Bastard’s mewling, rewarded quickly with Eri’s devoted attention. Returning to your place on the couch, you lean towards him and subtly ask about the aforementioned ‘Toshi’. 

“He was already my foster son when I first took in Eri as a foster. I cared for him on and off from age fifteen to eighteen”. Recognising your poorly veiled curiosity, he adds, “Hitoshi used to watch her for me but he recently started university. Her psychologist suggested someone more permanent and better equipped for her care”. 

You nod amicably, turning to watch Eri as she offers her own small hand to the older cat. Bastard leans forward with nostrils flared, turning his head into her palm, and she beams. A stark contrast to how the feline felt about you. With the hope that you aren’t overstepping you ask, “You didn’t adopt him too?” 

“Fostering isn’t just a doorway to adoption,” he replies. In your periphery you see the beginnings of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he observes his daughter. “More than anything, I think it’s about keeping families together. Hitoshi was old enough to decide for himself, and I still view him as a son regardless of the legalities”. 

Somehow, the answer leaves you feeling scolded. “Right, of course,” you bow your head slightly in apology and his lips thin into a subtle smirk. Smothering the spark of irritation, at both his amusement and your own attraction, you push the conversation forward. “Then, uh. Will I be meeting him too, eventually?” 

“I’d assume so. If he does visit I’ll make sure you know in advance”. 

For the remainder of your afternoon visit, you observe their family dynamic with a keen eye. Eri’s shell does not fracture much, but you don’t take personal offence to it. She’s polite and friendly, often giving the answers she thinks you want to hear. You eventually join her amongst the blankets, recalling how she found confidence in helping around the house. 

“Shall we put these away together?” you suggest. The little girl smiles and spring comes again. Under the moving sunspots cast through the living room window, the two of you get to work folding up the cotton linens. Eri is so preoccupied that for the first time that day, she doesn’t realise when her father leaves the room to wash up the mugs. 

You understood Aizawa’s initial worry with Eri’s need to prove her worth around the house; but you also think, perhaps, she is just grateful and happy to help him. 

When you leave, they both walk you to the front door. Your first goodbye to her is a perfect rendition of your first hello — little hand fisted into neon pink, shielded by the man she trusts the most. “Will you come back?” she asks quietly. 

“If your dad is happy for me to,” — excitement pushes Eri onto the tip of her toes, her head barely reaching Aizawa’s hip — “when I do, we should read some stories together”. 

Later that night, after a long hot shower to swiftly rid you of the tension in your spine, you settle into a heap of cotton and pillows with Eri’s binder. The cover is hard, like cardboard, and coloured blue. It’s heavy in your lap, and you find that daunting. Not because you don’t think you can handle it, but because you already want to do right by them both. 

After the contents page comes the emergency contacts. You recognise Hitoshi’s name, and beside each other person is their immediate relation to Aizawa and Eri. Her school office. His best friends. Aunts. Uncles. Coworkers. A part of you unravels with the knowledge that the two have such a support system in place. 

Then comes the lists. Food Eri does not like — she enjoys sweet things but tart is much too sour for her palate — and the medication she can not take. There are steps to follow if ever she gets sick, instructions on where to find the first aid kit and her favourite hot water bottle. More important than anything else, there is a page dedicated to summarising her triggers and subsequently how to handle them. No sudden touch, noise cancelling headphones always on her person, explain what you’re doing and why as you do it. 

It’s incredibly comprehensive. The latter part of the binder is made up of her initial caseworkers notes, or observations from her psychologist that are important to her care. You learn that Eri might sometimes dissociate, is prone to freezing up when frightened and struggles with communicating her emotions. There are scars littering her body that need to be tended to once a day with steroid cream, but Aizawa notes that he will do that himself. She has little appetite and no tolerance for the dark, spending a lot of her earlier days in her father's care completely withdrawn and selectively mute. 

Given her history you can’t blame him for covering all his bases; part of you wonders if he had put all this together in order to test you, to see whether the responsibility would scare you off. He would be mistaken, if that were the case. After all, you’d promised to befriend Bastard by the years’ end. 

The next time you see Aizawa Shouta, he is in fitted suit pants and a dress shirt. It is sharp and tailored, accentuating the broad strokes of his shoulders and the dip of his waist. As he bends an arm to fiddle with the cuff, the material strains around his bicep. He looks handsome, and decidedly uncomfortable.

“Good morning,” he mutters, turning away from you expectantly. You amble after him once the door is shut, walking into the kitchen. Throat bared and leaning against the counter, he quickly downs the remnants of his coffee with an dissatisfied sigh. 

“Bad nights sleep?”

A brow lifts as he glances up at you. You try not to focus on the absentminded swipe of his thumb at the corner of his mouth. “Always,” he replies. “You want some?” 

Your mouth thins as you try not to smirk. “No, that’s okay. Thank you though,” you follow the movement of his hands as he leaves the mug in the sink, then extends his arms to expose his wrists and roll the cuffs mid forearm. Despite arriving at the time he’d given you, he appeared to be in a rush. You make a note to come earlier tomorrow, if only to make things a little smoother. 

Eri’s footfalls are light, barely audible as she totters into the kitchen — you try not to think about the implications — and she stops short when she sees you. “Good morning Eri,” you greet warmly. 

“Good morning,” she mumbles. 

“You look very cute,” dressed in burgundy dungarees over a white long sleeved shirt, cuffed at the ankle to reveal frilly cream coloured socks, her hair has been tied haphazardly into two long pigtails. “I like your Sailor Pluto clips!” 

“Thank you…” she pokes at the clips on her crown self consciously, timidly pleased at your recognition of them.

Aizawa circles around you both as he heads back into the hallway, “Sailor Pluto? I thought she was called Sailor Moon”.

Eri follows at his heels. “No dad, Sailor Moon has yellow hair,” she corrects him kindly, waiting by the coat rack as he bends to slip into his dress shoes. “But it’s okay, I get them mixed up sometimes too”. 

Her attitude is a testament to his parenting. In the short time you’ve spent with them he has only ever spoken to Eri respectfully, in a manner that grants her agency.  He clearly allows her to make decisions herself and experience the consequences of them, bad or good. 

Before he has the chance to reach for his bag, Eri releases an abrupt sound of protest and grabs it herself. Both of her hands fit around the long handle with room to spare, and it drags by her feet as she gives it to him. 

“I appreciate that sweetheart,” he replies, taking one of the jackets from the hooks and linking it through the crook of his arm. “Which one did I like best again?”

“Sailor Saturn!” 

Dark hair curtaining his sober expression, he nods sagely and repeats, “Sailor Saturn”. 

They are so caught up that, for a few minutes, you are nothing but a fly on the wall. It’s endearing, the interactions sitting warm like honey-lemon tea in your chest. At the sound of your laugh, Aizawa’s eyes snap over to your silhouette in the kitchen doorway. Eri glances between the two of you, and appears to hamfist the precious little courage she has to ask you, “Who—  who’s your favourite?” 

“I really loved Luna the cat,” you say. Her mouth forms the shape of an ‘o’ before it spreads into a small smile. You get the inkling there was no wrong answer; you feel accomplished anyway. 

“Right,” Aizawa cradles his hand against her head to garner her attention. She peers up at him, eyes wide. “Her teacher is aware you’re going to be picking her up but you’ll need to give her the code just to be safe,” he says, settling the strap of the satchel across his chest. “It’s ‘candy apples’”. 

“Got it”. 

Gentle, he pinches her cheek between his thumb and forefinger. “Be good, alright?” Eri hums, giving her enthusiastic agreement, “have a fun day at school. And make sure you hold hands when you cross the roads”. 

“You too dad,” her demeanour is slightly more unnerved at his imminent departure, fingers tightly curling and unfurling against her palms. “Be good at work”. 

He laughs — low and undeniably fond, almost like a purr in his chest — and then he leaves. 

Eri is cautious in his absence, but she still answers when you speak and smiles when you look at her. You can see what Aizawa meant by her placating nature — she’s scared to upset you, because she doesn’t yet know your boundaries. There was not enough time to have that discussion before school, but you endeavoured to do it some point later. 

Her bag is garish, block colours of red blue and yellow. Different from her Sailor Moon accessories, the bento and backpack are distinctly Hero themed. Hanging from the zip is a cat keychain that looks suspiciously like Bastard, and it bounces as she moves. 

The walk isn’t too far. The early air is still tepid and the morning traffic has mostly dispersed. You see other parents with their children, laughing and scolding and sprinting ahead. Eri remains at your side, hand in hand, and quietly tells you about a dream she had the night before. 

Confoundedly, “Dad told me he doesn’t have dreams”. 

“Maybe he does dream, but he forgets them as soon as he wakes up,” you reply. Her nose wrinkles slightly in a way that suggests she is thinking quite hard, and eventually she nods. 

A staff member waiting by the gate recognises Eri and bids you both good morning, motioning for her to join her classmates. “I’ll see you after school, alright?” you say. The hand clutching at your fingers squeezes twice before letting go. 

You linger for a few seconds longer, only to observe as Eri runs up to one boy in particular. His cap is red, too big for him and adorns two horns at the front. When she dips her head forward, you know it’s to show off her hair clips. 

With five hours to spare, you decide to utilise the time by clearing up the house. There’s not much mess but it’s better than nothing, and if you spent most of it nosing around the spots you’ve yet to see, that’s no one’s business but your own — aside from Bastard and Sourpuss, who still deign to return your affections and settle for stalking you at a distance.  

Mounted bridges and tastefully placed hiding spots can be found in most of the rooms; Aizawa’s respect for individual space clearly extended to his pets as well. There are fragments of them everywhere, in tchotchkes and photographs and framed stick figure pictures. You catch glimpses of the other people in their lives, of Eri much younger than she is now, of a too-big violet haired boy curled up in one of the cat beds. 

In each new room, you make sure to tidy up somewhat. Aizawa seemed the type to be particular about what fell under the definition of mess and what did not, and in that vein you stay away from reorganising anything that looks important, but it doesn’t stop you from picking up any stray socks. 

One place you do not enter is Aizawa’s bedroom. Eri’s, however, has been left wide open. 

The first thing you see is the feelings chart taped to the door, a small magnet with her likeness has been stuck in the ‘nervous’ box. Inside is surprisingly neat for a child her age. Cohesive. There are hues of yellow and grey along the walls, a white canopy hung over a brass ring in the corner of the room to curtain a pile of pillows. Her bookshelf is full, the pages are worn, and her plush toys have been organised in a line from big to small on her mattress. 

There is a faux vine of leaves threaded through the bed frame, dotted with small LED lights. She must like plants, you think, recalling the greenery in the kitchen. You’d have to look it up, or ask her father. 

Aizawa hadn’t requested you do any specific chores, but you don’t do well with idle hands. So you throw the collected laundry in the washer, clean and dry the plates and cutlery from breakfast, and refill the coffee machine with the beans kept in the cupboard. It’s the good stuff, expensive. You almost regret not accepting his offer that morning, but the dregs left in his mug smelt far too bitter. 

At the start, as you’re acclimating to the chosen family, you are always left slightly aimless. Floundering. Especially with parents that have never hired a nanny before; they seldom understand how much the role entails, and struggle with letting go of certain responsibilities. 

Thus, with precious little left to do, you end up leaving early to pick up Eri later that afternoon and taking the long route. You press the divots of the house key into your palm as you walk, metal cool in the late spring sun. With time to observe, you admit that Aizawa’s neighbourhood is undeniably beautiful. Passing a large nearby park, eyeing the climbing frames and slides and triple seated swings, you wonder if Eri would like to go there with you on occasion. There’s even a quaint, sectioned off area of land privated for communal gardening. 

Maybe, on your scheduled weekends, you could take her to other places too. The aquarium, the movies or the science museum. You’d have to ask Aizawa’s permission. 

Waiting behind the gate is another member of staff, different from the woman stationed there this morning but she greets you amiably all the same. Other parents are flocking into the grounds, some grouping together for small talk while others — such as yourself — lingered off to the side and waited alone. 

When the children begin rushing through the school doors, it is organised by class number. Eventually you spot the little boy with the horned cap rushing towards his own guardian, but no Eri with him. Instead she is led out hand in hand with whom you presume is her teacher. You smile as she points in your direction and waves, jostling the cat charm on her bag strap. 

The woman greets you first, a slight accent to her words that you can’t place. German, maybe. “Hi! I’m Eri’s teacher, Amano-san. You must be the new nanny I’ve heard all about”. 

“That would be me,” you lower your head into a subtle bow, offering your name in a much more formal introduction than the one Eri had received. “I’ll be picking Eri up regularly from now on. It’s good to meet you”. 

“And you,” Amano grins, the movement pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. At a second glance, you notice a thin silver chain attached to the frames and looping around her neck. Coupled with a green pantsuit and the specks of paint along the lapels, you suspect Eri’s teacher may be the more eccentric type. Easy-going and comforting. 

“I hope you don’t mind but I have to ask for Aizawa-san's passcode,” Amano motions flippantly with her free hand as she speaks, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “it’s just school policy, ya see. Can’t let the baby go without it — only for the first few pickups while the staff get to know you”. 

“That’s perfectly fine. He informed me you might ask,” Eri’s head pivots back and forth between you both with bright, inquisitive eyes. Giving her what you hope to be a secretive look, pointer finger pressed to your lips and voice hushed, you add, “the code is ‘candy apples’”.

Rewarded with a minute grin, Eri toddles over to your side as soon as Amano lets go of her and bids you both goodbye. Reflexively, you reach to fix her pigtails where they’ve come loose but think better of it — she does not react well to sudden touch. “Oh,” you pause to count the remaining clips in her hair. “One of your Pluto’s is gone”. 

“I gave one to Kota… he’s my friend”. 

Kota. You silently mouth the name, and resolve to remember it. “Is he the boy with the cool hat?” 

Eri hums a quiet affirmative, peering up at you and shyly extending her hand. You take it, giving a gentle squeeze. “That was very nice of you to do,” you tell her. 

“Dad said love grows by sharing,” she replies. You notice that when she speaks about her father, her voice is a little louder. Proud, even. “That’s why he always lets me have his last pur— Purin cup”. 

You try to picture Aizawa eating something as sweet as crème caramel and bite back a smile. He seems more the coffee jelly type. “Your dad is right. I bet Kota felt very special to have Sailor Pluto”. 

You return home the morning route, in consideration of Eri’s short legs and growing exhaustion. Bastard and Sourpuss are theatrically pleased by her arrival, yowling in glee as if she’d been gone for months. They must recognise that you brought her back, and you try not to preen when the older cat begrudgingly rubs his gums against your ankle. 

“Okay, Eri. What first? Homework or food?” 

She wrings her hands together, pressing palms flat to her stomach. Face pinched, she looks like she wants to ask something of you. “Eri?” 

“Can I…” her courage diminishes and she glares at the floor, scuffing socked feet against carpet. Lowering your body to her level, knee clicking as you crouch, you wait patiently with a small smile. You can see her internal battle with your own eyes, squeezing her own shut and taking a deep breath. 

The drawn out exhale follows, and the tension bleeds from her muscles. Still unable to meet your gaze, she asks, “Can I show you my room first?” 

You don’t tell her you have already seen it. Children deserve to be treated with respect, but some truths were worth keeping. Guided to the grey-yellow painted space, Eri is in her element. Homework and hunger can wait a few more minutes — strengthening her comfortability with you was much more important. 

Once she starts she can’t seem to stop. Eri shows you all her magpie clutches of treasures and brings them to your lap, a back and forth skitter across the room. The knit blanket from when she was an infant, a pretty rock she found with her dad, a friendship bracelet from someone called Izu. Her love has no limit; you’re holding old shells and framed pictures and memory-imbued trinkets. Each one receives equal praise, indulgent sounds of awe that warm her cheeks. 

‘Love grows by sharing’ is what she’d said. Steadying the heap gathered in your arms, you think you feel your heart swell three sizes. 

By afternoon's end, Eri is fed and sitting contentedly in the middle of the living room. Aizawa had texted that he would be home soon, so you were simply enjoying the peace until then. Having tucked one of the couch cushions under her knees to alleviate the discomfort, all her focus is on the worksheets splayed out along the floor. Fractions. You grimace, watching Bastard bat at her pencil as it moves with her wrist. 

Click, click. Eri is at her feet in less than a second. The sound of a key entering a lock and turning, the door jarred open as Aizawa shoulders into the house with arms full of assignments. He doesn’t startle as his daughter knocks into him, but he does scowl at the realisation that he can’t hug her. You hover cautiously in the hallway, “Ah— do you need some help with those?” 

He looks up, the frown smoothing into something a little more vulnerable. Exhausted, but in a different way than he was this morning. You feel a misplaced sense of guilt for not having a cup of coffee ready for him. 

“No, I can manage,” he replies, kicking off his shoes and lining them up half heartedly with his foot as he readjusts his grip. “I’ll be fine once I can sit down”. 

He sets the papers on the far end of the couch and upon reaching the opposite, Aizawa falls back heavily into the cushions with a relieved groan that strums at your centre. You smother the feeling. Eri trails after him with her features pensive, carefully gauging his mood before doing anything further. The moment he limblessly opens his arms to her, she is clambering up beside him and pressing to his side. 

Intuitively, you hold your breath. You take the opportunity to really appreciate how gentle Aizawa is with his daughter. Cradling the top of her head in a show of affection, his eyes slide from Eri to where you stand in the doorway. You’re left sheepish under the expectant lift of his brow, all too aware of how awkward you’re being. “How was it today? Anything happen that I should know about?” 

“Everything went well. We held hands to and from school, didn’t we?” Eri nods, and the large hand in her hair further disturbs her pigtails, though she doesn’t seem to mind. “We’ve eaten our dinner and finished her fractions worksheet for tomorrow. She’s been nothing short of a dream”. 

“A dream, hm?” he nudges Eri gently to encourage her to smile, and she does. “Always is”. 

“I met…” your attention is quickly drawn to the tail curling around your leg. Sourpuss barely spares you a glance when she butts your calf, as if to pass it off as a simple accident. You don’t bend at the knee to pet her, because you know she’ll scatter and leave you pitifully rejected. “I met Amano-san,” you continue, “I introduced myself since I’ll be seeing more of her. She’s very… friendly”. 

Aizawa’s mouth lifts in subtle amusement, “She’s boisterous but a good teacher. Eri loves her,” he pats his thigh as Sourpuss approaches, ready as she leaps onto his lap. He’s content, relaxed with his head tipped slightly in a way that accentuates his jaw, the shadow of stubble fading down the length of his neck. You quickly drag your thoughts back into the present before they can drift into inappropriate territory, steeling yourself under his gaze in the hopes he hadn’t noticed. 

“You have your hands full and you’ve had a long day, so I’m happy to see myself out if that’s everything,” you say. 

Eri’s eyes widen, her bottom lip slightly jutted. You aren’t sure whether she is wordlessly beseeching you to stay, or displeased at the thought of not walking you to the door — either way, you allow yourself some pride for having won some good favour with her so soon. 

Aizawa must notice, because his hand slides from her crown to soothe along her back. “Don’t worry,” he reassures, “they’ll be back again in the morning, bug”. 

He’s pensive as he appraises you, perhaps looking for what it was in you that his daughter had latched onto. Whatever he does or does not find, he begins to move. Sourpuss chirps a sharp noise of complaint, jostled from her place in his lap and leaping back onto the floor. “C’mon,” he says, getting to his feet and rubbing the nape of his neck as he clicks it to the left. Then, stubbornly, “I’ll walk you out”. 

The next month and a half with them passes between blinks. You come to learn that even if every day is the same, there are a million ways to do it. And the place you carve into their lives is comfortable. Comforting. 

Your attraction to Aizawa only festers. It seems that at some point, you had won favour with him, too. He begins leaving you offerings of food without explanation, and in turn you have a pot of coffee ready for when he gets home. He isn’t much of a cook and usually sticks to snacks, but occasionally you’ll find leftovers with your name written on a postit note.

Love grows by sharing.

Against better judgement you start finding excuses to arrive early and stay later, and sometimes your conversations linger like his gaze, until the only word left to describe the way he looks at you is ‘fond’. 

Venting to your friends does nothing helpful, since they only encourage you to poke further at the relationship just to see where it’d go. Likened to a yellowing bruise on your arm, you knew exactly what would happen if you were to poke it — it would hurt. 

Worse is, your feelings are not just an unfortunate result of being attracted to Aizawa. You adore Eri, and she likes you too; watches you with wide ruby eyes, collecting your speech patterns and body language like the tchotchkes kept on her shelves. With every reluctant shedding of her shell, a quiet but creative and joyous little girl is slowly unveiled to the world, and you know you want to be there to watch her grow beyond what your contract states. 

At best, you are teetering on the edge of being very unprofessional. At worst, part of you is already one foot in the door and willing to step forward. 

Today you were at the park. The grass is damp, sparse dots of moisture littering the pavements. You peer up mid-step and a drop of rain hits your nose, squinting against the light that bursts through the canopy. There’s petrichor in the air, fresh and crisp. Eri stands at your side at the crotch of the maple tree, watching quietly as the sun shower passes. 

“Pretty…” she whispers, stepping towards the edge of shelter with her arm outstretched, fingers splayed like branches to catch the rain. She does this, but not before first seeking your approval, as she did with most things. The evolving comfort she felt with you didn’t negate any of the survival instincts she’d learnt in her earlier developmental years. 

It hurt to know she didn’t get to have that — the new realisation that she was an individual person, with power of her own that she could wield. You were only glad that Aizawa always gave her a chance to make her own choices. She felt far safer accepting such freedom from him, because Eri knows that he trusts her. He trusts that she will eventually get it right, even if it isn’t immediate. 

His unconditional patience when it came to making mistakes, and learning from them, paid off. You’ve no doubt that it came into practice with his own university students, too. 

“Everything will be too wet to play on now,” your eyes scan the playground, finding the tarmac dark and saturated with water. The sun shifts and bounces sharply off the curve of the slide. You hadn’t been there for more than half an hour, so it was a little disappointing. “What shall we do instead?” 

She rocks on the balls of her feet while she thinks, the end of her sleeve growing damp with every scoop of the oncoming shower. Peeking beneath them are the protective wrappings she keeps around her arms to cover the scars you’ve yet to see. 

Her wet hand curls to form a fist, and she steps back into the shelter of the maple tree. You bend forward and beckon towards you, using the hem of your hoodie to gently dry her off. Minutes pass, and you can tell her lack of a definitive answer is making her nervous. “It’s alright if you’re not sure,” you tell her, quick to assuage whatever thoughts she may be having. 

“Well, I picked the park so— so maybe you can pick next?” she hesitantly suggests. 

“That’s very considerate!” Eri outwardly preens, tucking her chin to her sternum as she smiles. “I think… I’m craving sweet things today. How about we go home and see if we can bake something?” 

It’s as if the rain takes pause and the skies open just for the two of you. There is no puddle left untouched on your walk home, Eri pulling you ahead by the hand, uncharacteristically hasty. Every time you find something new for her to enjoy you feel like you’ve swallowed a drop of sun. Aizawa’s expression in the face of her smile and freshly baked goods make it all the more worth it. 

Leading up the street towards the house, you squint at the sight of a person. Sitting on the doorstep under the overhang is a violet haired man. Young, still a little youthful in the cheeks. Nineteen or twenty, if you had to guess. 

“‘Toshi!”

Eri’s voice draws his attention from the phone in his lap, and when he looks up you’re met by a weathered grin adorned with two vertical rings hugging the left of his bottom lip. 

The spider bites aren’t his only piercings; there are other jewellery cuffed along the shell of his ear, an industrial bar cutting across the cartilage of the other, and glinting in the light are two small spikes through his right eyebrow. Dappled shadows dance across his face, an oversized navy sweater hangs comfortably on his frame and pools around the waist of his tattered jeans. 

You aren’t alarmed when he sweeps Eri into a hug, pleased by her melodic laughter. This was her brother, Hitoshi, presumably, the purple boy you’d seen in some of the framed pictures around the house.  

“You must be—”

His voice overlaps your own simultaneously, “You must be the nanny”.

Prickly. He stands then, keeping Eri cradled in his arms, her own looped tight around his neck as her feet kick happily either side of his hips. No, you think. Protective. And taller than you realised. 

“That’s me,” you reply stiffly. You had no idea he would be visiting today — Aizawa hadn’t mentioned anything about it, so you can only assume he isn’t aware. 

Turning to smoosh her cheek against his own and glancing between you both, Eri is emboldened by the stilted atmosphere. She makes a point to introduce you to Hitoshi, reciting your favourite colour and animal word for word. Like flame to wax, her efforts soften the blank exterior and his expression wanes into affection. 

This time, when he looks at you it is measured. He appraises you much like Aizawa had on your first day. A positive reference from Eri is invaluable, clearly. “I’m Eri’s big brother, Shinsou Hitoshi,” he concedes, the thud of his boots heavy as he steps forward. Readjusting Eri to his hip, he extends a hand and motions to shake your own. 

Years of professional experience has your grip firm out of sheer habit, while his remains slightly loose, the cool metal of his ring pressed to your palm. “It’s good to meet you. Aizawa mentioned that I might, eventually,” you reply. 

Hitoshi hums, though not absentmindedly. “Same. I’ve heard a lot about you”. 

“Mostly good I hope?” you busy yourself with finding the house keys, hoping to get Eri inside to warm up sooner rather than later. “Let’s get you both comfy, then we can get started”.

“Started?”

Stepping into homes’ embrace is a relief, the chill dissipating from your cheeks. “We’re gonna bake!” Eri chimes her excitement from behind you as you toe your shoes to the side, turning to beckon them both inside. Hitoshi quickly closes the door behind him before the cats can slip past, and places his sister back on the floor with a small noise of curiosity. 

“Bake what?” he asks, grunting in exertion as he crouches and begins untying the laces to his boots, wiggling his fingers at Bastard as he bats at the string. Eri mirrors him to fiddle with her buckles, slipping both shoes off and lining them up neatly by yours before looking to you for an answer. 

“I was thinking we could make cookies…Ah!” you bring your palms together in a succinct clap, “maybe we could do melonpan?” 

A subtle tug to the end of your hoodie. “What's melonpan?”

“They’re sweet, melon shaped buns covered in cookie dough,” you explain warmly, slow in stroking a hand over the crown of her head. She doesn’t flinch, almost feline in how she turns into the touch. 

“I’m down for some melonpan,” Hitoshi slides back naturally into the conversation, Bastard held out by the armpits as his long torso hangs limbless. You try not to laugh at the displeasure on his face. “Maybe change into something comfortable and dry first though, bug”. 

Prompted, Eri scurries up the stairs on both hands and feet. “And make sure to wash your hands,” you raise your voice after her. That just leaves you and Hitoshi. 

He glances at you expectantly, inclining his head towards the kitchen as if to say, aren’t you going in?

“Guess we should get the cookie dough done first,” you suggest, taking the lead. 

In Eri’s absence, side by side at the counter, you both fall into a surprisingly comfortable contentment. Quiet murmurings of small talk; while you work on the cake mix he beats the egg until it whites, whisks sugar into the butter until it dissolves. Hitoshi is stiff at first, short in his responses, but he isn’t rude. He’s just cautious, prying gently into your answers but never giving substance to his own. Even in early adulthood, there was an instinct inside him that called to mask the vulnerability within. To feign confidence and guide conversations in a way that conceals him. 

He flowers a little when the topic steers to Aizawa. 

“Did the old man tell you much about me?”

Old man. A decade and then some isn’t far off for him, but you supposed in a barely-twenty year old’s mind it would be. “Just that he fostered you through your late teens. I didn’t pry,” you reply. “I’ve heard more from Eri, really. She looks up to you”. 

He exhales deeply, and you don’t press him to continue before he’s ready. “My mum struggled with addiction…” Hitoshi stares dolefully at the dough cupped between his palms, briefly flickering to the open doorway to check Eri was not within hearing distance. 

“I was so pissed when social services first took me,” deft fingers begin to move as his voice returns, kneading the ball aimlessly in bread flour to smooth out his spike of anxiety. “I loved her a lot, still do. She never hurt me and I thought we were fine, y’know? I didn’t understand it back then. But it got to a point that she couldn’t take care of me”. 

He avoids your gaze, feigning indifference, and it makes you wonder how others have reacted to his story. You swallow against the dry discomfort in your throat, rolling the inner flesh of your lip between teeth. There’s nothing to say other than, “I’m sorry. That must’ve been incredibly difficult for you both”. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs. You watch a thought cross his mind, the corner of his mouth curving into a half smile. “I was such a dick when I got here because I thought I’d never get to see her again. But dad sat me down and told me he isn’t here to be my new parent, that his job is to keep me safe while my mum gets better”. 

You recall Aizawa’s words — fostering is moreso about keeping families together — and smile back. “Funny that be ended up bein’ like a parent to you anyway, huh?” 

An amused thrum, the dough in his grasp eventually moulded into what resembled a cylinder. “Yeah. He’s not so bad,” he breathes. 

Eri joins in a fluffy sweater and leggings, socks pulled up all the way to her calves, fingers still wet and smelling of almond scented soap. Her eyes sweep across the room, alight with curiosity. “You’re just in time,” you tell her, discreetly putting the topic of Hitoshi’s mother to rest. “Grab the step from the corner so you can help rub the bread flour into the cookie dough”. 

When she ambles over, gait stilted by the weight of her stool, Eri slots it between you and Hitoshi. Arms held out in front, you help to roll up her sleeves to avoid mess despite the protective compression underneath. 

“Ready?”

“Ready!” 

Chubby fingers take two pinches of bread flour, sprinkling over the cookie dough and patting carefully into shape. You let her take her time with it, endeared by how determined she looks carrying out a simple task. 

Hitoshi supervises her while you begin the first fermentation of the bread dough. It’s lucky, and amusing, that Aizawa has such a random array of ingredients in his cupboards; you didn’t presume him the type to buy things just in case, yet the instant yeast has you sending silent thoughts of gratitude to him through sheer will. 

With the cookie dough now wrapped and put in the fridge, Eri insists on helping you knead the bread dough. “We have to throw it a few times first,” you tell them. 

Hitoshi smirks, “May I have the honour?” 

The pale consistency is sticky and unpleasant as you pass it to him, some caught like glue between your fingers. At the sight of her brother's grimace, Eri pokes at the dough and makes a sound of awe. “It’s so gooey?” she mumbles. 

“That’s why he’s gotta throw it. It’ll be nice and smooth,” you curl protectively around Eri as you explain, remembering her dislike for loud noises. “You might want to cover your ears, sweetheart. There’ll be a big thud when he does it”. 

Hitoshi spreads far too much flour across the counter. Pressing the heels of her hands either side of her head, Eri steps back into your chest at the first impact and gapes as the white powder billows into the air, smattering the length of his forearms. He leans his body weight into the dough as he stretches it, glancing at her for permission and only throwing it again after she nods. 

Gradually, Eri lowers her hands back down as she acclimates, and the next time she touches the dough it is firmer. “You did it, ‘Toshi!” 

“Ye—!” his nose wrinkles and he suddenly dips into the crook of his arm, turning away from the counter as he sneezes. “Shi— Shoot. Bless me”. 

“Bless you,” you laugh at him, trying and failing to wipe away the powder clinging to your own clothes. Somehow the white smudges worsen with the effort, and the flour has even ended up dusting the ends of Eri’s hair. “Next we gotta roll it up. Think you can help, Eri?”

By the time the dough is round enough to satisfy the siblings, the mess has worsened. You nestle it into a clear bowl and cover it with plastic wrap to let it sit — or as Eri had described, you tuck it into a ‘warm bed’.

With time left to spare as it ferments, Hitoshi departs to the bathroom to quickly clean himself up. In your distraction, the sound of a door opening and heavy footsteps does not register. It isn’t until you hear the fond invocation of your names from the doorway that you look up. 

Covered in flour from your hands to your elbows, with the certainty that it is also dusted across your cheeks, you look up to see Aizawa watching you both wearing a small smile. 

“Hi,” you offer lamely. He snorts. 

“What’re you making?” 

A fool of myself, you think. 

Eri’s eyes sweep over the mess anxiously. There is no indication that he’s angry, but her words still falter. She inhales deeply to steady her breathing just as you taught her, counting to four and releasing. Meeting her fathers stare, she strongly replies, “we’re baking melonpan to share!” 

“Is that right?” his eyes squint into a smile and he steps into the threshold, tugging the hairband on his wrist off with his teeth and collecting his hair into a bun. “Got anything I can help out with?” 

“We just—”

“Yo,” Hitoshi interrupts as he slinks back into the room with an easy wave. 

Aizawa’s brow pinches into a frown. “What’re you doing in my house?” he says. You can tell he doesn’t mean it, and judging by the grin pulling at Hitoshi’s mouth, he can tell too. 

“Just wanted to surprise you and Eri,” in closing the distance, Aizawa reaches over to Hitoshi and wraps an arm around him, giving a solid pat to the back of his shoulder. You watch as he squeezes, and they briefly turn into one another’s familiarity before letting go. 

Feeling your stare, Aizawa looks at you. To the people that do not know him, his expression might be unreadable, but you understand the fulfilment there. He appears settled, like having you all there in his kitchen has thawed him. “I hope he hasn’t given you any trouble?” 

“No more than you,” you cajole, dutifully ignoring the smirk plain on Hitoshi’s face. “They’ve both been very helpful”. 

Pleased by your praise, Eri beams as she climbs down from the step stool. “We’re waiting for the bread dough to fer…fer…?”

“Ferment,” you whisper. 

“Ferment!” she nods resolutely, stumbling over to her father to greet him. Before you can warn them, Eri has wrapped herself around his leg and pressed into the side of his hip, black dress pants now embellished with loose flour. 

He cradles her head as he always does, his hand large around her silver crown. She peers up at him with unfettered joy, in their own private, unspoken exchange. You’re struck by the thought that it isn’t only Eri who thrives under his care. Aizawa, too, even as he tires, becomes that much brighter with her. 

The house begins to breathe. It is more alive now than you’ve ever experienced it. From the upper floor is Sourpuss’s distinct yowl as Aizawa heads up the stairs to change, Eri on his coattails telling him about the earlier sun shower. 

Hitoshi is moving around the kitchen alongside you, cleaning up the aftermath of his ephemeral flour-storm and avoiding Bastard’s abrupt burst of energy from the shadows as he darts through the remnants; fading white and sugar plum sized paw prints left in his wake. 

You laugh when Hitoshi chases him, hissing disjointed curses as he tries to wipe away the prints with the sole of his socks. 

When the dough is suitably risen, Aizawa sidles up beside you, shoulder to shoulder. You don’t lean into him, but you don’t move away. Each of you takes a cut, shaping it into the intended melonpan. The spheres wear their cookie sheet coats, dipped in sugar and engraved overtop with clumsy diamond patterns. 

Eri lines them up on the baking tray and you put them into the oven. Calls for her to relax go unheard as she waits with her nose pressed to the glass pane until the buns are finally golden, face heated by the orange glow. 

You sit with the three of them in the middle of the living room, cushions pulled from their spots and rearranged in a tight circle, and something eases into place — a quiet sense of belonging that you’ve never experienced in all your years as a nanny. The melonpan is warm and sweet in your mouth, so soft it almost dissolves on your tongue. “S’good, right?” you hum happily at the taste, finding Eri nodding alongside you with pink cheeks filled and a bright sugar coated smile. 

“It really is,” Hitoshi affirms, almost an air of disbelief as he leans back onto his left hand, savouring his own melonpan with the other. You notice his eyes lazily following the movement in your periphery; Aizawa reaches across your front to brush the grains of sugar from his daughter's chin, his own pastry devoured. 

The man ate unnaturally quietly, and quickly. Maybe he really did have a secret sweet tooth.

In retracting his arm, he glances to you. Thoughtlessly, Shouta wipes the crumbs from the swell of your own cheek. You feel sinnew turn to sand, sifting through his gentle hands. In that split, narrowed second, the rest of the room fell away. You’re returned to your body by the sound of Hitoshi’s pointed cough, and the touch disappears. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, furtive in his avoidance of your stare, “force of habit”. 

The smile you wear is brittle over the cacophonous rush of blood in your ears. Poor of an excuse as it was, you still wonder whether it had any truth to it — ruminating over how he really saw you. 

Soon enough it’s difficult to ignore just how long you’ve overstayed your welcome; atleast, in a professional sense. All five of the Aizawa’s, legal, honorary and feline, walk you to the door to bid you goodbye. 

“Be good, alright?” Shouta calls after you, leaning against the doorframe long after the children have returned to their cushions. His monotony makes it all the more endearing. 

The real paradigm shift comes with a flinch. Aizawa lets you into the house silently wearing a desperate look. He glances to the top of the stairs, but when you follow his line of sight there is no one there. “She froze up,” he murmurs, regret bleeding into his voice as it rasps. “I lifted my hand to pat her head and she froze, like she thought I’d hit her. She’s been avoiding me all morning”. 

You frown, worrying your lip between your teeth. “Is there anything that might’ve triggered her?”

His shoulders deflate, mouth set in a grimace, and you realise then just how crestfallen he is. “Not that I'm aware of. She was fine before bed and didn’t have any nightmares to my knowledge,” — as he bends to pick up his own satchel, Eri’s helpful absence is particularly stark — “if anything goes south let me know. I’ll come straight home if you need me to. We were going to see her psychiatrist soon for a review so I’ll try to have it brought forward”. 

“Alright. I promise I’ll take care of her,” you reply, watching with brows pinched as he turns to the front door. You don’t like the slouch to his back — different to the typical exhaustion. This is defeat. Grief, in some ways. While you cannot hear his thoughts, you know intuitively that he is blaming himself. 

He stops as you grab his wrist, door partially open. Pray tell, what is the right thing to say? 

“Things like this aren’t linear,” your grip tightens, squeezing around his pulse. There’s soft hair under the pads of your fingers, the skin there rough from decades of use. “I’m willing to bet this minor setback isn’t your fault. Bad days happen”. 

“I know,” he rasps, still refusing to look at you. 

“I know that you know, probably better than most,” you smile where he can’t see it. “I just wanted to remind you”. 

You experience a palpable sense of accomplishment when his arm turns, inner wrist twisting and sliding forth until your palms kiss. Aizawa holds your hand and peers at you through the curtain of his hair. As clouds part and the sun pierces through the threshold it refracts in his eyes. In a fleeting trick of the light, you think they look red. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

Away at work, the house is too quiet. Eri isn’t a rambunctious girl by any means, but her presence can always be heard. Can always be felt. No pitter patter of socked feet, no muffled laughter, no hushed conversations between girl and cat. 

A part of you whispers how similar it is to being in your own home. But acknowledging that loneliness is another bruise you don’t fancy poking. 

You find Eri curled up in her bed. She has pressed herself to the wall and brought both knees to her chest. The small bundle quakes, cheeks wet with tears that have begun to saturate the pillowcase. Eri keeps her cries unsettlingly quiet, in a way you’ve only ever seen in children afflicted with soul-deep wounds. 

“Eri?” you call out to her with gentle cadence. She is, visibly and emotionally, an animal cornered. You move in closer, keeping to the edge of the room, focused on the worrisome flush to her skin and her laboured breaths. It worsens as you close the distance, a frantic gleam in her eyes. 

“It’s just me, Eri. You’re safe here,” pausing a foot away from the edge of her bed, you gingerly lower yourself to sit on her bedroom floor. “I think you’re having a panic attack, bug. So we’re gonna try to slow your breathing. Can you do that for me?” 

Her mouth quivers, pursed right as she hiccups. Another quick blink, another round of tears. You try not to collapse with relief when she nods, “You’re already doing so well. I know it’s scary right now but you’ll get through this”. 

Despite the frenetic ache in your chest and the instincts in your body urging that you reach for her, you remain as you are. This is ultimately why you were chosen. Years of schooling and experience puppets your body, autopilot taking lead. 

“First we’re going to breathe in through our noses for three seconds, nice and deep so your chest opens up. I’ll do it too,” — motioning inwards with your hands, you inhale until your ribs expand and lift a finger for each second that passes — “brilliant, sweetheart. Now hold that breath in for two more seconds. Ready? One… two…”

The minutes progress excruciatingly slowly. You continue to instruct her, keeping your voice soothing and calm with each cycle of breathing. Gradually, the tension bleeds from Eri’s body and she’s cognisant enough to say your name. 

It follows an aborted reach for you, halted midway and dropping onto the bed, small hand hamfisting the bedsheets. “Is it okay for me to touch you?” you quietly ask. 

With her permission, keeping your movements telegraphed, you shuffle toward the mattress on your knees and wrap your arms around her like one might cradle a baby. 

Pulling her closer to your chest, you realise something is off. There’s heat soaking through her clothes, and in stroking a hand along her shoulders you notice they’re wet. “Eri…?” chin against sternum as you peer down, the back of your hand finds her forehead too hot. 

“Are you sick?”

The question makes her freeze, statuesque where she’s curled against your chest. “I’m sorry,” she whimpers. Unease settles in your gut. 

“I’m not angry, Eri. It isn’t your fault you’re sick, it happens to everyone,” you say, gently brushing the hair away from her face. “Is that why you were anxious today, you thought I would be upset?” 

“They… they get mad”.

“Who does, sweetheart?” 

“Grown ups,” she rasps, her voice thick and cloying in her throat. Steadily, the breast of your shirt becomes damp too. The hand threaded into her hair lowers to thumb away the fresh onslaught of tears. 

“Grown ups can be scary,” you affirm, beginning an instinctive back and forth sway as you hold her. “But not all of them. Your dad, Hitoshi and I won’t be angry if you’re sick because we want to take care of you”. 

Aizawa’s earlier expression flashes unbidden through your thoughts. What he had interpreted had been fear, but not for the reasons he initially thought. Eri was not scared of him — she just didn’t want him to know she was sick. No doubt, if he had caught wind of her fever he would have called off work completely. 

While she doesn’t speak about her past to you, it's clear the adults in Eri’s life before entering foster care had treated her needs as something burdensome. Your gaze drifts to the bandages on her forearms and realise they may have even harmed her for it. 

“I bet these feel all sticky and uncomfortable now, huh?” you’re cautious to trace the protective sleeves with the pad of your finger. As expected, they’re sweaty. 

She readjusts in your grip, a sheen of perspiration across pink skin. Panic at bay, now she is exhausted. “Sticky,” she weakly agrees. 

“Then how about I run you a bath?”

It’s this that leads to you finally seeing the extent of Eri’s scars. 

When you settle her into the tepid water, your eyes do not linger on mottled skin. Expression carefully schooled into something familiarly pleasant, you keep your thoughts in the present, away from the horrific what ifs and the whys. Unawares of your inner struggle, Eri raises her cupped hands steeped with bubbles and blows them across the bathroom with a tired smile. Having earned so much of her trust is not unlike Atlas, the heavens on your back. 

You find Eri enjoys routine even while sick, but she isn’t especially particular about it and for that you’re thankful, as she is forgiving of your initial clumsiness. She uses the lavender bubble bath because it soothes her, not the raspberry scented wash. Eri’s towels are softer and brighter than Aizawa’s, and the difference is important because they are hers. Socks are stifling, so you needn’t lay them out. The nightlight stays on when the curtains are closed, but you still need to leave a crack in the door for Sourpuss and Bastard, who’ve both dutifully stationed themselves outside her bedroom. 

You turn around and fuss with her bedsheets while she changes into something thin and light. The pyjama top is on backwards, and after retracting her arms into the shirt so you can swivel it around correctly, she clambers into the quilts. Dekiru: The Can Do Hero was her chosen story. Satisfaction thrums through your chest as her eyes start to grow heavy, a damp cloth wrung out and placed across her forehead. 

There’s a pull to your sternum as you leave her room, dipoles strengthening and compelling you to stay — to make sure she’s still alright. Bastard and Sourpuss watch you with bright eyes, pupils needle-thin. Something very human in you feels as if they’re saying thank you. 

More importantly, you need to text Aizawa. 

You : 11:16

Just thought to update you. I think Eri might have a virus, or a stomach bug. She’s okay and resting. 

Aizawa Shouta : 11:20

Do you need me to come home?

You : 11:21

We’re okay, but do whatever you think is best. Will let you know if anything worsens. 

When he eventually returns home it is with cold-bitten cheeks and tension in his brow. A long day looks good on him, you think, stray hair falling loose from his bun and the collar of his shirt crooked. “Any more problems?” he asks with veiled trepidation. 

“She’s alright for now,” you don’t bother hiding the wry smile that pulls at your mouth, “I heard all about the different voices you use when you read to her. Apparently I don’t hold a candle to you. Didn’t think you were the type”. 

He holds your gaze with intent, “I’m full of surprises”. 

You exhale a laugh, quiet and warm behind closed lips, “I’m starting to see that”.

“Only just?” his initial teasing slowly retracts, a gradual sink back into melancholy. “Is she really okay?” 

“Still slightly feverish, but her temperature is down from thirty eight to thirty seven…” your weight shifts between each foot as you internally debate how to inform him of the panic attack. Aizawa lends an ear while he removes his coat, and the soft hair on your arm lifts at the chill still clinging to his clothes. You imagine taking his hands into your own and coaxing the blood back to his fingers. 

“Speaking of temperature, let’s get you some coffee”. Already boiled and percolating on the counter, you’d made it in conjunction with his journey home as you always did. A little extra something you enjoyed doing for him. Aizawa would say that you do plenty in taking care of his family — but this was just for the two of you. 

A quiet moment together, kitchen dimly lit in the oncoming twilight. With this, you can warm him from the inside and out. With this, you can tell him without words, I was thinking of you. 

You stand opposite him, boxed into the narrow space. He appraises you from his place by the sink, leaning back casually against the counter. Heat settles in your belly before your first sip. Eyes never leaving yours over the rim of his mug, Aizawa drinks, and hums a low, pleased sound at the taste. 

The sting to your palms tethers you to the present. A light, somewhat floral aroma fills your senses as you inhale. You lift your own coffee to your mouth, blowing away the plumes of steam. It is rich on your tongue. 

Your gaze lingers where he licks his lower lip. “It’s a little different this time. Almost… spicy and sweet?” 

Smile hidden behind your mug, you say, “I tried steeping cardamom with the coffee grounds this time. Do you like it?”

“I do,” he murmurs. He takes another sip, wearing a subdued smile of his own. In the muted light, it accentuates the bags beneath his eyes. Even in his contentment, there’s a pensive air about him that lets you know his thoughts are elsewhere. 

With his daughter. 

“You should know that after you left this morning I found Eri having a panic attack”. 

“Shit,” he halts. Regrettably, the frown is back. “Did she hurt herself?”

“No! No,” you demurred, hastening to reassure him, “I knew what to do. She was scared at first, but I calmed her down”. 

The mouth you’re so enticed by is caught between teeth, his fingers tapping restlessly against the ceramic of his cup. Aizawa sighs, erring on a scoff as he places the half drunk coffee in the sink and scrubs a hand against the stubble on his jaw.

“Do you know what caused it?” he asks. Did I do something wrong? you hear. 

“It wasn’t until she let me touch her that I realised she had a fever. I thought she’d just exerted herself during the attack,” you mirror his actions, setting aside your mug carefully on the countertop. “She told me… before she came into your care, adults would be angry if she needed help or got sick”. 

His eyes are cast to the floor, in a haze almost. He nods but you aren’t sure that your words are registering. Resting against sternum, his hand clenched into a fist. 

“Eri wasn’t scared of you. She just didn’t want you to know about her fever because she feared it would disrupt your work,” and then gently, to truly make sure he understands, you repeat: “she isn’t scared of you, Shouta”. 

He breathes the reality in and slacks against the counter with an exhale, as if the tension had been the only thing holding his strings together. You’re drawn forward by the urge to comfort him, moving into his space with a hand laid overtop fist before you’re able to consider the professional consequences of crossing such boundaries. 

But he doesn’t bat you away or scold you. The warmth of your touch slowly softens his grip until you’re able to unfurl each finger without fanfare. There are faint crescent moons embedded into the heel of his palm. Without speaking, Shouta overturns his wrist and holds your hand again. 

“I thought about what you told me this morning. About none of this being linear,” he continues to speak somberly, his voice so tender you felt you could marinate in it. “Eri started out as a foster with me when she was four. It was awful at the start — constant appointments with doctors and the police and social services. I’ve temporarily fostered a few kids in my time but a case as severe as Eri's was a first”. 

This wasn’t a time to interrupt, just to listen. You can’t look away from him as he looks at you; looks at the space between your bodies where you currently intertwine, like he was memorising every dip and peak of your knuckles. 

“Adopting her scared the hell out of me. Even though she’d become my daughter in every way that counts, there were always times I worried I’d fuck it up. Still are,” he murmurs. You do not shy away when he peers up to keep your gaze. “But you reminded me that bad days are expected, not something always within my control, and not a reflection of my parenting”.

To anyone looking in from the outside, this would be an intimate moment. You and Shouta, curved toward one another like coupled swans. “Thank you,” he squeezes around your knuckles in successive beats as if to press the sentiment into your skin. “For taking care of both of us”. 

The corners of his eyes wrinkle, and you find yourself on the precipice of something more. 

The depths and the possibilities that lie within haunt you through to the weekend. You cannot forget the rough pad of his thumb stroking across your knuckles, the intermingling scent of flora and cologne, or how easily you could have dipped forward to kiss him. 

Eri remains sick for two days and Shouta promises you it’s fine that you stay home. You can appreciate that he wants to spend time with her, to assure her that he is a safe and constant presence in her life. Still, you miss them far more than you should. 

Your best friends don’t take well to moping. Touya and Rumi are not the type to mope — their stubborn, vindictive natures were a large part of why you loved them. You just much preferred it when those qualities were not inflicted upon you. 

“Remind me again why we couldn’t just drink at my apartment?” 

You are dragged to a little hole in the wall Touya had found during your university years. It’s slightly industrial, a wide open space with tall, steel beams spaced around the room. What differs is the warmth; lighting low, muted orange bulb fixtures in the centre of each table casting an intimate glow, accompanied by soft acoustic music overhead. 

A large drinks bar had been built into the centre, corners slightly rounded with stools around the outer — one of which you have taken for yourself. The three of you sit together on the curved edge so you can face one another, Rumi contented to be in the middle. Being here felt similar to huddling around a campfire, or candlelight. Alcohol insulating your bones and loosening your tongue, easy laughter shared with friends. 

You were brought here on a quest for distraction, and yet—

“I don’t think you understand how dire this is,” you bemoan, feeling yourself pout at Touya’s self indulgent eye roll. “He tells me to be good before he leaves now, too. Looks right at me and says ‘be good, both of you’”.

Your initial goal may have been overly optimistic. 

“Like a bit of praise, don’t ya?” Rumi laughs. 

Touya smirks, wiping away a stray bead of soju from his mouth as his eyes sweep across the bar. “Who doesn’t?”

“It isn’t funny,” limp wristed as you swirl the sweet tasting concoction in your glass, Rumi slips her arm along the back of your stool. “I want to kiss him. All the time!”

A hand rubs firm circles between your shoulder blades. At the very least, neither of them are irritated by the topic. Embarrassing to admit, Aizawa Shouta had featured prominently in your group chat over the past month. Most of their responses have been either good natured teasing or detailing complaints about their own love lives, for which you’d been thankful, because at the time you’d only needed a place to vent and an ear to listen. 

Now you weren’t so sure. Heartbeat in your mouth, his phantom touch around your fingers. You knew him sleep mussed and lazy, his low rumbling laugh, the way your name sounds when he smiles. Inch by inch the spool unravels, you take more than you need, left wanting still. 

You couldn’t pretend a line had not been crossed anymore, and you tell them as much. 

“So, we’re actually talking about this now?” Touya asks, waving his hand between the three of you. “I know we’ve been joking and shit, but if we’re getting serious I’ll need another round”. 

Though he acts nonchalant, you can tell Touya cares. Turned inward to face you and leant forward across the bar with his cheek against his palm, the scarred skin slightly glossy as it pulls taut. Where his words say very little, his body speaks for him. Rumi coos and throws her other arm around his shoulders when you reach across, and he reciprocates in taking your hand. 

“Dumbass,” he mutters. “We’re here for you. But I’m not joking about that drink”. You grin, tucking your head into the crook of Rumi’s neck, draped beneath white, to return the hug while she waves over the bartender. Another grapefruit soju, a kirin lager and a cocktail of the night. 

Words come easy when you’re loose-lipped. “I’m anxious that it’s obvious to him,” you say. “Fuck. I don’t wanna make anyone uncomfortable”. 

“Is this Aizawa guy really the type to tolerate anything that makes him uncomfortable?”

“I think so…”— he is, and he would, if it were for someone he cares about —“…But not without saying anything about it”. 

“There ya go then,” Rumi replies, exhaling happily at the end of a long sip from her pint glass. “And you’ve told us before that he’s always honest with you. What was it you said…?” 

Touya clears his throat and warps the pitch of his voice to mimic your own, “Why is emotional maturity and clear communication so hot?” 

“Fuck off,” you laugh, heat thrumming beneath your skin. You wished you had a stray straw wrapper to flick at him, jokingly adding, “it is hot. I love you, but not all of us get off on being ignored, y’know.” 

“Sue me,” he jests, narrowing his eyes into a drunken glare that at best, looks like a squint. “And I don’t get ignored. I do the ignoring”.

Noticing his empty bottle, Rumi slides him her glass sympathetically, “sure ya do”.

The bar is notably less empty than it had been an hour ago. Not full by any means, but the music has slowly been overwhelmed by the quiet lull of overlapping conversation. Tuning out the lovable bickering at your side, you take a moment to appraise the new crowd. 

Something sinks into the pit of your stomach and you baulk, caught on a familiar sight. 

Fuck, you think. How long has he been there?

There he sits, aglow with the sunset hue affixed to the centre of his table. Hair loose, ebony drapes over his shoulders. He’s in a pale turtleneck sweater, looking distinctly out of place. Beside him a lean man, bright in demeanour and loud across the room; a blond braid follows the line of his spine, tinted glasses resting on the end of his nose. 

A woman approaches the pair, beaming. Curved and soft, wearing a lilac, off the shoulder dress that hugs the line of her body comfortably. She sets a tray of drinks down beside their numerous empty glasses and presses herself between the two, unperturbed by the lack of space. 

A spark of recognition frissons through you. They must be the friends you often see framed around the house; Nemuri and Hizashi, if you remember correctly. 

Shouta’s clear exasperation as he moves to accommodate Nemuri makes you want to laugh. But still, there is a fondness there that rolls over him like mist. He sinks into the arm around his shoulder, surrendering himself to the affection. 

“Oi. What’re you staring at?” You blink, startled by the large hand suddenly waving in your face. 

“He’s here”.

“Your hot dadboss?” Touya mutters, doing a poor job of acting natural as he abruptly turns to scan the room, “where?” 

“Could you be any more fucking obvious?” Rumi cackles, bumping their shoulders and forcing his attention back to the table. “‘Sides, it’s clearly the trio on your two o’clock. Scruffy guy with long dark hair, eyebags that couldn’t legally board a plane — the works”. 

As Touya peers over his shoulder towards Shouta, you release a long, suffering groan, slumping forward with elbows propped on the bar surface to bury into your palms. You hoped a sinkhole would open up beneath you. From behind your hands you hear, “I find your taste in men questionable”.

“Like you have any room to talk,” you glare at him through the spaces in your fingers, “didn’t you fuck a guy that had a poster of your dad over his bed?”

Seated adjacent, Rumi chokes on her drink while you knock back your own. “A poster of your dad? Hasn't he been publicly disgraced in every print media possible?”

A dismissive wave of his hand. “I will not be commenting at this time,” he sneers.

“Holy shit. I’m gonna tell your brothers—”

“—Like hell you are!”

Amidst your friends' loving exchange of insults, your phone buzzes. 

Aizawa Shouta : 21:34 

You handle your drink better than I thought. 

Sensing the playful tone, you pointedly take a sip of another. Glancing up from the screen you meet his eyes across the bar, a smirk hidden behind his scotch glass. Chewing the inside of your cheek to withhold a grin, you text him back. 

You : 21:34 

Look who’s talking. I spy four empty glasses on your side of the table. 

“Are you seriously messaging him right now?” Touya asks dryly, unperturbed by the middle finger you throw in response. Rumi laughs at his side, tucking her chin into the palm of her hand as your phone lights up again. 

Aizawa Shouta : 21:36

You sure are paying a lot of attention to me. 

And then: 

Aizawa Shouta : 21:36

But you’re right. No doubt I’ll miss your coffee tomorrow morning. 

A shot glass is placed in front of you. Goaded into bringing it to your lips, you grimace at the burn in your throat. Coffee sounds like bliss. 

You : 21:37 

I’ll miss making it. Who is watching Eri? 

Aizawa Shouta : 21:37

Hitoshi. They’re having a movie marathon. 

You smile to yourself, imagining the apoplectic way in which Eri would likely detail her night to you in a few days. Feeling the weighted stare, you glance up and meet Aizawa’s eyes again, half squinted into a private smile of his own. He nods in acknowledgement and warmth settles in your chest. Rumi, inebriated and loose-lipped, leans into Touya incognisant of his scowl, “Jesus. I feel like I’ve stepped into a romcom”. 

You : 21:38

I can’t wait to hear all about it. 

It is expected that they stay with you after a night out. Your place is closer to the bar — a matter of routine and convenience.  Rumi, lightweight with alcohol and heavyweight with musculature, passes out unceremoniously on your couch before she’s halfway through her large glass of water. 

Touya had sobered up on the walk home. Mostly. Just a two man party, you retire to the bathroom together with intentions of skin care and gossip. He watches you in the reflection of the mirror, bent over the sink and applying the pale clay mask to his face with careless strokes. The colour is almost identical to the faded pink of his burn scars, tight and slightly raised over the swell of his cheek. “You’re not the first person who has wanted to fuck their boss and you won’t be the last,” he mutters. 

“Do you really have to put it like that?” you huff, leaning back against the toilet tank. The seat is closed and cold against the back of your thighs. You didn’t often have time for nights like this anymore, but made sure to pencil them in wherever possible for your own sanity — even if your best friend was the complete opposite of comforting. 

“You’re so delicate,” he rolls his eyes at you, pushing the cat-eared headband further onto his crown to keep his hair out of the clay. Mockingly, he adds, “My apologies. I meant ‘make sweet love to’”. 

Your wide smile cracks the clay dried to your skin as your leg extends to kick him behind the knee, laughing at the hissed string of expletives while he steadies himself. “Dick…” the amusement tapers, a memory of Eri flashing unbidden through your mind. 

“His daughter has had it really rough. She has scars all over her body,” you quietly tell him, fractures forming in the words as your emotions swell. Of all the people you know, you think he alone understands, “it isn’t fair”. 

Touya exhales, clicking the small container shut and loudly dropping the brush into the sink to rinse. Not unkindly, he says, “If I ever meet her we can bond over our shitty biodads. Make an exclusive club”.

You smile weakly at his comment, picking idly at the small wick of flesh embedded in the corner of your fingernail. “They’re both so important to me now, Touya. I don’t want my feelings to mess with this, or to hurt either of them”. 

“It’s not— look,” he huffs, turning to face you where he stands, slumping back onto the counter with a comically serious expression. “I’ll say this once. Your feelings aren’t a burden, and they’re fucking lucky to have you. If the-walking-dead doesn’t want you back it doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world, but it does mean he’s an idiot”. 

You might laugh again if you didn’t recognise how sincere he was being. Touya struggled with reassuring others in need and was renowned for giving terrible advice, but he loved you enough to try anyway. Tiled flooring tepid against the soles of your feet, you cross the short distance to hug him, angled awkwardly to avoid getting pink clay on his shirt. 

“Thank you,” you murmur thickly. 

“Better appreciate it. Being nice isn’t my forte,” he knocks his chin against your crown, comforted in the narrow clutch of his arms. “Takes a lot outta me. Kinda feel like I need a cigarette now”. 

“You haven’t had one in a month. Don’t even think about it,” you flick the space between his brows, dodging his retaliation as he reaches to pinch your waist with a less than coordinated stumble. 

Out in the living room on the edge of your coffee table, your phone buzzes twice. 

Aizawa Shouta : 00:08

If you’re free tomorrow, can you come over to talk?

Aizawa Shouta : 00:08

Just us two. 

Possibilities ran amok in your head. The anxiety thorning through your chest is reminiscent of the very first time you’d met him. Shouta was not a religious man but if there was anything that man insisted on, it was that Sunday’s are for rest. You knew he liked to lie in, a small weekly respite, and so you hesitated to knock. 

A door you had opened, locked, leaned against and lingered under, now seemed so foreboding. From here on out, you imagine there will be a before and an after. Had he heard you in the bar? Had one of his friends? Or, had you been too obvious, just like you feared? 

Touya and Rumi had practically ushered you out of the apartment that morning, promising to stay behind and wait for an update. Greasy food and camp horror movies were in the wings incase of a broken heart. 

With bated breath, you lift your arm. The momentum of your swing slows until your knuckles are soundlessly touching wood. You really, really didn’t want to knock. The idea of your feelings being spurned far outweighed the desire to see Shouta soaked in sleep and early afternoon sunlight again. 

Amidst your trepidation, the decision is made for you. You pull back at the familiar click of a key being turned, hand now clutched against your chest. The door is opened. 

Belatedly, you notice that his face is clean shaven; hair combed and half tucked behind his ear to display the smooth skin. Absent is the neon pink, today the sweatpants are dark and cuffed around his ankles. You hold his gaze, resolutely avoiding how his shirt hangs loose enough to expose his pale collarbones, and find that each of his socks is a different colour — one green, one yellow. 

“Will you be loitering out here all day?” he asks in lieu of a greeting. There’s an amused inflection to his tone that, at the very least, softens your embarrassment. 

“I didn’t plan on it,” you reply, stepping into the entryway to be embraced by the house’s warmth. Anticipation strums deft fingers through your centre of gravity. Shouta barely moves, a hair's breadth between your bodies as you slip by him, head turning to watch you pass. “Eri isn’t here?”

Bending to remove your shoes, you hear him say, “She’s staying with her aunt Nemuri tonight. Coffee’s brewed, so you can sit if you want. Get comfortable”.

“You made it?” playful in the way you glance toward him over your shoulder, slightly invigorated by how natural this all feels. He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s about to fire you — quite the opposite. “I’m a little scared”. 

The first time you’d caved into drinking one of his morning coffees it'd had the taste and texture of tar. It had been nothing short of punishment. As if he was reliving the memory alongside you, Shouta huffs a short laugh. 

“I’ve improved. I won’t be shown up in my own home,” he dismisses you with a wave and heads into the kitchen, “now go and sit”. 

Bastard observes your entrance perched atop the back of the couch, expression etched into a permanent glare. A soft thud follows his leap down, slinking into your lap once seated and rolling his body weight into your stomach. You smile down at him, carding through his soft fur and feeling the vibration of his purr beneath your fingers.

Befriending this fickle little creature is a testament to how far you’ve come with their family. 

“Here,” you look up to see Shouta standing before you, a familiar mug decorated with multicoloured pawprints held out. You take it by the handle, wary of its heat. The other end of the couch dips as he settles beside you, notably close. 

“It smells a little like… cinnamon?”

He hums an affirmative, bringing the rim of his mug to his lips and taking a long sip, unconcerned by the temperature. “I added some to the pot this time. Not too bad”. 

The tawny surface ripples as you lightly blow across it before having a taste. It’s full on your tongue, but in a way that is creamy rather than viscid. You can feel his stare boring into the side of your face as you savour the subtle sweetness of the cinnamon. 

“Not too bad,” you echo with a wry smile, meeting his gaze. Shouta appears uncharacteristically… relieved by your answer. You’d never known him to actively try to impress you. His shoulders relax, rubbing his hand awkwardly along the line of his jaw. 

Without forethought, you blurt, “You’ve shaved”. 

His movement halts, and you regret having said anything. 

“I did,” he replies dryly. “...I was pestered by some very annoying people into putting some effort into my appearance before we had this conversation”

You stroke the pad of your thumb around your mug handle, made restless by the implication. Shouta was always effortlessly considerate of you, but his actions as of late are so obviously purposeful, and you didn’t know what to make of it. “I don’t think you needed to,” you tell him, your voice almost wistful in how sincere it sounds. “The scruffy look works for you. It’s handsome”. 

The contact breaks for a moment as he lifts his coffee in effort to disguise his snort. You watch his throat bob, swallowing deeply. Brow quirked, he asks, “You think I’m scruffy?”

“I think you’re handsome,” you correct, a giddy sensation bubbling in your chest as the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Stop fishing, you said I’m here to talk about something”. 

“You are,” he agrees, abating his mirth and returning to a more serious tone. You immediately miss the warmth. “I’m no good at this kind of thing. But I want to remind you that you can leave, if at any time I make you uncomfortable”. 

Bastard fidgets, but dull claws kneading through your clothes does nothing to alleviate your sudden anxiety. “Alright… What’s— what’s all this about?” 

You can see the breath he takes to steady himself, the internal monologue you aren’t privy to. There’s a discomfort that sinks into his expression, almost like a grimace. Like predetermined regret. Despite your earlier concerns, this was clearly about him and not about you. 

“I admired from the very beginning how brilliant you were with Eri. You weren’t the first nanny we’d been introduced to, but she never took well to any of the others,” as he begins, you tuck a hand beneath the feline in your lap, distractedly stroking his chin. “We both saw something comforting in you. It was unnerving how easily you fit into our lives”. 

Mirroring you, Shouta reaches his free hand across to scratch behind Bastard's ear. “Eri came to love you, and eventually I…” the bridge of his nose wrinkles, lips thinning as if he tasted something sour. You’re both hesitating, teetering over a cliff's edge, wary of the jump. Your pulse beats loud in your ears, and part of you worries you’ll mishear him all together. 

“Over time, I developed strong romantic feelings for you,” he says. In admitting it, the fight visibly bleeds from his body. He sounds apologetic, and it hurts. “I might have dealt with it myself had Hitoshi not told me I was being too obvious. If that’s the case, and I’ve crossed any boundaries with you I want to apolo—”

“Don’t apologise,” you hastily interrupt. “Sorry for cutting you off. I— I didn’t know, but, I like you too”. 

The grip on your mug is shatteringly tight. He stares at you unblinking, eyes widened in imperceptible surprise. “You do?”

“I thought I was embarrassingly obvious,” You laugh weakly, seconding him another glance. He’s still watching, a light shade of pink creeping up his neck. “I’ve been feeling so guilty. Not only about crossing professional lines, but because I don’t want any of this to hurt Eri”. 

“Then we’re on the same page,” he concedes. 

Your reciprocation sees a shift in atmosphere. As you both soak in the words, and all the consequences that may follow, his hand gradually slips beneath Bastard’s chin and brushes against your own. Fingers twitch, gluttonous, the moment held in suspension. 

And then they’re spreading, unfolding like a flower in bloom. Your palms align and stems intertwine. Shouta holds your hand like it’s something precious, filling the spaces between your fingers. Bastard remains incognisant of the world around him as he sleeps, resting his head heavily against your wrists.  

“Realistically,” you begin again, after a brief silence. “Where would you want this to go? Between us”. 

His grip tightens, and he runs his thumb along the points of your knuckles. “Well. I initiated this discussion knowing things likely would not be the same again after,” he murmurs gently. “Best case scenario, I hoped either we would come up with a schedule that kept more concrete boundaries in place so my feelings wouldn’t disrupt your relationship with Eri, or I’d get lucky and you’d want to build something more with me”. 

More. Maw. The aching hunger in your heart is suddenly startlingly prominent. The very thing you’d been wanting for, offered to you on a silver platter. Knowing he had always planned to keep you in Eri’s life strikes a chord, and you feel like you might cry. 

Squeezing his hand back, you blink away the sting in your sinuses. “This is… slightly overwhelming”.

He smiles heistantly. You never thought you’d see the day that Aizawa Shouta looked shy. “Do I need to get the feelings chart?”

“Shut up,” you laugh. “I’m just happy. This is a big thing, and it’s about more than just us, but for now... I’m happy”. 

Then, with the lines in the sand patently smoothed over, you relinquish restraint and lean into his shoulder. He rests his cheek against your temple, and you shape around one another instinctively. “If I could be the one to pick, then I think I’d choose to build something more with you”.

“Yeah?” There’s a raspy baritone warming his voice that pulls at your centre. You want to curl up next to it like kindling. 

“Yeah”. 

“So,” he turns his head and his lips are softer than expected along your skin. “You wouldn’t mind if I took you on a date?” 

“I wouldn’t,” you breathe. He hums, a sincere happy little sound. 

“Would you mind if I kissed you?”

The mug of coffee, still held in your right hand, is cold. Bastard remains heavy, spread across your lap like a blanket. You can feel Shouta’s apprehension, the uncertainty that comes with drawing new lines on a blank slate. Again, you repeat, “I wouldn’t”. 

He doesn’t fumble. Shouta rests his drink beside the couch, a fleeting loss of his warmth, and then he’s back to take your own. All without releasing your left hand. Bastard complains when your legs move, knees turning inwards to face him as Aizawa moves to cradle your face between palms, and the feline departs your lap, stray hairs dotting your clothes. 

A sense of weightlessness floods through you, fingers entangling into the fabric of his shirt to keep yourself tethered. He reveres you for a moment, eyes lingering on your expression as he brings your foreheads together. This close, you can see a faint scar curved along his cheek that you had never noticed before.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs.

Heat pricks at your skin. You can feel his breath on your lips. “Hurry up,” you insist. 

The lilt of desperation in your tone inspires a lazy grin, “You could say please”. 

You had no problems parting with your dignity. “Please”.

And so, he kisses you. 

You’re certain you would be formless without Shouta’s hand smoothing along the column of your throat, untethered. The other moves to your hip. He grounds you, thumbs circling the soft skin of your waist, he pulls away for breath only to dip and capture your lips in another tender kiss. It’s slow, patient and lacking in direction. It’s without expectation and arousal. It is just that — loving. 

When your lips part, he murmurs your name softly into your mouth. His tongue is wet and languid, smooth as it maps out the grooves of your teeth, sliding warm against your own. Excitement frissons along the length of your spine, compelling you to press closer and sate your hunger. 

He tastes like cinnamon. 

The touches evolve into something more frantic. You end up curled into him as he sinks back against the couch, half pulling you onto his lap. Appreciative and firm, a hand squeezes the fat of your thigh where it is strewn over his knee. You swallow every sweet murmuring, every soft groan he gives you, and it falls like a small stone into the pit of your stomach. Barely filling.

You wanted more, and between gasping breaths, you knew he did too. 

“Can I take you to bed?” he asks, the question rough in his throat.

The muscles in your legs clench at that, pressing tightly together. It wasn’t that you didn’t want it— you felt yourself throb at the thought, shrinking under the weight of his hunger — but you’d hardly come here expecting anything. Especially not this.

“I— I didn’t come prepared for that?” you answer honestly. His gaze grows heavy, brow curved in a silent bid for explanation. “I didn’t… shower for very long,” and you hadn’t worn particularly alluring underwear, either. 

He takes a measured breath and you shy into the couch cushions. “You think I care about that?” he says. Your eyes flicker then at the gentle stroke of his fingers along your jawline. He tilts your chin with the hand cradling your cheek, and forces you to look back at him. The pad of his thumb traces along your bottom lip, and he smiles when you reflexively kiss it. 

“We don’t have to, I know this might be too fast. We can stop right here, ” he murmurs, enunciating each word as if to stress his sincerity. “But know that I do want you, I want all of you. And I want you now, as you are”. 

You shift in place, reflexively seeking friction. Still, he waits. “Do you have condoms?” 

“I do,” his eyes are half lidded, and they gleam with mirth. “Two kids at home and twenty in my criminology programme. Not looking to have more anytime soon”. 

Maybe your transparency should be, at the very least, a little embarrassing. No doubt you’re wearing a lovesick expression. But you can’t find it in you to care. “Then okay,” you tell him. “Take me upstairs”. 

Excitement stirs in your gut during the walk up, feeling his presence at the small of your back. The door to his room has been left ajar, and when he overtakes you to enter first you’re struck by the realisation that this is the only room you’ve never been in. 

You aren’t sure what you were expecting. It’s a cool off white colour, save for an accent wall painted a dark emerald green — so dark, that without the sunlight you could mistake it for black, not unlike his kitchen. There are two alcoves fixed with shelves, lined with books and titles you haven’t heard of, and a small desk beside his chest of drawers covered in paperwork. 

The bedframe is high, but there is no headboard. Pillows upon pillows, blankets old and new. Sitting square in the middle of the mattress is Sourpuss, her paws tucked against her belly as she stares at the intrusion. 

You aren’t given much time to process. There are hands on your hips, teeth paving tender nips down the curve of your throat. “Still ok?” Shouta rasps, nosing the delicate skin beneath your ear. 

“Yeah,” and you’re sinking into his chest like warm water as he gently guides you into the room. Before reaching the bed, you turn in his arms to kiss him. Your fingers thread into his thick hair, light as you scratch against his scalp. 

Sourpuss complains when you’re lowered onto the bed, jumping to the floor as you scoot up towards the pillows. You offer her a half hearted apology, already distracted by the roll of Shouta’s hips. 

His cock is hard beneath his sweatpants, rocking deliciously against your clothed sex. Everything is hot. “Shouta—!” face turned into the sheets to muffle your whine, you note that they smell like him. 

“I know love,” he ruts forward again, expression pinched in pleasure. With your throat bared, he continues the path of open mouthed kisses to your collar, a hand rising to cup your chest. You arch into the touch as he squeezes. “Bet you could make me cum like this—”

“—But not before you do,” Another kiss to your lips, chaste in comparison. He pulls away to meet your gaze, seeking permission. “I want to taste you”. 

“Okay…” you tilt your chin, pecking the corner of his mouth, and you feel it curve up as your hands find purchase at the hem of his shirt. “Just take this off, first”. 

When he sits back on his knees, arms crossed to lift the fabric over his head, you are left adrift to enjoy the view. He is well built but appears to have lost definition over time, with his biceps and pecs still thick but his stomach soft. There’s sparse hair on his chest, thicker beneath his belly button. 

Indulging the urge to touch, he shudders as you trace your finger through it and tease his waistband. “Yours too,” he says, the instruction rough in his throat. 

His body moves with yours like the tide as you sit up to remove your shirt, already there to lick the valley between your breasts. You wrap your arms around his head, gathering the dark hair draped over you and brushing it away from his face to watch the way he reveries you. 

Your abdomen flinches under his soft kisses. Shouta travels the length of your torso as if he were savouring you. He’s pressing sweet nothings in your skin, inaudible mumblings that still leave you warm because they’re spoken so breathlessly. 

He hooks into your waistband and looks at you. Before he can ask, you slip your hands alongside his — “here, let me…” — and begin to push both your pants and your underwear over the curve of your ass. As the material peels away, you can feel it cling to your sex. Wet. 

“Fuck, look at you,” a hand gently parts your knees. He forges another line of light, barely there kisses along your inner thighs, and once he reaches the apex he inhales with a quiet groan that has your fingers tugging at his hair. He’s immovable as your embarrassment pushes him back barely an inch, satisfaction twitching at the edge of his mouth. Jaw slack, pupils dilated and almost gleaming in rebellion, he rolls his tongue forward obscenely to flick the bud of your clit. 

Your breathing stutters. It loosens your grip enough that he can tip his head forward to consume you completely, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure like it was his arousal own being satiated. Covetous, he signals contentment with a rumbling in his chest and it vibrates against your sex. 

The beat of your heart ricochets through your centre; pulsing in your throat, your ears and your pussy. Shouta’s tongue slides over you, wet and soft. Where it seems like he’s indulging himself, you realise he’s still adapting each movement to the sounds you make. Wherever a moan falls past your lips he maintains rhythm and pace, reins himself in to watch the rise and fall of your breasts. 

The knot in your belly tightens and your body coils in on itself, thighs clamped against his ears with hips bucking into his mouth. The mattress shakes, and when you notice it’s him rutting into the sheets, you moan helplessly louder. “Shouta, I’m—!” 

He groans, fingers sinking into the fat of your hips and pulling you impossibly close. Your heels dig into his back as his nose slides against your clit, and he tilts to unrelentingly flicker his tongue over the swell. 

“Just like that,” you gasp, grip searing at his scalp. Lewd, wet sounds reverberate around the room. “Fuck!” 

A momentary breath is caught in your throat. Your body bends, spine arched forward like a bow as you crest. All at once, the sharp twist in your belly lessens, diffuses, warms your body from the inside out in gentle pulses. 

In returning to yourself, you realise he’s steadily carrying you through the motions; soft licks and forgiving kisses until sensitivity overwhelms you. He hums again, like a man that has just finished a meal. You relinquish your grip on his hair and begin massaging the roots in apology. 

“Hey,” you mumble, resting your cheek against your shoulder as you peer down at him between your legs. Resting against your thigh, face sodden and pink, he looks rather pleased with himself. 

He sighs, tongue lazily swiping along his lower lip. Half lidded, he meets your gaze. “Can I preface this by telling you it's been a while since I've had sex?” 

You laugh at the unexpected response. “What, why? Did you cum in your pants?” 

The question itself is a joke, but when he levels you with a carefully blank look, your mouth parts. “You did?”

“Possibly,” he grunts, tucking his chin to nose along your navel. 

Sensing his simmering embarrassment, you reach to encourage him back up the bed until you’re face to face. Unperturbed by what's left of your own arousal, you cradle his jaw and kiss him soundly. 

“That’s so—” again and again, punctuating each word, “—so fucking hot”. 

Shouta grins against your lips, slipping his arms around your waist and gathering you to his chest. Your palm rests over his heart, fingers idly twirling around the short hair there. “So were you,” he murmurs, pointedly shifting his hips. You can feel his sweatpants are slightly damp. “That was the problem”. 

“Sorry,” you offer playfully, enjoying the pleasant buzz prickling under your skin. “It doesn’t matter. We’ve got plenty of time, haven’t we?” 

It is then that your intimate afterglow is cut short, by the long suffering yowl of Sourpuss no less. Glaring sharply from her place by the desk, mortification rolls over you. 

“Please tell me she wasn’t watching us?” 

Shouta snorts, the sound dissolving into peals of quiet laughter as you smack his shoulder. “I don’t know,” he replies amusedly, loosening his grip and turning to the edge of the bed. “I was a little preoccupied”. 

He stands and ushers the feline towards the door, which he’d mistakenly left ajar. “I can’t believe this,” you bemoan, crossing your arms over your head to hide your face. 

There’s a dip on your side of the mattress, followed by the sound of something being placed on the bedside table. He sits beside you, leaning across to pry away your limbs. “Come here,” he croons, first bringing your inner wrist to his lips. “I’m sure she wasn’t”. 

His hair curtains the two of you as he presses your foreheads together. It brings you back into a world made up of just the two of you. “Let me kiss you,” and you do. You can appreciate the distraction. 

You part when something vibrates. In your peripheral vision, you notice a screen light up. He must’ve taken your phone out of your pants pocket. “You should check that, it buzzed earlier too. I’m gonna get out of these boxers”. 

“Okay,” you smile as he presses another kiss to your temple. You never would’ve guessed he’d be so affectionate. 

He busies himself changing while you look at your messages. It’s the group chat with Rumi and Touya. 

Sugar tits (Touya) : 13:03

Oi. Are you alive. 

Ru-ru (Rumi) : 13:12

Babe. Please reply to us before Touya sets ur mans house on fire lol 

You : 13:26

Sorry sorry!! I’m alive. My legs feel like jelly though (´ ꒳` )

Almost immediately, the device is furiously vibrating in your hands again. You rest it against your sternum and grin, choosing to bask in the feeling a little longer. 

When you are next tasked with caring for Eri, a few days have passed and the weather has turned. You pick her up from school on the tail end of an unexpected heatwave with the promise of a surprise when you get home. She holds three of your fingers in her hand, and a small handheld fan in the other. It’s Sailor Moon themed. 

After cleaning up that afternoon, Shouta sat with you and had a much longer discussion about what the next steps should be. He made it emphatically clear that he didn’t enjoy the thought of being in a relationship with someone he employed — admittedly, it didn’t sit right with you either. 

But the importance lies with Eri. For the both of you, she must always come first. Your sudden upheaval as her other caretaker would likely cause a lot of hurt and confusion. So Shouta asked that you patiently wait for your first date until after he has talked to his daughter. 

You watch her with a smile as she warmly greets Sourpuss at the foot of the stairs — whom you still cannot make eye contact with — and skips into the living room. In your mind, you count backwards from three until you hear the expected gasp. 

She must’ve found the fort. 

Less of a fort, more of a… linen cave. It’s an old king-sized bed sheet you’d found in the closet, held in place by a book at each corner, and gaping open with the assistance of a fan at the entrance. 

“Can I…?”

“Yes, yes,” you beckon her to climb in, already relieved by the cool gust of air rotating into the sheet. “Go on in. It’s for you!” 

You’d tried to make it as comfortable as possible, filled with cushions and soft toys from her bed. At the very least it has a seal of approval from Bastard, who has curled up into himself atop one of the pillows, his long coat moving in the current. Eri crawls in on her hands and knees, settling beside him with a happy giggle. 

“You too!” She cheers. You clamber in, tucked between her and one of her favourite plushies. 

“Come on,” you say, grinning as you excitedly encourage her to join you, “watch this”. With curious eyes watching, you lean towards the spinning fan and speak into it. “Isn’t this cool?” your voice is given a jarring staccato effect as the sound waves bounce back. “I. Am. A. Robot”. 

You didn’t think your smile could get any bigger until she began to laugh delightedly. She slumps her weight against you, cheek to cheek and pressed close to your side as she rushes to try it herself. Silver hair billowing in the current, she declares with a distorted voice, “My. Name. Is. Eri!“

You hold her steady as she continues to giggle. The cool air is beginning to dry out your lips, and your eyes are growing sore with every blink, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. “I like this. I’m happy,” she says, the confession sincere even as it warps. 

“Good,” you murmur, stroking your hand over her crown. “When you’re happy, I’m happy”.

For reasons unknown to you, this gives Eri pause. Her lips pursed, expression adorably pinched in contemplation. Whatever it is, you let her think, and you wait. 

“Amano-sensei talked about families in class today,” she tells you, turning on her knees with hands folded formally in her lap. Despite her resolve, she is anxiously picking at her fingers. “Sensei told us that everyone's family looks different. Some... some people have one mama or one dad, or both. Or none. Or two dads or— even two mamas”.

A nod, “That’s right sweetheart”.

An irrational bout of nerves settle in your stomach as she gauges you. “Some kids' parents picked them, like my dad did… others have two but they aren’t married…”

“That is true,” you concede gently. “Not all families are related by blood. Like you and your dad, or you and Hitoshi. But you’re still family”. 

Eri hums, glancing down to her lap with cheeks puffed. You smile fondly when she exhales the air with an exaggerated noise. “Then!” she starts, shuffling closer on her knees, “if we’re family, but you and dad are not married… What should I call you?” 

For a startling moment, you’re sure your heart is in your throat. She continues, “Do I have two dads? Or two mamas? Or one dad and a…?” 

“Eri,” your words falter, reaching to still her restless hands. “You think we’re family?”

Her head tilts. “Aren’t we?” 

The breath is forced from your lungs. Even seated, you feel as if the floor has been stolen from beneath you. Willing away the prickling behind your eyes, you assuage her with a firm squeeze. 

“We are,” you warmly avow, “and you can call me whatever you’d like”. She beams, any and all uncertainty dwindling, in your mind and her own. 

Satisfied with the answer, she drops the topic. You think it must’ve been plaguing her the entire walk home, given how quiet she’d been. More than that, you wonder whether Shouta had laid kindling for those thoughts or if she’d come to that conclusion herself.

After an hour of reciting her favourite book into the rotating blades of the fan, complete only with your expert cartoonish voices, it is time for a cat nap. It isn’t hard to fall asleep when splayed across such comfortable bedding, accompanied by white noise and a cool breeze. But you wake not long after to an obtrusive ray of light piercing through the duvet fabric. The makeshift cave is now sun drenched and warm, and laid on the far edge is a new guest. 

Shouta is still in his work clothes, laid on his side with Eri turned towards him in her sleep, small hand fisted around his tie. His lips are parted, inhaling shallow breaths. He’s asleep, too, with an arm extended to rest his hand over your hip. 

You carefully thread into the spaces between his fingers and watch them both in quiet appreciation until your eyes, too, are heavy. Your chest has never been so full. And as consciousness slips, your heart tips over the cliff's edge and is pulled, inexorably, towards home. 

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta x reader

[yanderes-galore]

Yandere Lucifer who falls for a hell born reader who’s maybe a hell hound who works at the hotel for free as long as she’s helping; hcs please.

I don't watch Helluva Boss but I do have a vague understanding of Hellhounds in this universe so... I'll try my best :) Again I altered the idea a little bit but I hope you still like it.

Edit: The note is outdated as now I do watch Helluva Boss. It's good, ignore past me.

Yandere! Lucifer with Hellhound! Darling

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Female Darling, Obsession, Unhealthy power dynamic, Manipulation, Degrading behavior (You're called a good girl due to being a Hound, idk if it counts), Possessive/Protective behavior, Delusional behavior, Clingy behavior, Possible kidnapping, Dubious relationship/companionship.

Alright, according to my research, Hellhounds are Hellborn who rank under Imps.

They are bottom of the ladder Demons who are used for labor, pets, or guards of some sort.

Hellborn are unable to be redeemed, as a result they don't typically bother with the Hotel.

However... Here's my idea.

You were originally some sort of nanny or guard for Charlie.

Either Lucifer or Lilith had appointed you, a Hellhound, to care for Charlie when they can't.

This resulted in you staying at the Hotel with Charlie.

The Hotel is a home to you, plus you care for Charlie and help in any way you can.

Lucifer's obsession wouldn't start until he visits the Hotel.

He knows about you, the Hellhound that was taken in because his daughter saw you and got so damn excited.

You had no home, so Charlie's parents allowed you in.

You were so nice with his little girl.

You were an adult female Hellhound who left the Gluttony Ring to find a job in the Pride Ring.

Upon being offered the job of guard and caretaker by Lucifer/Lilith, you take it gratefully.

Since then you'd been caring for Charlie, a loyal servant and guard dog.

The last time Lucifer saw you was when Lilith took Charlie.

Being the ever loyal hound you were, you followed them obediently and left Lucifer alone.

When Lucifer enters the Hotel, he is surprised to be greeted by you.

You're surprised to see him and smell his familiar scent, but you bow and lead him inside.

It... caused Lucifer to smile upon realizing someone does still care.

"There's no need for the bow, girl... we can be casual. Now, how's Charlie? Been treating her well?"

Lucifer wasn't expecting to be so happy when seeing you again.

Maybe it's the depression and the fact his wife left him.

For some reason... he feels a bit attached to you.

Even more so when he sees how loyal you are toward Charlie, often protecting her and receiving pats on your head.

It feels a bit strange for him... but he does think he's falling in love again in some way.

Lucifer probably just yearns for companionship of any kind.

Be that platonic love or romantic love.

You've always been such a big help for him and his family since they took you in.

I mean... you already parent Charlie more than him at times.

Lucifer is noticeably awkward when he tries to reconnect and speak with anyone in the Hotel.

However, he seems to talk fine with you for the most part, often asking about Charlie and how you've been throughout the years, you got your Hellbies shot, right?

Lucifer has trouble understanding his feelings towards you, he may even be a bit delusional.

Yet... he seems rather intent on getting closer to you since he entered the Hotel.

Now, here's where I'm just going to talk little HCs of Lucifer with a Hellhound! Darling.

He definitely would call you a "good girl".

That along with petting you or calling you into his lap.

Lucifer would give you a kiss on the forehead and often just likes holding you to feel your soft fur.

I imagine he's possessive of your attention at times due to feeling neglected by those he loves.

Lucifer may make you rubber duckies as gifts.

He's also asking about you with Charlie since he thinks out of anyone Charlie knows you best.

Definitely thinks you also love him just as much, even if you just see him as a master or some sort more than a partner.

If he's jealous or irritated with something, you calm him down by jumping in his lap and licking his face.

It shocks him for a moment, even if he knows that's just how Hellhounds show affection, but soon it just melts him.

I prefer a dubious pairing in this, but you can see him with a Hellhound darling in either way as you're a guard to Charlie.

He may also be protective since you're such a precious person to him.

With Lucifer... he plans to not make you feel like you're low on Hell's hierarchy.

You're not just a peasant to him.

You're his Hellhound, his good girl who has always been loyal...

Unlike others he's loved....

You aren't a pet to him, although some Hellhounds are often seen that way.

You're someone he sees as family of some kind, you make him and his daughter happy.

You always have...

Which is why he doesn't like the idea of letting you go.

You're loyal to Charlie but respect Lucifer.

Loyal to the point of never leaving the Hotel...

But... what if he ordered you to?

What if he asked Charlie to let him borrow you for company.

He promises you it's okay to part from Charlie for a bit.

He'll return you to the Hotel in due time (He won't).

Lucifer doesn't want to be alone again right now...

You'll be a good girl and listen to your master, yeah?

"The pets feel nice, don't they? There's my loyal girl... missed you so much...! Don't worry about Charlie, she's a big girl now. You've done your part. Just worry about me... alright? Don't need you to go back to the Hotel right now... just need you here with me!"

#yandere hazbin hotel #yandere lucifer #yandere lucifer morningstar

[backtothefanfiction]

Hiii! i love your writing 😘 if your ok with writing this could i request some fluffy dad!felix catton if you have any in store?! again, totally understand if your uncomfortable writing this or just don’t want to 😊😊

It’s taken me a while to get to this because I’ve been struggling to find my way in when it comes to Felix as a Dad. I’m not sure if I do have a Dad!Felix fluff in me but I do have some thoughts/head canons on Felix as a Dad as a whole I’m slowly developing. So here are those…

Felix is all in in the newborn stage. It’s a novelty for him. The easy stage before they find their voices and start screaming the place down. When all you have to do is hold them, feed them, change them. He’s so there for that.

He’s happy to get up in the middle of the night, looking out the windows at the grounds with a baby in his arms, telling stories and recounting memories of his youth and that time running around the grounds with Farleigh and Venetia.

He loves see you with HIS child. He’s very protective. While you lie in his bed with tea and toast, feeding your child he shoos everyone else from the room, not wanting to share that sight or special time with anyone else in the family. Venetia is the only one who occasionally slips through the cracks. (She is a great aunt to your child by the way)

When the baby starts to grow older though he begins to struggle. You are a very hands on parent in comparison to him and he’s happy for you to be. After all his mother was very hands on with him and Venetia, however as a child he never saw his Dad there as much as his Mum and so has adopted a similar way of thinking that of his father and grandfather that fussing kids is a Mother problem.

Don’t get me wrong, he still loves showing up to be the fun dad. Running across the lawns with them. Enabling their hobbies and paying for anything they want. But when it comes to the hard stuff you feel completely abandoned.

As time goes on you realise you aren’t on the same wave length about parenting at all. And a lot of that has to do with Felix’s upbringing and family.

Elspeth is always there to step in and make a fuss, forcing herself on her grandchildren like she makes everything better, but often (especially if a child is already in a tantrum state it can sometimes make it worse until she just hands the child back and leaves you with a screaming child.

When Felix’s mates come knocking, asking him to go on golfing or skiing holidays with them it’s always “you’ve got this, haven’t you babe? Great. I love you. See you in a week.”

And because that’s how Felix was raised, what he observed from his family over the years, he honestly knows no better.

“If you’re struggling we can just get a Nanny.” He says when you confront him. It always has you seeing red. “I don’t want a Nanny Felix. I want US to raise our kids.”

You realise the only way things will change is if you all get out of that house and away from his family. So you give him the ultimatum: “it’s either us or your family.”

Of course it’s that honour in him, that unspoken traditional allegiance to your wife and kids that has him reluctantly agreeing, hoping in a few months you’ll see sense and see how difficult it is without all the servants and his daddy’s money. But you thrive, despite the way Felix shuffles his feet and does the bare minimum in protest.

After another argument where you tell him to show up or fuck off back to his family he finally takes you seriously and the more time he spends with you and your family and more modest hands on parenting and living styles he begins to thrive, seeing that the grass can be greener on the other side.

The more time away from his family he sees how toxic his families dynamic is. When you visit he sticks up for his kids and is protective of them when his parents begin to push their values and views on his kids.

You stand by him as he begins to put in boundaries and really analyse his life, his youth, his privilege and how it has in fact hindered him in life in so many basic ways. You support him and feel pride when he helps enforce those boundaries around his parents, his family as he ultimately gives them the same ultimatum you gave him all those years ago.

Although his father is reluctant, Elspeth is desperate to know her grandchildren and apologised to you both and promises to respect your parenting choices and swears to try and uphold those values in front of your children as much as she can.

With the new boundaries in place, summers in Saltburn become regular things for your kids. All of you playing together on the grounds. Chasing each other through the maze. Swimming in the pool and the lake.You and Felix set up scavenger hunts for your kids. And they ultimately grow up with the best of both worlds.

So yeah. Those are my more realistic Dad Felix thoughts. Tell me what you think….

#felix catton imagine #dad!felix #Felix Catrin #Felix catton x reader #dad!felix x reader #felix catton fluff #Felix catton headcanons #saltburn #saltburn imagines #saltburn x reader

[canirove]

My neighbour Rúben | Chapter 1

Summary: Have you ever watched this movie Scarlett Johansson and Chris Evans did before Marvel called “The Nanny Diaries”? It's about a girl, Scarlett's character, who finds herself working as a nanny for a very rich family, and Chris happens to be her hot and very cute neighbour. And something very similar is what has happened to me, neighbour included. Though in my case, mine is very cute and very hot. And handsome. The most handsome man I have ever seen. And his name is Rúben.

Author's note: This story has been finished and waiting in my drafts since 2022. I wrote it as a new and different version of "The Nanny Diaries" (my story with Ben Chilwell) because I didn't like it, and then I ended not liking this one either 🙈 But time passed, I read it again recently, thought it was cute… And here we are, having now both of them posted when they weren't supposed to 😅 I hope you like it, and as always, thank you for reading! 💜

Next chapter

Masterlist

Have you ever watched this movie Scarlett Johansson and Chris Evans did before Marvel called “The Nanny Diaries”? It's about a girl, Scarlett's character, who finds herself working as a nanny for a very rich family with a spoiled kid and Chris is her hot and very cute neighbour. And something very similar is what has happened to me, but let's start from the beginning.

My entire life was designed to achieve one goal: become the best piano player in the country. Or in the continent if my father got too excited. And since I can remember, I've been glued to one.

While my friends were going out to the park, I was going to my teacher's house to practice. While my friends were meeting to go shopping or watch a movie at the cinema, I was practicing. While my friends were going out clubbing and meeting boys and girls, I was going early to bed because I had practice in the morning. And while my friends were choosing a career path they liked and enjoyed and moving to different cities all around the country, I only had one option: playing the piano and moving to Manchester, where the best teacher lived. 

The weather sucks, yes. But it isn't such an ugly city as they say, and all the people I met were lovely and very welcoming. Unless you are fighting with them for a spot on the next recital or to get the next scholarship. That's when things get nasty, and that's how you end up with broken fingers and the dreams your parents had for you shattered. Because becoming the best piano player of my generation wasn't my dream, it was theirs. Or my father’s to be precise.

So when Anastasia Hamilton pushed me down the stairs and I found myself with two broken fingers on my left hand, a sprained ankle and my body covered in bruises, I didn't complain. Well, that's a lie. I complained and cried because it hurt like hell. But I didn't complain when they told me I wouldn't be able to play the piano like I used to due to one of my fingers not healing properly despite being treated by the best doctors. I didn't complain because I was finally free. If I wanted to play, I would be doing it because I wanted to, not because it was my job, because I had to, because my future depended on it. Now I was free to finally follow my dreams and not my parents’. Or that's what I thought.

I told them I wanted to take a gap year to figure out what to do with my life, but they said no. They had decided that I should study to become a music teacher, to help others achieve what I hadn't been able to. We argued, they said that if I wanted to do anything different it would not be with their money, I said ok, and I found myself alone in Manchester with barely any money or a place to live.

And that's when I crossed paths with Julia. 

I had gone to the shopping centre to see if anyone was looking for a waitress or someone to fold t-shirts in a shop, when I saw her crying in the middle of one of the corridors, most people walking past her and ignoring her. 

"Hey, are you ok?" I said, kneeling in front of her. "Where are your parents?"

"Quiero a mi mamá" she sobbed. That was why people were ignoring her. She only spoke Spanish and they didn't understand her. But, lucky me, I used to go to the north of Spain for music summer camp and I can speak it fluently. 

"¿Dónde está tu mamá?" Where is your mum? 

"No lo sé. Estaba comprando una taza fea y..." Her mum was buying an ugly mug. I couldn't help but laugh at that.

"Ok, let’s go find her.” Where we were most shops only sold clothes, but I remembered I had just walked past a Zara Home. Maybe she was there? "Come" I said, grabbing her hand. She didn't say a word and just followed me, her sobs turning into hiccups. 

"Julia!" a woman screamed the moment we turned the corner. "Oh, Julia, I thought I had lost you!" 

"Mami!" the kid said, letting go of my hand and throwing herself at the woman. "Me perdí y esta chica me ayudó."

"Did you help her?" the woman asked me.

"I saw her crying and that people were ignoring her, and I decided to check on her. She was speaking Spanish and I think that's why most people were walking past her, because they weren't able to understand her."

"Oh, she always does that when she gets upset. Do you speak Spanish?"

"Yup."

"Oh, you are an angel" the woman said, hugging her daughter a bit tighter. "I don't know how I'm gonna be able to thank you."

"Knowing that she's alright is enough, don’t worry."

"No, no, no. You must allow me to do something for you. What do you say, Julia. Should we invite this wonderful angel to have lunch with us?"

"Yes!" Julia said, her English coming back. "We'll bake you a chocolate cake! Do you like chocolate cake?"

"I actually do, yes" I smiled.

"Then it's settled. Let me give you my card, it has my office phone number on it" Julia's mum said, opening her bag. "Call tomorrow morning and we'll schedule that lunch together."

"Ok. Thank you."

"Thank you" the woman said, giving me a hug. "My name us Lucía, by the way. But you can call me Lucy like everyone in this country does."

"Nice to meet you, Lucy."

Lucía, Lucy. A Spanish lawyer specialized in divorces, and the divorces of very wealthy people. Which meant that when I arrived at her house for that lunch date, I found myself before one of the most expensive apartment buildings in the city. 

"Are you coming in, miss?" the doorman asked.

"Yes, hi, sorry. Do I have to tell you where I'm going or..."

"You don't look like a thief" the man chuckled.

"I'm not, I promise. I'm meeting with Lucy and Julia."

"Oh, yes. Miss Julia said a friend was coming for lunch today. An angel."

"That must be me" I said, blushing a bit.

"Then welcome, miss" the man said, opening the building's door. "Do you know their floor number?"

"Yes, the 7th. Letter B."

"That’s the one. Call for the lift and push the number, their house will be the one to your right."

"Thank you very much, sir."

"My pleasure, miss" the man said with a smile. Roger. The loveliest man you'll ever meet.

"So glad you could make it" Lucy said after opening the door, giving me a hug. 

"Angel!" Julia screamed, coming to also hug me. "You came!"

"Of course I did."

"She’s decided to start calling you angel because of what I said at the shopping centre. I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry" I smiled.

“Come, let me show you my room" Julia said, grabbing my hand and forcing me to follow her.

After a tour around the house and its many rooms, we were back in the living room, one where the small flat I was renting thanks to some money my grandparents had been sending me without my parents knowing, could perfectly fit.

"Is that a real piano?" I asked Julia.

"It's daddy's" she said. "We used to play together."

"That's lovely." My dad never played with me just for fun. It always was about practice, practice... And oh, yes, more practice.

"Do you play?" Lucy asked me.

"Since I was Julia's age."

"Oh, that's wonderful! Why don't you play something for us while we wait for our food?"

"Sure" I said, sitting in front of the huge black piano. It was a very expensive one like everything else on that building.

"Daddy used to play that!" Julia said when she recognized the song. "Hey Jude, don't make it bad... Mami, why are you crying?" she asked her when we finished.

"Because it was beautiful, sweetheart. And you play so well" Lucy told me. "Have you ever thought about giving lessons?"

"Not really..."

"Julia started to take them a few months ago, but her teacher... Had other things to do, so now she doesn't have one. Would you like to take her place?"

"Me?" 

"Yes, angel! Be my teacher!" Julia said, clapping her hands and jumping.

That was what my parents had wanted me to do. To become a teacher. I wasn't going to be doing it at the music school, but this still was teaching, right? And I liked Lucy and Julia a lot despite only knowing them for just a few hours. 

"I'll do it" I said. "I'll be Julia's teacher."

"Oh, perfect!" Lucy smiled. "When can you start?"

"Whenever you want. I have nothing else to do" I shrugged.

"Then tomorrow. I have to work, so maybe you could pick up Julia from school, bring her here and start your lessons? I'll pay you for that extra time."

"Ok" I nodded.

I had found a job, one that I liked, and one that was going to pay me handsomely judging by the numbers Lucy had mentioned while doing a draft of my contract. 

I was so busy thinking about all that, checking the details she had given me about Julia's school, that I hadn’t noticed the lift had made it to the lobby and the doors were open. 

“Are you going up again?” a male voice said.

“Uh?” I replied, lifting my eyes from my phone. And what did they see? The most handsome man you could ever imagine.

“Are you going up again?” he repeated.

“I…” I had forgotten how to speak. I may have not been wearing an ugly costume like Scarlett in one of the scenes where she met Chris Evans, but I had my jaw on the floor and definitely was making a fool of myself. “No” I finally managed to say.

“So… are you leaving, then?” he asked, trying to hide a smile.

“Yes” I said, still looking at him. Was he real? He was real. When he stopped the lift’s door from closing again, taking a step forward towards me, I saw that he was very real. “Thank you. Sorry. I’m leaving” I blurted out, my brain finally remembering how speaking worked. Kind of.

“It’s ok” he replied with a smile. No, not a smile. A smirk. One that made everything inside me turn upside down. “Bye” he said, walking inside the lift and letting go of the doors, disappearing behind them while I just stared. He must have thought I was stupid. A creep. Or both. But what else are you supposed to do when you find yourself face to face with the hottest man in planet earth?

“Miss, are you alright?” I heard Roger say from the door.

“Yes, yes. Just… Processing what just happened. That I got a job, I mean” I quickly added, noticing how he was arching an eyebrow, his eyes moving to the lift. 

“Oh, those are great news, miss. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I guess you’ll be seeing more of me from now on.”

And hopefully, I would be seeing more of him too. Of the hot neighbour, my own Chris Evans. Though later on I would find out that his name wasn’t Chris, that would have been too much of a coincidence.

His name was Rúben. 

#ruben dias #ruben dias fanfic #ruben dias imagine #football fanfic #football imagine

[dellalyra]

i can't stop thinking about what toru's parents would be like!!! his mother would definitely be the energetic type and his father would be extremely calm, and their freak out about seeing toru getting married or adopting megumi and tsumiki and then coming to akio too!! it fills my heart with love

See I always had it in my head that Satoru’s parents were either dead/not around or his father simply married to create a new Gojo heir and it wasn’t a happy childhood at all. Raised by nanny’s and as a weapon/God rather than a little boy.

However - this got me thinking.

Satoru’s mother is the Gojo, all white hair (not only with age) and pretty blue eyes. A talented sorcerer in her own right, was married by the clan elders to a son of another noble family. She protested and fought against it - going so far as to barricade herself in her room at the estate, slipping out the bedroom window and sliding down the ivy on the walls only to trip at the last minute and be caught by a pair of strong arms.

The young man recognises her immediately.

“You hurt?” He asks, righting her on her feet with gentle hands.

She freezes and stares at him.

All jet black hair with a hint of soft curls and beautiful eyes, ivory skin and a slightly shy look in his eyes. His height towered over her, all lean and slim.

“I’m guessing you’re the one they want to knock me up, then?” She says, hands on her hips and glaring.

“I - um - if you’re Gojo Izumi, then yes, I suppose so.” He flusters.

“That’s me. You are Takahiro, no?” She says, dusting off the light blue skirt she wore.

He just nods, attempting a smile at the stubborn and brash woman before him.

Safe to say, a marriage that started as a contract between two families, ended in a marriage of love.

Izumi was all excitement and enthusiasm, high energy and over the top everything, a powder keg temper and a lust for a good exorcism. Takahiro was her antithesis. Calm, quiet, subdued and relaxed - endlessly gentle and warm without a bone in his body meant for anger or violence. Yet, somehow - they worked. Both 18 when married, Satoru arrived 2 years later. Izumi wasn’t overly maternal - of course she adored her little boy but her favourite way to bond was to train with him, or bring him along on missions. Her pride in birthing the first Limitless and Six Eyes user in hundreds of years contributed to that. Izumi, in Satoru’s eyes, was the fun parent. She did ice cream for dinner and ‘don’t tell your father’ secrets. Izumi, although an only child of the late head of the Gojo clan, was refused the title herself on the grounds of being a woman. So when her father passed (she was delighted, the cranky old bastard) when Satoru was just 3 months old, the title immediately passed to him.

Takahiro was soft, gentle and kind. He read bedtime stories and made cocoa with marshmallows and helped tie his shoelaces and kissed any rare boo-boo that he got. His father’s deep voice would echo in his bedroom, soft lullabies and words of love helping the young boy drift to sleep.

His parents loved each other dearly, too - they were the model from which he learned to love. Completely, and without hesitation.

That’s how Takahiro knew. The first weekend that Satoru came home from Jujutsu Tech, he seemed different. He had wrote to them about the Geto boy, his best friend and the RCT trainee Ieiri, and his third classmate - the future head of the L/N clan, a prominent, exceptionally skilled family shunned by the elders many years ago for their rebellious nature. The look in his face changed when Izumi had asked over dinner what each of his classmates were like, and he got to the girl.

“Taka, she’s a lovely young girl - fiery as the rest of her clan and exceptionally beautiful, her mother assisted me on a mission a few years ago.” Izumi informed her husband of the L/N clan eldest.

Takahiro saw the red on the tips of his son’s ears.

“What’s her name, son?” He asked, cutting a piece of the chef’s specialty chicken.

“Y/N.” Satoru replied, with a dreamy edge to his voice that he had only heard before when his own voice had first called for Izumi.

It was no shock when 2 years later, you came home with Satoru to the Gojo estate for a portion of the break. The Gojo clan was so different to your own, who were fiery, passionate people and were completely family oriented, Christmas was spent in pyjamas by the fireplace with spiced cider flowing and cousins fighting over which film to watch and parents cuddled up on the sofa with their brood between them, and Christmas dinner served with love after being prepared (between food fights) by grandparents and their own grown children. The Gojo Christmas had a professionally decorated tree, and a chef to make a Christmas meal, gifts exchanged neatly and primly.

At least - that was what you expected.

You didn’t expect to pull up in a private car to a beautiful mansion only to have a tall, elegant woman with shining white hair bound down the steps.

“Show me her! Let me see, yes - hello Satoru, move now.” The woman smiled, moving her son, now taller than her to the side to get a better look at you.

“Hello, Gojo-sama. Thank you so much for inviting me.” You say, slightly terrified of the imposing woman (it’s clear she’s where Satoru gets his presence).

“Nonsense, child - Izumi is fine. Look at you, you look so like your mother! What a pretty little thing you are!” She says, excitedly squishing your cheeks and almost vibrating with excitement.

“Izumi, dearest, let the child breathe.” A tall man, about Satoru’s height, slim and pale with wavy inky black hair and soft eyes and smile approaches.

You go to open your mouth to greet him formally.

“No, no - Takahiro is what you’ll call me, little one. You are my little boy’s love, no need for such formalities.” He says, voice deep and soft and smooth as chocolate with a smile that reminds you of warm winter nights.

Satoru begins to walk inside, before a voice stops him.

“Gojo Satoru! Get down here and take your lady’s bag! Gosh, what have we raised?! A feral bear?!” Izumi shrieks.

The evening was spent eating a meal, indeed cooked by the families chef, and sitting drinking mulled wine in a beautiful drawing room. Izumi informed you that your own mother was a year below her in school, although she went to Kyoto where your family were staunchly Tokyo attendees. Izumi and you quickly made close friends, laughing and chatting away and answering every question the fascinated woman could think of. Takahiro, insisted on serving you extra food, saying that you just need the energy to keep up with his son, who quickly refutes that he can’t keep up with you. White Christmas began to play - and Izumi smiled widely, turning to look at her husband who groaned.

“Must we, ‘Zumi?” He whines, so like his son.

“We must.” She nods and drags him by the hand to dance a slow waltz with her.

You look at them, as Izumi smiles widely, perpetual buzz of adrenaline surrounding her - wrapped in the arms of her husband - a soothing balm in comparison.

You whisper to Satoru.

“I love your parents.”

He smirks, shrugging.

“Meh, they’re alright.”

When Suguru left - and the elders were all informed what had happened - Satoru’s phone rang showing his father’s contact.

Both Izumi and Takahiro were on the phone - with all seriousness, Izumi asks if there’s anyone else except you and Satoru there. You say no.

“We know how much Suguru means to you, Satoru - now listen to me, if you can find him - if you can convince him to come back, everything can be dealt with. We can keep you all safe - the elders won’t refuse us anything.” Izumi’s voice is cold and serious - completely embodying the role of the Mother of The Six Eyes.

You both knew he wouldn’t come back. Yet, Satoru felt safer knowing his parents were behind him.

2 years later, a knock sounds out through the apartment while you make yourself and Satoru a coffee.

“I’ll get it!” Shouts Tsumiki.

“Thank you, sweetie! It’s probably just Aunty Koko wanting some lunch.” You reply, living in the staff accommodation definitely served your best friend well.

You heard the door click, and some muffled voices - a man’s deep rumbling, a woman’s and a child’s.

Drying your hands, you walk out of the kitchen to see who was there.

In the doorway, stood Izumi and Takahiro - looking very, very confused.

“Oh, hey parents.” Satoru says, poking his head around the corner from the living room.

“Hello Satoru, hello lovely Y/N. We were in the city and thought we’d pop in to say hello since it’s been several months. Is this little one a niece or nephew?” Izumi asks you.

You blink.

“Huh? Tsumiki? Nah, she’s ours.” Satoru shrugs, as you realise he didn’t tell his parents about the Fushiguro kids.

Takahiro drops his Starbucks.

“I - would you like to come in for tea? It seems we all have some catching up to do.” You smile, rolling your eyes.

After they settle themselves on the sofa, a coffee in each parents hand - Tsumiki sitting beside you and Megumi beside Satoru - Satoru explains the situation.

“They… live with you? You’re starting the process to adopt?!” Izumi shrieks, Takahiro looks like he’s been hit by a truck.

“We’re hoping to, yes.” You nod, smiling, holding your boyfriend’s hand.

There’s silence for a moment, and Tsumiki re enters the room with a tray of cookies.

Izumi looks between both of the children, shellshocked.

Takahiro places his coffee down, and smiles at both of the children.

“Hello, children - what are your names?” He says, calmly and soothing - exuding an aura of calm safety.

“My name is Tsumiki, and this is my younger brother Megumi. I’m 8, and he’s 6.” The little girl smiles.

You could visibly see both the elders melt.

“Well then, Tsumiki and Megumi - I am your Ojiisan, and this is your Obaasan.” Takahiro says, patting them both on the head with his large hands.

Somehow, by bedtime that night - Takahiro had coaxed Megumi into showing him all of his National Geographic magazines, the older man’s calm nature a nice contrast to his adoptive parents chaotic selves. Izumi had also learned every piece of drama and gossip happening in 2nd Grade from Tsumiki, and was truly blown away by the audacity of Kinju saying that Nami’s new pink boots weren’t that cool and subsequently uninviting her to her Monster High birthday party.

3 years later

Izumi’s phone buzzed with a lunch invitation from her son, a rare occurrence outside holidays and planned visits. So she agreed, vaguely concerned something was wrong.

A small French cafe was their destination, full of decadent pastries for both Gojo’s to devour.

“Mother, I’ve asked you here because I need something.” He says.

Now that piqued her interest, Satoru had never wanted or needed for anything.

“Oh? What could it be?” She asks, sipping her tea.

Satoru lifts his sunglasses, looking her in the eyes.

“The ring.”

She almost drops the teacup.

“Satoru?! Are you finally going to ask her to marry you?! Oh, this is so wonderful! Gosh, I’ll go right away - it’s in my jewellery box at home and if you warp us there we can get it immediately and return so you can ask her right away!” She spews, grabbing her coat and purse.

“Mother - I have it all planned, I just need it by Saturday.” He smiles, taking her bag and putting it back down.

“Have you told your father? Tell me the plans! How will you ask her? Should we get the ring resized? My jeweller will do it in time for Saturday. The ring was your great grandmother’s. It’s truly beautiful, very delicate and the sapphire ” Izumi prattles off countless questions, enough to dizzy even Satoru.

The kids relationship with their Gojo grandparents was different to their relationship to your own mother, Ojiisan and Obaasan were people they liked very much and enjoyed being around, and were very spoiled by. Your own mother, their Baba, was someone they saw every week. They had sleepovers with their Baba, or Baba came to stay. Baba would sit them both on her knees and read them stories or teach them to bake. Your mother, despite being younger than Satoru’s parents, immediately became infatuated with the role of doting Baba - every Friday night they would stay with their Baba. Satoru had been greatly loved by his parents, yet as two high ranking sorcerers and both from noble families - his primary caregivers had been nannies throughout the day. Your Mama, had raised you herself with the help of your own grandmother - your family were close knit, and no nanny or external caregivers had been part of your childhood, and so it became the same for the children. Satoru fit perfectly into your family. His chaos matching theirs, his warmth and unconditional love far more suited to a less formal and traditional family as he spent his first Christmas in pyjamas watching Elf alongside you and all of the rest of the L/N clan, he realised that was how he wanted to love, and to live.

#jjk #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #family formations extras #family formations

[tennessoui]

For the prompt list, nanny/single parent obikin would be amazing!!

(from this prompt list)

(the first time I answered this prompt two years ago, the nanny anakin au was born)

so to do something different, here's some gffa widowed anakin, nanny (sort of) obi-wan!

(2.5k)

It is hard to find time to grieve. There are too many things to do. Too many appointments to make, too many decisions Anakin isn’t sure he’s qualified for. Some decisions are easier than others. For example, the funeral will be on Naboo. There will be two services: a public one to honor Padmé’s public service, and a private one to honor who she was as a person. The casket will be closed, because his wife died when her cruiser exploded. There isn’t much left to bury anyway.

But some decisions are harder. Which flowers should go on her casket. What songs would she want sung and who should sing them? Would she prefer her grave closer to her ancestral home or the home she created in her adulthood?

If she told anyone the answers to these questions, it wasn’t Anakin. But then, the people who knew her best, who loved her most, died with her. Sabé, Rabé, Saché, Yané, all of her handmaidens—an assassination such broad strokes that it was impossible for it to fail.

So Anakin chooses Yali lilies, because Leia’s eyes linger on them the longest. He chooses a small Nabooian folk band to play after her service because their music is the first thing to make Luke lift his head from his coloring books in days. He formally requests that her body be buried among her ancestors, and the Nabierres agree immediately.

And he keeps telling himself that he will grieve, but there is so much to do. 

And then—then there’s after the funeral. Then there’s the rest of his life, sprawling out before him in a long, hazy road. 

There are more decisions to be made.

There are people who have opinions on them now, people who sat back and let Anakin muddle through flower arrangements and kriffing seating charts, who now step in to peer over his shoulder, monitor his every breath.

Should he really move the children back to Coruscant? Does he truly plan to continue to work as a mechanic in the Mid-Levels? Should he not think of the children, their needs? How can he support them on the thin amount of credits he makes? Would it not be better for the children to live on Naboo in the care of their grandparents and their extended family?

It would be what Padmé would have wanted.

Anakin cannot care about what Padmé would have wanted, because she isn’t here. Not to argue with him, not to make her wants known. She is dead. She doesn’t get to haunt him in the waking world too.

“What do you want?” he asks plainly, sitting down across the table from his two children. The twins blink back at him. Leia has finished her cereal. Luke has barely touched his.

“Bacon,” Luke says.

Anakin hadn’t meant for breakfast, but he figures it’s as good of a start as any. “Alright,” he agrees.

He stands once more and goes to the kitchen. It’s not exactly his domain. It was never Padmé’s either. The way Padmé grew up, food was made once you requested it—by droid, by cooking staff. Not by the hand of a Nabierre.

The way Anakin grew up, food was cobbled together carefully, sparingly no matter how much you requested it. And no matter how you cooked it, it always tasted a little like dust, which took the joy out of experimentation.

But the serving staff have been dismissed for the past two weeks to give the family time and space to grieve in private. 

(Padmé’s parents have been given a schedule for visiting hours for that exact reason.)

Anakin locates the pan; then, he locates the package of bacon strips.

When he glances up, both twins are watching him over the edge of their barstools, tiny faces showing both skepticism and incredulity.

“I want to know what you want to do,” Anakin says, raising his voice as he places the pot over the heating plate, the meat in a moment later. “Do you want to stay here with your grandmother and grandfather? Do you want to go back to Coruscant?”

The twins are quiet. Anakin twists his neck to look at them again, and they’re looking at each other, silently communicating the way only twins can.

“Where will you be?” Leia finally asks, looking at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, bottom lip already jutting out.

Anakin blinks. “Wherever you are,” he answers.

“You won’t leave too?” Luke asks rather tremulously.

Anakin takes the pan off the heated plate and turns it off with a decisive flick of his wrist. “Of course not,” he says. “Come here.” He crouches down and barely has enough time to open his arms before the twins are there, pressing in as close as they can get to him. He holds them back just as tightly in return.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises into Leia’s hair. “Not without you two.”

—-----------------

It becomes apparent fairly quickly that this is, by necessity, a lie.

The twins don’t want to stay on Naboo, which Anakin is secretly incredibly grateful for. He doesn’t want to either, but he knows he’d just be called selfish should he express the opinion.

But the twins don’t want to go back to Coruscant either. This makes sense as well. It would be incredibly jarring for them to go back to living in the quarters they shared with their mother, her Upper Coruscanti apartments in the nicest district of the planet, without her there.

Anakin wishes it were as simple as sticking a pin on a planet and deciding to uproot the entirety of his family to live there. 

But it’s not.

Perhaps if he were still young, nineteen, newly free and in love with the taste of that freedom, it would be.

But he’s a widower now. He has his children to think about, their futures. Any planet he chooses must have what they need as well. 

And they are four year olds who have just lost their mother. Their needs are numerous.

What makes the decision for him in the end is that his boss knows a man from Stewjon, who is willing to hire him. Who is willing to pay a premium for his expertise with mechanics.

Anakin doesn’t know the first thing about Stewjon, other than that it’s an ocean planet in the Inner Core and his dead wife always said the Senators from Stewjon were so frigid and tight-lipped because they spent the first few days of each visit trying not to be seasick on the Senate floor.

Anakin isn’t sure why this is the very first thing he tells the man—his potential boss—he meets behind the counter in the mech-shop on Stewjon.

He’s left the children with their grandparents for the week—long enough to fly from Naboo to Stewjon, meet with his potential employer, interview, apply his work practically, and fly back out.

He’d explained to both twins why they had to stay on Naboo. He’d explained many times. That hadn’t changed the betrayed look Leia had worn as she saw him off. It hadn’t wiped the tears from Luke’s eyes.

“Ah, well, I can’t say I’ve heard that one before,” the mechanic says. He sounds amused, and Anakin is incredibly shocked to hear a Coruscanti accent. Everyone he’s spoken to since arriving planetside has had such a heavy brogue that he’d honestly struggled to understand their directions to the shop—Kenobi & Sons.

Anakin lets himself look again at the man behind the counter. He’s rather clean for a mechanic, he decides. His beard is red, a common factor around these parts apparently, but his beard is short and neat, trimmed to accentuate the strong lines of his jaw. His eyes are a stormy blue, the kind of blue that matches the Stewjoni ocean.

“Between you and me though,” the man smirks and leans onto the counter with his elbow. His tunic is dark gray, white starchy fabric peeking out beneath the v-necked collar. “I’ve never been a fan of Stewjoni politicians anyway.”

“Oh?” Anakin asks, sidling a step closer to the counter. The man has the beginnings of gray at his temples, and his eyes are lined with wrinkles. They don’t make him look old though, Anakin decides. They make him look…well-lived.

“I’ve not a head for politics much at all,” his future employer shakes his head slightly with a small smile. His eyes flick up and down Anakin’s face, lingering on his lips and then lingering longer on the scar over his brow. Anakin feels rather flushed under the inspection, and he shifts his weight forward until he’s leaning up against the counter too.

There’s something about this man that’s rather…magnetic. It pulls him in. It makes him want to linger.

Good characteristic for a shopkeeper to have, though Anakin privately decides that the man before him has a face that’s wasted on mechanics, buried under some ship’s underbelly in a backroom.

“Me neither,” he admits, a moment too late to sound anything but highly distracted. It makes the man smile again though, a flash of straight white teeth.

“Is there anything you do have a head for then?” he asks. His tone is light, airy, rather teasing.

This is the strangest interview Anakin has ever had.

“Um,” he says. “Well. There’s mechanics.”

“Oh?” The man’s eyebrow lifts at an elegant angle. He props his chin on the palm of his hand and looks up at Anakin through his eyelashes. “Then why come here to us then?”

“Um,” Anakin says, and not because the man looks rather unfairly flattering like this, amber eyelashes in sharp relief against the blue of his eyes.

They’re interrupted by the sounds of clattering in the backroom, stomping and cursing. The man before him straightens with a slight sigh and picks up the closest flimsipad. “And what brings you in here today, sir?” he asks rather loudly, pitching his voice back to the other room of the shop pointedly. “Problem with your speeder? Serving droid? Cruiser? If it’s your astromech droid, I regret to inform you that I’ll have to refuse you service on account of the fact that I don’t particularly care for them.”

Anakin thinks he splutters, but whatever noise he makes is definitely drowned out by the rather irritated shout of Obi-Wan! that comes from the back.

A moment later, a man storms through the door, looking annoyed. "We will service an astomech if that's what's broken, Obi-Wan."

Now this is a man that Anakin can believe is a mechanic. His nails are blackened with oil, and his bare, burly arms carry smudges of the stuff. He’s much broader than the man—Obi-Wan—that Anakin had been talking to. He’s bald with a reddened scalp and a rather large red beard that’s the antithesis of the other man’s in every way. His clothes are dirty, loose, and the color of ash. He looks older too—whereas Obi-Wan could easily be in his thirties, this man must be pushing fifty.

He snaps at Obi-Wan in a language that Anakin doesn’t understand. Obi-Wan shrugs and hands over the flimsi pad without argument.

“Um, actually,” Anakin says, feeling incredibly wrong-footed. “Which one of you is Kenobi?”

“I am,” both of them say. Obi-Wan’s smirking slightly. The other man’s voice is louder, carrying that Stewjoni accent so obviously lacking in Obi-Wan’s speech.

The older man closes his eyes as if he’s praying for patience. “We both are,” he says. “Though if your ship’s malfunctioned, sir, I’m the Kenobi you want to see. This one’s good for naught but magic tricks.”

“I have been told I’m rather good at other things,” Obi-Wan turns his smirk full-force at Anakin, dropping his eyes to Anakin’s lips once more.

“My name is Anakin Skywalker,” he says very quickly in a very normal tone of voice that is most definitely not a squeak. “I’m here to interview for a position. As another mechanic.”

“Oh,” the older Kenobi says.

“Oh,” the younger Kenobi says in a much different tone.

The older Kenobi pinches at his nose for a moment before turning around the counter and offering his hand. “Ben,” he says. “Ben Kenobi.”

Anakin takes his hand and shakes it, eyes traveling back to Obi-Wan. Is he supposed to shake his hand too?

“I’m the Son in the sign,” Ben says gruffly as if that answers his question.

“I’m the reason it’s plural,” Obi-Wan adds, busying himself with the contents of the counter. From what Anakin can tell, the man is just messing up the carefully organized piles of receipts. 

He decides that he would rather not get the job than point this out to Ben.

Ben huffs out something in Stewjoni that sounds downright insulting, but that doesn’t stop Obi-Wan from smiling sunnily up at Anakin. “My brother enjoys bitching and moaning that I came back home when I was seventeen, but he’s awfully quick to foist his children off on me when he’s called to shift at the rig offshore and Marci’s off-planet too.”

Anakin blinks. He feels like that’s the safest answer.

“Only thing good that blasted Jedi Order ever taught you was how to handle younglings,” Ben says, and then spits on the ground as if the words themselves have left a bad taste in his mouth.

Anakin blinks and wonders if he should say something to remind the brothers that he’s here. For an interview. “And my magic tricks,” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes slightly before catching Anakin’s eye and winking. With a wave of his hand, a flimsi-sheet flies over the counter and into Anakin’s chest. He catches it unthinkingly. “Would you like to sign in, sir?” “Get out of here,” Ben barks, snatching the flimsi from Anakin’s hand and pushing it back to the counter. “Like I said, the only one’s impressed with that is the younglings.”

“I don’t know, your man looks impressed,” Obi-Wan says slyly, even as he pushes himself away from the counter and around the edge of it.

Anakin isn’t sure what he looks like. He doesn’t think impressed is the word he’d use though.

When Obi-Wan brushes past him, the static electricity in the air jumps between their shoulders. Anakin feels as if he’s been shocked.

Obi-Wan must feel it too because he stops only a few inches away and looks at Anakin. For the first time, his expression is open. Curious. Considering.

“Get!” His brother insists, and Obi-Wan obeys, throwing one last look over his shoulder at Anakin before he slips out the door.

The shop feels somehow much bigger now that the other man has left. Ben sighs and rubs a hand down his face. He looks older now. More worn. “So that was my brother,” he tells Anakin wearily. “Who you would most likely see frequently if you were to take this job. I would understand completely if you would like to start by talking compensation.”

#asks #prompt fills #obikin #so he's not a nanny YET #i absolutely got too into the exposition lol #but in my mind he looks after luke and leia while anakin is at work #and then after a few months anakin is asked to do a few week stint at a rig off shore #(thnk of it either like oil rig or like the underwater station in the kenobi show) #and he goes and obi-wan looks after his kids #ok mostly i just wanted to write obnoxious little brother obi-wan #he leaves the order at 15 to go to melida/daan #and isn't allowed back in so he fights and rebuilds #but eventually leaves and goes to stewjon where he finds his family #and his brother both hates him and loves him more than anything else in the world #and hates the jedi order for rejecting him and letting him fight and risking his baby brother's life #and obi-wan finds this amusing and also secretly touching #you can tell i thought way too much about this brother dynamic lol #but just imagine the you hurt my brother speech this guy will give to anakin #and obi-wan's in the back like im thirty nine

[sgiandubh]

Just so stories: Mommy and Daddy

In the (questionably) blessed White Picket Fenced America of 1955, things were deceptively simple:

Mommy stayed home, while Daddy was earning enough cash to buy that new Frigidaire.

Uhm. No, not really: see what happens to Mad Men's Betty Draper, the pearl-stringed suburbia matron. Not exactly a cheerful look, but perhaps a true, albeit neurotic, one.

For some unfathomable reason, one of the main dismissive arguments used against shippers reads along some very similar lines. I paraphrase, as this is a collective POV (probably stemmed from CO's laboratory and snowballed to great success across their dashboards):

'Oh, aren't they stupid! How can they expect C to follow him around the world, children in tow, at his beck and call? Or to wait for him, military wife style, as he traipses from Vegas to London to Paris to Belgium? What are these, The Fifties?'

To this Dorothy Dixon, along comes one of the Tumblrette Pundits, with a ready-made answer, always the same:

'Of course they are stupid! Of course she doesn't! Every time she is working somewhere, she brings McSideburns and The Blonde Bambino around! And McSideburns takes care of Blonde Bambino, as he should! Reality, not fantasy!'

Let alone they have absolutely no clue about the real state of play, given the almost complete, paranoid opacity reigning since at least a Certain Sad Event. Let alone that no other logical/common sense argument provided is accepted (cults seldom deal in both acceptance and common sense);

Nannies? Pah, so 1992! Family safety net? Pah, so suburban! Working parents? Pah, these people are stars, their life is a cornucopia of perks and freebies and glam!

So, in a nutshell, according to them:

Mommy is busy working and Daddy follows all along/ stays at home with Blonde Bambino, hoping that Mommy will bring enough cashola to finish that double glazing people usually install in December.

In other words, we immediately picture C as a 'starke, titanische Weib' / the strong, titanic woman German poets were so fond of back in the 1800's. Dragging along a diminutive, shy, understanding and private McSideburns, trousered Vestal extraordinaire. The rest is taboo (or should be, in my book), at any rate.

Something wrong with this vision? Yes. It's exactly the 1950's one they accuse us of espousing (we don't), but this time the male/female symbolic roles are reversed. As a result, a shrink would have many thoughts and probably a handful of questions about that need to completely castrate the Goddess's Consort to perfect oblivion. Obliterating his life, his story and even his name, for Christ's sake!

Not a good look for either C and The Prop and, to be honest, quite a weird, borderline insulting one, especially when coming from 'respectful, realistic' fans. The real utility seems to be concealing the emptiness of a Tale Forever Untold. It will be effectively replaced by the chorus with the perfect fantasy of a modern dad, a successful producer/manager and so on and so forth.

Reality is a bit different, if you just take a look on The Fratellis' Wikipedia page and follow the links:

But, but, but... 'additional personnel' (😱😱😱) - how could that be?

And yes, remember (LOL) David Eustace and the FMN shooting photo of the Happy Dynamic Duo? Happy to oblige to a friend who provided a work project (that album was postponed two or three times, then released in 2021) during COVID, probably.

The mere thought of a young, urban, sophisticated, committed and trusting couple, living and loving their best life, traveling separately or together, allowing 'spaces in their togetherness' (wasn't that The Prophet quote she liked and shared?) is something that gives them the shingles. Anything but this. Anything - even that sad The Empress and Her Additional Personnel narrative.

You see, they don't like The Obvious. At all.

#just so stories #fandom #shitshow

[artiststarme]

Steve's Parents Are Dead

The angsty parent fic suggested by @newtstabber! I hope you guys like it and please leave your thoughts in the comments!

~*~*~*~

Steve never had a great relationship with his parents. Both his mother and his father were raging workaholics that didn’t want to put their careers on hold to raise a child at home. Not when they could be socializing with new clientele, expanding their businesses, and enjoying their lives. He was raised as a child by a revolving door of nannies with infrequent visits from his parents. 

Steve knew they loved him though. Whenever they were in Hawkins for more than a few days at a time, his dad would take him to play basketball at the park or to practice swimming laps in the pool. His mother would cook him her famous spaghetti with the sauce no one else’s ever compared to. He could tell they cared, they just had a hard time showing it. Their jobs would always take priority over Steve, their pride and joy rested with their work instead of their son. 

But that was alright. Their love language was gift giving and he could feel the love whenever he found an envelope of cash on the table or a new polo shirt gifted upon their return. It became apparent before he even truly realized that even though they loved him, they didn’t love him enough to discover his own love language. The concepts of quality time or words of affirmation were as cold as distant as they were. 

They could be assholes sometimes, especially with regard to his minor teenage delinquencies. But he knew they cared. When his dad screamed at him for drinking underage, he thought he was an asshole. Even more so when he got grounded after letting Barb disappear from his own backyard. Afterwards though when his dad pulled him in for a tight hug and murmured that he loved him and needed him to be careful, Steve felt bad for calling him names to his friends. 

When his mom rushed to take a red-eye flight back to Hawkins when she heard about Steve’s ‘fight’ with Billy and cuddled up next to him in the hospital bed, Steve had never felt more loved. She called off work for weeks just to make sure he was okay and fully recovered from his concussion before she went on her next business trip. His parents weren’t the best and they weren’t winning any parenting awards but they continuously proved how much they loved him. They were all Steve had and he loved them dearly despite their faults and his occasional teenage angst.

It all changed in one day. All it took was a drunk driver veering onto the wrong side of the road and Steve was an orphan. 

He always knew there was distance between them but in death it became insurmountable. The weekly calls with his mother were gone. The sports discussions and talks about girls with his dad were nevermore. Steve was well and truly alone. His parents were dead, his old friends hated him, and his ex-girlfriend that he still loved had left him for another guy. All he had was himself in a too-big house with a too-empty heart. 

He couldn’t sleep and he certainly couldn’t focus on college applications. So, he bought some weed from Munson and started filling out work applications after graduation. 

From the day he found out about his parents’ deaths, he didn’t speak of them at all. He didn’t need the pity of his teachers, his ex-girlfriend and the guy she cheated on him with, and he certainly didn’t need comfort from the kids. He zipped his lips and carried on as if nothing had happened. No one needed to know that he cried himself to sleep or that he had to take down all of the family photos to function. Who would care enough to ask anyways?

The Party noticed eventually. Everyone had noticed that Steve’s parents didn’t come up in conversation but no one ever had the guts to ask why. He’d say comments every now and again but they all lead to more questions. None of them had ever met his parents and really, none of them could even remember seeing them around Hawkins either. They all had their own theories but they were too scared of the truth to speculate on them.

Nancy had heard about the senior Harringtons exactly once. When she’d first gone to the police about Barb’s disappearance, Steve had begged her not to mention the alcohol that had been at the party. He’d seemed really worried about his dad finding out he was drinking and at the time, she couldn’t focus past the fact that he seemed to care more about getting in trouble with his dad than he did about finding Barb. Whenever she thought about the fear on his face back then or the closed off expression he developed now when the topic of family came up, she felt a deep dread in her stomach. Something wasn’t right here but she never wanted him to feel neglected or let down so she never brought them up to him. 

Robin had only heard a single comment from Steve about his parents and she wasn’t 100% sure if she actually heard it or if it was her imagination. When she and Steve were tied back to back in the underground Russian lair, he mentioned something about ‘maybe seeing his parents again’ when she asked if he was dying over there. She took it to mean that Steve really wanted to see them when they busted out of there. But then when everyone else involved in the mall fire had their families surrounding them, she saw Steve sitting alone on the curb pressing an ice pack to his head. When she saw him next and asked about his parents, he had a grimace on his face and changed the subject. She never brought it up again. It wasn’t her place to speculate and talking about it obviously hurt her best friend so she made sure to avoid talking about familial topics much in general. She had some thoughts but refused to voice them in fear of discovering something they couldn’t come back from. 

Dustin was perhaps the only person Steve had spoken to about his parents at any length. On one occasion, he was lectured on the importance of family by Steve when he told his mom he hated her in an argument in front of him. It had been a long day and he wanted nothing more than to eat his dinner in peace and quiet before going to bed. Steve was over that day for their monthly dinner because Claudia thought he was getting too skinny. Dustin’s mom was being a little more overbearing than usual, more suffocating and he snapped. 

“Jesus Christ, mom! Leave me alone! I hate you!”

There was a moment of silence before his mom stood from her seat and bustled out of the room. When Dustin turned to apologize to Steve, he was already glaring at him. 

“You don’t talk to your mom like that, Henderson. She loves you so much and after all you’ve put her through, I’m surprised. You don’t even realize how lucky you are! I wish that I had parents that loved me even half as much as your mom loves you. She does everything for you and you treat her like shit! Go apologize to Claudia right now or I’m not driving you anywhere ever again. Go.” Then, Steve walked out the door and didn’t come back until Claudia called him herself. 

After that, not only did Dustin have a new appreciation for his mom but he also had a new hatred for Steve’s parents. They were off gallivanting around Europe or wherever else and Steve was being neglected back in Hawkins! Him and his mom made a point to invite him over a lot more after that.

Eddie only heard about Steve’s parents because he got Steve high enough that he lost his filter. When he asked what Steve always wanted to do, he didn’t know. “Man, I was always just going to work for my dad’s company, you know? Just-just take the easy way out and work for my old man. Now, I couldn’t even do it if I wanted to. He’s gone and he left disappointed in me.”

Eddie had no idea what the fuck he was talking about but he assumed that Steve’s dad had left him and his mom while he went off and screwed his secretaries or whatever else rich white guys did. He felt a renewed anger towards the man. Jesus, Steve’s parents sucked and he deserved so much better. 

The way the entire Party found out was of sheer coincidence. Hopper was walking through the cemetery one night on patrol after some recent vandalism reports when he saw some newer headstones he’d never seen before. When he got a glimpse of the names, he nearly knocked himself over with the force of his double-take. 

Richard Harrington 

January 22, 1937 - May 17, 1985

Martha Harrington

August 23, 1939 - May 17, 1985

What the fuck? That would’ve been before his ‘death’ at Starcourt. Hell, it would’ve been before Steve’s graduation from high school. Hopper needed answers right that second, screw the vandalism reports. 

He didn’t expect to barge into a DnD session in the Harrington living room when he got there but that wasn’t going to stop him from getting his answers. Steve was standing in the doorway of the living room with a bowl of cheese puffs in hand but he turned to look at Hopper in confusion when he slammed the door open. “Hey Hop, what’re you-”

“Why didn’t you tell me your parents died, kid? You’ve been living here alone? What the hell, Steve.”

Apparently his friends didn’t know either because every head whipped to face him in shock simultaneously. 

“What the fuck?!”

“How long?!”

“Jesus H. Christ, Harrington! Open book, my ass.”

“Woah.”

“Well that’s a little heavy for a Thursday.”

Steve put the bowls down on a side table before giving Hopper the most unimpressed look he could muster. “I didn’t see the relevance. I’m obviously fine on my own.”

“Wh-you-hnh… Fucking hell, Steve! That’s not the point! You lost your parents and didn’t tell anyone!” Hopper yelled in frustration.

“Oh my god,” Robin gasped suddenly. “When you said you might see your parents again when we were getting tortured, you meant you’d see them when you died! Oh my god, you thought we were going to die?!”

Steve looked taken aback, “We were getting tortured in an underground Russian bunker. Of course I thought we were going to die! Luckily for us, I’m always wrong so we didn’t!”

Gareth, Grant, and Jeff were looking between the two of them in shock. Russian torture? They were not supposed to be hearing that. Meanwhile the rest of the Party was focused on berating Steve. 

“Steve, why didn’t you tell me?” Nancy asked him quietly. 

He chuckled sardonically, “oh you mean track down my ex-girlfriend, the one that said I was bullshit and cheated on me, to cry about my parents dying? Yeah, I wasn't really interested in doing that.”

“You could’ve told me! You could’ve told Mrs. Byers or Hopper. You don’t keep secrets from the Party!” Dustin yelled at him. 

“Why are you all yelling at me? Half of us weren’t even friends when they died and the rest of you weren’t around. So why are you mad at me?’’ Steve backed into the hallway wall, as far as he could get from the rest of them and hugged his arms around himself. 

“Stevie, we’re just surprised. No one here is mad at you, we’re just concerned. Why didn’t you tell anyone they died?” Eddie comforted, walking towards Steve with his hands up placatingly. 

“I told you my parents weren’t around anymore when you sold weed that summer.”

“Uhhhhh,” Eddie glanced nervously at Hopper who was glaring at him already. “Okay, let’s maybe leave that out of the story in front of the cops. Why didn’t you ask anyone for help?”

“I didn’t have anyone to ask. Look, I’m done talking about it. You guys can keep playing but I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

“Steve-”

“Hopper, unless you’re arresting me right now, I’m leaving,” he waited a moment and when Hopper didn’t move, he nodded. “Great, night guys.”

They had to talk more about it later and they’d have to apologize for their anger but for now, the Party would ignore how Steve went to bed and Eddie followed. 

Permanent tag list: @doubleb11 @nburkhardt @zerokrox-blog @newtstabber @i-less-than-three-you @carlyv @pyrohonk @straight4joekeery @trippypancakes @conversesweetheart @estrellami-1 @suddenlyinlove @yikes-a-bee @swimmingbirdrunningrock @perseus-notjackson @anaibis @merricatty @maya-custodios-dionach @grtwdsmwhr @manda-panda-monium @lumoschild @goodolefashionedloverboi @mentallyundone @awkwardgravity1

#They ignore how they find them cuddling a few hours later too #Steve gets better at communication eventually but its a long and difficult road to get there #Steve is pissed at Hopper for weeks until he kidnaps him and takes him to get a milkshake #then they're fine #stranger things #steddie #fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #gareth emerson #jeff #grant #dustin henderson #mike wheeler #lucas sinclair #chief hopper #robin buckley #nancy wheeler

[asmutwriter]

The Gangsta's Wife (Part 4)

DESCRIPTION: You have been invited to your friends party with your husband, Thomas Shelby

WORD COUNT: 3048

From Beginning / Previous / Next / Master List  

WARNINGS: brief mentions of cheating, swearing, mentions of gangs, talk of arranged marriage, drinking, smoking, calls reader 'love', smut, dom Thomas, sub reader, fingering, orgasm denial, dirty talk, degrading

DISCLAIMERS

This is fiction. Please always talk to your partner before doing anything and make sure they are ok with what you are doing beforehand

It will not follow the timeline of the show. But I hope you enjoy.

You sit in the living room of your friends house. Your husband sat next to you as the other guests talk around you. You recognise some of the other people. Knowing them from previous parties and interactions. Talking mainly to them but still joining in with some of the conversation from everyone. Laughing at the jokes they make or adding your own knowledge to subjects. You notice Tommy stays silent beside you. Occasionally smiling at a joke, even letting out soft chuckles. But you pay it no mind.

Once all the guests have arrived is when the party truly gets started. Music, food, and alcohol is served. You got up, getting yourself and your husband a drink each. Him thanking you as you sit next to him again. Sipping your drink you lean towards him. "That is Vanessa's niece and nephew. Her brother and sister in law" you point out the people. His eyes following your finger as he listens to your introductions.

"The group over there are some of her friends from her early childhood. They used to play together when they were younger. I wish I could remember all their names" you pause as you try and think. "I've only met them once and that was a few years ago on my defense" he continues to watch the different people. "Oh that is her nanny. Vanessa comes from a very, very posh family so they could hire a nanny" you look around. Pulling at your bottom lip slightly with your teeth as you try and find a specific person. Shrugging slightly, downing the rest of your drink before muttering. "I can't see either of her parents"

You stand up. Causing his eyes to move from the crowd up to meet yours. "Do you want another drink?" he shakes his head. Watching as you go over to the drinks area. Grabbing a bottle and refilling your glass. You go to walk back over to your husband just as Vanessa comes up beside you. You smile at her, going to speak but she cuts you off.

"So... you got married" you nod, placing the lid of the bottle back on as you place it back onto the table. "That must be nice for you... " Turning to face her you take a sip of your drink "Thomas Shelby correct?". You nod again, getting ready to answer her 21 questions. "How did you two meet then?"

"I ran into him a few times around where we lived. We got closer once I became his neighbor. Once that happened one thing led to another and well - now we're married"

"Oh that's... sweet"

"You hesitated"

"No. No I didn't" you look at her, a smile taunting your lips as she shakes her head. Raising your eyebrow a fraction she lets out a sigh "Ok maybe I'm a bit hesitant" you lean against the table, picking your drink up.

"Why?"

"I just- I'm concerned for you" she comes closer to you, her eyes darting over at the man as she speaks in a hushed tone "I've heard about the Peaky Blinders. What they do. And who they are run by" you nod, watching as she moves a little bit away from you. Placing her hands either side of your arms. Almost holding you in place as she tilts her head down slightly. Looking at you through her eyebrows. As if the new angle could give a new perspective for either of you.

"I'm worried you've gotten yourself into a situation that you can't get yourself out of. That you've done something to end up here" you nod in understanding. Bringing your drink up to your lips as you take a sip. She continues "The violence that surrounds his name. The illegal acts that his family take part in. The affairs he has with every girl with a heart beat". Your eyes glance over to him. As if on cue a young, very attractive girl goes and sits next to him. You take a deep breath and look back at your friend. Smiling at her as you place your drink down. Taking her hands in yours as you look at your friend.

"I appreciate your concern. I do. And I love how much you care about me. But I am aware of who my husband is and the acts he gets up to in his free time" you look downward as you continue speaking slowly, thinking the words through before saying them out loud. "I know that - so long as I am his wife - my sisters and I will be protected from everyone who used to want me dead. I also know that my husband would never cause me harm as it wouldn't be in his best interest to hurt me"

Before either of you could continue your conversation, a youngish lad comes over. Asking your friend for a dance to which she accepts. You take this time to down your drink, pouring yourself another one before going back over to the table with Thomas at. The girl he was talking to stands up, smiling at you before turning to him. Gently resting her hand on his shoulder as she leans down. "I've got to go. My car is waiting for me. It was lovely seeing you today" she smiles, gently kissing his cheek before she stands up. "We should meet up again. Some time soon" he nods, watching her as she walks away.

"Who was that?" you ask.

"Just a girl. She thought I looked lonely so kept me company" you nod slightly.

"Sorry I would've come back sooner but I got talking to V" he nods and smiles softly at you as you turn to face him instead.

"How do you two know each other then, eh?" you let out a soft chuckle. Bringing your glass up to your lips, speaking before taking a sip of the liquid.

"I stole a large sum of money from her". His normal expressionless features turn to one of confusion instead. Causing you to let out a small chuckle, turning to watch your friend dancing as you talk to him. "I was 17. Stole her purse from her. I went to a poker game and won a good few times. She found out. I gave her back the money and the extra earnings I had made. She was impressed by how I had dealt with the money, how I stole it plus how I'd increased the earnings that she offered me a job. Working for her. Stealing for her. Being a spy of sorts. I denied the offer. I was young and knew if I started working for her then that would be it for life. But she took a liking to me. Let me stay in her house for a bit. I guess that's how we became friends"

You down the rest of your drink before placing it onto the table. Turning to face your husband. His features soft but unreadable as you watch him. You smile, standing up as you hold your hand out. A look of amusement on his face as he looks up at you.

"Lets go dance" he watches you. A smile threatens his lips before he places his hand into yours. Letting you essentially drag him to the dancing. The both of you engaging and dancing with other party goers. The song finishes and you all cheer for the band. He turns to you, gently resting his hand on your lower back as he whispers into your ear.

"You carry on dancing love. I'm going to sit down" you nod, smiling at him as you feel him move his hand from you. You take hands with one of the other party guests. Dancing with them in place of your husband.

A few more hours pass. You dance and drink throughout the night. That is until the party starts to disperse. Ending in the early hours of the morning. You say goodnight to your friends. Finding your husband sitting at a table. The girl from earlier that night sitting next to him again. You bite your bottom lip slightly. Unsure if you should go over and say something. He is your husband after all. But you arent jealous of the girl hes talking to, yes you find him attractive but you arent married to gim for romantic reasons. Because of this you decide to leave it.

Retiring to your bedroom for the night. Stumbling slightly as you make your way to the edge of the bed. Sitting onto it and regaining your balance. You must've drunk more then planned. Chuckling slightly at yourself, taking off your shoes. Starting to undo the buttons of your dress, the door opens. You automaticaly stop undressing as Thomas walks in. You smile at him softly before standing up and turning your back slightly. Undoing and taking off your dress. Leaving you in your bra, pants, and socks. Your husband takes off his blazer. You watch as he loosens and undoes his tie. Placing them onto a small armchair sitting in the bedroom.

"Mr Shelby?" you ask. Your voice quiet as to not disturb the other members of the house. He turns to face you, starting to undo his shirt buttons as he gives you his undivided attention. Your drunken mind taking over from your logical one. "Do you find me attractive?". He pauses. His hands that were undoing his buttons fall calmly to his sides. His piercing eyes standing out in the room as they watch you. The silence quickly falling onto your ears. You break your gaze with his, shaking your head slightly. Your slowly sobering mind catching up with your drunken one. "Sorry it was a stupid question. Just forget I asked it".

You reach your hands up. Fumbling with your earrings as you take them out. "Why would you think I don't find you attractive?". The suddenness of his voice making you jump slightly. You look at him. His gaze just as harsh as it was when you originally looked away.

"Please just-" you shake your head as you break his gaze "Forget I asked. Please. I think the alcohol from tonight is clouding my judgement"

"There must be some other reason behind this thought though eh?" you meet his eyes again. "You want a trusting relationship with me. This is a good way to start. So tell me - why are you suddenly asking this question"

"B-because..." you feel your cheeks start to turn a slight shade of red. His eyes dart to your cheeks, noticing the change of colour in them. He tries his best to hide the slight smirk that comes over his face

"You need to speak up love" he teases. You avoid his eyes. Speaking softly but loudly.

"We haven't had sex. Not since our wedding. I know that it's not because you're to busy for it. I've seen how you are with other woman. I know that you get it else where. I just- I assumed its because I was a social accessory. Not someone you would actually want to have sex with". There's a small pause before you hear him walk towards you. A soft grip onto your jaw as he tilts your head to look at him.

"This marriage was constructed for social reasons. Not sexual ones" he leans down, his eyes watching yours as his lips hover dangerously close to yours. "But if you want a fuck... Then I can give you a fuck". You pause a moment. Taking in what he said before you nod. A very quick but enthusiastic nod. Dropping your face he stands up straight. Taking a few steps back from you. His eyes grazing over your half naked form. You watch him. Waiting for his next move.

"Get undressed" he says. His eyes coming up and meeting yours. Never once breaking contact as you stand up. Slowly taking off your layers as he rolls his sleeves up and pushing his suspenders off of his shoulders. Watching your every movement as your undergarments soon become a small pile on the floor. You keep your arms by the side as he comes over to you. Closing the gap he created. Tilting your head up by your chin as you lock eyes with his. "Open you legs". You do as he says. The hand wondering from your chin, down your throat. Between your breasts. Over your stomach. Eventually finding that spot between your legs.

Your hands come up, resting onto his shoulders as he moves his fingers slowly over your clit. You flutter your eyes shut as soft moans leave your lips. Hands gripping his shoulders as he continues to work on the small bundle of nerves. You feel his finger move. Gently pushing two digits into your needy hole.

Another soft whine leaves your lips as he begins to slowly thrust his fingers in and out of you. "Poor thing. Already so wet for me. And I've been a neglectful husband. Not helping to attend to your needs". He puts his arm around your waist. Holding you close to him as he continues.

"P-please Mr Sh-Shelby" you manage to stutter out. Opening your eyes, your gaze connecting with his as he quickens his pace on you. Causing all logical thought to leave your head as you dig your nails into his shoulders. Feeling your orgasm building up and up. "Please. Please" you mumble. He smiles, watching as you start to crumble under him.

"You want to cum eh?" Feeling him curl his fingers inside of you. You nod

"Yes. Fuck yes. Please" he smiles. Kissing you harshly before he removes his fingers. Right before you could cum. "No. Please. Please" you beg. Your hips rutting against nothing as you try and get some sort of friction. He smiles. An almost sadistic smile as you grip at his shirt.

"Its ok love. I'll let you cum before morning". He kisses you again. Enjoying the small grunt you make as your mouths connect. He pulls away. Pushing you gently away from him, perching you onto the end of the bed. You watch as he starts to undo the buttons of his shirt. You bite your bottom lip. Watching his hands remove the delicate fabric. Your eyes fixated on him removing his trousers and underwear. His clothes becoming forgotten on the floor as he walks over to you.

He doesn't hesitate as he pushes his lips back onto yours. Your hand going to the back of his head as the other holds his bicep. His hands going to either side of your face. The slight taste of alcohol on both of your tongues as you continue to kiss each other. He holds you close to him as he pushes you to lie down. Him coming on top of you as you put a leg either side of him. He breaks away from the kiss, gently running the back of his fingers down the side of your face. Your soft smile quickly changing as he pushes himself into you.

"Holy fuck". You groan out. Eyes fluttering as he bottoms out. Kissing your neck before he pulls out completely. Pushing himself back into you. Repeating this action, slowly but precise. His tip hitting that sweet spot inside of you with every thrust. He keeps eye contact with you as he rests his forehead onto yours. Your hands go to his cheeks. Soft whimpers leaving your lips as he begins to fasten his pace. That familiar feeling building up again.

"I didn't think... that a girl as smart as you... could be fucked... into being so dumb... so easily" he says. Emphasizing every few words with a thrust. The words going straight to your core, causing you to tighten around him. He lets out a chuckle that quickly turns into a grunt. Kissing you as he also gets closer to his own high.

"C-can I cu-cum? Pl-please?" he smies. Kissing you again before speaking.

"Let me feel this pretty pussy cum around my cock" you moan out. Shutting your eyes tightly as you ball your hands into fists. Letting your orgasm wash over you. Tightening around his length. A few more thrusts and he hits his own high. Pushing deep into you as he lets his cum fill you up. The both of you breathe deeply. Catching your breath as you gently run your hands over his shoulder blades. Shutting your eyes as you feel him start to go soft inside of you.

He plants a deep kiss to your lips before he pulls out of you. He cleans himself up, putting his boxers back on. You sit up. Bringing your knees up to your chest. He grabs out a pack of cigarettes, rolling one over his lips before placing it into his mouth. Taking out a lighter and lighting the end. He draws a drag from it. Taking it from his lips with his thumb and forefinger he hands it to you. Exhaling the smoke, you watch as it falls around him. You take the item, placing it into your mouth. Shutting your eyes as you let the nicotine fill your body.

Opening your eyes you take the cigarette from your lips. Standing up you give it back to him. Grabbing some sort of cloth to clean yourself up with before placing your night clothes over yourself. His eyes watch you as you make your way over to the bed. Getting underneath the covers you hear the birds start to chirp outside. A tired smile appears on your lips as you look over at the window. You nestle down under the duvet. Bringing it close to your face as you get warm. Knowing you have a couple of hours before you need to be awake.

A few minutes pass, feeling movement in the bed next to you. You open your eyes, seeing Thomas getting in next to you. He rests on his back, bringing an arm up to rest behind his head. Your eyes scan over his profile. The early morning sun sneaking in past the curtains, making his skin look beautiful as he lies next to you. You shut your eyes again. Speaking softly to him

"Sleep well, Mr Shelby"

TAGS

@whorecrux-of-slytherin

Previous / Next

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy angst #cillian murphy fluff #peaky blinders #peaky blinders angst #peaky blinders smut #peaky blinders fluff #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #thomas shelby smut #tommy shelby angst #tommy shelby fluff #tommy shelby smut #thomas shelby angst #thomas shelby fluff #peaky blinders tommy #peaky blinders tommy shelby #peaky blinders thomas #peaky blinders thomas shelby #peaky blinders tommy angst #peaky blinders tommy fluff #peaky blinders tommy smut #tommy x reader #thomas x reader #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #tommy fluff #tommy angst #tommy smut

[emry-stars-art]

For the Royal AU Twinyard backstory... Maybe Andrew, as a second son, was sent away for study? He could have become an apprentice to a knight or a scholar when he was young, maybe even with the Spears, and that's where Bad Shit Happened. And then he could have returned when he became of age, or when their last parent dies and Aaron needs a familiar (ha!) face around

*excited* okay okay this has been brought up a few times now and every time I read it the idea grows on me more, you’re all so smart for it

(I was gonna put the art at the end but this got a lot longer and sadder than I anticipated so. Sometimes Andrew likes to do stuff like this when they’re stuck talking to important boring dignitaries)

(It’s the main reason Aaron develops an incredible poker face)

tws this time are all canon compliant

Honestly yeah! I do think this is great because I want the twins’ father to be around after birth and for a while, because the whole point of Andrew being sent elsewhere is probably so they can give that extra attention to Aaron and raise him as the heir to the throne. So it’s a perfect balance, in my mind, of a family that cares enough to get Andrew an education/proper upbringing and a father that doesn’t care enough to spend time on a second son.

In my head the Spears would be almost always overbearing, partly because Andrew is the prince and they Do Not want to disappoint the royal family and partly because Andrew is the prince and they immediately assume this little five year old they get on their doorstep is going to be a spoiled brat. Even though he isn’t. And, as you may guess, the only thing they turn a blind eye to is Drake. Drake, their own son, probably the real spoiled brat that gets his way in all things, even with the young prince. Faces no consequences, even when Andrew tries to tell someone. It’s probably his governess or nanny at first (either way, it’s not really important what the role is, just that she’s there). And this woman has been Andrew’s biggest advocate since he arrived, she genuinely cares about and is worried for the little prince with his bruises and fear. She cares enough to bring this up to Duke Spear - maybe he really is dumb enough to just be unaware, she hopes - and confront him about Andrew’s treatment. But of course the duke doesn’t do anything to discipline his son. Instead, the governess is fired and a new woman takes her place, a woman that isn’t as outspoken and won’t ever question the authority of the Spear family. Andrew learns soon enough that trying to tell someone or speak out only makes things worse for himself. Sometimes he still wonders where that first governess is, if she’s doing well.

Meanwhile at the castle, Aaron is going through his own rigorous training. A lot of the same stuff as Andrew is learning, honestly, with a few added duties and lessons and a lot more official meetings he attends with King Minyard. It’s a pretty average upbringing for an heir, I think.

Then maybe when Aaron is around the age of ten or so, King Minyard passes. This wouldn’t normally be a political issue, since it’s expected of the Queen to take over and divide the king’s half of the duties as she sees fit until either she remarries or has an heir become old enough to take the throne, at which time she may pass it to the child or continue to reign until she either passes or is deemed unfit. And, politically, this is exactly what happens. What most don’t see is how grief stricken she becomes and then remains. She can’t pull herself from her grieving, and instead of passing duties to more fitting people, Queen Tilda simply lets young Prince Aaron take on as many duties as he can without breaking down. (Though he has, before. Likely a few times. A kid being pushed past his limit again and again.) Aaron grows up so much faster than he ever should have. He’s thirteen now and sometimes he shakes with stress.

Then the queen finally gives into her grief and passes as well. If it weren’t for Katelyn, Abigail, and Betsy, Aaron might have been next to lose his mind, leaving the throne empty. As things are, Aaron swallows everything down just long enough have word sent to the Spear family. He wants his brother back. A familiar face and his quiet, desperate hope: someone to just help.

And return him they do. Andrew’s been perfectly competent with all his studies, they say, they’d even managed to break that stubborn streak. (They didn’t like he wouldn’t speak or shake hands when instructed. They didn’t like being told no.) And yes, it’s a familiar face. Aaron sees the carriage door open, sees his twin for the first time in eight years, but he isn’t sure he recognizes Andrew. Andrew isn’t supposed to have bags under his eyes like this. Andrew didn’t hold his jaw so tightly. And Andrew certainly didn’t answer questions like some kind of unthinking, unfeeling shell.

The first thing Andrew says to Aaron getting off that carriage is “No.” It’s quiet, but he does say it. Aaron is confused - he’d thought they’d still be allowed to hug each other, or shake hands at least - but he does step back and instead ask if Andrew wants to see his room. He can see Andrew relax.

It might hurt Aaron a little when he watches the Spear boy get a hug with no protest, or how Andrew quietly addresses the duke with more than a one word sentence. But he’s not going to ask about it for a while. He’s the stranger to Andrew here, after all.

(I think Andrew does let him ask. The most he tells Aaron about it - maybe as much as a year later - is that the younger Spear had been much worse at listening than Aaron ever is. It is much better here. At least you and Nicky understand the meaning of ‘no’. Leave it at that. And after that Aaron is even more supportive of Andrew’s wide bubble than he was before. He enforces it himself when he has to. And growing up together for longer, with no looming secrets or much reason for animosity between them - it isn’t Aaron’s fault King Minyard decided to hand Andrew off and the twins are both mature enough even at that age to know it - means the twins are much closer than in canon. I don’t think it would be a typically ‘fond’ relationship, because they’ve both still been through it. But they support each other in all things, no questions asked, and always get through problems together.

It doesn’t take much longer than that first year for Aaron to earn the right to touch Andrew, even if he does need to give or show warning before he does. Andrew never says it, but he’s grateful that Aaron is generous with his shoulder pats. It feels a little like the validation he never got anywhere else. And Aaron never says it, but he’s grateful that Andrew is always at his side to tell people ‘no’ when Aaron is technically not allowed to.)

#oh god I’m having EVEN MORE emotions about twinyards #I thought I’d reached a limit #but no my feelings seem to be limitless #these are our BOYS #do they talk to each other much without reason? #probably not #but they find reason enough making fun of various merchants and self righteous officers and nobles #do they make fun of each other like long siblings? #of COURSE #im determined to make the next post at least half fluffy/funny #been posting a lot of angst lately #and there’s plenty of fluff and comedy around here #I just. I care about them a lot okay #they make me emo #aftg #all for the game #my writing #andrew minyard #aaron minyard #asks #royal au #fan art #my art

[thepixelelf]

Oh Baby, You • Profiles I: Orion's Prettyboy(gn) Posse

masterlist » next

The birth of your son three years ago was what caused your breakup with Wonwoo, your longtime (and at that point, long distance) partner. Now, you're getting concerned that Orion is starting to look a lot like his dad, but that's not your only problem. Wonwoo is back… and he's living across the hall.

You (aka MT) @/callmemt: proud parent of the most adorable kid to ever grace this planet and proud friend of the wonderful sunshine people you're so lucky to have in your life. Even though you've only known most of this group for a couple years, you love them lots! They've helped you so much as you've simultaneously worked to become a lawyer and raise a child on your own as a single parent.

+ @/dontcallmemt: your private vent account

Soonyoung @/horanghae: a friend from back in your university days, and the only one in the Posse that knew you before Orion was born. Soonyoung may act silly a lot (mostly in front of Orion) and is a hilarious drunk, but he's one of the most passionate people you know, and he's been there for you during some really tough times.

Chan @/eeechan, Vernon @/chwenotchew, & Seungkwan @/booyourheartout: around the time Orion was one-turning-two years old, you got blindsided by an unfortunate family emergency, and you needed someone to watch Orion while you dealt with it during the day. Though hesitantly, you decided to hire a part-time nanny — and found Vernon. You're almost certain that some deity sent down Vernon to help you out when you needed it most. It didn't take long for you to fall into complete trust with Vernon, enough so that when his apartment flooded, you let him and his two roommates stay at your place for three nights. In that short time, you became good friends with Vernon and his roommates, and you've been close with all three ever since.

Lục @/queenluc & Seokmin @/seokshine: probably the cutest couple you've ever met in your entire life. Seokmin is always talking about how Lục is way out of his league and Lục always looks at him like he's the literal stars in the sky. Yet, their love for each other isn't cringy at all. Weird. You met Lục through work, and later found out that her partner was already friends with Seungkwan, Vernon, and Chan. It was like fate! Or movie magic....? Either way, you love both these softies with your whole heart.

#seventeen smau #seventeen social media au #svt smau #svt social media au #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #jeon wonwoo x reader #jeon wonwoo scenarios #jeon wonwoo imagines #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo imagines #svt scenarios #svt imagines #svt x reader #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines

[astarionconsort]

A!Astarion as a dad? Ascendant Dadstarion?

I think both spawn and ascendant Astarion are not dad material, Astarion is a man who is not equipped to be a parent and has far too many issues to begin with. So it has to be his consort who wanted/demanded that they should have children, and not random people that Astarion will turn to be his minions but real children that they'll raise together

Well I suppose his children will be vampire as well, either they were turned into spawns from early age, or they were his biological child, or maybe he has both adopted and biological children

My general thought about A!Astarion as a father (because this is ascended focused blog)

Astarion will be the type of a busy dad who placate his children with toys and money. He's too busy plotting and expanding his influence in Faerun to be an attentive father, so he'll spoil his children as a compensation. He will be confused when his children are upset because their father doesn't give them enough attention, because he did give them everything a child could ever asked, right? They should be happy!

Nope, he's not going to deal with the matter of changing diapers and his children will have an army of vampire spawns nannies to tend to their needs. Although he's struggling with being a father, he won't trust outsiders that he cannot control to be near his kids. Too much risk

He would be more than happy to teach his children about vampirism and how to fight. Astarion would drilled the rule of vampire hierarchy and the importance of power into their heads. Insisting that power and loyalty to the family are the only thing that matters

Although he's a parent who encouraged ambition and he will be proud of his children achievements, they must remember that father will always be the stronger vampire and they shouldn't ever dreamed of overthrowing him

His children won't suffer from hunger and none of them shall ever know the taste of animal blood. ESPECIALLY NOT RAT. Rat is banned in the Ancunin household. Only premium quality blood for little Ancunins, and he doesn't care if his children murdered fiends or innocent people. After all a lion doesn't concern themselves with the opinions of the sheep

Tav/durge must be the attentive parent here because Astarion has 0 idea wtf he's doing

He's the cool dad who enabled the kids' impulses so long it won't ruin his plan

He'll throw the best birthday parties for his kids! A grand masquerade, fancy garden soirees, renting the circus for the whole day, you name it. Anything to make the kids happy and to show off the Ancunin family's wealth

Astarion is not an ideal father and he has difficulty forming genuine emotional bond. But he's trying. Taking them to an awkward 'fishing with dad' (it can be any activity, it doesn't have to be fishing) where he'll try to relate with his offspring (insert how do you do fellow kids moment) but he's trying guys... He's trying

#ascendant astarion #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion ancunin #astarion x dark urge #astarion x tav #dadstarion #ascended astarion

[gamerwoo]

Hyunjin: Age-Restricted (Part One)

Characters: Hyunjin x female reader (ft best friends/ex-roommates!Chan, Minho, and Seungmin.......and Jisung is there lmao)

Genre/warnings: nanny!reader, boy next door/neighbor!hyunjin, virgin!reader, fluff ig, some humor, mentions of Chan doing OF, reader has anxiety and self-esteem issues, mentions of bad porn plots, one mention of reader being around hyunjin’s height and having big hands (but this is one of the few times i mention reader’s appearance in this series), it’s mentioned that reader is in her 20′s, reader may or may not have a hand kink lmao, minors dni!!!

Word count: 2,889

Summary: You think it’s luck when the new family you nanny for is so stupid rich that they rent you a fancy new apartment just so you can live closer to them. You think it’s luck when the guy across the hall is the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen in your entire life and makes an effort to talk to you. But that’s just about where your luck runs out, because Hyunjin is more out of your league than you could ever imagine, and you’re just some hopeless virgin who never had good luck in the first place.

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“Last box?” Jisung huffed as he almost dropped the large cardboard box full of your stuff onto the tiled kitchen floor. He stood up straight and looked at you with pain on his features. “Please tell me that’s the last box.”

“I don’t know why you’re complaining when you showed up late,” Seungmin told him with a frown, leaning against the center counter while he tried to catch his breath.

“Well I hardly even know _____, so you’re lucky I showed up at all,” he spat back.

Jisung was one of Chan’s friends, and Chan was one of your friends – one of three that you had since moving. The rest of your friends were left back in your hometown, so all you got was the occasional text when it was convenient for either of you. 

For a little while, you were crammed into an apartment made for three people, and those three were Chan, Minho, and Seungmin. The trio needed another roommate to afford rent and avoid being evicted, so it was Minho and Seungmin who took two of the bedrooms, Chan offered you the third bedroom, and he slept on the couch. Once you got comfortable, though, you ended up rooming with Chan – he made a great roommate since he was always awake doing something until 5am when he’d return to the bedroom and sleep until noon.

But then you got a new job – well, same job but new family. As a nanny, you knew your kids would eventually get too old or their parents would get new jobs or whatever reason that they’d decide they didn’t need your services anymore. In this case, the twins you were in charge of had gotten into some daycare that their parents were on a waitlist for forever. Childcare was hard to get into since it was in such high demand, but it was also hard to afford – not like money was an issue for the family you worked for considering their house. But since their kids got in, they essentially had to fire you.

“But,” the father told you with a growing smile, “we know a family who could use a good nanny, and we want to recommend you – if you’re interested.”

You were interested, but then you found out how far away they lived. They lived on the outskirts of some busy city in a fancy gated community that would take several hours by train to get to. But the mother and father insisted that you meet with them anyway because maybe they could work something out if they liked you enough.

Maybe it was that they liked you that much, or maybe they were just that rich, but they rented an apartment nearby for you to live in – and it was a nice apartment. It was the kind of place only rich people could afford, with several ovens, a nice fridge that you could knock on and it would light up, and one of those fancy jacuzzi bathtubs that you thought only rich people or hotels could own when you were a kid. And all of this was included in your contract to nanny their three-year-old-son, Seojoon, and their one-year-old-son, Hajoon.

“So can we crash here with you now, or…?” Minho asks, his question hanging in the air as he raises a brow.

“What, can’t afford rent without me still?” you smirk. “I always knew I was the real breadwinner.”

“Look, if I could find a rich parent with kids–”

“They weren’t that rich,” you interject, referencing your old family.

“These people are, though!” Jisung bursts as he throws his hands in the air and looks around the space that you now call yours. “Holy shit, this place is sick! Yo, you need a roomie?”

Seungmin narrowed his eyes, “You just said you hardly know her.”

“We’re besties, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jisung stated completely deadpan with a shrug.

“How does one get themselves into the nannying business, might I ask?” Chan wondered with a smile that had ‘mischief’ written all over it.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Mr. Onlyfans,” you teased. “I’m sure parents will love that.”

Chan’s face turned bright red as he tilted his head down to the counter and let out a long sigh, “Alright, never mind…”

You didn’t actually think anything of Chan trying to do Onlyfans for money – actually, you kind of envied his confidence. But you did unfortunately see and hear on a couple occasions, all the cringey stuff he had to say and do to get any sort of traction. But he did gain traction, and despite being faceless to avoid issues like a possible future employer finding him, he was making enough money to afford the rent without you. He might’ve been paying more than ⅓ of it, but at least him and his friends weren’t homeless.

Jisung let out a groan, “Don’t remind me about the Onlyfans. That shit haunts my dreams.”

“Don’t you mean nightmares?” Seungmin asked with furrowed brows that melted to show an evil smile. “Unless…”

“Ew! No– Fuck off, Seungmin!”

As Jisung threw packing paper from one of the boxes at Seungmin, and Seungmin began happily teasing the older boy about his possible wet dreams of Chan while Jisung threw even more brown paper at him, Minho seemed basically oblivious to it all as he let out a deep sigh and ended it with, “I’m hungry.”

Chan rolled his eyes, mumbling, “I deal with a bunch of toddlers…”

“Can we get lunch before we unpack?” Minho whined, looking to Chan for the answer. “Channie, can you order us something?”

“Well, here’s your nannying gig you wanted so badly,” you giggled.

-

You looked around at the open living/kitchen area that was now mostly decorated. There were a few small things here and there, but most of your stuff was put in a place that seemed suitable. You at least didn’t have to worry about furnishings like a coffee table or chairs for the island – the owners made sure the apartment came furnished when they found out all your furniture belonged to your roommates.

You checked the time on your phone. 7:48. Good timing, honestly. Your bedroom was only half decorated since there were some things in some boxes that you did not want your friends – and Jisung – seeing, but everything was put away in the kitchen and moved how you liked it, and the living room was presentable. Your toiletries were away in cabinets in the bathroom or in the shower, and towels were folded neatly away. Clothes were folded in drawers or in your closet, but underwear and bras and any lingerie you bought on a whim was still put away in a box that Jisung had opened before screaming and accidentally knocking it over in his race to get up and away from it. But overall, it took about 5 hours to get settled in.

A knock at the door made you jump.

You were never an ‘answer the door’ kind of person. Chan was the one who answered the door. Minho would if he had to, and so would Seungmin, but Minho wasn’t a people-person, and Seungmin just didn’t feel like talking to any of the neighbors or the delivery guy – yet this kid was somehow an extrovert. Chan would warmly speak to whoever was knocking at the door. You? You had family friends thinking you were mute or non-verbal because you never spoke. You were painfully shy as a child which blossomed into full-blown anxiety as you got older – but still painfully shy.

But you figured it was maybe the landlord or the parents that you worked for now. So you walked to the front door and looked through the peephole.

Who you saw was definitely not the parents, though you would probably call him daddy if he asked. You wondered if he was the landlord, in which place you considered one of those bad pornos where the girl can’t pay for whatever service she was getting and offered alternate means of payment.

‘Yeah, not even in your fucking dreams would you have the balls for that,’ you told yourself.

You undid the two locks on your door and then the chain before opening the door and smiling at the stranger, who had already began smiling warmly before the door was even open. His eyes crinkled as his full lips stretched into the most beautiful smile you’d ever seen.

He was tall, had long, dark hair that was half-up in a ponytail on the back of his head, and looked like he was hand-sculpted by a god. His body, while you couldn’t tell the exact shape since his clothes were a bit on the baggy side, was well proportioned – you could stare at his body proportions all day, especially in his black joggers, windbreaker, and white t-shirt underneath. Still, you could tell he was lean. He looked…cool. And oh-so stunning.

“Hi,” he grinned, holding up a hand in a motionless wave. “I’m sorry, this is probably a little weird, but I noticed you moved in today. Well, not like I watched you move in, but I saw the trucks and heard you and your friends coming up with the boxes.”

“Oh, yeah,” you chuckled, trying your best to make normal conversation even though your brain was short-circuiting the whole time, “they’re pretty loud. Sorry about that.”

“Oh, no worries at all!” he assured you. “They’re kinda funny, actually. Who’s the small one with the brown hair? Almost looks like a coconut?”

You snorted, breaking into a real grin instead of a forced, polite one to hide your anxiety, “Probably Jisung.”

“Yeah, he’s funny,” he nodded.

“I mean, he’s something,” you shrugged, still laughing softly.

“Oh, right,” he seemed to remember why he even knocked in the first place. “I’m your neighbor. I live across the hall and thought I should introduce myself or something since you’re new. I kinda heard you say something about having no friends, so here I am!”

Right, the breathless and annoyed comment you made walking down the hall, carrying a box in your arms while Minho was nagging you about when you were going to throw a ‘sick house-warming rager’ and you had to tell him your only friends were him and the other two boneheads he lived with, and they were now about 2 hours away from you.

And back to the awkward polite smile and laugh you went, exclaiming, “Well, thanks for the gesture! I’m _____.”

As he moved to hold his hand out to shake yours, he seemed to pause, mouth open like he wanted to say something, but he stayed silent for a second too long.

“Hyunjin,” he finally said, though it sounded…off. Almost unsure. “My name’s Hyunjin.”

‘Maybe he’s also full of anxiety.’

“Nice to meet you,” you told him as you shook his hand.

His was so much warmer than yours. And seemed a bit bigger, which surprised you since you seemed to be similar heights and you had the biggest hands in your entire anatomy class your senior year – that was a weird contest looking back on the memory. You glanced at his hand as he pulled it away – maybe you had a thing for hands, so what? – to see his hands seemed strong but delicate with long, slim fingers.

As if you needed another reason to have a crush on this seemingly-perfect random man.

No, not random man. Man who lives across the hall.

“I’m sure we’ll see each other pretty often, so feel free to say hi,” he offered with shrug. “Or if you need help with anything like building furniture or something, let me know. Since we’re friends now and stuff.”

“Cool,” you nodded, feeling your face get hot for absolutely no reason, “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Hope so,” he said in a tone that made you feel…things. But it was quickly brushed off as he said, “I won’t keep you any longer since you’re probably still moving stuff around. I’ll see you later, _____.”

“Yeah, of course. Thanks, Hyunjin,” you replied before closing the door.

Hyunjin. His name just felt good to say. Of course a super gorgeous person would have a nice name like Hyunjin.

‘Thank god it’s not something like Carl or Eustace. Imagine dating someone named Eustace, or moaning like, Timmy or something,’ you thought to yourself before quickly reminding yourself, ‘What does it matter? You don’t have a shot.’

That was the harsh reality. You’d let yourself fantasize while you fell asleep at night, but the truth was you knew it was impossible. You were average-looking at best, so insecure and hyper-aware of what everyone might possibly be thinking about you, and to top it all off: you were still a virgin in your 20’s. How were you going to explain that one to a guy who seemed like he could pull anyone? 

You weren’t. Because there was no chance someone like Hyunjin would be interested in you.

‘Don’t say that!’ you automatically heard Chan in your head like he was living there, too. ‘Don’t ever put yourself down because you’re amazing as you are, and somebody out there will think so too.’

“Thanks, dad…” you mumbled to yourself as you shuffled back into your apartment.

-

“So how do you like the apartment?” Mrs. Park asked after they were caught up on how your first day with their children went.

“It’s so nice!” you gushed. “Thank you guys so much again for doing this for me.”

“It’s nothing, sweetheart,” Mr. Yoon promised, waving the matter away. “We’ve heard all about how you treated Marcus and Maisy and how well their English has gotten, and Donggun and Jiwon loved you so much. We had to do anything we could to have you be Seojoon and Hajoon’s nanny.”

“Truthfully, we don’t trust just anyone,” Mrs. Park admitted. “These nanny sites say all these people are certified, but I’ve heard so many horror stories from the girls at the salon.”

“We’ve been friends with Donggun and Jiwon for years, so we trust their judgment,” Mr. Yoon agreed. “Plus, the twins always seemed happy and healthy when we saw them. We could tell their family adored you.”

Your cheeks were heating at their compliments, and your smile reached your eyes as you held your hands to your chest, “Aw, thank you! That really means a lot to me. Honestly, the boys are such easy kids. Seojoon’s so sweet, and he really knows how to make someone laugh, huh?”

“He really is something,” Mr. Yoon chuckled. “Well, we hope you find your new place as cozy as your last. We understand moving somewhere new can be scary, but everybody who lives at The Brooke is nice.”

“And safe,” Mrs. Park interjected, pointing a finger at her husband and then at you, giving you a pointed look. “Living alone as a woman is frightening, but I assure you, not just anybody can live at The Brooke.”

Yeah, that was something that crossed your mind. Honestly, moving in with three boys was nerve-wracking enough even if your high school best friend knew them. She reached out after her second year of college because her roommate’s brother was Chan, and she told her that he and his roommates were looking for a roommate, and she told you because she knew you were looking to move out of your mom’s place but couldn’t afford living alone. But it kinda felt like pure luck that that worked out. 

But now you were alone. If somebody broke in, there was no Chan to wrestle them to the ground if he had to. There was no Seungmin with his baseball bat that he kept behind his door. There was no Minho there to go feral with a kitchen knife. It was just you, who typically had ‘freeze’ as their fight or flight response – the ‘secret third option’ as you called it.

However, you knew The Brooke was basically for only rich people. It was all elite people who were influencers or businessmen and women, and the like. They weren’t necessarily trying to tell you those people were background checked, but they were basically saying poor people didn’t live there because poor people were the bad people.

Gotta love rich people logic.

But then that made you wonder who Hyunjin was. Truth be told, you weren’t really keeping up with the latest influencers or ‘It’ people. He seemed like he’d be some trendy influencer that a bunch of girls thirsted after, but you figured you would’ve seen him on social media somewhere, right? But he didn’t really seem like a businessman if you were going based off of his aesthetic. Maybe he just came from money.

“The Brooke is full of the best of the best,” Mr. Yoon continued. “Remember that if you ever feel nervous.”

You smiled warmly, “Right, thank you.”

“Alright, we won’t keep you,” Mrs. Park smiled, gesturing for you to follow her so she could show you out. “Go get some rest, okay? We’re glad you had a good first day.”

“I’m really looking forward to getting to know Seojoon and Hajoon more. Have a good night!”

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