#{romance mentions in the tags ----------------------->}

[joemama-2]

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 15.9k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation

a/n: was gonna post another sneak peek, but thought the entire chapter would be better :) as always, pls let me know of any typos

series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter < spotify playlist

It’s a nice, warm morning. The sun’s out, there’s birds chirping, and a small breeze that feels lovely against the skin. And the best part of it all is that Hana called in sick today. Her now boyfriend, Naoya, reassured her everything would be alright and that he had an entire day planned out for just them two. Being taken care of by another person was a new feeling to Hana, one she hadn’t experienced since her last boyfriend. 

She’s never been with a rich man before. And she’s especially never been to an upscale golf course, wearing a tight, sleeveless top with an even tighter little skirt. Naoya is in his stance a few feet in front of her, club in hand as he readies his shot. She can’t help but feel slightly out of place.  

The brightness of the day feels almost surreal to Hana, like she’s stumbled into someone else’s life. The manicured grass stretches endlessly before her, the trees swaying gently in the breeze. The scent of freshly cut greens, mixed with faint hints of expensive cologne, clings to the air. She fiddles with the hem of her skirt, feeling self-conscious even though Naoya hadn’t once looked at her with anything less than approval since they arrived.

Naoya stands confidently, the sunlight catching the sleek fabric of his polo as he lines up his shot. His form is perfect, practiced—a natural at this, just like everything else in his life. He’s effortless in a way that makes Hana’s chest ache with something she can’t name. Admiration, maybe. Longing. Envy. She doesn’t know.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, trying not to stick out like a sore thumb. The outfit he bought her might make her look the part, but internally, she feels worlds apart from the other women here. Women with polished nails, designer sunglasses, and easy smiles born from years of moving through places like this without a second thought. Hana crosses her arms, squinting against the sun. She watches Naoya swing, sending the ball sailing with a crisp, clean sound that echoes across the open course. He turns back toward her with a wide, satisfied smile, the cockiness in his expression unmistakable.

“You’re up, babe,” he calls out, motioning her forward.

Babe.

The word feels strange, too, curling around her heart like a new pair of shoes she hasn’t broken in yet. It’s sweet, almost nauseatingly so, and it makes her feel dizzy, like maybe she could get used to this if she let herself.

Gathering her nerves, she steps forward, clumsily taking the club he offers her. Their fingers brush, and Naoya chuckles under his breath, stepping closer to adjust her grip. His hands are warm, firm, guiding her in a way that’s both helpful and possessive.

“Relax,” he murmurs near her ear. “You’re too stiff. Golf’s supposed to be fun.”

Easy for you to say. Everything about today, about him, about this life, feels so far out of reach for someone like her. But she forces a smile, tightens her fingers around the club, and lets him guide her swing. Even if she feels completely out of place, there’s a small, stubborn part of her that wants to fit. To belong.

Maybe, if she fakes it long enough, she eventually will.

“Ah, so close,” Naoya sighs, watching the tiny white ball miss its hole, veering way off to the right. “You would think you’d be a little better after watching me all this time.”

“I—sorry.” She scratches the back of her neck. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He waves her off, calling down the cart girl. Hana follows him as they approach the wide selection of cooled drinks, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic.

“Hi, Naoya. What can I get for ‘ya today?” The blonde woman manning the cart asks, a smile on her pink lips. She tilts her head, regarding him with familiarity. 

Naoya barely spares her a glance, his attention more focused on the line of bottles glistening under the sun. “The usual,” he says smoothly, reaching for his wallet without hesitation.

The cart girl giggles, a light, practiced sound that makes Hana’s stomach twist ever so slightly. She’s seen that look before, the way the girl leans just a little closer than necessary, the way her hand lingers when she passes Naoya the drink. It’s casual. Too casual.

Hana steps back instinctively, feeling like she’s intruding on something she wasn’t invited to witness. She folds her arms loosely across her chest, trying not to fidget, trying not to let the sudden sourness in her mouth show on her face.

“You’re looking good today,” the cart girl adds with a wink, handing Naoya a cold can.

He finally looks at her, flashing a charming smirk, the same one Hana had thought was just for her. “Yeah? Must be the company.” He says it without thinking, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Hana, almost like an afterthought.

The cart girl’s eyes follow his, her smile faltering for just a second when she realizes Hana’s standing there. Her gaze flicks back and forth between them, assessing, judging, maybe even pitying. Hana isn’t sure which would be worse.

Naoya tosses some cash onto the cart’s counter, far more than necessary for just a drink, and motions for Hana to follow him again. She does, but the small crack left behind by the encounter digs deep into her chest. As they climb back into his own golf cart, Naoya takes a swig of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t mind her,” he says casually, like he can sense her unease. “She flirts with everyone who’s got money. It’s nothing personal.”

Hana forces a small laugh, nodding like she believes him.

But deep down, a quiet voice whispers:

It’s not nothing to you, though.

And that’s what matters.

Naoya revs the cart up again, speeding toward the next hole, completely unaware—or maybe just uncaring of the way Hana sits a little stiffer beside him now, the sun suddenly feeling a little too hot on her skin.

“So,” he speaks up, causing Hana’s head to turn toward him. “You and bestie still not speaking?”

The mention of you causes her to stiffen, a frown forming on her lips. She scoffs. “No. And I don’t plan on it.”

“Shame, thought you said you guys were good friends.”

“We were, until she started changing when that…that asshole came in her life.” 

Naoya hums, stopping the cart at the next destination. He doesn’t get out immediately, instead letting the engine idle while he leans back lazily against the seat, his hand casually resting on the steering wheel. His eyes, however, are sharp and calculating as he watches Hana’s face carefully.

 “Guess that’s what money and status do to people, huh?” he says, a little too lightheartedly. “Especially when it’s someone like Satoru Gojo.” He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, a slow, rhythmic beat. “Big name. Big wallet. Big ego.”

Hana huffs, crossing her arms and looking away toward the sprawling green of the course. “He ruined her,” she mutters bitterly. “She’s not the same person anymore. Everything’s about him now, about his life, his rules. Like she doesn’t even think for herself anymore.”

Naoya lets her words hang between them for a moment, pretending to be focused on something off in the distance. When he speaks again, his tone is almost lazy, casual almost. “You know…” he starts, drawing out the thought like it just occurred to him, “people like him… they don’t change for anyone. And they don’t really let anyone get close unless there’s something they can use.”

Hana furrows her brows, turning to look at him again.

Naoya catches her glance and shrugs innocently. “Just saying,” he continues. “Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s caught up in something way bigger than she realizes. Maybe even something that could end badly for her if she’s not careful.” He gives a small, knowing smirk, like he’s letting her in on some forbidden secret,  like he’s doing her a favor. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re not mixed up in all that,” he adds smoothly. “But…” He trails off, feigning hesitation before flashing her a boyish grin. “You probably know more about what’s going on with them than anyone else, huh? Even if you’re not talking to her anymore.”

Hana shifts uncomfortably. She does know a lot, or at least, she used to.

And despite the way things ended between you two, there’s a bitter part of her that still wants to talk about it. Wants to air out the injustice she feels. Wants someone—anyone—to understand how wrong it all was. Naoya picks up on her hesitation immediately and presses just a little further, voice dropping to something more coaxing.

“Come on, Hana. You can trust me. You know I’m on your side.” He leans in slightly, eyes locking with hers, that charming smile never once faltering. “I’m just curious,” he murmurs, “about how deep she is with the Gojo group. About what Satoru’s really after. That’s all.”

He says it so sweetly, like it’s harmless. Like it’s just friendly concern. But beneath it all, Hana can’t shake the feeling that there’s a lot more riding on her answer than he’s letting on.

“I…I don’t know.” She admits, shrugging lightly. “I mean, they have a kid. I don’t see why else they’d still need to be close. She used to tell me when I first met her that she’d never go back to her ex, but that was before I knew who he was.”

Naoya listens intently, his expression carefully neutral, but his mind is already calculating the information. He nods slowly, leaning back slightly as if he’s processing her words, but really, he’s already piecing everything together. “Hm.” He hums thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on the cart. “I guess when you throw a kid into the mix, things change. But… I don’t know, Hana. That just sounds a little too clean, don’t you think?” He tilts his head slightly, feigning curiosity. “The way she acted before, all that ‘never going back’ talk… Do you really believe she’d just… forget about him, that easily? People like Satoru, they don’t let things go so easily. Not when they have so much to gain.”

He watches her closely, gauging her reaction to the way he phrases it.

“You sure she’s not just… saying that? Or maybe she’s in deeper than she lets on?”

Hana shifts slightly, clearly torn. She’s not sure if she should give him more, but something about the way Naoya talks makes her feel like he already knows more than she does, as if he’s playing her like a pawn and she’s too distracted by her anger to realize it. “I don’t know,” she says again, voice quieter this time, her uncertainty growing. “I mean, you’re right. I’m not sure. She told me everything was over, but she… she’s always been so secretive about him. Like there’s something she’s hiding. I don’t think it’s just the kid, you know? There’s more. But she wouldn’t talk about it.”

Naoya’s eyes glint with barely-contained satisfaction, his hand moving casually to pick up his drink from the cup holder. He takes a slow sip before speaking again, voice smooth and coaxing. “Right, that makes sense. There’s always something people like her hide. But…” He pauses, letting the words linger. “If you really want to help her—if you care about her at all—you should let me know what’s going on. People like Satoru don’t play fair, and your friend might be in way deeper than she thinks. I’m not trying to pressure you, but if you know anything that could help… It could keep her out of something she can’t get out of.”

The words are wrapped in a thin layer of concern, but the underlying message is clear: if she doesn’t give him more, he might just find another way to get it. Hana feels a slight shiver of unease crawling up her spine, but she doesn’t know why, not completely. Part of her still wants to trust Naoya, but the other part is beginning to feel like there’s something more to this conversation than meets the eye.

“So, what do you think?” Naoya presses, his smile gentle but determined. “Think you could tell me a little more? For her sake, of course.”

She racks her mind, biting at her lip in thought. Scratching her head. Pulled between two sides of wanting to keep her friend’s privacy, but also wanting to please the man who’s been giving her so much and more. Sure, he has his mistakes, but so does she. So does everyone. So do you. 

“I…I don’t know.” She mutters. 

Naoya’s smile falters, assessing her for a few silent seconds before humming and getting out of the cart. He stretches lazily, the sun casting a soft glow over his sharp features as he plants the club into the ground and leans on it. His stance is casual, almost careless, but Hana can feel the shift in his energy, a subtle coolness creeping into the air between them.

“That’s alright.” Naoya shrugs, tossing a look over his shoulder at her. “Take your time. Not like I’m in a rush.”

But his tone says otherwise, the underlying warning barely concealed. He straightens up, walking a few steps to the edge of the green, surveying the course as if the conversation hadn’t just taken a turn. Hana stays seated in the cart, her hands worrying the hem of her little skirt, heart thudding against her chest. She knows better. She knows she shouldn’t be entertaining this. She shouldn’t even be thinking about sharing anything about you. You were her friend first—her best friend.

But then she thinks about the nights Naoya spoils her with expensive dinners. About the shopping trips. The way he says she’s beautiful, special, that he sees something in her that no one else does.

Maybe it’s not so bad to share a little.

Maybe it’s just harmless.

And maybe… just maybe… you deserved a little karma anyway, after abandoning her.

She steps out of the cart, heels clicking lightly on the concrete path as she makes her way toward him. Naoya glances back, smiling a little, patient, expectant. “I…I really think it’s more of a custody thing. That’s just my speculation.”

Naoya lets out a small, amused hum, twirling the golf club between his fingers before planting it back down again, leaning into it with casual grace. “Custody, huh?” he echoes, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Interesting.”

His words are light, but Hana can feel the weight behind them. The air shifts again, the easygoing summer breeze suddenly feeling less refreshing and more suffocating.

She nods quickly, as if to justify herself. “Y-Yeah. I mean… it makes sense, doesn’t it? They had a kid young. There’s probably no formal agreement. She hid him for years. She would always vent to me about stuff like her rent, paying for food, and clothes for Koji. Stuff like that.”

Naoya nods thoughtfully, the club tapping lightly against the grass as he watches the horizon. But Hana knows he’s really paying close attention to her every word. “Hm. Sounds like she didn’t have much support,” he muses casually. “Even though she had family money. Or… used to, right?”

Hana shifts uncomfortably, casting her eyes down at her feet. She shouldn’t be saying anything. She knows it. And yet—

“She doesn’t really… talk to her family anymore,” she mutters. “Or, I guess, they don’t talk to her.”

Naoya finally turns fully toward her now, the sun catching in his sharp eyes. He smiles, soft and indulgent, but Hana can sense the calculation behind it. “She sounds like someone who’s good at burning bridges,” he says lightly, almost jokingly. “Even the ones she might need later.”

Hana shrinks a little under the remark, guilt coiling in her stomach. Still, she doesn’t correct him. Maybe because some bitter part of her agrees. Or because it feels easier than defending someone who left her behind.

“You said she hid the kid for years?” Naoya presses, like he’s just casually connecting dots. “Why do you think she finally told him?”

Hana hesitates, nervously twisting her fingers in the fabric of her skirt again. “I don’t know,” she says honestly. “She didn’t tell me how exactly he found out, either. But maybe she needed help? I mean… being a single mom is expensive. Maybe she got desperate. Or maybe he found out and forced her hand. I don’t know.”

Naoya’s smile widens a fraction, so small it’s almost imperceptible. “Right,” he says smoothly. “Makes sense. Desperation’ll make people do funny things.” He straightens, brushing invisible dust off his tailored pants, the polished image of someone who already has everything he wants, or knows exactly how to get it.

Hana looks at him, feeling small and a little stupid under the weight of what she’s just admitted, but Naoya only chuckles, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice soft. “You’re not betraying anyone. You’re just telling me what you already know.”

And Hana, desperately wanting to believe it, lets herself relax as Naoya pulls her closer, delivering a soft kiss to her cheek. “C’mon, let’s finish up here. We can get some lunch, hit up the mall, buy something pretty for you. You like that?”

And Hana nods, smiling shyly. “Yeah, I like that.”

“I don’t know if I trust your parents picking Koji up.” 

Satoru glances at you as he finds a parking spot, brows knitting before he reverses back. “Why not? You’ll be in the interview and I have to run some stuff back ahh the office. They said they’d do it.”

Nerves fill your stomach, anxious about the interview you have with Carlisle & Harlow. Wearing your most sophisticated, fitted black button-up with the same color slacks to go with it. 

You let out a slow breath, trying to calm yourself as you straighten the collar of your shirt. The sharp black fabric feels comforting against your skin, almost like armor, but it doesn’t ease the tightness in your chest. The weight of the interview looming over you is enough to make everything feel more intense. “I know you trust them, but I don’t think I’m ready to put Koji in their care. I don’t trust them, not after everything.” You glance out the window. “What if something happens and I’m not there? What if they treat him differently… like they treated me?” Your voice quivers slightly, betraying the vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep hidden.

He parks the car, turning to look at you. “Hey,” he gently speaks, gaining your attention. “I know it’s hard. You have every right not to trust them. Hell, sometimes I don’t. But I’ve talked with them, okay? And I promise you—I promise—that nothing bad will happen to Koji. I’ll protect him and you with all I can. And I’ll be damned if my parents have something to say about it.”

Your breath hitches slightly as you hold his gaze, his eyes a mixture of reassurance and determination. The sincerity in his voice tugs at your heart, but you can’t quite shake the gnawing feeling in your gut. “You say that now, but you’ve never been in my shoes,” you murmur, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. “I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t get to choose how they treated me. And if they treat him the same way, I… I can’t handle that. Not again. Not with Koji.”

Satoru sighs, his fingers drumming softly on the steering wheel, his gaze flickering between you and the parking lot outside. “I get it. I do. But you can’t shield him from everything. You’re not alone in this anymore.” He leans in, placing a hand over yours. The warmth of his touch is grounding. “You’ve been carrying this weight by yourself for too long. Let me help you carry it.”

You swallow hard, the uncertainty and fear bubbling up inside you. “It's just…it’s hard. Letting go, trusting people—especially them—it’s not easy for me.”

He nods, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I get it. You’ve had a lot of time to build walls around yourself. But this… this is different. Koji deserves a chance at family, at love. And that means we need to trust, even if it’s hard. Not just for us, but for him.”

You look at him again, his expression serious yet tender, and for a moment, the weight of the world feels a little lighter. He’s not asking you to forget what happened or pretend everything’s okay. He’s just asking you to trust him.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you finally allow yourself to soften just a little. “But if anything goes wrong, I won’t hesitate to step in.”

Satoru’s smile is small but full of warmth. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve got your back. Always.” He leans in, as if about to press a kiss to your forehead before you turn to the door. 

You awkwardly clear your throat, grab your purse, and ignore the urge to look back at his face. “Right. I—I’m going to go in now. Good luck at work. Your parents have my number, right? They’ll text us if anything happens?”

A hand scrubs over his neck, settling back in his seat. “Um…yeah, yeah. Of course.”

“Great. I’ll take the bus back.”

“Are you su—”

“Thank you for driving me, bye now.”

You close the door before hearing what he has to say next. Forcibly brushing off this weird limbo you two are in, and instead, focusing on the now. This interview. Yourself. Your future. That’s what matters most. It’s a tall building situated within the nicer, more metropolitan area of Tokyo. One you’re still finding yourself getting used to. You don’t miss your shitty neighborhood, you won’t. But there’s still a small voice inside your mind that tells you this kind of environment, just living a city life, is not for you. Maybe one day, you can own a piece of property out in butt-fuck nowhere. Some cows, maybe chickens, and at least one chestnut horse. Ah, the thought is a nice one. If all goes well with this gig, that future may actually be a possibility. 

Entering the lobby, important-looking people pass by. Some on the phone, discussing whatever deals are on the line, others rushing about, seemingly in a hurry to get from one place to the next. It’s a little chaotic, if you’re being honest. But why wouldn’t it be? Everyone’s dressed to impress, you can tell by the pristine, dark fabric of one guy’s suit. There’s a receptionist desk further down; that’s where you head. Straightening up and dusting off the imaginary particles on your shoulder, you make your way over. A subtle confidence is what you try to exude, smiling politely at the younger woman seated behind the desk. “Hi, excuse me?”

“One moment, please.” She holds a single finger up, talking on the phone while simultaneously clicking away at something on her monitor. 

You nod quickly, stepping back just a bit to give her space, hands smoothing down your slacks as you glance around the lobby again—more a reflex than anything else. The walls are glass and concrete, modern and intimidating, and the clean, minimalist aesthetic makes you feel a little out of place no matter how well you dressed today. Still, you keep your chin up.

The receptionist finishes her call a moment later, setting the phone down with a practiced smile. “Hi there, sorry about that. Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” you reply, clearing your throat gently. “I’m here for an interview with Ms. Carlisle at eight-thirty.”

“Oh, Ms. Carlisle hasn’t come into the office yet.” The receptionist replies, head tilting. “Are you sure your interview with her was today?”

Your expression dampens slightly, hands fiddling. “Oh, um…yes, I’m sure. She said today.”

“Hmm, well that’s interesting.” Once again, the receptionist clicks and scrolls away on her monitor for a few seconds. You almost begin to think it’s a sign from the universe that it was all too good to be true, that maybe Evelyn even forgot she scheduled a meeting with you today in the first place. You’re about to lose all hope, but the girl speaks up again. “Well, you’re more than welcome to wait for her in her office. She’s up on the last floor. Once you’re out of the elevators, take a right, then another right, then a left, keep walking down, and you’ll see it. It’s not hard to miss.”

You thank her with a polite nod, trying to ignore the tightening in your stomach as you step toward the elevators. Maybe it was just a simple scheduling mix-up, or maybe this is what it’s like working in a place where everyone’s too busy to worry about being on time. Either way, you’re here now—and you’ll wait if you have to. You're not about to let something like this shake you. The elevator dings open with a soft chime, sleek and metallic inside, and you press the button for the top floor, which is the twenty-first. As the doors close, you catch your reflection in the mirrored panel—sharp collar, clean lines, confident-enough face—and you give yourself the smallest of nods. You can do this. 

The ride up is smooth and quiet, faced with the beautiful skyline of a bright Tokyo morning. When the doors finally slide open, you’re met with the hushed luxury of the executive floor. It’s quieter up here—less of the bustling chaos from the lobby. The air feels cooler, more sterile, with plush carpeting and abstract art lining the walls. Probably the higher up you go, the more important the people are, and the more hushed it is. 

Following the receptionist’s directions, you navigate the hallway, counting your turns. Right. Another right. Then left. And just like she said, there it is—Carlisle etched on the frosted glass door in neat serif lettering. It’s large, imposing, and framed by dark wood with a gold handle that gleams faintly in the soft overhead lighting. You pause just before reaching for it, taking another deep breath to center yourself.

This interview could change everything. Not just your job. Not just your income. But your whole future.

You knock twice, then slowly push the door open.

No one is inside, as you expected, but it still felt respectful enough to knock. There’s a dark mahogany desk in the center, a reclining seat behind it, with two chairs on the opposite side. Two monitors with a landline and piles of paperwork stacked on top. To the right is a plush, black leather couch. The walls have some paintings, you could only assume cost way too much for such simplicity. Carefully, you walk inside, plopping down onto one of the two chairs. Hands folded in your lap as the silence envelopes you, head swivelling around as you continue to take in the atmosphere. It’s not too large of an office, but still bigger than your normal supervisor's one. You almost question how similar this one looks to someone like Satoru’s, someone who has a high ranking in such a noteworthy company. Not that you’ve ever seen his. 

Boredom begins to strike as you wait for her to arrive. You check your watch. 8:36. If there’s one thing you hate most in your life, it’s late people. Your finger taps against your knuckles, your foot against the floor as time ticks. When you glance at Evelyn’s desk again, you notice that she has a framed picture. It’s the only thing on her mess of a desk that seems like a personal artifact. You lean closer in your seat, head tilting to the side and just barely nudging the frame so you can have a better look.

One more month until we meet you, Baby Jeanie. 

Evelyn is wearing a white dress, with a very obvious bump beneath it. Beside her stands her late husband, Noah Harlow, his blonde hair reflecting the sunlight. Her head is leaning on his shoulder, and each of their hands is placed on top of the life they’ve created. Genuine smiles painted their faces. He’s wearing a clean, tan button-up, with light slacks to match. The day looks perfect, the picture beautifully representing what it must’ve felt like for the expecting couple. A small twist forms at your heart, lip curving down. 

“Three years today.”

You jolt with a gasp, quickly settling back in your seat, forcing your slouched position away. 

Evelyn’s voice is calm but laced with a grief you recognize immediately. Her heels click softly against the floor as she walks into the office, setting her bag down on the desk with practiced ease. She doesn’t look at the photo—she doesn’t have to. Her gaze is distant, almost unreadable, but you see the heaviness behind her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to—” you start, flustered, guilt blooming in your chest as you sit up straighter, “I wasn’t trying to snoop, I just—”

She lifts a hand, gently waving it off. “It’s alright.” Her voice is quiet, steady. “I keep it there because I want people to see it. It reminds me why I do what I do.” A pause. “And who I’ve done it for.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. Your fingers nervously clutch the edge of your slacks.

Evelyn takes her seat behind the desk and leans back in her chair, studying you with sharp, blue, observant eyes that don’t quite match the soft sorrow of her earlier tone. She taps the edge of her keyboard before finally breaking the silence again. “You’re early. I like that.”

“I—I wasn’t sure about traffic,” you manage, forcing a small, professional smile. “Figured it’s better than being late.”

“Smart. And rare,” she replies, and though her tone is cool, there’s something vaguely warm beneath it. “Let’s not waste time, then.”

She flips open a leather-bound folder, scanning your resume briefly. You can feel the shift—how she seems to pull herself together quickly, brushing her personal grief behind some invisible barrier to focus on the task at hand. “You did bring your resume, correct?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” You nod, reaching down to pull a folder out of your purse. You open it and hand her a straight, white sheet of paper stapled together. “

She takes it, head tilting as she analyzes it quietly. She hums. “Quite a lengthy list of employment.”

“I’ve been working since I was barely a teenager,” you nod. 

Evelyn doesn’t look up at first, eyes scanning the page with the kind of thorough attention that makes your pulse tick faster in your throat. Her fingers rest at the corner of the paper, unmoving, like she’s weighing something much heavier than a resume. Finally, she speaks again.

“And not a single job lasted more than…ten months.” Her gaze lifts, sharp and assessing. “Why is that?”

You hesitate, the air suddenly feeling too thick in your lungs. There it is—that dreaded question. Not unexpected, but still difficult to explain in a way that doesn’t sound like you’re making excuses. You fold your hands in your lap, straighten your spine once more, and meet her eyes. “Most of them were out of necessity,” you say honestly. “Temporary work, short-term contracts, jobs I took to keep a roof over our heads. It wasn’t about building a career at the time. It was survival.”

There’s a pause. Evelyn leans back slightly, arms folding across her chest. She watches you in silence for a moment longer before her tone softens—just a fraction.

“And now?”

Your throat feels tight, but you manage to hold steady. “Now, I’m not just trying to survive anymore. I want something stable. I want something I can grow in, something that’s mine. For me. And for my son. I want us both to have security.”

Evelyn’s brow twitches faintly at the mention of your child, though she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she sets your resume down and steeples her fingers. The grief you saw earlier remains behind her eyes, like a shadow, but something shifts. “You’re not the most qualified person on paper,” she says bluntly. “But I’ve made decisions from instinct before—and they’ve served me well.”

Another pause.

“Tell me why I should take that chance on you.”

You falter a bit, and a part of you almost blurts out, Well, you came up to me at my job, you sought me out, but you hold it back. “Well, I’m a very…hard worker. I’m passionate, and I’m very dependable. I believe that I have a lot of years' worth of experience, and  I can be a great addition to this company. I’ve never been a personal secretary before, but I’m diligent, I’m…great at conflict management. And I get my work done.”

“You and…many other people, Y/N.” She murmurs, leaning back in her seat, one leg crossing over the other. “Give me more. What makes you stand out?”

God, you hate questions like these. You rack your brain for a bit, coming up with the most generic answer. “I’m a very determined person. I’m adaptable.”

“And that makes you, what?”

You swallow the lump rising in your throat. Her tone isn’t cruel, but it is pointed, like she’s testing you, pushing to see if there’s anything beyond the surface. And maybe she has every right to. This is the kind of job people fight for, the kind you don’t just walk into from a string of restaurant gigs and hourly jobs. But you’ve fought too hard to shrink now. So, you breathe in, let your shoulders settle, and drop the polite, rehearsed version of yourself.

“It makes me someone who doesn’t give up when things get hard,” you say, voice calmer now, more grounded. “Someone who keeps showing up. Even when I’m scared. Even when I’ve got every reason to quit. I’ve worked through grief, through debt, through raising a child by myself. And I still found a way to keep going. I may not have a polished resume, and I might not look perfect on paper, but I learn fast, and I don’t need hand-holding. You won’t have to babysit me. I can take a hit and keep moving.”

Your voice quiets, but your gaze stays steady on hers.

“I know what it means to build from nothing. And I’m not afraid to start again, even here.”

The silence that follows is thicker this time, but not uncomfortable. Not exactly. Evelyn studies you with a different kind of stillness now. Not dismissive. Not uninterested. Just…watching. Measuring. Then, she speaks. “How old is your child?”

“He’s five now.”

“Going to school?”

“He is.”

Evelyn nods slowly, fingers steepled beneath her chin as she regards you with something unreadable—less like an employer sizing up a candidate, and more like a woman pulling apart a story that hits too close to home. “You’ll have to leave early sometimes. Sick days. School closures. Emergencies.” Her voice is even, neutral.

You nod. “I try to plan for those things ahead of time. But yes, sometimes they’re unavoidable.”

Another beat of silence. Then, she leans back slightly, eyes narrowing, but not unkindly, with intent. “Being a personal secretary isn’t just phones and calendars. It’s long hours. Emotional labor. You’ll be expected to run interference, manage people’s moods, anticipate needs before they’re spoken. My assistant before you quit because the pressure bled into her marriage.”

She lets that sink in. Not as a threat, but as a truth.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just telling you—you’ll be expected to carry a lot. Are you ready for that, Y/N? Not just for the job. But for what it takes from you?”

Your lips purse, fingers curling into your palms. Every question from her feels like a test. A reminder that this job, although presented to you, is not one for the weak. Well, luckily for you, you’re not married like the last girl. And, unluckily for Eveleyn, she may wish you were. 

You huff a small breath through your nostrils before speaking with conviction. “I’m ready. I’ve made the necessary steps to get to where I am for my son and for me. I can push and push, and I can take just as much. I…I have more to fight for now.”

Evelyn’s eyes flicker slightly, just a subtle change in the way she regards you, but it’s enough to let you know she heard you. She shifts in her seat, elbows resting on the arms of her chair, hands folding neatly in her lap. There’s a glimmer of something—approval or maybe just curiosity—as she leans forward just enough to study you. “I see,” she murmurs. Her voice is softer now, less challenging. “You’re driven. That’s clear.”

You meet her gaze, holding it steady, feeling the weight of her scrutiny but refusing to flinch. This interview, this moment, it feels like one more battle you’ve got to win, and you’re determined to prove that you're capable of fighting for what you want, even if it’s a battle she doesn't yet fully understand. She taps her pen lightly against her desk, contemplating. “Alright, Y/N. I’ll be honest. I’ve had my doubts about taking on someone with little experience in this specific role. But you’ve shown me something I wasn’t expecting. I’ll need to run this by my team, but you’ll hear back from me soon. If all goes well, I’ll put you through a trial month. That’s all I can promise for now.”

You nod, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly. The worst of it is over. Or so you hope. “Thank you,” you say, standing up with a calmness you didn’t feel five minutes ago. You offer her a polite smile. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

Evelyn gives you a small nod, standing as well. “Good luck, Y/N. I think you’ll need it.”

As you leave the office, your heart is still racing, but now it’s not from nerves. It’s from knowing you’ve fought for this. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll be enough. A smile makes its way onto your face. That wasn’t half bad and not nearly as long as you thought it would be. Of course, you would’ve loved to have been hired on the spot, but it makes sense that she needs to consult first. 

Still, it wasn’t rejection. 

You lightly chuckle, turning one of the first corners, when suddenly, you collide with someone. You gasp, stumbling back a little before catching your footing. “Oh, I—I’m so sorry. That was an accident.” 

Locking eyes with the person you’ve just come into contact with, you see it’s an older man. His grey hair is styled sleekly back, with hints of crows feet around the outer edges of his hazel eyes. He’s dressed like every other man here. Nice, fancy, pristine. He dusts off his right shoulder, straightening his blazer out. “Don’t worry, simple mistake.” His voice is clean and smooth, slightly rough at the edges, which makes it obvious he was or still is a smoker.

You quickly step back, feeling a slight wave of embarrassment. The man’s eyes soften as he gives a short hum. “It happens.” He gestures to the hallway behind him with a brief nod. You step aside, offering another apology. His eyes just very briefly scan you up and down, lingering on a couple of features of your face, specifically your nose and eyebrows, before transferring quickly to your ears. 

“Have a nice day,” you mutter awkwardly. 

“Mhm,” is all he says before walking past you. Once he’s gone, your body feels lighter, as if this stranger’s presence made you all wacky from the inside. You cast a small look around the corner, making it just in time to notice Evelyn’s door closing with a click.

You swallow, shaking off the lingering feeling that man left behind. His presence, the way his eyes skimmed over you, there was something strange about it, but you can’t put your finger on what. You chalk it up to nerves from the interview and move on. It’s not like you’ll ever see him again, right? Besides, it’s Evelyn’s opinion that matters now. You keep walking, feeling that mix of relief and uncertainty creeping back into your chest. It’s a good thing the interview went well, but the weight of waiting for a callback still lingers heavily. As you approach the elevator, you check your phone, noticing a message from Satoru.

Satoru: "How’d it go?"

You smile a little, despite everything. You type out a quick reply:

You: "Better than I expected. No decision yet, but I didn’t bomb it."

You hit send, stepping into the elevator, your mind still buzzing. A moment later, the door closes, and the hum of the elevator fills the silence. You rest against the metal wall, letting your thoughts wander back to the interview, to what could come next.

It could be the start of something bigger.

“My, this…neighborhood,” Akane comments, laced with disgust. Her face wrinkles slightly at the trash that leaks out of the garbage can, obviously not being taken care of, the sketchy-looking liquor stores that seem too close together, but must be an alcoholic’s dream. The car stops at the elementary school, she looks over at her husband. “Are you sure this is the boy’s school?”

“That’s what the damn GPS is telling me. That’s what Satoru said.” Yamato huffs, grabbing his phone, pointer finger jabbing at the bright screen, and pulling down the glasses onto the bridge of his nose. 

Akane sighs, straightening out her dress. 

“C’mon, Satoru said his class should have already been let out, let’s go find the room.” Yamato pushes his hair back, sighing as he gets out his Rolls-Royce Cullinan. Rounding the car to open the passenger door for his wife. They link hands and head toward the front doors of Koji’s school. 

“I hope we don’t get mugged,” Akane mutters under her breath. 

“Oh, quiet. We’re only here for the kid.” Yamato easily replies, eyes rolling. 

The inside of the school isn’t much better. The walls are faded, bulletin boards cluttered with crumpled flyers, hand-drawn posters, and outdated announcements. The linoleum under their feet squeaks with every step, and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Akane grimaces as a child runs past them with a juice-stained shirt, followed by another with untied shoes and an uncovered sneeze.

“This place smells like glue and poverty,” she mutters, pulling her handbag closer to her side.

Yamato doesn’t respond this time. He’s focused on the numbers above each door, squinting until they finally stop in front of Room 2B. Children’s laughter and the low hum of a teacher’s voice filter through the door. Akane frowns, eyes narrowing at the chipped paint on the doorframe.

Yamato raises his hand to knock, hesitates for a moment, and then glances at his wife. “Just…behave, alright?”

“I always do,” Akane answers with a sugary edge, smoothing her hair back and lifting her chin as he knocks.

The noise inside dips for a second as a voice— the teacher’s—calls out, “Come in!”

And just like that, the Gojo parents step into a room that’s far too small, far too loud, and far too beneath them—only, they’re not here for any of that.

They’re here for Koji.

Yamato presents a small smile. “Hello, we’re here for our…” grandson? Should he say grandson? Technically, he is, but it doesn’t really feel that way. “Koji. We’re his grandparents.”

“Ah! Right!” The teacher, an older lady with brown hair and a stained apron, nods. “His mother said he would be getting picked up by you two.” She turns her head over her shoulder, and the other kids who haven’t been picked up by their parents yet either. “Koji! Your grandparents are here, come get your backpack and jacket.”

Koji looks up from the little table where he’s been coloring with a few other kids. Crayons clatter as he quickly slides out of his chair, eyes wide and uncertain as he stares at the unfamiliar older couple standing at the door. He doesn’t move right away. His teacher encourages him with a soft pat on the back. “It’s okay, sweetie, go on.”

He walks slowly, dragging his feet just a little as he clutches his drawing in one hand. When he reaches them, he stops just a few feet away, looking up. His face is unreadable—neither shy nor excited, just…quiet. Observing. His blue eyes flick from Yamato’s trimmed goatee to Akane’s sharp heels.

A slightly awkward affair as the three leave the room, his teacher ensuring to tell Yamato to tell Koji’s mother about his homework left in his backpack. He nods, hand hesitantly hovering above the boy’s small shoulder as they walk back down the hallway. Yamato and Akane share a knowing, quiet glance. 

Once they get outside, Akane clears her throat, looking down at Koji. “Koji, do you remember us?”

“Um…only a little bit,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck as he mentally recounts the day he first saw the two who call themselves his grandparents. Luckily, you and Satoru were with him that day, but now he’s all alone. 

They get to the car, with Yamato opening the backseat. Koji’s eyes widened slightly in awe at the sleek, black car presented in front of him. “Papa’s car is cool too…” he offhandedly comments. 

Akane arches a brow. “I’m sure it is,” she replies curtly, helping him into the car with a practiced grace that still feels stiff, unfamiliar. Koji slides into his booster seat, hands lightly grazing the armrest before clutching his backpack in his lap. Yamato shuts the door and exchanges another glance with his wife before circling back to the driver’s side. The moment he starts the engine, the car hums to life with silent power, and for a while, none of them speak.

Koji, ever perceptive, clutches his drawing a little tighter.

Akane breaks the silence first. “So… what were you drawing back there?”

Koji hesitates. “Me and Mama. At the park.”

“Hmm,” she hums, gaze forward. “No Papa?”

Koji’s lips press together. “He wasn’t there that day.”

Yamato’s knuckles tighten slightly on the wheel. Akane doesn’t respond, but the weight of her silence is as cutting as her tone. After a few more seconds, Yamato clears his throat, glancing at Koji through the rearview mirror. “We were thinking we could take you out for something to eat. Anywhere you like.”

Koji blinks. “Like… McDonald’s?”

Akane’s lips curl into something halfway between a smile and a wince. “If that’s what you want.”

“Can I get a toy?” Koji asks, almost hopefully now.

“Yes,” Yamato answers, firm but not unkind. “You can get whatever you want.”

There’s a beat of calm. Then, very softly, Koji says, “Mama doesn’t have a car like this.”

Yamato exhales quietly. “I know.”

Akane folds her hands in her lap, casting a sideways glance out the window. “That’s why we’re here.”

The ride to McDonald’s isn’t as painfully quiet. Yamato turns the radio on, volume in the middle. Koji swings his legs back and forth, looking out the tinted window as the streets blur past him. His head tilts when they pass the McDonald’s. “We missed McDonald’s,” he says, looking at the older couple with a confused gaze. 

Yamato meets his eyes through the rear-view mirror momentarily. “There’s another McDonald’s closer to our house.”

“Your house?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m going to your house?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why not my house?”

God, he forgot just how questioning children are. Akane answers this time. “Because your mother and father will meet us there later. Until then, you’ll stay at our house.”

Koji is silent for a minute, processing the information. He looks down at his drawing, hands smoothing out the paper. “Is your house big?” He questions. 

Akane gives a soft hum, like she’s debating how much to say. “Yes. It’s quite big. There’s a garden and a fountain in the front. We have a piano, too.”

“A piano?” Koji repeats, eyes lighting up just a bit as he looks up from his drawing. “Do you play it?”

“I used to,” she replies, her voice a little softer now. “Maybe I’ll show you.”

Yamato glances at her, surprised by the gentle tone, but doesn’t comment. He switches lanes with ease, and they pass through the quiet, wealthier side of the city. The roads get smoother. Cleaner. Koji notices the change, too.

“Are there kids in your neighborhood?”

“A few,” Yamato answers. “Most are older, though. Teenagers.”

“Oh.” Koji pauses again, then looks back out the window. “Mama says big houses get quiet.”

Akane’s lips press together tightly. “That’s true. But sometimes quiet can be peaceful.”

Koji doesn’t respond. He just tucks his drawing back into his backpack and rests his chin in his hand, blinking slowly at the soft-spoken world outside the window—one that doesn’t look like his. One that doesn’t feel like his. 

Yamato parks in the McDonald’s parking lot, unbuckling. Akane and Koji do the same, waiting for the man to open their doors. Koji hops out as Akane does. Koji, ever excited, begins to briskly walk to the front doors of his favorite place. Yamato and Akane’s eyes widen, quickly following. 

Akane’s hand awkwardly juts out, as if she’s about to grab his hand, before stopping. She instead clears her throat. “Walk slower, now.”

Koji slows down, glancing up at her with wide, innocent eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbles, scuffing his shoes against the concrete as he adjusts his pace. He waits beside her, though there’s a slight fidget in his steps. He’s not used to slowing down for anyone but his mom.

Inside, the McDonald’s smells like fries and melted cheese. A kid screams with glee somewhere near the play area, and Koji visibly relaxes at the familiar chaos. Yamato leads them to the counter, where a bored-looking teenager takes their order. Koji clutches the edge of the counter, peering up as he declares confidently, “I want a Happy Meal. With the dinosaur toy. And apple slices, not fries. And orange soda!”

Yamato raises a brow but doesn’t argue. “Happy Meal. Dinosaur toy. Apple slices. Orange soda,” he repeats to the cashier, who nods with a shrug.

Akane watches Koji from the side, eyes tracing how easily he fits here—how his energy might be too big for their cold, cavernous home. She adjusts the pearl bracelet on her wrist, a little unsettled. 

Once they get the food, they sit at a clean booth near the window. Yamato and Akane both sit across from Koji. Koji munches on his food contentedly, his legs swinging again. He pulls the toy from the box, a green triceratops, and sets it beside his apple slices. “He looks mad,” he says, turning it toward them.

Yamato checks his watch. “Maybe he doesn’t like apple slices.”

Koji giggles slightly at the dry humor of his grandfather. Yamato clears his throat, looking up and leaning back in the booth. The older couple watch in quietness as Koji happily devours his food, occasionally stopping to move his toy dinosaur and mimic a small roar. 

It’s strange for them. They’re grandparents, and yet they know close to nothing about this boy. All that they do is he’s a carbon copy of their son, but his mannerisms closely match yours. 

Akane finds herself watching Koji more than she eats. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, just like you do when you’re distracted. His laughter comes in bursts, quick and bright, like a firecracker going off in a still room. And when he talks about his toy, he looks up at them with expectant eyes, seeking some kind of shared interest neither of them really knows how to give yet.

Yamato studies him too, arms crossed now, food half-finished. The boy’s smart. He doesn’t fidget aimlessly; he thinks before he speaks. He absorbs everything. Just like Satoru did. Maybe more.

Koji finishes his apple slices, downs the rest of his orange soda, and then sits back and smiles at them. “Do you have toys at your house?”

“No,” Akane answers honestly. “But we can get some.”

“Cool,” he says, simple and trusting. “Papa gets me a lot of toys.”

Akane hums lowly. “Do you like your toys?”

“I do!” He chews on his last chicken nugget. 

“What’s your favorite toy?” She asks, arms on the table as she leans forward. 

Koji doesn’t answer right away. He swallows his food, then looks up at her with that same wide-eyed honesty he always has when asked something serious. His fingers toy with the edge of the Happy Meal box. “I like my robot dog,” he finally says. “Papa gave it to me when I was sick. He said it could bark and dance, but it only spins in circles now. I think I broke it.” He pauses, thoughtful. “But I still like it.”

Akane tilts her head slightly, a quiet softness tugging at her features. “Even though it doesn’t work right?”

Koji shrugs. “Yeah. Because Papa said it’s mine. So it’s special.”

She studies him—how simple his logic is. How unwavering his sense of loyalty already seems to be. Her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the edge of the table. “I see,” she murmurs. “That makes sense.”

Yamato glances at her, then down at his phone.

Koji sits up straighter. “Do you have toys from when you were little?”

Akane chuckles under her breath, caught off guard. “Not anymore. I didn’t keep many things.”

“Why not?”

She hesitates, then smiles faintly. “I guess I didn’t think I’d need them.”

Koji stares at her for a second, then looks at his dinosaur toy. “You can have this one if you want,” he offers, sliding it across the table toward her. “So you have a toy again.”

Akane freezes.

Even Yamato lifts his eyes from his phone, blinking in surprise.

“O-oh, well, um—” she clears her throat, hesitantly taking the toy in her hand. “Well…that’s very…nice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Mama says sharing is caring.” He shrugs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Akane’s eyebrow lifts. Seems you’ve taught your boy some good manners. At least. 

She turns the toy over in her hands, the little green dinosaur staring back at her with its molded plastic scowl. Something in her expression softens further, an unspoken crack in her perfectly composed exterior. It’s clear she hasn’t been offered something so small yet so sincere in a very long time.

“Well,” she says carefully, “I’ll take very good care of him.”

Koji beams, nodding. “Good. He doesn’t like being alone.”

Akane offers a small, almost reluctant smile. “Neither do I.”

Yamato watches quietly, lips pressed together, a crease forming between his brows—not because of disapproval, but something closer to discomfort. Like watching something unfamiliar begin to unfold in front of him. Just then, Koji reaches for his drink, slurping the last of his orange soda loudly. He sighs, satisfied, then stretches his arms out wide. “When are Mama and Papa coming?”

Akane and Yamato share a quick look. She reaches for her clutch, already checking her phone. 

“They’ll meet us back at the house later,” Yamato says, standing up slowly. “Let’s get going before traffic gets bad.”

Koji jumps to his feet with a little bounce. “Okay!”

Akane hesitates just a moment longer, placing the dinosaur into her purse beside her wallet and keys, treating it more carefully than she expected she would.

The entire bus ride to your ex’s parents’ house was spent in utter anxiety. You fiddle with your hands, foot tapping, and looking out the window. You haven’t seen them since that one day a couple of months back. You wish things were just easy enough so that you could have at least a semblance of a relationship with them. Especially if this co-parenting works out, it’s going to be inevitable you’ll be seeing them. You sigh, head resting back against your seat, eyes closing. 

.

.

.

.

“Satoru not bringing you food anymore?”

You gasp and jolt, whirling around quickly. The kitchen light flips on, caught right in the act of stealing a couple of pastries from the pantry, as well as a carton of orange juice. 

Akane stands in a nightgown, arms crossed, with a strong expression. Her eyes move up and down your figure, scoffing audibly. Her chin tilts up, silently commanding you to explain yourself. 

You swallow the current food in your mouth, wiping it with your hand. “I…um…I—well, I can explain.”

“Explain?” She steps forward. “Explain why my son’s good-for-nothing girlfriend has not only been staying in our guesthouse, but stealing our food? Go on, then. Explain.”

Her belittling tone makes you want to curl up into a ball and disappear. God damn it, Satoru. Where the hell are you?! “I…um…there’s—there’s just some stuff going on at home. Satoru said I could stay here until things clear up.”

“And he didn’t even bother to tell me or his father.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to over—”

“Why are you here?”

“I—I needed a place to stay. I’m sorry. I won’t be here for long.”

Akane stares at you for a long, unbearable second. Her jaw clenches. You can tell she’s holding back something sharp. Maybe it’s restraint, or maybe it’s just another judgment she wants to hurl your way. “I should’ve known,” she says quietly. “Satoru always did have a soft spot for broken things.”

That one stings more than you’d like to admit. Your throat tightens. You look down, ashamed, both hands still wrapped around the cold carton of juice. “I’m not trying to cause trouble,” you whisper. “I just needed a couple weeks. That’s all.”

Akane stares you down in silence for what feels like a full minute. The ticking clock above the stove echoes between you, and your heart hammers louder with each passing second. Her eyes narrow, not with confusion, but calculation. “Let me guess,” she says finally, her voice quiet but sharp enough to cut glass. “You got into a fight with your mother again. Or maybe Satoru ran his mouth and scared you off?”

You shake your head quickly. “It’s not like that.”

“No? Then tell me. Because all I see is a girl too proud to ask for help and too stupid to leave when she should’ve.” Her arms drop, but her words are no less harsh. “You’ve been sneaking around this house like a rodent. Do you know how humiliating it is to find out from the housekeeper that someone’s been using the shower and leaving dishes in the sink?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You can feel your throat tighten.

Akane sighs—long, exhausted, and judgmental. “You girls think just because someone like Satoru gives you attention, you’ve made it. But you don’t know the first thing about surviving in this family.”

Your knuckles whiten around the orange juice. The ache in your chest is unbearable, but you force yourself to speak. “I didn’t ask to be here. Satoru said it wouldn’t be permanent. He’s helping me. And I’ve been trying to stay out of everyone’s way.”

“You failed.” Her reply is quick and cutting. “Do you know how hard his father and I work to keep his name clean? To keep distractions away while he was studying, preparing to inherit everything? And now look at him—sneaking you in like a dirty secret.”

The word “distraction” lingers in the air like poison. You blink rapidly, biting your tongue until you taste metal. “I’m not trying to ruin his life.”

Akane steps closer now. She isn’t yelling. She doesn’t need to. “Then leave before you do.”

Akane snatches the food and juice from your arms, giving you a brief jut of her chin. “Go back into the guesthouse. I’m not dealing with you anymore tonight.”

You blink, holding back tears. Wordlessly, you bite your lip, turn on your heel, and exit through the back door into the cool night air. Tears sting your eyes as you enter the guesthouse, closing the door with a shut before making your way to the bed. 

You sit on the edge of the bed for a long while, still in the dark, clutching the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground. The burn in your throat won’t ease, no matter how hard you swallow. You press your palms to your eyes, trying not to let the sob crawl out of you.

She doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know.

You repeat this tiny mantra to yourself, willing your brain not to go into overdrive for what will be the millionth time this week. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Satoru promised. He said they wouldn’t even have to know you were here. Just a few weeks, just until you guys figured out what to do, until you started feeling better, until you could afford that studio apartment in Setagaya. But it’s already been four nights since you found out, and you’re still waking up at three in the morning, stomach twisted in knots, half from nausea and half from sorrow. 

And he still hasn’t answered your texts. 

.

.

.

.

You stir awake from your small nap as the bus gets to your stop, rubbing your eyes and getting off. His parents’ place shouldn’t be too far from here, if memory serves you right. You sigh and begin walking, just trying to think about being able to see your little boy in a little bit, not come face to face with them. 

You hug your coat tighter around you as you walk, the cool afternoon air nipping at your cheeks. The streets are too clean here. Too quiet. You hate how familiar it still feels, the ivy-lined walls, the sharp turns of the hedges, the cold elegance of it all. You used to think it was beautiful. Now it just feels heavy.

Your feet move on instinct, carrying you past the old stone wall you remember scraping your knees on one time, the bakery where Satoru used to buy you those strawberry mochi on Fridays. Everything is the same, but so different. 

You pause as you get to the intercom at the gate surrounding the Gojo Estate. Pressing the button. A small buzz sounds out, a man’s voice you recognize coming in. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Y/N.”

There’s a tiny silence before you hear another buzz, the wide gates slowly opening. Taking a deep breath, you start up the long driveway, hands shoved in the pockets of your coat. Eyes focused on the two white grand doors. Once you get there, the doors open, revealing Yamato. 

You purse your lips awkwardly. “Um…hi.”

He nods briefly before stepping aside. The moment you enter, a wave of nostalgia washes over your entire being. You force yourself not to book it out of there. 

“Satoru said he’d be here in twenty minutes,” Yamato utters.

You nod, looking around. “And Koji?”

“Come,” he motions with his hand, turning to walk down the hallway towards the large living space. You follow a few steps behind, passing by a few family memorabilia on the way. You stop when he does. You blink, head tilting slightly. 

In front of you, your son and Satoru’s mother with their backs turned to you. They sit on the seat of the piano.

The scene before you feels surreal, like stepping into a memory that doesn’t belong to you, yet it does. Koji, perched on the piano bench, his tiny fingers brushing over the ivory keys, a look of intense concentration on his face. And Akane, beside him, her back straight and her hands poised delicately over the keys as she guides him. The quiet, peaceful moment is almost too perfect.

“She’s been teaching him for the last hour, he’s very curious.” Yamato comments, arms crossing. He side-glances at you, noticing your quietness. 

“Oh, well…that’s good. He’s never seen one in person before,” you mumble, awkwardly shifting on your feet. You can faintly hear Akane mutter a direction to your son, followed by his nod. Your stomach turns, unsure of how to feel about all this. “He’s been behaving?” You decide to ask. 

Yamato nods, meeting your eyes. “Quite so.” He says nothing for a few more seconds before sighing and angling his body towards you. “Look, this is new for all of us. I didn’t expect him to be so open towards us.”

“Because I taught him to be kind to everyone,” you cooly reply, looking up at him. “No matter what.”

Yamato gets the silent message, jaw ticking just barely. “I know you may have resentment towards us, but we’re not your enemy,” he finishes, voice steady, but laced with something heavier.

You blink, swallowing thickly as your fingers curl inside your pockets. Enemy. You weren’t expecting that word, but maybe it fits more than you’d like to admit. Your silence stretches too long, and you know he’s waiting for you to snap, to throw all your pent-up frustration in his face.

But you don’t. Instead, you let out a small exhale, glancing back at Koji and Akane. “I don’t resent anyone,” you say, voice quiet. “I just don’t forget.”

Yamato says nothing, but the pause between you sharpens. Then he gives a small nod, almost as if conceding to something unspoken.

You walk past him.

As your feet carry you toward the piano room, Koji glances over his shoulder again. “Mama!” he beams, hopping off the bench and running into your arms. 

You catch him easily, hugging him tight, letting his little arms wrap around your neck like ivy. “Hey, baby,” you murmur into his hair, inhaling the warm scent of shampoo and sunshine. When you lift your gaze again, Akane is standing. Her expression is cool and composed as always, hands clasped neatly in front of her. She doesn’t say anything, but the look in her eyes says enough.

She sees you. 

“Thank you for teaching him,” you offer, voice strained but civil.

Akane tilts her head slightly. “He’s a fast learner,” she replies. “Takes after his father.”

You don’t comment on that, resisting the urge to say his mother, too. 

“Would you like to hear what he’s learned?” she adds, tone perfectly poised.

You blink in surprise. For a moment, you wonder if this is some sort of trap, but Koji pulls back, eyes shining with excitement. “Can I show her, Grandma?”

Akane gives a small nod. “Of course.”

He runs back to the piano. You follow more slowly, sitting beside him this time. Your eyes flicker to Akane. She doesn’t sit, but she watches, hands folded, body rigid in that ever-disapproving way. Or maybe that’s just what she’s forever used to. 

And still, as Koji presses the keys with tiny, proud fingers, all you can do is wonder:

Is this her trying?

Or is this just her performance?

You never know with these people. 

Koji plays a small, four-key symphony. You smile softly, watching his tiny fingers move around the white keys before looking up at you with an expectant smile. “Oh, you’re so good. That sounded so wonderful,” you kiss his cheek, wrapping an arm around his shoulder to bring him into your side.

He giggles, kissing your cheek back. “Grandma said I’m a puh—poo—umm…a pr—”

“Prodigy,” Akane finishes for him.

Koji nods quickly. “Yeah! That! A prodigy!”

You can’t help the way your lips twitch at the corners, though you keep your tone even. “Is that so?”

Akane finally moves, just enough to step closer. “I wouldn’t say it lightly,” she murmurs. “He has an ear for rhythm. Muscle memory. Coordination. His age group typically struggles with that.”

You glance at her sideways. “He’s always been observant. Picks up things quickly.”

Akane nods once. “Yes. He’s sharp.”

There’s something there—a flicker of approval, rare and unfamiliar. It lands oddly. Not unwelcome, but not quite comforting either. Still, it lingers longer than you expect. And for the first time since arriving, her words feel… not like a dismissal. Not like judgment. More like an assessment.

You exhale slowly. “Well… as long as he’s enjoying it.”

Koji beams between you both. “I wanna be really good. Like the people on Papa’s phone!”

You blink. “What people?”

“He showed me a video of a man playing piano with his eyes closed. Really fast!” Koji’s eyes go wide. “I wanna do that.”

“Sounds ambitious,” you murmur, brushing his hair back gently.

“It’s possible,” Akane says, arms crossing. “With discipline and the right environment.”

Your jaw tightens, but you keep your expression neutral. “He’s five.”

Akane’s gaze doesn’t waver. “So was Satoru when he started.”

The comparison between Koji and Satoru is one you expected, but that doesn’t make you any less frustrated. You look back at Koji, his joy too pure, too focused, to let the weight of that conversation reach him. He starts playing again, a slower, clumsier version of the earlier song, tongue poking out in concentration. “Well, he’s not Satoru. He’s Koji.”

“He can still learn how Satoru did.”

“Or he can learn what he wants, when he wants. And if I allow it,” you calmly reply, standing up from the bench and taking your son into your arms. He’s already growing big enough to the point where picking him up hurts your back even more. However, you still want to cherish whatever strands of dependency you can with your son, even if that means suffering a backache.

Akane’s lips press into a thin line, not quite disapproving—but not agreeing either. You can see the tension in her posture, in the way her hands shift slightly as if she wants to say more but is holding back. “He’s yours,” she finally says. “That much is clear.”

You hold Koji tighter. “He always has been.”

Yamato clears his throat, hoping to die down the growing tension as he stands beside his wife. “Why don’t you two wait for Satoru in the dining room?”

You don’t need to be told twice, turning on your heel and walking out of the room, practically feeling their eyes burn holes in the back of your head. Once you’re gone, Akane sighs heavily, foot tapping against the ground. “That girl hasn’t changed.”

“I’m not in the mood to break up a fight right now, Akane.”

“I’m not fighting,” she snaps, glaring up at Yamato. “I’m observing. Simply. It’s not my fault she dislikes us.”

“It doesn’t matter if she does or does not, I don’t care enough to worry about that. But at least try to act civil in the presence of a child, yes?” Yamato asks in exasperation, eyebrow lifting. 

She scoffs. “I am acting civil. Do you see me raising my voice and throwing a tantrum?”

“No, but it’s your tone.”

“And how is my tone?”

“Jesus Christ, just be nice for one goddamn minute. I’m too old for this crap,” Yamato huffs deeply, hand running through his hair. His lips are set into a creased frown, and he waves his hand up. “Just try to make her feel somewhat comfortable, okay. Got it?” 

Akane opens her mouth. “But she—”

“I said, got it?” He asks again, giving his wife a look she’s familiar with. One that says he won’t tolerate her disobedience any longer.

Akane’s jaw tightens at the silent command, but she doesn’t argue this time. She just presses her lips together, gaze flicking toward the doorway you disappeared through. “…Got it,” she says eventually, her voice clipped.

Yamato sighs through his nose, the tension leaving his shoulders just slightly. He doesn’t say anything else as he steps out, leaving his wife behind in the piano room. She lingers for a moment, her eyes drifting toward the bench where Koji had been sitting—small hands, wide eyes, laughter like Satoru’s when he was little. She swallows something bitter before turning on her heel and following after her husband.

In the dining room, you sit Koji down on the edge of one of the long chairs, pulling his little hoodie off his head and smoothing his hair. He swings his feet as he sits, talking excitedly about the keys, the sounds, how Akane let him press the pedal even though he “wasn’t supposed to.” You smile and nod in all the right places, but your mind is elsewhere, your eyes flicking to the large windows, the too-white walls, the marble floors. It’s like being dropped into someone else’s memory.

You hear their footsteps before you see them. Yamato enters first, his face unreadable as always, though there’s a tiredness behind his eyes. Akane follows after, her posture still regal, but her expression more composed. Less… cutting.

She doesn’t look at you as she sits on the opposite side of the table.

Yamato clears his throat and glances between you both. “Would either of you like tea while we wait?”

“I’m okay,” you mutter.

“Um…juice?” he asks Koji, his voice a tad bit gentler.

“Apple?” Koji grins.

Yamato nods. “Coming right up.”

As he heads to the side kitchen, silence settles between you and Akane again. You keep your attention on Koji, who starts humming some made-up song to himself. 

Then, after a beat, Akane speaks.

“I didn’t mean to undermine you,” she says, tone low and careful, like each word has been weighed a dozen times before being spoken. “I only meant to point out potential.”

You glance at her. Her gaze is steady.

“He’s your son,” she says. “But he’s Satoru’s, too. You can’t expect the world not to notice what’s in his blood.”

You lean forward, resting your arms on the table. “I don’t mind the world noticing. I mind when people try to turn him into someone he’s not.”

She sighs. “All I did was suggest he has greater potential.”

Akane’s words hang between you like an unresolved chord. The flicker in her eye, curiosity, perhaps hope, maybe even defensiveness—doesn’t go unnoticed. 

You tilt your head. “I’m not against potential. I’m against projection.”

Her lips twitch at the corner. “You think I’m trying to mold him or something?”

“I think you don’t realize how easy it is to mistake admiration for control,” you say calmly. “And I’m not going to let him grow up thinking love has conditions attached to it.”

Akane stiffens slightly at that, her hands tightening over her lap. “You assume the worst in us.”

“No,” you reply softly. “I remember the worst. That’s not the same.”

Another pause. This time, it’s her gaze that flickers away, settling on the far end of the table where Koji now softly drums his fingers, looking between you and her. She decides not to push it; the longer the discussion grows, the more curious he might become. She looks up as Yamato holds out a juice box for Koji to take. 

Just as he does so, Satoru walks into the room. His two top buttons unbuttoned, eyes glancing between his mother and you, silently trying to determine the comfort level of the current situation. “Hey,” he says, coming over to stand beside you. A quick look at your expression says everything. 

“Papa!”

“Hey, buddy.” Satoru smiles, welcoming Koji into his arms, adjusting the small boy against his chest. He gives him a small kiss on the top of his head. “How was school?”

“Okay, I’m gonna miss my friends.” He admits, looking down with a small frown. 

“Aw, buddy. I’m sure you are, but you’ll make even more friends at your new school.”

Koji childishly sighs, arms wrapping around his father’s neck and putting his face into the crook of it. 

Satoru pats his back lightly, now focusing on his mother and you. His first question is directed towards you. “Everything good?”

You nod, though it’s a small, half-hearted gesture. “Peachy,” you murmur, not quite sarcastic, but not fully honest either.

His hand remains on Koji’s back, rubbing in slow, thoughtful circles. He glances at Akane, who has returned to her perfect stillness, eyes calmly watching the exchange as if it’s all part of a silent evaluation.

“She was just making observations,” you say before he can ask. “About Koji’s potential. About blood. About you at five.”

Satoru raises a brow, slowly lowering Koji to the chair beside him. “Mom,” he says, voice calm but edged, “We talked about this.”

Akane doesn’t flinch. “And I was careful. I said nothing out of line.”

“You never do,” he replies smoothly. But the look he gives her carries more weight than his tone. It’s the look of a son who’s lived too long parsing praise from performance. Yamato goes to his seat beside Akane with a grunt, muttering something about needing a stronger drink. You focus on Koji again, standing up to wipe juice from the side of his mouth as he slurps through the straw.

Then, Satoru shifts slightly closer to you, brushing your arm. “We don’t have to stay long,” he says low, for your ears only. “We can head out now, yeah?”

You glance at Koji, who’s swinging his legs, and you nod.

But it’s Akane who speaks next.

“You’re always leaving,” she says, tone bitter.

Satoru exhales through his nose. “And you’re always making it easy to.”

“The cooks will be making some shrimp tacos,” she says, standing as well. Her arms cross, looking between the two of you. “Maybe the boy can—”

“Koji is fine,” you cut in, fixing her with a firm gaze. “He’s a picky eater.”

Her lips purse tightly, restrained disapproval lurking behind her eyes. As if she is holding back a sharper comment.  Her posture doesn’t waver, but the chill in the room thickens.

“He’ll learn to adjust,” she finally says, looking at you. “Children do. Especially in families like ours.” 

Families like ours.

The words cling, sticky, and unpleasant. Satoru’s jaw tightens. You don’t miss the way his fingers twitch at his side, the smallest urge to step in, to shield, to lash back. But instead, he smiles, tight, impersonal. “Koji isn’t some soldier in training, Mom.”

Akane lifts her chin. “And he shouldn’t be raised like a normal civilian, either.”

Yamato scoffs again, leaning back in his chair. “Here we go.”

Satoru ignores his father, eyes still on his mother. “He’s five,” he says flatly. “He likes dinosaur nuggets and cartoons that scream too loudly. He doesn’t need to know what it means to be part of this family yet.”

“And he doesn’t need to,” you add on. 

She huffs dryly. “So you both plan on, what? Never allowing him to come over? To stay over?”

“Nobody is saying that, Mom.” Satoru exhales through his nostrils. “That is not at all what we said. Stop putting words in our mouths.”

“But that’s what I’m hearing.” Her voice rises, Koji just barely flinching in Satoru’s arms. You both notice, and your expression darkens. Satoru holds him closer, hand moving to his pearly white strands of hair to weave through in a calming manner. As if noticing the way she snapped, she blinks. For a moment, it looks like she might apologize. 

But neither of you cares enough to stay to hear it. 

“We’re leaving now.” You state, not leaving room for even more of whatever pathetic argument she might try to throw. Satoru and you turn, walking to the door. 

Yamato side glances at Akane. Her eyebrows are furrowed, biting hard on her lip. And if he didn’t know any better, he’d say she looks regretful. 

“Wait,” Koji says, looking over Satoru’s shoulder at the older couple. “Can I say bye to Grandma and Grandpa?” 

Satoru pauses at the door, one hand on the knob, the other under Koji’s legs as the boy leans back slightly in his arms. You glance at him, silent, weighing the moment. Akane straightens. Yamato says nothing.

“Of course you can,” Satoru says finally, setting Koji gently down. “Go ahead.”

Koji pads back into the room, small feet quiet against the polished floor. He stops in front of Akane first, looking up at her with hesitant eyes. She meets them, unsure for once. There’s a flicker of something unfamiliar—a tender softness she doesn’t wear often enough, one she hasn’t had to wear in years. 

“Bye, Grandma,” he says politely, giving a little wave.

Akane stares at him for a beat too long. Then slowly, she lowers herself to one knee, smoothing down her skirt. “Bye, Koji,” she replies, her voice quieter. “Thank you for coming.”

He smiles, just a little. She doesn’t hug him. But she brushes a piece of lint from his sleeve, like it’s the closest she knows how to get.

Next, he turns to Yamato. “Bye, Grandpa.”

Yamato grunts. “Be good, kid.”

Koji nods solemnly, then trots back to Satoru, who scoops him up with practiced ease. The tension hasn’t left the room, but the mood has shifted slightly, a tilt of something that might eventually become understanding. Or not. You don’t count on it.

Satoru looks over his shoulder. “We’ll be in touch.”

Akane nods once, lips pressed tight.

You don’t say anything else. The door closes behind you with a quiet click. As you walk down the hallway, Koji resting his head on Satoru’s shoulder, you murmur, “Thanks for not letting that go on any longer.”

He nods. “You looked like you were about two seconds away from throwing a glass at her.”

You snort, the sound small but real. “I still might.”

He holds open the front door. “Next time, we do neutral territory. Like a park. Or the moon.”

Koji yawns. “Only if there’s nuggets on the moon.”

You smile, despite it all. “We’ll make it happen.”

.

.

Akane sits back quietly in her seat, eyes laser-focused on the door you two just left. Her husband rubs his face. “I swear, if it’s not me one day, it’s you. And you said I’m driving him away.”

Akane doesn’t respond immediately. Her gaze is still fixed on the door, her fingers tense around the armrest of the chair as though she’s trying to steady herself. Her jaw clenches, her silence a loud statement in the room. Yamato shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he leans back in his chair. “I’m getting too old for this.” He exhales heavily, rubbing his face with both hands, a look of both frustration and resignation settling on him. “Every damn time, Akane. Every time.”

Finally, Akane shifts slightly, her posture still stiff, but her eyes now narrowing as she shifts her eyes to her husband. “I don’t need your lectures right now, Yamato.”

“I’m not lecturing you, Akane,” he says, his voice sharp but tired. “I’m trying to understand where the hell we went wrong with him.”

Akane’s lips twist, the muscle in her cheek twitching slightly. “Where we went wrong? What about you? You think I don’t see how you’ve handled him? I’m not the only one pushing him away. He’s a grown man now, and he’s made his choices. Don’t you dare act like it’s all on me.”

Yamato’s eyes flick to the door again, his expression exasperated. “I don’t particularly favor either her or the boy, yes. But at least I can fake it in front of them. You preach how I’m ruining this family and how I care more about our legacy, but you’re the reason our son left our house angry, again.”

Akane’s gaze hardens as her husband’s words sink in, but she doesn’t respond right away. The silence between them thickens, heavy with the weight of old arguments and unspoken truths. Her fingers twitch tighter. Her posture remains rigid, every muscle seemingly on alert, and for a moment, Yamato wonders if she’s just waiting for the right moment to tear into him.

But instead, she takes a slow, deliberate breath, her voice quiet but icy when she finally speaks. “You want to talk about our son’s choices? Fine. But I’m not the one who hid behind his work, his pride, and a hundred excuses to avoid facing the truth.”

Yamato glares at her, the sharp edge of his frustration showing. “And what truth is that? That you’re right? That everything I’ve done to protect this family, to secure our future, was a mistake?”

Akane’s lips curl into a tight, bitter smile. “No. The truth is that we’ve been playing this game for too long, Yamato. For decades. You think Satoru’s leaving this house—this family—is his fault? You’ve built this perfect little empire on the backs of people like him, forcing them to believe they owe you everything. You taught him to put legacy before everything else, before loyalty, before love, before family.”

Her words cut deep, and Yamato feels his chest tighten. He leans forward, staring at his wife for a long, painful moment. “And what? You think you’ve been a perfect mother? You think you’ve done everything right? You think Satoru’s supposed to just bend to your every whim because you said so?” He scoffs bitterly. “You’ve been so busy trying to mold him into something he could never be. You haven’t seen him, Akane. Not really. You’re just as shitty as I am.”

Akane’s eyes flash with something, either anger or regret, or maybe both, but she’s quick to mask it with a calm veneer. “I’ve seen him. I’ve seen exactly who he is, and that’s what I’m trying to protect. This family doesn’t have the luxury of softness, Yamato. Not when it comes to survival.”

Yamato laughs, a hollow, humorless sound. “Survival? Is that what you think this is? You think we’re still fighting to survive?”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of their breathing filling the silence. It’s as if both are trying to hold on to the shards of a family that, in truth, has already splintered. Yamato’s gaze falls back on the door, his voice softer now, tinged with weariness. “I don’t know anymore, Akane. I don’t know what’s left of this family.” 

Akane’s expression softens, just slightly, but her voice remains firm. “Then maybe it’s time you figured it out.” She gets up and storms out the room. 

Yamato leans back in his chair, finally letting his eyes close for a moment, as though trying to block out the heavy weight of the conversation and everything that’s still left unsaid between them. 

God, can we just be a normal family for once?

.

.

.

.

“He barely even let me come over to his parents.” Himari scoffs, teeth gritting. She’s leaned over the middle console from the back, eyes narrowed into slits as she watches the car housing her used-to-be-boyfriend, his annoying wrench of an ex, and some useless kid drive off. 

Haruka sits beside her, wearing a white fur coat and dramatic, huge sunglasses that cover her eyes. She nudges beside Himari’s side, causing the other woman to grumble, in an attempt to get a look herself before the car makes a turn. Emi sits in the passenger seat, while Kenji is in the driver’s seat. The tint of their blacked-out vehicle keeping their presence obscured from outside view. 

Himari huffs again, tapping her fingers impatiently against the window. “I don’t get it. He just let her waltz in and take over, like it was nothing. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Haruka, ever the faux composed figure she is, brushes a strand of hair out of her face and sighs dramatically. “Men are always like that, darling. So quick to give away what doesn’t belong to them.”

Emi leans forward, her voice laced with mild amusement. “It’s not just about what belongs to him. It’s about what she thinks she deserves. And she clearly thinks she deserves him.”

“So, what now?” Himari crosses her arms, looking at her parents, then at Haruka. “I’m confused how this old hag will help.”

“Huh?! What did you—”

“She’s here to reclaim her daughter and drag her out the clutches of Satoru, Himari.” Emi sighs, looking over her shoulder at her daughter. “Just ignore her, she’s only an accessory.” 

“Excuse me!—”

“Approach her again,” Kenji finally speaks, effectively quieting down the car. He lights a cigar. “His father has been sending a representative to meet with me instead of himself. Seems cowards run in the family.”

“And then what? What if she doesn’t help?” Himari argues back. 

“I can help,” Haruka starts, lip curled into a scowl. “I’m not a useless brat like you. God, your generation knows nothing of respect.”

“I respect people who are on my same level. You? You’re like my pair of 2016 Versace pumps.” She flips her hair back. 

“Oh, you little—”

“I have reinforcements. When the time is right,” he lets out a puff of smoke. “They’ll start playing too.”

Himari groans loudly, running her hands through her hair. 

Haruka glares at Himari, her lips tightening into a practiced, poisonous smile. “I see Emi’s been raising her like a spoiled show dog. Pretty enough, but all bark, no bite.”

Emi chuckles softly, her tone dismissive. “And yet she’s the one he was with until your daughter came crawling out of the shadows, looking for scraps.”

“Crawling?” Haruka lets out a bitter laugh, the fur collar of her coat brushing her jaw as she turns to face Emi more fully. “Please. She doesn’t crawl—he has to have come looking. Don’t confuse desperation with effort. If anything, your Himari was the warm-up act.”

Himari scoffs, insulted, but Kenji speaks before she can bite back again. “Enough,” he says, cold and unamused. “This isn’t a fashion spat at a luncheon. This is about leverage. And right now, we don’t have it.”

The silence that follows is tense, thick. Himari bites the inside of her cheek, her nails tapping faster now.

“What do you want me to do then?” she asks, frustrated. “Just wait around while she plays happy family with him? With that child?”

Emi snorts. “If you had done your job properly the first time, we wouldn’t be here. But now…” she tilts her head, a calculating gleam lurking in her eyes, “we take advantage of what she loves.”

“And what’s that?” Himari asks, venom on her tongue.

Kenji answers instead, calm and deliberate. “Her son.”

That shuts everyone up.

The silence hangs for a second too long, and then Emi, always the tactful one, breaks it with a smooth, almost bored, “You don’t touch the boy. You use the boy. It’s simple, really.” Haruka’s lips twist into a knowing smile. “Now that’s strategy.”

“I’ll accept as low as 730,000 yen,” Mei-Mei cooly states, leaning back leisurely in her chair. Legs crossed with a coy smile. “Last time, you low-balled me a bit. And it ended up causing quite a stir. I’m sure this will be even double that, so the lowest is 730,000.”

Across from the table sits an older man. Tapping his cane against the ground, his wrinkled face set into a constant grim expression. His eyes so dark, they look like hollows in his face. Bushy white brow just barely lifting as he hears her offer. 

“Quite the offer for an audio tape,” Gakuganji expresses grimly. 

Mei Mei’s smile doesn’t falter. In fact, it grows just slightly, thin, polished, dangerous. “It’s not just an audio tape,” she purrs. “It’s leverage. Undeniable. Unedited. The kind of thing that makes people resign overnight, or mysteriously disappear.” She leans forward, fingers lacing together on the table, her voice lowering but still smooth as silk. “730,000 is the price of convenience. Of silence. And I’m being generous.”

Gakuganji’s tapping stops. His cane stills, and his knuckles tighten around the curved handle. “You’re young,” he says, voice dry as gravel. “Too bold for your own good.”

“And you’re old,” she replies sweetly. “Too used to being feared to realize when someone’s already won.”

A long beat passes before Gakuganji chuckles under his breath, no humor in the sound. “You’ll learn the consequences eventually.”

Mei Mei’s eyes narrow, her tone still velvet. “I already have. That’s why I charge before I hand things over. And besides, you’ll learn too, won’t you? Considering I’ve been doing your dirty work for you for a few months now.”

“My hands are not dirty, yours are.”

“And so are my ears.” She easily adds. “Unfortunately for you, I haven’t been able to ear-hustle on much. Other people with higher bids have my attention more than you and your mysterious vendetta against the Gojo Group.”

“It’s not mysterious.”

“Then why them?”

Gakuganji’s eyes glint, though his expression remains carved from stone. “Because they’ve forgotten what it means to answer to someone.”

Mei Mei hums, unimpressed, brushing invisible lint from her lap. “You mean you.”

“I mean structure,” he grits out. “Power has rules. Lineage has purpose. And Satoru Gojo—” he leans in, voice dropping to a growl, “—spits on both. Just like his father before him. Just like his mother did in silence.”

She tilts her head, amused now. “So this is about old grudges? Bloodlines and bruised egos?”

He says nothing. Mei Mei lets out a light, airy laugh, reclining again. “Fascinating. And here I thought it was about money. Or maybe land. You’re boring when it’s personal, Gakuganji.”

His knuckles twitch again around the cane. “When it’s personal, Mei Mei, it’s permanent.”

She smiles again, cold and brilliant. “Then you’ll have to pay extra for permanence. I’m not cheap, and I don’t do charity for bitter old men.”

“This is a necessary execution. They believe they are worth more than everyone else. Especially Yamato’s devil spawn. He disrupts balance itself. Privileged, spoiled rotten, wealthy, and unfortunately…very smooth talking. Everyone bends to his will just because of his name.” Gakuganji gruffs out.

She lets out a quiet, amused hum. “Necessary and personal usually go hand in hand, old man. I just like to know who’s paying for what. There’s always something more beneath the price tag.”

His lips curl in distaste. “And there’s always someone like you, digging for the bones after the war.”

She smiles again, dazzling and cold. “Better than dying in it. So.” She taps her manicured nail against the table. “730,000. Or I hand the audio to someone with less of a vendetta and more imagination.”

Gakuganji’s eye twitches.

“Fine,” he mutters.

Mei Mei holds out her hand. “Pleasure doing business with you. Again.”

a/n: i’ll be releasing the first chapter of the levi fic after this. everyone who has commented to be on the taglist, u have been noted lol (i swear im not ignoring). anyway, hope u guys enjoyedddd :)

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[wordsofwhimsy]

𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝑴𝒆 𝑵𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆 ☞ ♥•♥•♥•

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x f!Reader | Viltrumite!Mark x f!Reader | Sinister!Mark x f!Reader | No Goggles/Lensless!Mark x f!Reader | Omni!Mark x f!Reader | Shiesty!Mark x f!Reader | Mohawk!Mark x f!Reader

Warnings: Umm there’s a mention of Lensless making his dick jump LMAO but that’s it

Tags: Fluff, comedy, romance, just cute silliness – you get the vibe

Word Count: uhhh the whole thing’s 3,236 but each part for all the variants is between 350-650

Synopsis: It’s so nice to have a superhuman boyfriend who relishes in the idea of you being so weak and helpless, he does EVERYTHING for you. Except, also, sometimes it’s kind of annoying and you just want to do things on your own. So when he’s gone on a mission that’s supposed to last a few days? You plan to take FULL advantage. Only, he comes back sooner than expected…

a/n: man, sorry i’ve been dropping the ball on posting lately. i wasn’t lying when i said losing all my old shit really killed my motivation. BUT i’ve been going dumb reading this comic and bruhhh i’m SHOOK by some of the differences – i digress. i feel myself slowly getting back to my usual grind so pls hang in there with me lovies!!!!

also, Shiesty is DEFINITELY my fav from this series lmaoo

The Set Up...

The thing about being home alone was that it gave you the rare chance to get things done.

No overprotective Viltrumite boyfriend hovering the moment you touched anything over ten pounds. No “babe, let me do it” every time you reached for the step stool. Just peace, music, and the triumphant satisfaction of moving the bookshelf to the wall it should’ve been on this entire time.

You’d nearly gotten it there, too—angled just right, towel under the bottom, scooting it across the floor one slow, squeaky inch at a time.

Main!Mark

You were mid-push, maneuvering the big bookshelf across the floor with a towel under it for glide, when you heard the familiar whoosh of a landing behind you.

“Hey, I’m—whoa.”

You turned around, sheepish but proud. “Hi!”

Mark stood there, mask off, still in his suit, eyes flicking between you and the halfway-moved bookshelf. “Were you… moving that by yourself?”

“Technically yes. But, like, strategically. No lifting. Full physics. Minimum chaos.”

He blinked. “That’s… kind of impressive.”

You beamed. “Thanks!”

He nodded slowly, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, yeah, no—super cool. Really cool. Totally capable. Independent. You got this.”

You tilted your head. “You okay?”

“Me? Yeah. I’m good.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Mark.”

He scuffed his foot across the floor, eyes cast down. “It’s just… you didn’t wait for me.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to help me push furniture around after flying halfway around the world.”

“Still,” he muttered, glancing at the bookshelf. “It’s kind of my thing, y’know? Being helpful. Picking up stuff. Making your life easier. Super strength is kind of… my niche.”

Your chest ached a little. He wasn’t mad—just quietly, adorably bummed. Like a golden retriever watching someone else throw the ball.

So, naturally, you took two steps back, turned just slightly, and just happened to stub your toe on the side of the coffee table.

Loudly.

“OW—oh my god, ow, okay nope, I’m dying,” you yelped, grabbing your foot and hopping in place.

Mark was instantly at your side, arms out. “Wait, what happened?! Are you okay?!”

“Stubbed my toe,” you whimpered. “On the corner. I think it—ohhh nooo it’s broken.”

He crouched in front of you like a concerned EMT. “Which foot?! Can you walk? Want me to carry you to the couch??”

You blinked at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Would you?”

He was already scooping you up, like a knight cradling a wounded princess. “Of course. I’ve got you.”

You let your head fall dramatically against his shoulder, hiding your grin. “My hero.”

He smiled. A real one this time. “You can move bookshelves, sure. But I’m still the toe-stubbing emergency response team.”

You kissed his cheek. “See? Still irreplaceable.”

A pause.

“…You faked that, didn’t you.”

“No comment.”

Viltrumite!Mark

“…Sweetheart?”

You froze.

“Are you… are you moving that? Alone?”

You turned to see Mark standing in the doorway, uniform still on, brow furrowed in a mix of horror and disbelief, like he’d just caught a toddler wielding a chainsaw.

You opened your mouth to explain—but something in his expression gave you pause.

So instead, you took a slow, shaky breath… and rested the back of your hand against your forehead.

“Ohh…” you sighed. “You’re right. That was… so reckless of me.”

He was at your side in a blink.

“[Y/N],” he murmured, already cradling your face in his hands, inspecting you like you might crumble. “You should’ve waited for me. What if you got hurt? That shelf is solid wood.”

“I just… I didn’t want to bother you,” you said softly, leaning into the moment. “But I feel so faint now…”

He gently brushed your hair from your face, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “You shouldn’t be lifting a finger. Not when I’m here. Let me take care of you.”

You almost felt bad.

…Almost.

Mark pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Go sit down. I’ll finish this.”

You gave him your best helpless nod, then flopped dramatically onto the couch as he lifted the bookshelf with one hand and carried it across the room like it was empty.

“Okay,” he said. “Where do you want it?”

You sat up, pointing. “Against that wall, just—yeah, right there. No, wait—actually a little to the left.”

He adjusted.

“Hmm. No, sorry, more to the right.”

Another adjustment.

“Okay, now turn it a bit. Clockwise. No, my clockwise. Yeah, okay—wait, back a bit.”

He tilted his head. “Back? Or back back?”

You squinted. “Like… scooch it. A half scooch.”

He sighed (very soft, very loving), and scooched.

You stared.

“…Okay, I think it’s—wait. Nope. Now it’s too far.”

Mark blinked. “Sweetheart...”

You gave a long-suffering sigh and dropped your head into your hands. “This is why I just wanted to do it myself.”

He chuckled—low and warm—then gently tapped your knee. “And miss out on being treated like royalty? Why deprive yourself of such a treat?”

You smiled softly "Very good point..." Then you paused, glanced at the shelf and looked up at him again. “If I’m royalty, does that mean I can tell you to move it back to where it was?”

His face went stony for a moment, but then was already turning. “Only for you...”

You smiled. “I love you so much.”

Mark was ready to move planets that point.

Sinister!Mark

You were halfway through dragging the bookshelf across the floor when your body stilled.

The hair on the back of your neck rose. The air shifted. Then you heard his voice. Smooth. Amused.

“…Interesting choice of project.”

Your blood froze. No. There's no way he's already back, is he?

You turned your head slowly, painfully, like a horror movie character about to meet their doom.

There he was. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes glowing faintly red, with the kind of cold smirk that said “so this is how you betray me.”

Without even thinking – no hesitation, zero shame – you let out a gasp, dramatically tripping over the edge of the towel you’d been using to slide the shelf on and falling down in what felt like slow motion.

The entire bookshelf tipped sideways with you, crashing to the floor with a thunderous BOOM.

Books everywhere. You sprawled in the wreckage like a tragic Victorian heroine struck down by an airborne piano.

“OHHH NOOOO!” you wailed, arm flung across your face. “Why did I think I could do this alone?! I was so foolish! I was so fragile!”

Mark was in front of you before the dust even settled, crouched low, eyes narrowed as he looked over the scene. Not at the bookshelf. Not at the mess.

At you.

You peeked between your fingers. “Is it bad? Am I concussed? Paralyzed?”

He tilted his head. “You’re not hurt.”

“I’m emotionally hurt.”

“You don’t have a scratch on you.”

You whimpered. “But what if I had? I—I thought I was strong enough, but I’m just a weak little thing, aren’t I?”

He leaned in close, his tone syrupy and sharp. “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying.”

You gave a broken little sigh. “You were right. You were so right. It was arrogant of me to think I could do things on my own.”

Mark finally smirked something deep and you felt a wave of relief rush through you. “Well. At least you’ve learned something today.”

He gently lifted you into his arms, stepping over fallen books like they were debris after an explosion. “You won’t be lifting so much as a fork without my help from now on.”

You clung to him like a damsel in distress. “Oh nooo, what a shame.”

He paused at the doorway and looked down at you.

“You’re not lying to me, are you?” he asked, voice suddenly low and flat. “Because you know I’ll find out.”

You blinked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Mark. My bookshelf fell on me. I’m lucky to be alive.”

His eyes searched your face for a long, unnerving moment… then he smirked again. Kissed your forehead.

“Good girl.”

You sighed dramatically, burying your face in his chest as he floated you off to the couch.

Another day, another tragedy avoided. Except for your bookshelf, you supposed...

No Goggles/Lensless!Mark

You were really just starting to make progress on the move when you heard it.

Click.

Thud.

“Hey,” Mark said casually, suddenly perched on top the bookshelf and looking down at you with a lazy grin. “Didn't realize you were this strong, babe. You ever think about joining the Viltrumite army?”

“Wha—Mark!” you gasped, heart racing just a bit. “W-What the hell are you doing?!”

“Just watching you work, babe! Gotta say—I’m impressed. Keep going. Show me whatcha got.”

You flushed a bit. “…But you’re sitting on it.”

Mark gave you a dramatic blink. “Yeah, and? I mean look at you! You’re so strooong, move it with me on it.”

“Mark...”

“C’mon!” He kicked his feet a little. “Let’s see that strength. I’ll just stay here and supervise.”

“…Can you get off please?”

“Nope. You’ve got this. I believe in you.”

You furrowed your brows, pouting for a bit. “Alright. Fine.” You braced yourself and tried to nudge the bookshelf forward, only for it to not move an inch under the added weight of your lovely, idiotic boyfriend.

He grinned even wider. “Aww, is the strong woman struggling?”

You scowled, leaning back off the piece of furniture. “I can’t do it with you on it. Get off.”

“Nah, I’m comfy.” He shrugged. “But if you really need help, I guess I could show you how it’s done.”

Before you could say anything, he jumped down and scooped you up in one smooth motion, plopping you onhis shoulder like you were a prize.

“Don’t worry, baby girl,” he says with a sigh. “I got this.” He reached over with one hand and picked the bookshelf up like it was a cardboard box.

“Wait, but—I didn’t even tell you where to put it!”

He grinned as he moved it toward the far corner of the room. “Right here’s perfect.”

“Noo, I wanted it on that wall.”

“Ehh, I’m feeling this spot more. Looks better, don’t you think?”

“Mark, I’m serious, that’s not—”

“You’ll love it,” he said with a laugh, already walking away from it and towards the sofa. “Trust me. I’ve got an eye for these things.”

You thought about arguing but stopped yourself short, realizing there was no point. He wasn’t even listening.

Mark kicked the couch aside with a careless boot and dropped down into the cushions like a king on his throne, moving you smoothly to straddle his waist. His grin was wide and feral, hair a little messy, pupils blown.

He looked very pleased with himself.

“Yup,” he said, hands sliding to your hips, smug as hell. “Pretty strong, babe. Got, like... crazy stats.”

You couldn’t help but look a bit amused. “….Stats?”

“Oh, you know,” he said casually, voice dropping as his eyes dragged slowly over your body. “Strength. Speed. Stamina. Core control.”

You bit back a smile.

“Wanna see what else I can do?” he grinned, and didn’t wait to hear your answer. You suddenly became very aware of the repeated tapping between your thighs.

He was making his dick jump.

You choked.

“Mark!”

Omni!Mark

You were halfway through dragging the bookshelf across the living room when his voice cut through the space like a blade.

“You shouldn’t be doing that.”

You froze, hands still on the edge of the shelf. “Jesus—Mark?”

He stepped into view from the hallway, calm and unreadable, but his gaze was locked on your hands. On the effort. On your shoulders straining beneath your t-shirt.

“I thought you weren’t getting back until tomorrow,” you said, breath catching just slightly.

He said nothing to that. Just looked down at the shelf. Then back at you.

“I’m fine,” you offered, trying to keep your tone light. “Promise this might come as a surprise, but humans move furniture all the time. There’s a whole job field for it, actually. Movers. Crazy, right?”

The corner of his mouth twitched downward. Clearly not amused.

“I know you’re capable,” he said, stepping closer. His voice dropped a little. “Of more than you’ll ever give yourself credit for.” You blinked. “But this?” His gaze flicked to the shelf again. “You shouldn’t have to do this. Not with your hands.”

“My hands are fine.”

He reached out and gently took your palm in his — and suddenly, the shelf didn’t exist anymore. The room didn’t exist. Just his fingers wrapping around yours, warm and impossibly careful.

“These hands,” he said, brushing his thumb along your knuckles, “shouldn’t be calloused from dragging wood and steel. They should stay soft.”

You opened your mouth — probably to argue, maybe to scoff — but no words came out. Just heat. Everywhere.

“I don’t protect you because I think you’re weak,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “I protect you because I can. Because you’re the only softness in a world that doesn’t deserve it.”

And just like that, you were putty. Your entire body went slack under his gaze, your throat thick, breath gone. Your fingers curled a little tighter into his without even meaning to.

“…You’re not playing fair,” you whispered.

His other hand lifted to your face, thumb brushing just under your cheekbone.

“I never said I was fair,” he said quietly. “Only that you’re mine.”

You nodded, helplessly. Of course. Obviously.

And when he leaned down to kiss you — slow, reverent, like you were something holy — you realized the bookshelf could stay exactly where it was.

Forever, even.

Didn’t matter anymore.

Shiesty!Mark

The bookshelf barely budged as you leaned your weight into it with a frustrated grunt. You were so close to getting it where you wanted it.

“You tryna remodel or build muscle, bae?”

You froze at the very familiar but very unexpected voice.

Mark stood in the doorway, one brow raised, smirking like he’d walked in on you cheating with another man — who just so happened to be made of plywood and frustration.

“You weren’t supposed to be home yet,” you said, trying not to sound as guilty as you felt.

“Clearly,” he said, strolling in like he owned the floor (and the ceiling, and probably you). “You out here grinding furniture across the floor like a damn forklift. Did I miss the call for backup?”

You sighed. “It’s not that heavy. I’ve almost got it.”

Mark leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you like a man enjoying premium entertainment. “Oh no, go on. Don’t let me stop you. I love a strong woman. Grrr,” he teased, flexing his bicep in mock solidarity.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the shelf. “It’s just gotta slide like three more inches—”

“Oh you tryna get precise with it,” he cut in. “Okay, okay, I see you. Interior design. Feng shui. Heavy lifting. Very sexy of you.”

“I swear to God, Mark—” Before you could finish, he was already behind you.

“I got it,” he said, voice suddenly softer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Don’t hurt yourself, pretty.”

You stepped aside reluctantly as he crouched, rolled his shoulders back, and—because of course he did—lifted the bookshelf with one hand.

You blinked. “Did you... just curl it?”

He grinned, looking at you over his shoulder. “You like that? That was rep one. Want me to rack up a few sets? Maybe do a little shoulder press while you admire the view?”

“Mark.”

“Say it again like that and I’ll drop this bookshelf just to carry you to the bedroom instead.”

You would’ve choked if you’d been drinking something.

He moved the shelf exactly where you’d wanted it, then turned and leaned in close, mouth brushing yours. “See? I do listen. Sometimes.”

You melted. A little. Maybe a lot.

“So,” he said casually, already lifting you like a backpack, “wanna rearrange anything else while I’m warmed up? Your guts, maybe?”

“Mark!”

“Babe, I’m just tryna be helpful.”

Mohawk!Mark

You braced both feet against the floor, gave the bookshelf one last stubborn shove, and managed to move it a grand total of two inches.

You stepped back, breathing heavy, hands on your hips.

“Gotta ask,” came a gravel-rough voice behind you, “you movin’ that thing for fun or outta spite?”

You jumped. “Jesus—Mark! Warn a girl!”

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, suit already halfway unzipped and his hair looking a little messier than usual.

“You weren’t supposed to be back yet,” you muttered, brushing your hair out of your face.

“Clearly,” he said, pushing off the doorframe and strolling in with that easy, heavy gait. “Figured I’d come home and find you curled up on the couch. Not out here goin’ to war with a damn bookcase.”

“I wasn’t—I am perfectly capable, thank you.”

“Sure you are,” he said, like he was humoring a toddler insisting they could drive.

“I am!”

He stopped in front of you, looking down at your flushed face and dirt-smudged palms. His gaze dropped to your hands, then back up to your eyes.

“Babe,” he said, voice lower now, quieter. “You don’t gotta play tug-of-war with your furniture every time I’m not in the room. You miss me? Call me. I’ll fly in, carry you and the couch if you need.”

You opened your mouth as if intending to explain your reasoning, but he was already moving. Already crouching. Already sliding one hand beneath the bookshelf like it weighed nothing.

With a casual exhale, he lifted it off the ground and nodded toward the other wall.

“Point where you want it.”

You furled in your lower lip, trying to ignore how hot this was. “...There,” you mumbled.

He walked it over. No strain. No effort. Just raw, grounded strength like it was part of his muscle memory now.

He set it down exactly where you needed it before turning to you again, rubbing sorely at the back of his neck.

“You good now?” he asked. “You wrestled the inanimate object. I showed up to finish the job. Domestic bliss achieved?”

You smiled, trying not to laugh. “I’m good. Thanks.”

He gave you that familiar crooked smile. “Next time just call,” he muttered. “You think I won’t drop a whole planetary threat just to come move furniture? Priorities.”

You snorted. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

He stepped a little closer, lifting your chin with two fingers. “You’re never a bother,” he said, voice just slightly softer now. “Maybe a bad decision, sometimes. But never a bother.”

You were biting hard into your bottom lip at this point, really trying to hold back your smile.

“…Bet you want me to carry you around now, too?” he asked, already bending to hook an arm under your thighs.

All you could do was squeal and giggle as he hoisted you up bridal-style, with a dramatic grunt that was absolutely just for show.

“There we go,” he muttered, planting a kiss on your temple. “Soft hands, remember? You keep ‘em pretty. I’ll do the heavy lifting. And the thinking. And the rescuing. You? You just sit there and look smug.”

You melted into his chest with a sigh. “Well, I was doing just fine before you showed up.”

He snorted as he lowered onto the couch, pulling you into his lap. “Yeah, you moved it a whole two inches. Might as well call NASA.”

You leaned back slightly, lips twitching. “I did move it though.”

He gave you a slow, unimpressed blink.

Then muttered, “You want a trophy or a chiropractic bill?”

You laughed—loud and warm—and when he leaned in to kiss you again, you didn’t even mind the dirt smudge still on your hands.

[beargyu313]

Teach me all about your love language

It was supposed to be a chill night with friends and rosé, not you practically crying and begging Soobin to eat you out like he means it

Oops.

Tags: pussy eating, begging, desperation, cheating, forbidden romance, pussy drunk Soobin, hair pulling, some spanking,,, that’s it really

CW: the ending is kinda angsty :O

WC: 4.1k

A/N: Back with another TXT fic :),, this fic was inspired by my munch urges:( (hence all the begging hehe), hope everyone likes it<3

MDNI as always, this is a fictional work that is not representative of anyone mentioned in the story.

You don't know why you came to this hang out really. Soohyun said it would only be you and your other friend Karina. But of course she had to bring her boyfriend – Beomgyu. And since he was here Soohyun also decided to invite Kai, who she swears she isn’t crushing on, but you don’t believe her. And now you’re in your current predicament, fifth wheeling (?) and sitting on Soohyun’s couch in a dress that’s way too short and way too sexy to not even go out in. I mean really, if they wanted to go on a double date they should’ve just said so. But no, now you’re wasting a very sexy outfit by switching through the TV channels.

It's just past 9 p.m. and somehow you guys are already halfway through your second bottle of Rosé. The front door creaks open, and you barely look up, expecting maybe another friend of Beomgyu's or someone Soohyun forgot to mention. Instead, it’s him.

Soobin.

Your best friend's older brother, who hasn’t been around in months thanks to his new girlfriend who insists on spending every single minute with him. Disheveled hair, hoodie sleeves pushed up, car keys still in hand. He pauses in the doorway like he wasn’t expecting a full house. His eyes skim over the room, landing briefly on Beomgyu and Kai. His jaw ticks. And then

He sees you.

For a beat, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just looks. His gaze drops slowly and you can almost feel his touch on your exposed legs. Flustered, you slightly adjust yourself, crossing your legs over. You suddenly forget how to hold the remote. Or breathe.

“Didn’t know we were hosting tonight,” he says, voice low and dry. He glances at Soohyun, but his eyes flick back to you for a split second longer than they should.

Soohyun rolls her eyes from across the room. “It’s chill. Just a couple people.”

Soobin hums, noncommittal. Soobin hums, noncommittal. Then walks off toward the kitchen, tossing his keys onto the counter with a metallic clatter that makes Soohyun flinch.

She leans toward you a second later. “Ugh, he’s gonna say something. Come with me? Just in case he tries to act like Dad.”

You follow her, still gripping your cup, definitely not because you’re curious to see Soobin up close or whatever.

He doesn’t look up when you both step in. Just opens the fridge, grabs a water bottle, and unscrews the cap with one hand like he's annoyed it even exists.

“You know,” he says without looking at her, “I didn’t think you were the type to invite over a bunch of drunk guys while Mom and Dad are gone.”

Soohyun scoffs immediately. “Relax. Beomgyu’s with Karina, and Kai's the shyest person on earth. You act like I invited the whole frat house.”

Soobin finally turns to face her, but his eyes flick to you. And this time, he lets them stay for a second too long.

He tilts his head slightly, still speaking to Soohyun, but his gaze is on you when he says, “Still, you know how guys are. Anything could happen.”

“Soobin, chill,” you say, voice lighter than you feel. “Besides, I don’t think anything stupid's gonna happen.”

Soobin finally looks away, smiling faintly like he knows you’re lying.

“Sure,” he says. “If you say so.” And with that he leaves you guys, going upstairs. You swallow down the urge to follow him up. Seeing him and speaking to him after having not seen him for months, has made you realize just how much you missed him. It's not like you have a crush or anything, but the tension between you two always seems to build whenever you're left alone. Which isn't often and is even less often now that he has a girlfriend.

It's probably for the best that you haven't seen him, you should avoid him really, lest you embarrass yourself. And with that thought you pour yourself another glass of rosé, and begrudgingly return to the living room.

You do your best to shake it off, his voice, that look. But it lingers in your head like the rosé warming your throat. You try not to read into it. Like you always do. Always think he means something more when he talks to you like that, stares at you like that. You wish it didn’t make your heart race.

Back in the living room, Soohyun’s laughing too loud at something Beomgyu said, Karina’s half-asleep on the carpet, and you’re once again stuck hugging your drink like a lifeline. You scroll mindlessly on your phone, legs tucked under you, pretending not to check the hallway every few minutes.

And then you hear them. Footsteps.

Soobin’s coming back downstairs, his hair damp now, like he just stepped out of a quick shower. He’s in a black hoodie and gray sweats. Looking casual yet it doesn’t stop you from clenching your thighs together. You look up right as he passes the living room entrance and that’s when it happens.

His eyes catch yours. Linger.

It’s subtle, almost nothing. But he rakes his gaze over you slowly, like he’s cataloging everything you’re wearing. Bare legs, glossed lips, the way your top hugs your chest when you shift to sit up straighter. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just looks. And keeps walking toward the kitchen again.

You hesitate. But your legs move before you can stop them.

You follow him into the kitchen, again.

When you step into the kitchen, he’s got the fridge open, looking like he’s deciding on another soda. He glances over his shoulder at you without turning fully around. “You run out of wine already?”

You shrug. “Something like that.”

His eyes flick down to your legs again, then back to your face. You lean against the counter across from him, sip slowly from your cup, and cock your head.

“Your girlfriend must be blind if she let you walk around like that.” For a moment, silence. No smile. No teasing comeback. Just his eyes on you.

“You think she’d care,” he says, low and even, “if I let you look instead?”

You think your brain shortcuts in that moment, and now all you can hear is the if I let you look instead? looping in your skull. You laugh but it comes out too soft, too breathy.

“I didn’t say I was looking,” you say, voice almost convincing. Soobin raises an eyebrow, then shuts the fridge. “Right. Just happened to follow me in here. Twice.”

You open your mouth. Close it again. God, he’s annoying. And right.

He leans back against the counter now, beer bottle dangling loosely from his hand. There’s something unreadable in his expression, like he’s sizing you up. Not in a gross way. In a curious way. Like he’s finally trying to figure out if you’re really as innocent as you pretend to be.

Or if he’s safe to keep playing with fire. If his sister potentially finding out is worth having this moment with you.

“I thought you weren’t staying here anymore,” you say after a second, desperate to shift the energy even a little. “Soohyun said you practically live at your girlfriend’s place now.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “Yeah, well.”

You raise your brows, waiting. He shrugs. “She’s been... weird lately.” That’s all he gives you. No dramatic explanation. Just a tired, half-hearted answer, like he doesn’t really want to talk about it but doesn’t want to lie either.

“So... you’re fighting?”

He snorts, then drinks. “We’re always fighting.”

Your stomach flips at that. You shouldn’t care. You really shouldn’t care. But it suddenly feels like a door cracked open, even just a little. And Soobin seems to note the subtle shift in you demeanor.

He glances at you again. “Why? You worried I’m off-limits?”

You take a sip, eyes locked with his over the rim of your glass. “You were never on limits.”

Soobin smiles really smiles this time and it’s so devastatingly smug you want to smack it off his face. Or kiss it.

“You’re cute when you lie,” he says quietly. “Terrible at it. But cute.”

He steps closer. Not much, but it’s close enough that you can smell the soft scent of his shampoo, boyish but with undertones of something more, something that makes you dizzy.

You don’t move.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur, eyes dropping to his mouth.

He lets out a quiet laugh. “Like what?”

You glance back up, all wide-eyed and flushed and still pretending to play it cool. “Like you know what I’m thinking.”

“I do.”

You open your mouth to deny it, but he tilts his head slightly, and that shuts you up real fast. Soobin’s voice lowers. “You’ve been looking at me all night.”

You swallow. He can see you trying not to react. “That’s not true.”

Soobin always thought you’ve always been cute when you lie. But this? The way you’re looking at him now, like you don’t want him to notice the way your thighs press together when he leans in, like your pulse isn’t visible in your neck, this is something else entirely. He’s never seen you quite this wanting and needy before, and it’s beyond exhilarating. Addicting even.

You’re flustered, and Soobin likes that. He likes the soft bite of your lip, the nervous way you tuck your hair behind your ear like you’re not trying to draw attention to yourself. Like he hasn’t been looking at your legs since the moment he walked in.

You try to speak, say something but he doesn’t even register what. It’s background noise to how hot you look, pressed up against the counter in that skirt, pretending like you’re not dying for him to touch you.

“Right. Just coincidence that every time I turn around, you’re staring at my mouth?”

You blink, caught.

God, you’re so easy to read. It’s cute, really. Dangerous. But cute. And he should walk away. He knows he should. You’re his sister’s friend. He has a girlfriend. But none of that really feels important when you’re right in front of him like this, pupils blown wide, breathing like you’ve just run a mile, practically trembling in that tiny little outfit like you want him to wreck you right here.

He watches you for a moment longer. Lets the silence stretch just enough to make you nervous. Then he leans close enough that you can feel his breath. He still hasn’t even touched you and that makes you on edge, anticipating his touch. You struggle to even your breath, but you know he notices the way your eyes can’t meet his intense gaze.

“We haven’t fucked in weeks,” he says, voice soft, confessional. “Always some excuse. Too tired. Not in the mood.” Your eyes flick up, searching his face.

“And I can’t stop thinking about how badly I want it,” he goes on. “How badly I want to taste someone again. Someone cute, someone who needs guidance, needs it just as badly as I do.”

You gasp involuntary, and it shoots straight through him.

He continues, slight smirk on his face as he leans in, lips almost touching, “I could eat it for hours,” he murmurs. “If you asked me to, it’s not cheating,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “Not if I don’t fuck you.”

He watches your lips part, the hesitation flickering behind your eyes like a dying match. You want to say something. Maybe a protest. Maybe a plea.

“All focus would be on you,” he says, voice dipped in honey and sin. “Your pleasure. That’s all this would be. Just me helping you scratch that itch you can’t quite reach.” His gaze drops, slow and deliberate. “I haven’t even touched you yet, and you’re already trembling.”

A beat passes. Then another. Your breath shudders in your chest.

“It’s cute, actually,” he adds, eyes flicking up to meet yours again. “Really makes me wanna help you feel good. I think that’s fair, don’t you?”

Your brain is fogged, every thought slipping through your fingers like smoke. You look up at him, helpless. Instinct takes over before sense can catch up. And Soobin smiles. Soft, knowing, cruel. He can see what you're fighting. The need in your eyes, the slight part of your lips. He wonders how you’ll look when that control finally breaks, flushed, eyes glassy, mouth slack.

You speak, finally, but even your voice betrays you. “We shouldn’t do this, Soobin,” you whisper. “Soohyun’s gonna kill me. And your girlfriend— I really should leave.”

You try to step away, but he doesn’t budge. His tall frame shadows yours, blocking the exit like a decision you don’t want to make.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he murmurs. “You’re just letting me help you feel good.”

Then he leans in, fingers brushing against your hip, just enough pressure to make your skin twitch under his touch. Just enough to remind you how close he is. How much closer he could be.

“You want me to show you?” he says, voice a whisper against your ear. “What it feels like… when someone actually gives a fuck about your pleasure?”

You nod. Soobin pulls back, looking down at you as if trying to intimidate you.

“Use your words, baby.”

You swallow hard. “Yes.”

His brow lifts, unimpressed. “I think you can do better than that.”

Your stomach flips. His voice is calm, soft and annoyingly patient. A small part of you feels humiliated, begging your best friend’s brother to fuck you. But you stifle that feeling.

Your lips are in a subconscious pout as you look up at him, chest heaving and back arching, “Soobin, please,” you say, “I promise I’ll be good, just please-“

He steps back, his gaze unreadable. You actually whine.

“Come on.” His voice is quieter now, low and direct. “My room.”

You follow. You don’t even hesitate. Every step feels like your skin is buzzing, and when he opens the door and lets you in first, you nearly trip over yourself trying to get inside.

It’s what you expected his room to look like. Neat and minimal. No lights on except the glow from the hallway spilling in.

He closes the door behind you, slow and quiet, like he’s sealing something in.

“You always listen this well?” he asks, voice smooth and low.

You manage a shaky breath. “Only when it's you.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s nothing kind about it, you almost feel like he’s mocking you.

“Didn’t take you for the type,” he says, stepping closer. “But I guess I’ve got you figured out now, huh?”

You stare up at him, throat dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He tilts his head, eyes raking over you, voice dropping. “No? Then why do you look like you’re about to fall apart, and I haven’t even laid a hand on you yet?”

Then he does, his big hands softly cupping your waist, bringing you close to him. Your legs wobble. He kisses you softly, you quietly moan into the kiss already wanting more. Your hands tangle in his hair, chest touching his. His hands travel over the curve of your ass, reaching the short hem of your skirt. You gasp when his nails rake over the plush skin, bunching the skirt around your waist.

Soobin lands a firm slap to your buttcheck and the sting makes you ache even more. You gasp, basking in the sensation.

You’ve never felt this needy, this horny from a single kiss. You feel tears prick at your eyes, the ache in your core becoming too much. You try to subtly rub your legs together, trying to find a way to relieve this pressure.

And Soobin must notice, because he finally, finally reaches out exactly where you need him. His hands are grasping your ass, slowly inching together and pulling the flesh. First stretching the skin and then pushing your ass checks together. The sensation feels amazing on your cunt, the slight pressure and dirtiness of it making you whine.

You push your ass out, further pushing yourself into Soobin’s big hands.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Just like that.”

Soobin kisses you slowly, almost indulgently, as if savoring the tension more than your lips. His hands skim over your waist, your hips, down to your thighs.

“Lay down Babygirl,” he tells you and you listen. You lay back against his pillow, skirt bunched up around your waist, and while he settles himself between your legs. You watch him, watch you when he reaches towards the pillow you’re laying your head on.

You lift your head up, allowing him to take it from you.

“Lift your hips,” he says and you oblige. Soobin puts the pillow underneath your hips and then he’s back to laying down between your hips.

“You look so pretty like this,” he tells you, voice deep and eyes dark, piercing. His hands caress your inner thighs. The light touch makes goosebumps rise on your skin and you shudder when he gently with barely any pressure brushes over your clothed lips.

"You're soaked through," he murmurs, voice low. With his middle finger he starts applying more pressure on your pussy, moving it over your clit with an unhurried pace.

“I can already tell you’re gonna taste so good, you smell so good,” he says, nuzzling his nose into your wanting sex. Your breath shudders out, “Soobin…”

“Soobine,” you whine, your hand reaches for his soft locks gently tugging, “stop being a tease,” you gasp.

He lifts himself up just enough so he can pull off your lacy panties. He sharply inhales when he takes them off, eyes fixed on your glistening pussy. You don’t notice him putting them in his front pocket.

You’re both breathing heavily and the dark and hungry look in his eyes doesn’t escape. Instead you try your best to memorize it for later.

He leans down to your inner thigh, lips grazing higher this time. Then his teeth catch the tender flesh of your inner thigh and he suckles in. Right below where you actually need him.

“Please,” you gasp, your voice cracking embarrassingly. But you’re too far gone to care.

“If I start, I’m not stopping until you’re shaking,” he says, voice heavy and lower than you’re used to hearing.

“Please, Soobin, please I don’t care—”

He hums against your skin. “God, you’re needy, aren’t you?” He kisses closer, closer. “Begging me like this… and I haven’t even touched you properly yet, I think I like like listening to you whine too much to give you what you want,” he teases, fingers exploring your pretty pussy, noting how the slightest pressure makes you hump into his fingers that are drawing circles onto your labia. He prods around your entrance and you can feel the wetness trickling down his fingers.

“Pleasepleaseplease-“ you beg, before he finally, finally tastes you. He starts off infuriatingly slow, flat tongue experimentally licking a couple of short licks.

You moan into his touch, arching your back into the pillow sitting under your ass. Soobin wraps his arms around you from underneath your thighs pressing his face onto your gushy pussy.

“You look so pretty like this, falling apart for me.”

Once used to the feeling of his flat tongue going over your clit he lightly sucks, groaning when you rub yourself against him. He pauses to kiss my thigh, adjusting it over his shoulder before his lips are back on me.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he says and the admission flusters you, you never could of imagined your fantasies actually materializing. You moan out loud when he sucks on your clit, tongue latching onto you. His middle finger is applying pressure around your hole, not sliding it in but rubbing all around it.

You try to stop the loud noises coming out, your hand on your mouth. Soobin  notices, “It’s okay, be loud. I want to hear everything.”

You bite your lip, trying to stay quiet, “what about the others-“ you start, but the thought dies on your tongue when he flattens his tongue just right and you cry out, hands flying to his hair. “S-Soobin—oh my god—”

He can tell you’re getting close, flicking his tongue over your clit whilst slightly suckling on your clit. The feeling mixed with him pushing two fingers just past your entrance, one knuckle deep is enough to bring you closer to climax.

You practically hump his mouth, pushing his fingers in and out of you just he way you like it.

You gasp out before holding your breath in, “that’s my good girl,” Soobin mumbles pushing his two fingers fully into you. He hooks them, feeling around your velvety walls when you cum. Your walls pulsating against his fingers and you can feel him moan. He licks you clean, letting you come down.

You feel like your pussy is actually buzzing and pulsating and when you look down and see Soobin looking up between your legs you feel close again.

You whine, dropping back on bed when Soobin sharply sucks on you again, fingers moving in and out of you at a fast pace.

“C’mon sweetie, I know you can give me another,” he says, experimentally sucking on your clit in short, sharp intervals. The pleasure is so intense you feel tears building up in your eyes.

Soobin notices the glassy look in your eyes, and you feel him smirk against you. “Cry all you want. I’m not stopping till your thighs are shaking.”

And he keeps to that promise, ravaging you like a starved man until you’re gasping, pleading for mercy.

““I—I don’t know, I can’t think—just don’t stop, please…” You don’t even process what you’re saying when you feel your second orgasm building.

“Fuck, don’t stop Soobie, oh my god,” you moan through tears.

Your whole body stills, the intensity of the orgasm rendering you frozen. You don’t even realize your leg locked Soobin into you and he doesn’t seem to mind either. Patiently waiting for you to come down.

The room is quiet except for your breathing. Harsh, ragged, uneven. You’re still shaking slightly when he finally pulls away, resting his forehead lightly against your thigh before sitting back.

He doesn’t speak for a long moment. You keep staring at the ceiling, blinking away the tears still clinging to your lashes.

Then, quietly, “You okay?”

You nod, swallowing hard. “I think so.”

He brushes your calf with the back of his hand, gentle. “You were perfect.” You don’t say anything.

Soobin stands and disappears for a second. He comes back with a warm towel and helps clean you up, careful and wordless, as if to fill the silence with kindness instead of apologies.

Once he’s done, he lays beside you, careful not to touch you. He’s just… there, it’s starting to get awkward, so you force yourself to speak.

“I didn’t plan for this to happen,” you say, your voice nearly gone.

“I know.”

“But I wanted it.”

“I know,” he repeats, softer now. “Me too.”

You finally glance over. His eyes are on the ceiling, jaw tight like he’s holding back more than he’s saying. “I’m not gonna pretend this doesn’t make things messy,” you whisper.

He turns to face you now, leaning on one arm. “Messy’s better than pretending I don’t want you.”

You bite your lip, look away. “She’s going to hate me.”

“I don’t care.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s not. But you’re worth it.”

Your breath catches. You want to believe him. But guilt creeps up your throat like bile, “I feel like a bad person,” you admit.

Soobin shifts closer now, just enough for his hand to brush yours. “You’re not. You’re not bad. You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever touched, ever tasted.”

You shut your eyes. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll believe them.”

He’s silent for a beat. Then quietly, honestly he says, “then believe them. Because they’re true.”

You exhale shakily, caught between wanting to stay and knowing you probably shouldn’t.

“I should go,” you whisper.

Soobin doesn’t try to stop you. But when you sit up, he gently pulls your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss into your wrist.

“I’ll still think about this,” he murmurs. “About you.”

And as you slip quietly out of his room heart racing, stomach twisted, you already know you’ll be thinking about him too.

[mangionebabymama]

Okay ao3 anon here reporting for duty! I’ve been scouring these ao3 tags since 12/4 LMAO so I know them well! Ao3 writers are extremely talented, but the community is much smaller. That’s why I wanted to encourage people here to head over there, because positive encouragement means a lot and so many of the people over there truly deserve it!! Now some of these are lonnnggg but so worth it!!

“Criminally perfect, fugitive of my heart” has gotta be #1 for me. The dialogue is unmatched and she meant it in her description when she said “nerdy pantydropper Luigi”

“Mistakes like this” is another great one that takes place in Luigi’s family’s country club! Enemies to friends to lovers! So good! This author has another completed fic called “I know places” where Luigi meets a girl in Japan and they go back to the states and have a beautiful whirlwind romance

“Late nights and hidden feelings” is sooo cute!! It’s childhood friends to lovers (through becoming roommates lol) and their dynamic is ADORABLE! The smut gets so good in this one and the author does nice long chapters!

“Degrees of separation”…. Lemme tell you. This was my absolutely favorite back in December, but the author disappeared. Out of no where like a week or two ago, she started updating again and I’m so happy! She’s on tumblr as well! This one is for my teacher/TA Luigi girls

Also I will never stop gunning for “Until lambs become lions” by @scoutofmymind she is so talented and I love love love the heady toxic dynamic between these two

There’s so many many many more, but this is a good like 500k words to get you started😅there’s also a ton of incredible one shots on ao3! I feel like luigination gravitates towards one shots, so I can recommend some of those too, but I think now that summer is here we gotta give chaptered fics some love!!!

Honorable mention: “Hostel situations” for my action girlies! This is more adjuster-centered. Luigi is in the fic, but not MMC and not the adjuster (which is why it’s not first tbh, but if you’re willing to look past that, it’s so worth it). It’s an incredibly written and well thought out story, and some of the best smut I’ve ever read! It will keep you on the edge of your seat!

Thank you thank you for this anon 🥺

[withluvvenus]

𝓐𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥 𝓓𝗥 𝓘𝗡𝗧𝗥𝗢𝗗𝗨𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡　　　　　　୭ৎ　　　　　　 a set 03 dr .

❛ you talk　　like a book .. ❜　　　in which ─ a typical sunday for her is sitting behind closed doors that shut out the world regardless of the sunlight beaming down through the open windows, coffee stains on white countertops to show that the girl had once sat at that spot, and dark ink bleeding out on her the pads of her fingertips. romance is her muse, some emotion she feels daily. love is around, flowers blossom at her footstops, and birds chirp when she awakes.

name one lovey dovey soft and wholesome romcom book. she probably read it in her high school years. this girl is love redefined, her words like cherry blossoms on a beautiful spring morning, words that bloom at the touch of her creativity. she works closely with her nearest booksellers and underrated bookshops to deliver material that would amour the rest of the world　　　　　𐔌

𝓐𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥 𝓓𝗥 𝓢/𝓞　　　　　　　　　　　୭ৎ　　　　　　 a set 03 dr .

❛ most　　ardently .. ❜　　　in which ─ a grumpy male author who likes to write about the philosophical upcoming of his characters. literary fiction that mentions multiple themes which encapsulate his complicated mind, it's his eyes that won her over. stoic and reserved, he chooses his words carefully for every sentence he sputters out, but his eyes? oh, the eyes never lie after all.

take his debuting work for example, the first thing he wrote about was how f*cked the entertainment industry was, but hidden in the works of sci-fi and fantasy. it wasn't exactly that book that got him to his rising fame, but the thought was there when he wrote his next book. he wasn't chasing fame, he was chasing the message　　　　　𐔌

　　　　　　　　　　pinterest ─ tag list : @elyssshft

　　　　　　　　　　　　　 𝘄𝗶𝘁���𝗹𝘂𝘃 ✶ 𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘂𝘀

[applenilune]

Trepidation | one -The file-

SUMMARY~ Three years ago a Colonel from the Deepspace Fleet was murdered by his wife, now, rumors about a mind controlling chip are circulating on the Fleet’s corridors, making the officers feel scared and unsafe. Colonel Caleb is assigned to find out if they are true. But, why is a murder case from three years ago related to rumors about a chip? What does the former Colonel wife knows about that? Can Caleb get to the bottom of the mystery, without getting too close and attached to her?

Pairing~ Caleb x fr

Rating~ M! Explicit!

Warnings for this chapter~ mentions of death, mental illness,blood and suicide.

Tags~ 18+ MDNI, Dead Dove, dark themes, slow burn, eventual smut, trauma, mental illness, slightly gore descriptions, manipulation, murder allegations, conspiracy, stalking (I’ll add more as I think of them)

A/N: HELLO! This is my first fic after Years without writing anything, but the chokehold that Caleb has on me is so strong that I needed to write something for him. I’m a huge fan of thriller/mystery/romance books so that’s why I wanted to write something kinda dark, also, something that I want to mention, English is not my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes that I could have made but I hope it’s still understandable. ALSO, I’m approaching this fic as a “beginning of the toring chip”, so it’s not going to be a 100% accurate depiction of the chip that we saw on the game, but it still will be kinda related. To finish, the female character has no name so in this chapter I put it as y/n but I’m not really sure about it so, maybe I’ll change that later, let me know how you feel about that.

Almost everyone on the fleet knew what had happened with Colonel Davian Vayne, he was young, 27 years old when he died, he was extremely smart and capable of handling the officers on his command, he never hesitated when it came to take hard decisions on his department, all of his work was clean and in perfect order, maybe that’s why he had become colonel at such a young age, everyone knew and liked him, he had the perfectly life, he was wealthy, his parents owned a chain of very fancy and famous restaurants around Skyhaven, and with his status as colonel the money only kept growing, he was elegant and charming, tall and broad, his blonde hair and hazel eyes drew attention from all the woman on the fleet, he was the type of men who everyone respects, who everyone raised their eyes to look at. He seemed to have no flaws.

He was also married, his wife was a real estate agent, not everyone knew her at the fleet, they had only see her a couple of times when one of the fancy dinner parties took place and everyone was encouraged to bring someone along, to make the parties more fun and interesting, who wouldn’t want to know how was the life outside the farspace fleet job? who do you live with? who were you when you weren’t using the uniform?

Colonel Davian’s wife was really a lovely person, said by the few people that met her, the few times she was on one of the fleet’s dinner parties she was always engaged in small talks with everyone learning about her husband’s teammates and their families, talking about her job and her life as a colonel’s wife, she was beautiful, they said, her delicate features, big beautiful eyes, soft skin and long jet black hair made all the people turn to look at her when she entered a room.

They made the perfect couple, what else could you ask from a partner? They were both so painfully perfect.

So, it came as a shock when everyone found out that colonel Davian Vayne had died, or better said, was murdered, by his own wife.

People refused to believe it, there was no way, how could a woman like Y/N Vayne kill her husband on such an horrific way? But she did, there was no doubt about it, she was the only one there with him the night he died, there was no one else’s fingerprints or anything that could lead to believe that someone else did it, that someone had forced their way into their home and attacked him, and when the officers deployed by the fleet arrived at their home and saw her covered in blood they immediately arrested her.

The scene itself was heartbreaking, the living room of the fancy house was dimly lit, decorated on the most elegant furniture, everything remained dark and silent, the lights on the kitchen were the only ones on, the officers approached the area, and saw her, she was out of her mind, on her knees in a corner on the floor of the fancy kitchen crying uncontrollably and screaming in pain with a knife on her hand, she was hurting herself, like she was trying to kill herself too, trying to join her husband, making cuts all over her body, they attempted to calm her down but she was so out of herself that it took them a while to get the knife out of her hands. Her night gown was covered in blood, hers and her husband’s, and everything else in the kitchen was covered in blood too, like if someone had took a bucket full of blood and just splatter it around everything on the kitchen.

The colonel’s body laying lifeless on the floor, also surrounded by an insane amount of blood, his throat had been cut, really deep, it made everyone on the scene felt sick to their stomach.

When she was asked why she did it, she didn’t said anything, she refused to talk with anyone, locking herself inside her own mind, they seemed to have a perfect life, a beautiful dynamic between them, what reason could she possibly had to kill her husband in a really horrible way?

Everyone decided that she was just crazy, something must have snapped on her mind, for her to, all of a sudden, attack her husband and end his life so abruptly, specialists ran a few tests on her, and a few weeks after the murder she was put on trial for killing her husband, Davian Vayne, and condemned to life imprisonment, but since she was declared mentally ill and unstable, they put her on a mental facility, where she would spend the rest of her days.

That had happened three years ago, and even though when it happened it was all that people talked about in the fleet’s office, as time went on, it began to become less and less of a conversation topic. Until almost no one talked about it, until the events even started to morph into something that made no sense at all, no one talked about it anymore, unless someone brought out a memory about colonel Davian Vayne and his work, then all of the stories about the incident were talked on the corridors, people felt sorry about their story and then moved on with their lives.

The world kept moving, besides the lost of a lovable and capable colonel, there was nothing stopping the world from spinning, especially on the fleet, they had a beautiful memorial on his honor and then, that was it.

Since his wife had been convicted and the case had been closed, people just decided to move on, there were other cases, there were other problems, other wars that needed to be fought, other matters that needed to be addressed.

Work at the fleet kept coming so everyone just kinda forgot.

If it didn’t actually happened to anyone in your family or someone close to your heart, then it just became a corridor gossip, and those were never ending too, there was always someone else’s business to discuss, the adjutant did this, the first sergeant messed up the mission, the lieutenant cheated on his wife with the cafeteria girl, half of the battalion died on the deepspace tunnel, the captain was attacked by a wanderer that appeared at his office, etcetera.

People always talked, that was something undeniable. That’s what people do, no matter where you work at.

Recently on the corridors there had been a rumor spreading, people claimed that, there was a chip of some sort, being developed by some technology company that wanted to establish those chips on the fleet, or their officers, to be more exact, to control and keep them on the fleet’s track, wipe their brains clean so that they could write the actions of the employees using the chip, like robots, soulless machines devoted one hundred percent to their job, to make them do what they wanted. To keep the fleet pristine and flawless.

People were starting to get scared, word spreaded like wildfire and it started to affect the fleet’s image, the information wasn’t still out in the public eye, but if they didn’t stop it, it eventually will.

That’s why Caleb was sitting here, in the General’s office. He wanted him to dig deeper, to find out if the claims were true, he had been receiving comments from concerned people who wanted to know if that information was actually true, there was really a chip being created and designed specifically for mind control of the fleet’s employees?

Caleb had become Colonel just a few months after Colonel Vayne had passed away, now, he occupied the place he once had, the General had decided that Caleb was more than well prepared to take the place as the new Colonel, all his skills and knowledge, and all of the experience and decision making he had made on the deepspace tunnel were more than enough to prove that he was perfect for the position, yes, colonel Vayne had died, but they couldn’t leave his place empty, he had died, but the show must go on. The fleet needed to fill the position. And Caleb was the perfect choice. No one had doubts about it.

Caleb was sitting straight, his hands intertwined on his lap, his expression stoic as he listened to the General speaking to him across his desk. He had explained all of the concerns and lies that were being discussed amongst the officers and he thought to himself that it was an stupid rumor with no fundament, but he also understood the way that this could affect the work of the fleet. They wouldn’t want a collective panic surge forming in the minds of the employees. It would make them look weak. And that is the last thing the fleet wants, to look weak.

“As I’m sure you are aware Colonel, we cannot let this situation escalate more, if we let all of this nonsense talking continue, it will affect our performance as a whole. I need you to conduct an investigation about this, I know it’s not really your specific job but, I cannot let a lower range officer take care of this, you have my full trust, your work has been anything but perfect, so all of this, it has to be just between us, I don’t want this to grow bigger until we have full knowledge and control about it. When you’re done with the investigation, you report it directly to me”

“I understand sir, you don't have to worry” Caleb said with a calm demeanor “I will personally take care of it”

The general pushed an e-file pad that was sitting on his desk on Caleb’s direction, he had his hand placed over the file, not wanting Caleb to take it yet, until he had finished talking.

“This is a classified document, the information that resides in these pages is knowledge of a few people, not even you as a colonel, could have access to it, I’m giving it to you because the minute that these comments came into my ears, this file was the first thing that I thought about, I think it could help as a start”

“If you allow me sir,” Caleb said “You really think that this corridor conversations require a deep investigation?”

“People is getting startled, not even me as the fleet’s General had any sort of information regarding any sort of chip, we cannot leave anything to speculation, we need to maintain this corporation afloat, if there is any sort of mind controlling chip I want to know, we need to protect our people”

Caleb nodded, then the General release the folder and pushed further towards Caleb for him to grab it, then took a small piece of paper and wrote down the password Caleb would need to unlock the e-file pad, when Caleb took them, he stood from the chair and prepared to leave.

The General was really committed to his work, he was one of the few people on the fleet that actually cared about the people under his wings, more than the wellbeing and orders of the higher ups, Caleb thought to himself that, that was actually more of a weakness than strength, but he wasn’t the General…yet.

“I’ll start working on it right away sir” he said, as he saluted the general and then turn away to leave his office, when his hand was over the door handle the General said:

“Not a word about this to anyone Colonel, until we know what we’re actually dealing with. You and I are the only ones that know about this, let’s keep it that way.”

Caleb opened the door without responding, since it wasn’t actually necessary, and he stepped outside, this was the most odd request he had received, to him, all this situation made no sense, the officers were focusing on a stupid hallway gossip instead of doing their jobs, but since the General had asked him, he literally had no choice but to dig into it. And he was the best at his job.

Caleb walked expressionless straight to his office, people turned around to salute him, but he didn’t bother to respond or even look at them, when he arrived, he ordered his secretary to not interrupt him under any circumstances, the curiosity about knowing what was in that file that he was just granted access was itching on him, and also, he wanted to be finished with this nonsense as quick as possible, he locked the door behind him, and walked to sit on his chair, he placed the file on the desk and looked at it like hesitating for a second, what was he going to find out inside of it?

He opened the file, and when it asked him, he introduced the password the General had provided him to unlock the e-file pad. It opened, what it said on the first page on bold letters made him furrow his brows. What does this case had to do with the rumors about the chip? It made no sense, why was the General giving him this file?

FARSPACE FLEET INVESTIGATION BUREAU

CASE 00MI1608

RESTRICTED ACCESS

PLEASE RETURN THIS FILE IF YOU ARE ON LEVEL 08 OR BELOW

YOU WILL BE PROSECUTED

ASSASSINATION OF COLONEL DAVIAN VAYNE

AUGUST 2045

The murder of colonel Davian? He was killed three years ago, what his murder file had to do with a fucking mind controlling chip? He relaxed a little bit on the chair, the general had given this to him for a reason. He started reading the file to find out why.

The file had a lot of pages, this specific case was handled by the fleet itself because the victim was a high rank officer, Caleb was fixated on the information from minute one, it was like reading a suspense, thriller novel, everything was so intriguing to him.

The firsts pages of the file were about the night the murder had taken place, as it said, it was a quiet summer night, the Vayne’s were at home and all of the sudden something has snapped up in his wife, the investigators wrote that they were probably arguing about something in the kitchen, when Y/N Vayne suddenly decided that she had enough. Took one of the expensive chef knives that laid on the kitchen island and cut her husband’s throat.

Caleb moved onto the next pages, there were pictures of the crime scene, it was kinda like what the stories around the fleet were told, Davian was on the floor, his throat had been cut so deep that you could see the muscles tore open, the floor was so covered in blood that it was like if someone had moped it with a bucket full of blood.

Caleb was desensitized of watching this types of scenes, no one with a high position on the fleet wasn’t accustomed to this sort of stuff, you had to handle the hard situations, so he didn’t even flinch at the images.

The next few pages were images of Mrs. Vayne’s body, she had apparently been tryin to end her life too, there were cuts made by herself all over her body, her arms, legs, neck, stomach, almost everywhere. She wasn’t successful in her attempts of course but Caleb thought that that was a strange way of trying to kill yourself.

He continued reading the file.

After the colonel’s autopsy, there were physical and psychiatric tests that were conducted on his wife.

The doctors wrote that she refused to talk to anyone for almost a week, it was like she was in some kind of mental lockdown, almost like she refused to believe that this was her new reality. That she had killed her husband.

They had her arrested on the hospital, hands cuffed into the bed, but somehow when she was not being watched she broke free from the restraints and began hurting herself again, when the officers, nurses and doctors entered the room, she was again covered in blood, she was on a frenzy, she had a deep wound in the back of her neck, arms and legs, she had also bitten herself really hard, they searched the room, looking for whatever weapon she had used to do that to herself, but they found nothing.

After that incident she calmed down, it seemed like she had just waken up from a long dream or a coma, or so they thought because now, when she started to speak again, she began talking about how someone had been tracking her down, someone had been following her and watching her, and she also said that someone had implanted a chip on her body, and against her will, they made her kill her husband.

She had no full memory of the night it actually happened, only flashes of memories, she couldn’t explain what had driven her so numb or mad that she murdered her husband so brutally, but she kept repeating that this was not entirely her fault. That they needed to investigate further, that they needed to find out who had done that to her to find out who the real culprit was, but there was no evidence to back up any of those allegations. It was all her doing. And she was saying that only to escape the sentence.

Caleb had to read that again, She said someone had been watching her, put a chip on her body and were controlling her actions. Whoever did that to her, made her kill the colonel, her husband.

A chip.

A controlling chip.

Caleb had to stop for a moment, analyzing the situation, this was why the General had told him that it might be related to the chip rumors happening now. It made him feel, amused, desperate, desperate to know the truth, eager, excited, almost.

He didn’t like not having the full story but…He liked challenges, they were too…enticing. And mysteries, he liked those, and Y/N Vayne was buried in mystery so deep that he wanted to dig her up.

The rest of the file were the prosecutors notes, the case they built against her, so that they could give her a sentence, thanks to the test ran by the psychiatrist’s they had decided to put her on a mental facility, she was obviously sick on her brain, she was out of her mind. She just talked nonsense, right? It was all nonsense? Now he wasn’t so sure.

He knew what he had to do first, to get to the bottom of this entire situation.

He had to talk to her.

[keithyp00]

•┈••✦ Timeless ✦••┈•

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: romance, slow burn, wistful with a hopeful ending, flashbacks and emotional reflections, kissing

Song Inspiration: Timeless by Taylor Swift

Word Count: 745

Author Note: Hello again! Thank all of you for the continued support on my stories, and I'm hopefully going to maintain a schedule of one story a night if everything goes to plan. But this is one I'm very proud of and it's based off my favorite Taylor vault track. I hope you guys enjoy it!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The rain hadn't let up all day. It was one of those soft, steady drizzles that made the world seem just a little but quieter. You were spending the weekend at your friend and her family's house, helping them sort through old boxes in the attic, when you found it: a dusty photo album tucked beneath a stack of yellowed newspapers.

You opened it out of curiosity, not expecting much.

And then you saw his face.

Dark hair, blue eyes, that smile like he knew something you didn't.

He was standing next to someone who looked startlingly like you- different dress and decade though not a relative, but the resemblance was uncanny.

You stared- heart thudding- as you read the small handwritten caption beneath the photo: "James and Eleanor- Coney Island, 1942."

James.

Your breath caught.

______________________________________________________________

You didn't mention the photo to anyone. Not at first.

But that night, you dreamed of it. Of boardwalk lights and laughter. Of a man with eyes like winter skies and a touch that made your heart ache.

You'd never met James Buchanan Barnes, not in that life. But now- now you see him almost daily. Sitting across from you in meetings, walking the compound hallways, nodding politely with a smile that always felt a little too knowing.

Bucky.

It was stupid. You kept telling yourself that. But you couldn't shake the feeling that you knew him. Not from the history books. But from something older. Something deeper.

One afternoon, you found yourself blurting it out before you could even process the words leaving your lips.

"I saw a photo of someone who looked exactly like you. From the '40s, standing next to a pretty young woman.."

He didn't laugh. Didn't call you crazy.

Instead, Bucky stared for a long moment before quietly asking, "what was her name?"

"Eleanor," you whispered.

His lips parted. "Ellie," he said, like a distant memory just coming forward.

And you knew. Somehow, you knew.

______________________________________________________________

Things changed after that.

He started sitting closer. Talking longer. Asking questions that lingered between personal and careful.

You watched old movies together. Danced in the hallway when no one else was around to watch. He took you to a vintage bookstore in Brooklyn and didn't say a word when you held up a photo of a 1940s ballroom dress and smiled softly to yourself.

"I used to dream about nights like that," you murmured.

"I used to live them," he said.

You turned, heart pounding. "Do you think... we would've found each other?"

His gaze burned into you. "I think we did."

______________________________________________________________

Time, as always, didn't stop. Missions pulled you apart. Moments tested the quiet magic that held the two of you together.

There were weeks you didn't see each other. Days when the world seemed too heavy to carry.

But somehow, you always found your way back.

And one night- long after the compound had gone still- you found him on the rooftop. Rain threatening in the air. Moonlight catching the silver glint of his arm

He turned as you approached, something vulnerable in his eyes.

"I've lived a long time," he started.

You took another step closer. "I know."

"I've lost a lot."

"I know that too."

"I think I've loved you before."

You stopped breathing. And then: "I think I've loved you in every lifetime, Bucky."

______________________________________________________________

You didn't need a grand confession.

He just stepped forward, took your face in his hands like you were made of glass and he had been waiting his entire life to just touch you.

And then he kissed you.

It was soft. Slow. So filled with emotion it nearly brought tears to your eyes.

When you pulled apart, neither of you said anything. You didn't need to.

Because whether it was in 1942 or the present, with war between you or peace, vintage dresses or mission gear- the love between you two was real.

It had waited.

And now, it was here.

______________________________________________________________

You kept the photo in your room.

Sometimes, he'd glance at it and smile softly, reliving the fond memory in the sea of trauma he had lived throughout his life.

"She had your eyes," he said once, tracing the edge of the image with his fingertips. "Same way they lit up when she laughed."

You leaned into him. "And you- James or Bucky- you seemed to always have this way of looking at her like she was your entire world."

He pulled you closer. "You still are."

[kumasakka]

a little reminder because no one talks ENOUGH about this matter. writing about dark romance, incest, minors having literally sex, intense stalker shit, rape etc. is actuall very concerning. that’s (I’m sorry) fucked up. and in my opinion, that’s something that shouldn’t even get supported AND DEF NOT PUBLISHED HERE OR ELSEWHERE.

“I do not support this—“ then don’t write this and keep ur nasty, freaky fantasies for yourself.

“don’t like, don’t read—“ bro no. this is just fucked up. you shouldn’t let those things slide. to me, it just seems like you’re defending this stuff.

“oh but—“ NO. GET HELP, I’M SORRY. BUT THIS IS NOT OKAY.

especially something like rape. bro. do you realize how many people experience something horrible like this? this isn’t something you should fantasise about. it’s absolutely disgusting and terrifying, no one should experience this and no one should wish for smth like this. imagine being a victim and then reading comments about “oh how I wish to get raped by that character/that person”.

absolutely hate it when writers make some mistakes and it’s like — a trivial matter — but I still see some people writing hate comments. as if making mistakes aren’t normal? shove up those disrespectful, rude comments into your mouth please and thank you. this is what I would call “don’t like, don’t read” if you don’t like the story then don’t read it. go hate on things like dark romance or incest or IDK.

edited: I would like to apologize on my part for being insightful towards those people who use it to cope with their trauma. I’m sorry! stay safe and strong please ❤️

again: I won’t answer any asks anymore or anything because I’m tired of people telling me the same thing. like — I understand that one half of the people who disagree with me because they are explaining their point of view properly, but I will NOT understand the other half who don’t explain it properly enough. I guess that’s on me though.

[theboredhooman]

yaoi? in MY yuri game??

[z0mbiiex3]

this reference was enough to send me to my grave LMFAOO

[gifts-of-isis]

East Blue 5 Polycule HC!!

OK so I LOVE all the HCs about zoro giving his earrings to people he dates, and it works fine up to him dating 3 people, but what about our favorite OT5?? Some one's always going to be left out!

But fear not I have found a solution!

We know that Sanji likes to wear rings but never on his ring finger from the color spreads (and maybe one of the sbs corners? idr)

So, Nami, Usopp, and Luffy each get an earring and they go find a ring that's the exact same shade of gold or even melt down the earrings to get enough gold to make a ring and then recast the earrings slightly shorter and/or thinner

Sanji would of course have one of these things:

So he can easily keep it close while he cooks

And maybe Zoro would too bc I like to think that Zoro replaces his earrings with an earring that represents whoever he gave the earring to (if you have any ideas for what those earrings might look like I'd love to chat) so he could get a ring that matches Sanji's and wear it like that

Thoughts?

[aventurineswife]

In the mood for a little whump so uhhhhhhh can we get Reader pulling Dan Heng along on a date around Aurum Alley?

A Moment of Peace

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Lingsha x Reader, Romance, Whump, Character Development, Quiet Date, Introspection, Emotional Vulnerability, Slow Burn, Healing Moments, Emotional Support.

Warnings: Mild emotional whump, Introspection, Mention of past trauma (Dan Heng), Light political tension (Lingsha), Mentions of responsibility, Mild discomfort in social situations.

A/N: since they're basically asking the same thing just different characters, i decided to do them together

It was an ordinary evening in Aurum Alley, a vibrant street that buzzed with life as the stars twinkled above the Xianzhou Luofu. The night market was in full swing, and a gentle breeze carried the delicious smells of street food, the sharp scent of spices, and the sweet, calming aroma of herbal teas. You couldn’t help but notice how picturesque the alley was—full of life yet serene, much like Dan Heng.

Today, however, the purpose of this walk wasn’t about his duties as a guard. It was about you.

"Come on, Dan Heng," you said, pulling him gently along by his hand. "I know you're not one for crowds, but just a little stroll. For me?"

Dan Heng, ever the reserved soul, allowed a small sigh to escape his lips as he followed. He was dressed in his usual attire—practical and inconspicuous—but tonight, something about the air felt different. Maybe it was the low hum of the alley, or maybe it was the subtle force of your determination, but for once, he wasn’t resisting. He wasn’t one to engage in idle chatter or seek out new experiences, but he could sense your excitement, your genuine desire to show him this world beyond the responsibilities he so often buried himself under.

The first stop was Du's Teahouse, known for its mysterious aura. The owner insisted it was just "tea," though the array of aromas in the air suggested otherwise. You stepped inside, and the door jingled softly as you and Dan Heng took a seat.

He stared at the small tea set before him, unsure of how to approach the delicate cups. You grinned, offering him a gentle nudge. "Go on, try it. It's supposed to clear your mind."

Dan Heng hesitated, then took a cautious sip. The warmth spread across his chest, and for the first time in what felt like ages, the sharp edge of his thoughts softened. He glanced up at you, but you were already smiling, clearly enjoying the moment.

"You're right," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, but there was a hint of appreciation in it. You simply beamed in response, happy to have helped him relax, even if just a little.

You wandered through the market, stopping by various stalls: Tall Auntie's Food Stall, where you tried a crispy, golden dumpling; Delicacy Pavilion, where you marveled at the unique flavors; and Spices Supreme, where you held back laughter at the chef's attempt to convince Dan Heng that his dish was a "true test of endurance."

Despite his usual stoic nature, Dan Heng found himself chuckling under his breath at your antics. You could tell he was trying to keep his composure, but the corners of his lips twitched upward. It was enough to make your heart flutter. This was the Dan Heng you rarely saw—a little more human, a little more at ease.

As the night wound down, you took him to the quietest corner of Aurum Alley, near the dock. The bustling market faded into the background, and the two of you stood beneath the stars, the soft hum of the alley a distant memory. Dan Heng leaned against a pillar, looking out over the dock as you sat beside him, enjoying the tranquil silence.

"Thank you for today," you said, your voice soft and sincere. "I know this isn't your usual thing. But it means a lot to me."

Dan Heng finally looked down at you, his expression neutral but his eyes softening ever so slightly. "It was... different," he said. "But it was nice."

You smiled, feeling the warmth between you as the night continued to unfold around you. For just this moment, Dan Heng allowed himself to be here with you, not as a guard or a distant soul weighed down by the past, but simply as someone who could share in the quiet comfort of a peaceful evening.

[Header credits]

The aroma of fresh herbs and simmering delicacies drifted through the evening air, mingling with the lively chatter of passersby. Aurum Alley, always alive with energy, seemed a perfect reflection of the duality that defined Lingsha—both composed and brimming with hidden intensity. This evening, though, was one for relaxation.

You had insisted on taking her out for a dinner date, hoping to give her a reprieve from the weight of her responsibilities. Lingsha, ever the gracious figure, had agreed, though with her usual calm demeanor, not quite revealing how much the offer meant to her.

"How do you feel about Delicacy Pavilion?" you asked as you walked alongside her, the golden lanterns casting their light on your path. "The chef here is known for unique flavors. I thought it might be a good change of pace."

Lingsha's eyes gleamed with curiosity, but she gave a small nod. "I appreciate the thought. It’s... been a while since I allowed myself to simply enjoy the moment."

As you entered Delicacy Pavilion, the space was warm and inviting, with wooden beams above and flickering lanterns casting gentle shadows. The faint scent of herbs and spices mixed with the soft hum of conversation, but it all felt distant in the tranquil ambiance. The menu was diverse, showcasing both comforting dishes and intricate creations that seemed almost too beautiful to eat.

Lingsha chose a dish with a delicate balance of spices, each bite seemingly orchestrated to restore harmony within the senses. She savored the meal slowly, a faint smile playing on her lips. The serenity in her posture made you realize how rare it was to see her in a state of true peace. Usually, she was caught up in the storm of her duties, the politics, the constant pressure of the Alchemy Commission. But tonight, here in this cozy corner of the Alley, she seemed free from the world's demands.

As the meal continued, you talked about anything and everything. You shared simple stories from your own life, hoping to draw out her voice a little more. She answered thoughtfully, her words full of quiet wisdom, but also tinged with the quiet frustration of someone who had seen too much corruption. She paused once, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered something you said.

“You’ve got a way of making things feel lighter,” she mused. “Most would find this situation... oppressive.” She smiled slightly, the edges of her lips curling. "But for some reason, with you, it feels easier to just... be."

Her words made your heart swell, and you took her hand across the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m glad I can make you feel that way, Lingsha. You deserve peace. Especially after everything you’ve been through.”

She exhaled deeply, her gaze softening as she looked at you. “It is... rare. I am grateful for it.”

After the meal, you wandered through the night market, stopping by various stalls, laughing together at the little absurdities of life. You brought her to Spices Supreme, where the martial artist-chef’s antics made both of you laugh, a rare sound from Lingsha. Her laughter, though gentle, was full of warmth, and it felt like a victory of sorts—a reminder of her humanity amidst the pressure of her station.

As the night came to a close, you found a quiet spot near the Cosmos Street. The flickering lanterns and soft sounds of the market created a peaceful atmosphere, and for once, Lingsha seemed to relax entirely, leaning back against a stone pillar. The cool breeze caressed her long, brown hair, the red tips glowing faintly under the night sky.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft. “For tonight. It has been... more than I expected. I don’t think I realized how much I needed a moment like this.”

You smiled at her, feeling a sense of satisfaction. “Sometimes, even the most composed people need a break from their responsibilities. You don’t have to carry the world alone, Lingsha.”

She turned to you then, her red eyes shimmering under the lantern light, a depth of gratitude in her gaze. “No... but it’s easier with someone like you by my side.”

And for a fleeting moment, the complexities of the world seemed a little simpler, the weight of her duties a little less heavy. Tonight, in the heart of Aurum Alley, Lingsha had found a moment of peace—a rare and precious gift that you’d given her.

[lunarharp]

more phoenix wright situations

[sidefrog-of-all-kinds]

Constantly thinking of how terrified Ukyo must be of teenagers now. (Using everyone's starting ages for comedy and convenience purposes)

This man spent the entirety of the Stone Wars going "wow I can't believe I'm about to watch a teenager fight a bunch of- YOUNGER TEENAGERS?!"

Yuzuriha: 15- Can create any kind of clothing in a matter of minutes, can continue doing this for hours, probably knows just about every crafting technique

Kohaku: 16- Freakishly good at... Everything athletic honestly. Able to pick up and carry just about anything, amazing eyesight, and a tendency to keep fighting through concerning injuries

Senku: 16- has reinvented gunpowder, cars, guns, regularly works with highly toxic and acidic chemicals without a flinch and minimal (if any) protective equipment

Taiju: 16- Seemingly limitless power supply, has a scary long endurance that I'm not sure if we've seen him hit a limit for, additionally doesn't seem to realize how terrifying either of these things are

Homura: 17- Has no qualms about setting an entire village on fire and possibly killing everyone inside, a professional gymnast before the petrification that probably could have made it into the Olympics

Tsukasa: 18- Can kill a lion with his bare hands and rule over an entire empire of people, has seemingly no problem with what he knows is a sort of mass murder

Gen: 19- Concerningly good at lying and manipulating people, follows a moral code that benefits him and (thankfully) his allies

[brain-rot-central]

Sonnet of the Lone Cardinal, Ch. 5

A/N: Holy hell, this chapter got hands. I sincerely apologize for it taking me almost two months to update. Buckle up -- we got some unsettling bullshit brewing within this one. As always, thank you all for your continued support, and please mind the tags. Happy reading!

Rating: Explicit Word count: ~8.2k (I'm rounding up) Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Female Tav (DU, named) Warnings: 18+, minor character deaths, depictions of murder, dark romance, pregnancy mention (of course), manipulative behaviors, toxic relationship, jealousy, abuse mention, minor references to suicidal ideation and overall mental health struggles Summary: Tav awakes after the events of the prior evening alone, confused. Having overheard a discussion between the servants, she makes her way down into the depths of the manor and uncovers a shocking secret.

♥ Previous Chapter ♥ Next Chapter ♥ Link to Ao3

She awakens; startled.

Her eyes snap open and Tav springs up from the plush cocoon of linens she's wrapped in – white sheets and a cream colored duvet envelop her. She looks around, frantically searching a room that is unfamiliar. There’s a crick in her neck as she turns her head too fast. She winces then raises a hand to rub over the spot. Raised scabs cover the two signature pinpoints in her neck as she continues to soothe the aching muscle.

There's a heaviness to her head as the events of the prior night swim to the surface of her mind, panic starting anew. 

‘He bit me,’ Tav remembers, urgently. She extends both arms in front of herself for inspection, flipping them over again and again. At this moment, Tav cannot recall what her usual skin tone is – her chest heaves with labored breath as she looks hurriedly around the room for a mirror. In the corner, alongside the wall, sits a vanity. She bolts from the bed, rushing urgently to the mirror.

Grasping the edges of the vanity, Tav snaps her head up to meet the glass.

Her reflection…stares back at her.

Astarion had kept his word – he did not turn her.

She sighs, collapsing into the seat stationed at the vanity. Autonomic tremors wrack her body, adrenaline beginning to take effect. Closing her eyes, Tav focuses on her breathing. She takes a deep breath in through her nose, blowing it out through her mouth. Again. And again. As she rides the choppy waves of her anxiety, a sharp twist in her stomach has her laying a hand over her lower abdomen. With the palm of her hand, Tav rubs soothing circles over the plush softness of her growing belly.

“Glad to see you're okay,” she says affectionately to her stomach, lips curling up into a smile.

How did she end up here? Where is here? Peeling open her eyes, Tav gives the room an honest gander. It's not large, but not necessarily small, either. The room hosts hunter green walls with natural pine wood flooring. There’s a glass door to the front of the room, adjacent to the bed, with two smaller windows on either side; Tav can only assume it leads to a balcony. Beige drapes hang over the windows, parted gently down the middle and tied to the wall by golden holdbacks. There are plants – so many plants – throughout the room. Marbled pothos in hanging pots, a small belladonna on a stand; various other flora and fauna act as decor for the quaint bedroom.

She rises and walks back to the bed, noting that her belongings have been placed neatly along the bottom edge. Tav pokes through them, revealing each layer; her satchel, scarf, and hat are all present. Personal items are all accounted for as she rummages through her bag. It isn't until she notices her dress folded under her bag that she’s aware of her current attire. Somehow, she's now wearing a beige silk slip gown, the hem stopping just above her knees. The top and bottom of the dress are embroidered with white lace; a small bow is positioned right between the beginning of her cleavage.

Tav scans the room again and finds a matching bathrobe hanging on a hook behind the bedroom door. She quickly gathers the robe and throws it over herself, catching from the corner of her eye, what appears to be a note on the nightstand adjacent to the bed as she turns around. A vase of freshly cut red roses also resides atop the table.

Tav picks up the note and inspects it. The handwriting is Astarion's – of that, she's certain. The note is addressed to her. It reads,

‘Tavaria,

My apologies that you will wake alone with only this letter  – I'm in rather high demand, today. I am hopeful this note will provide much needed clarification.

It seems as though we’ve had a repeat of our first encounter, yester eve. For that, I owe you an apology. I was overzealous. Truly, I'd forgotten how much I savor your blood, and just how easy it is to lose myself to it.

Rest assured, as soon as I'd realized you'd lost consciousness, I stopped. Everything. Nothing further occurred during your incapacitation. I gathered us both and brought you here, to your bedroom, to rest. I hope you don't mind my giving you a change of clothing; not sure how you'd feel about falling asleep in your day clothes. You did always make it a point to change before retiring for the evening.’

Tav smiles as she reads over the letter. He was right; she never fell asleep without dressing down for the evening. When he had asked her why, she'd told him that it would invite horrid dreams, were she not comfortable during sleep. 

She continues reading,

‘I've tasked Magdalena with helping you around the manor. You need only ask that of which you desire, and she will assist. I suggest taking your morning tea out on the balcony overlooking the courtyard garden. The roses I've left were cut fresh from one of our many bushes this morning.

Tav looks to the glass door leading out to the patio. She catches a glimpse of the small courtyard beyond the ledge of the balcony. Various shades of pink and red roses line the courtyard walls; they're no doubt the source of his gift.

Although the urge to sequester you all to myself is an incredibly formidable one, our time is sadly not yet. You are free to leave whenever you desire. Simply inform Magdalena of your wish to leave, and she will escort you.

I do hope you make a habit of coming to visit. It would be lovely to have you at future events.

I ever so miss having you near, my dearest spitfire.

A. A.

Spitfire – his old moniker for her.

The first time he saw her charge headfirst into a group of Gnolls, he bestowed that name upon her. She'd yelled orders from her frontal position to the back line, the pack dropping quickly from their combined onslaught. All piss and raw vinegar as she cut them down, screaming with each swing of her great sword. For Astarion, it was exhilarating to watch the woman he was newly involved with take the initiative. He would later tell her it was a deciding factor in how he inevitably fell for her.

Tav places the note back on the table, raising her head toward the windows. She approaches the door to the balcony, placing a hand upon the handle. It turns with relative ease and Tav pushes open the door, stepping out onto the patio. The sun bathes her skin in a comforting warmth and she takes a moment to enjoy the sensation. Despite it being morning, she can already tell the weather will be unbearably warm by midday. Yet, for now, this is fine. This will do nicely to help soothe her worrisome heart. At least, for a short while.

Looking out beyond the balcony, Tav is greeted with a full view of the courtyard garden. She sees the rose bushes from before clearer, now. Various colored tulips outline the brick path cut down its middle, along with lavender and catmint, creating a dazzling display of color. Tav closes her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. A sweet floral scent meets her nose and she instantly relaxes, shoulders falling into a more comfortable position.

She recalls Astarion's surprise when they reached Baldur's Gate. “You forget just how much color there is in the world,” he told her. Seeing first hand how much vibrancy the garden possesses, it's no wonder he speaks so highly of it.

As she looks down at the grounds below, Tav sees gardeners trimming hedges. A couple look up and wave, having caught her in their periphery. She waves back as a kind gesture, and returns back to the bedroom. There's knocking on the bedroom door – three short taps with the back of a knuckle, just as she closes the door to the balcony.

“Lady Tavaria? Are you awake?” comes a light voice from the other side of the door.

‘Magdalena.’

“Y-yes! I'm up,” Tav answers. She walks to the bedroom door but doesn't open it. Instead, she chooses to stand in front, awaiting a response from the servant.

“Ah, wonderful!” Magdalena exclaims jovially. May I come in, my lady?”

Tav worries the inside of her cheek, hesitantly raising a hand to the doorknob. The woman is harmless, she knows, yet her heart still wavers. With a brief shuttering of her eyes, Tav draws in a deep breath again and opens the door.

Magdalena stands just outside the door, a tray of tea and finger sandwiches in her hands. “Brightest of mornings, Lady Tavaria,” she greets with a short curtsey. Her signature smile is widely on display. “I've brought tea and some breakfast, at the behest of Lord Ancunín.”

Tav nods and steps out of the way, welcoming Magdalena into the bedroom. The older woman places the tray on top of a wooden dresser along the wall. “Thank you,” Tav says, walking over to the tray. 

Her stomach growls as she looks over the sandwiches. It dawns on her that she hasn't eaten since lunch the day before. As she reaches for a piece of sandwich, Tav notices a small scroll rolled up on the tray next to the tea pot. Choosing to forego food at the moment, she picks up the scroll and starts cautiously untying the binding. “What is this?” Tav asks, glancing up toward Magdalena.

“A scroll of Lesser Restoration,” Magdalena explains. “The young Master insisted you’d have need of it.”

Tav opens the scroll and reads over the incantation. During their travels, it wasn't uncommon for Tav to ask this of Shadowheart, especially after nights with Astarion. Shadowheart would scold her for taking things too far yet again with their vampiric companion, but would heal her, nonetheless.

“That's very thoughtful of him,” Tav answers, flatly. She recites the spell laid out within the scroll, a faint blue aura enveloping her. The scroll disintegrates within her hands as the aura clears. Her head suddenly feels clearer, her body stronger. Tav never quite understood how the spell works, but she chooses never to question it further. For now, she'll enjoy her breakfast, pouring herself a cup of tea before choosing a piece of sandwich.

Magdalena smiles again as Tav begins eating. “May I run you a bath?” she offers. “It will be done by the time you finish.”

“Ah, no,” Tav answers while chewing, raising a hand to cover her mouth, “that's quite alright. I think I'll just slowly get myself together.”

Their eyes meet as Tav lifts her head toward the older woman once more. For a moment, the servant's eyes glow. Tav furrows her brow as she studies Magdalena’s face. She's seen this look before, but not since Cazador was still master of the palace. 

Suddenly, it clicks.

She's actively conferring with Astarion.

Magdalena's eyes return to their usual hue almost as quickly as they changed. Tav resumes her breakfast, feigning innocence of her discovery. 

“Of course, Lady Tavaria. That would be no problem at all,” says Magdalena. The servant makes toward the bedroom door, but turns around before exiting. “Please feel free to call for me, if you have need.”

Tav nods again while taking a sip of tea. “Of course, Magdalena. Thank you, though there's one question I have.” She motions toward the note lying on the nightstand next to the bed, seeking to prove her prior theory correct. “Astarion said in his note that I may leave whenever I please.” She places her tea back down on the tray, locking eyes once more with Magdalena. “Is that true?”

A brief moment passes without a response. Faint glowing rings appear around Magdalena’s irises once again, then fade within seconds. “Absolutely!” the woman exclaims, positively. “You’re free to come and go as you please. Master Astarion would never keep you here against your will.” The smirk on her face is not her own but that of Astarion’s, a blatant display of his compulsion over the older woman.

Tav draws in a shallow breath, deeply unsettled. “Thank you, Magdalena,” Tav says quietly, placing her cup of tea down. Magdalena bows before taking her leave of the bedroom, the door shutting with a soft ‘click’ behind her. Tav stares at the back of the door, mind beginning to race. 

Why spy on her if she's free to leave? Why offer her accommodations if Astarion has zero intent to keep her here? She winces as a sharp throb shoots through her neck. The scroll may have cleared her mind, though his mark is still very much present.

“He's hiding something,” Tav says aloud, raising a hand to rub the side of her neck. The scabs brush along her palm as she smoothes over the skin. She begins to ponder the night prior. The look on his face… His liar's smile. Tav knows the look well. He's used it on her and countless others across the duration of their journey together.

But why? It's her, after all. He can trust her, can't he? He can confide in her.

“You left me, remember?”

The words echo in her mind. She hates to admit it, but Tav broke his trust just as much as he broke hers. The exact moment of Astarion’s triumph is when she pulled away. When he finally achieved all he lusted after, she left. Rejected entirely the man he became, truly, for her. Sold the very essence of his conscience in a diabolical contract to achieve the confidence, power, and strength to protect her, to protect them, for the rest of eternity.

She drops her hand to her stomach, rubbing over the small bump of her lower belly. That same circumstance is the exact reason she's in her current position. It surprises her, though Tav believes Astarion is still somehow unaware of her condition. If he were, he would have half the manor waiting on her hand and foot. The best clerics and healers would be brought in from all around Faerûn. But above all, he would demand that she stay here. Tav has little doubt he would be an attentive and caring partner. Yet, it would mark the end of her freedom. There is no doubt in her mind about that.

Tav inevitably makes her way to the bath, stripping herself of the silken nightgown. She cleanses her skin thoroughly with care, looking delightfully at the array of soaps and oils provided to her. When she steps back out, she assembles her outfit from the day before. 

With one more small bite of a sandwich and a sip of tea, Tav heads out of the bedroom and into the large hallway. She's unfamiliar with this wing of the palace – not somewhere that was accessible to during their initial visit. It's entirely possible Astarion had this built during the renovations, though the marble carvings within the walls state otherwise. Plush red carpeting lines the hallway, leading to a grand wooden staircase.

Looking around, Tav notes that there is barely a presence on this floor. She begins making her way toward the staircase, noting that even the floor below looks just as deserted. The gears in her head begin turning; where could everyone be? It's barely mid-morning – certainly the servants have chores?

Upon reaching the bottom of the steps, Tav hears soft echoes of voices coming from around the corner. She believes this to be the main floor of the manor. Is he having a meeting in the foyer? The ballroom? She travels down the hall and hugs the corner wall. Slowly she peaks her head over the corner. No one is present in the manor foyer, yet when she turns her head toward the ballroom, Tav quickly pulls herself close to the wall in an effort to avoid being spotted.

Cautiously, Tav again looks around the corner, staying as flush with the wall as possible. There's a gathering of sorts within the ballroom. Maids and servants are arranging table sets, ornaments are being strung from the walls. One servant is up on a ladder hand-wiping each crystal of the delicate chandelier that hangs from the ceiling. 

Ah, this explains why the manor is so deserted. They're all here, seemingly preparing for an event. Tav looks around and quickly notes Astarion’s absence, yet catches Magdalena fussing with another servant.

“Why’s it we who have to do all this?” complains the young man. He's tall, thin, with shortly cropped ears. A half-elf, perhaps? Maybe even less. “Why's the Master get to sit all pretty while we're here working?” He's holding a silver teapot, polishing it with a soft, white cloth.

“Oh, Thaddeus,” Tav overhears Magdalena sigh, “Lord Ancunín trusts that everything will be up to his expectations, so long as it is us who do this.” The basket she holds comes to rest on a nearby table top as she turns to her companion. “You can hire just about anyone to do anything. But those finer details that have people talking for weeks?” She raises a hand, wagging a finger toward the young man. “Those can only be found by knowing your clientele. And we do.” She nods her head. “He knows that.”

Tav begins to pull back along the wall but stops once she hears the young man speak again, “You know him a long time, don't you?”

“I do,” Magdalena answers confidently.

“Was he always this arrogant?”

The pensive look in the woman's eyes gives Tav pause once again. “He wasn't always in a position to be otherwise,” Magdalena replies quietly.

Tav finally pulls herself back along the wall, looking down to the floor. It's how he survived Cazador. The slavery. The whoring. The hunger. All of it. “Spite made me who I am!” She remembers the venom laced within those words, having pushed him too far. Her heart skips in her chest as it floods with unsettling heat.

“Do I really have to go down there?” the boy from earlier says from around the corner. “It's cold down there. And smells awful.”

Tav listens closely as Magdalena responds, “Oh fine, you don't have to go right now. But someone must go down before tomorrow night’s banquet.”

‘Down?’ Tav ponders. The only thing she remembers being under the manor is the crypts. Those were left empty after the ritual, having sacrificed all those lives in the Rite. Nothing remained but the stench of death and stale air. What could possibly be down there that they need to check on?

In a split decision, Tav peers quickly over the edge of the wall again. The path is clear; every servant is occupied with their tasks at hand. She then dashes to the opposite wall, hugging it close as she listens to the activity within the ballroom.

Nothing. Just the same chatter as before.

If she has any hope of making it to the crypts, Tav remembers she needs the ring. That accursed fucking ring, engraved with the Szarr family sigil. She doubts Astarion has changed the enchantment, as evidenced by the heavy metal doors of the ballroom. ‘But where to find the ring?’ she ponders. Tav recalls a matching set – one within Cazador's possession, and the other…

Godey. 

Astarion returned the duplicate back to fucking Godey. Or, really, what was left of him. Once obtaining Cazador's ring, he returned the prior to the skeleton before departing the palace. 

“I very much deserve the real thing. Not some cheap imitation,” he says. As Tav watches him kneel before the corpse of his tormentor, he gives pause. They’re the only two occupants of the room, the others choosing to stay above in the foyer. The room smells horrid; fetid. Nothing but the stench of death and decay permeates the air. Astarion sits with his head bowed low, hands balled into tight fists on his thighs. Tav refrains from speaking, letting Astarion have his moment. Eventually, the newly ascended vampire lord reaches into his pocket and produces the duplicate ring, dropping it within the pile of bones that was once animated. As he rises, Astarion turns to Tav and says, “I’m done here.”

She quirks her brow. “Are you sure?” Tav asks in concern. “We should really talk–”

“I’m done here,” Astarion repeats again, more sternly. He walks past Tav without making eye contact and heads for the stairs. Tav looks back at the room briefly before exiting, then follows Astarion up the stairs.

Looking around, Tav realizes the layout of the manor has changed. “But has he changed the structure underneath?” she whispers to herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she finds it – a small stairway at the end of the hall leading down and–

‘Aha; there it is.’

Tav quickly scans the hall and upon realizing the way is clear, dashes toward the staircase. She hurries down the stairs, halting momentarily at the bottom to perform another quick surveillance of her surroundings. 

Having Astarion as a teacher certainly helped improve her stealth. His two-hundred years of experience shined brightest as he glided about the night, lifting coin purses and trinkets with finesse so smooth they'd all be right out of earshot when the shrills of the victims finally rang out. Tav would stand in awe as he'd then pawn the hot items, using every smooth edge of his perfectly sculpted face to its full advantage. It was often that he'd come away with more gold in hand than the others during these exchanges, leading to the group agreeing unanimously that Astarion barter with all merchants.

The way looks clear once more and Tav ventures into the hall. This floor looks little changed; the…entertainment…quarters are off to the left, which means the kennels are still to the right. Tav turns her head as she approaches the threshold of the kennels. The blood-stained mattresses from months prior are still strewn about the floor of the room, coupled with the shackles welded into the stone. What makes her breath catch is Godey’s skeleton, lifeless on the ground. It's laying in the exact same position it was left in when he was slain. 

Astarion hasn't touched it. 

No one has touched anything in this room, let alone on this floor, from the looks of it.

With a heavy sigh, Tav steps through the doorway and enters the torture chamber. The air still carries the horrid scent of decay, but not nearly as strongly as the months’ prior. She kneels before the pile of bones on the floor that once was Godey, and without much hesitation, begins rummaging around for the ring. She finds it under his ribcage, nestled between his pelvis, and quickly stashes it in her satchel. Tav tries rearranging Godey’s remains as respectfully as she can, then rises from the floor.

She's quick to leave the room, not affording herself a glance back, and slinks back up the stairs. A servant passes as she reaches the top of the stairs and Tav halts, watching them intently. Thankfully, they fail to notice her presence, and she continues up into the hallway. Her next challenge is to somehow sneak into the ballroom, to the doorway off to the left that houses the elevator shaft. Astarion taught her an invisibility spell during their lessons, though her grasp on the spell is crude at best, only being able to hold the veil for half its usual time. 

She'll have to be quick, is all.

Tav hugs the wall once more as she makes her way back to the ballroom. Silently she prays no changes have been made to that wing of the manor. She whispers the incantation for the invisibility spell to herself; her form blinks out of view and she dashes into the room. Holding her concentration as best she can, Tav nearly collides with a maid as she turns the corner. The spell flickers for a soft moment, threatening to collapse entirely, before she inevitably regains focus. She looks around briefly – no one within the ballroom seems to have noticed her mishap, and she quickly slips behind the door leading to the elevator, closing it promptly behind her.

Exhaling in relief, Tav releases the spell, retrieving the ring from her satchel as she walks toward the elevator. The gate opens as she approaches and she steps in. As she raises the ring to the corresponding sigil etched within the metal wall, Tav winces, hoping that the activation of the elevator doesn’t trigger an alarm. Ancient gears begin to wind, feeling the vibrations under her feet, and the gate closes. The elevator begins to draw down, and Tav sighs in relief.

The air shifts as she further descends down the shaft. An uneasiness takes root deep within her chest as the temperature shifts; she shivers, and suddenly, the elevator stops with a jump. The gate swings open and Tav steps off. She's assaulted by the scent of rotting organic matter and stale blood. Her stomach churns, half in nausea but also hunger. Curse the child growing within – already having such a twisted moral compass. Most befitting of the union between a vampire and a Bhaalspawn.

Her footsteps reverberate loudly against the tall stone walls of the dungeon. As she looks around, Tav realizes that this, too, has been left untouched during the renovations. Making her way to the main hall, she ponders where Astarion would keep his secret hidden, were there one. She turns off to the left and heads to where the remains of Vellioth lay; where most accounts from all prior lords of the manor reside.

Entering the stone room, Tav immediately notices the two sarcophaguses off to the right. They, too, are made of stone, their lids decorated with intricate carvings. She quirks her brow, drawing closer to the structures. These look new; a fine dust has settled on the ground surrounding each, most likely shaken off the while being placed.

A quick memory flits across her mind, of the two men mentioned within the Gazette. Evidence of fangs marks marring their necks, vanishing from the crime scene without a trace. Again Tav's stomach churns, queasily this time. 

Perhaps these are Astarion's new sleeping chambers? Her brain is trying to form a positive explanation. Maybe he's grown tired of satin and feathered beds, craving the comforts of solitude. 

She winces, seemingly staring out into nothing, and pulls her head to one side. ‘No,’ Tav thinks, ‘not after that particular event…’

She approaches the first of the tombs, cautiously extending her hands to the lid. With a breath, she pushes, the bellowing sound of stone grinding against stone cutting through the heavy silence of the crypt. Finally, the cover drops to the floor with a loud ‘thud’, the ground shaking briefly beneath her feet.

Closing her eyes, Tav leans forward over the lip of the stone coffin. She wills her eyes to then open observing the contents inside.

Her mouth drops open, breath arresting in her chest by what she finds.

Within the stone coffin lay a man in hooded black garb. Of elven lineage, most likely – not much older than a hundred. As she scans his form, Tav notes a discolored bruise on one side of the man’s neck. A trail of blood leads down his chest, obscured by the collar of his garb. Reaching into the coffin, she gently pushes the hood to the side, allowing her a better view of his neck.

Her pupils grow wide.

Within the blossomed bruise, two pin marks decorate the man’s skin. Tav raises a hand to her neck and traces the distance between each of her scars. She extends her hand over the man's neck, keeping her fingers aligned. 

She gasps – the marks line up near perfectly with her fingers. 

‘No…’

A surge of heat crawls throughout her body, her heart drumming loudly within her ears. Tav darts her eyes to the second stone coffin and sets to work on shoving off the lid. With one final groan from Tav, the lid hits the floor, ground shaking again from the impact. Quickly, Tav peers over the ledge.

Another young man in hooded black garb – a dragonborn. Tav reaches down to push the hood over, revealing the man's neck to her eyes. He, too, possesses the same pin marks as the first.

“Somehow I knew I'd find you here,” comes a smooth voice from beyond the corridor. 

Tav halts, a shiver running down her spine. She knows that baritone voice, all too well.

Him.

Footsteps echo off stone flooring, the sound increasing in intensity as he walks down the hall. He emerges from the shadows and into full view; he's chosen his red and black doublet today, with a simple pair of black slacks. His loafers are the same as the day's prior. Not a single strand of hair atop his head is out of place. Perfectly poised, per usual.

“Shouldn't’ve taught me your entire repertoire, then,” Tav retorts with slight annoyance, swiveling her head to address him over her shoulder.

He smirks as he closes the distance. “Half, little love,” Astarion chides with a wag of a finger. “I taught you half of what I know.” He stands just within the doorway’s arch, crossing his arms over his chest. Astarion then tilts his head to one side, pulling his face into a questioning scowl. “Why exactly are you here?”

Silence hangs heavy in the air while Tav conjures a response. She narrows her eyes, shooting Astarion a searing glance.

“You lied to me, Astarion,” she accuses, raising a finger at him. “And I knew you did.” Looking to the twin coffins lining the walls of the room, Tav shakes her head. “I overheard the servants talking about something here within the crypts, and I–”

Astarion drops his brow. “Who did you overhear?” comes his stern response, laced within a deep growl.

Tav shrugs her shoulders. “Does it matter?” she suggests. “The damage is already done, Astarion. I know the truth.”

He's quiet as she walks toward him; stoic. He stops breathing, having no true need of it, and he’s a living statue before her eyes. Ivory skin with just the faintest hint of life. Piercing red eyes. A strong, sharp nose. Hardened jaw clenched tight… 

Tav is quick to rid her mind of the creeping lust that threatens to bloom within.

“But what I don't understand is why lie to me, Astarion?” She continues to argue her point, pounding a fist over her chest. “What do you gain? What do you preserve?”

Astarion doesn't answer immediately, likely trying to piece together a sound reply. He shifts his weight onto one hip and sighs. “Has our dearest friend Wyllyam not told you of our arrangement?”

Tav shifts back a step, turning her face toward the side only minimally, eyes still fixated upon him. “What are you implying?”

Astarion’s resulting smile oozes malice. “Oh dear, you really don't know.” He drops his arms from his chest and closes the distance. Tav flinches as he leans toward her, dropping his voice to a purr, “And here I thought you were just playing the part.”

“Know what, Astarion? Speak plainly,” demands Tav.

Again, a momentary lapse in response. He stares blankly, expressionless as he says, “Awfully surprised this hasn't come up during pillow talk.”

Tav blinks in genuine shock. ‘Pillow talk? What in the hells–’

Suddenly, her brain mulls over the thought and she scowls. “Astarion, are you asking if I've ever slept with Wyll?”

He leans back, shifting his head again to one side. “I'm not quite sure, love,” he says, feigning innocence. “Perhaps you could tell me?”

Flabbergasted, Tav shouts, “He's the Duke, Astarion! I report directly to him!” She shakes her head in disagreement. “No, our interactions are strictly professional.”

“Of course, but old habits die hard, my dear. Surely you know that,” Astarion retorts.

The sentence churns within her brain. Tav recalls the events of their journey against the Absolute. Every dinner, every laugh, every intimate moment shared.

‘He can't possibly be referring to…’ 

Her attention snaps back to Astarion, who waits patiently as she unravels his meaning.

“We shared a kiss, Astarion,” Tav explains, mildly annoyed. “You and I pledged ourselves to one another soon after. You know this.”

“You both shared a rather intimate dance, as well.” He begins to circle her; Tav keeps her head on a swivel as she tracks his movement. “What else, I wonder, did you share in our time away from one another?”

“I already told you, our relationship is strictly professional. I harbor no additional feelings for Wyll.”

Astarion's raises his hands in defeat, bowing slightly at the waist. “I'll accept what you say as truth.”

Somberly, Tav looks toward the two stone coffins holding the unfortunate victims. “How does Wyll have anything to do with this?” she questions. “I doubt he'd take murder lightly.”

Astarion huffs a laugh. “Oh, my darling, how wrong you are. They aren’t dead.” Astarion moves toward the first sarcophagus, stopping just next to it. “And they're not innocent. I can assure you of that.”

She whips her head toward Astarion, bewilderment painted clear up on her face. “Not dead?” reiterates Tav. “Astarion, I'm sure of what I saw. Those two men are dead; gone of this world.”

“Did you touch them?” he inquires, lifting a brow.

“No,” she admits, shaking her head, “why would I?”

Astarion lifts his chin, nodding toward the coffins. “Touch them,” he dares. “Go on.”

Tav holds his challenging gaze for a moment before bowing her head. Cautiously, she walks toward the coffins again, choosing the one that holds the elven man. Quickly she looks to Astarion, who nods his head again in encouragement. Tav raises a shaky hand over the lip of the coffin, reaching for the young man inside.

The hand connects and her eyes grow wide.

‘His skin…it's…’

“Cool, but not chilled, yes?” Astarion comments smugly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Tav quickly retracts her hand, shooting a heated glance at Astarion. “What the hells is this, Astarion?” she yells. “What kind of enchantment is this?!”

Knitting his brow, Astarion says, “Tell me, darling – does this satisfy your desire to paint me as some type of devil?” Slowly he stalks toward her, like a predator encircling their prey. Instinctively, Tav backs away, desperate to create more distance. “Does this prove your preconceived notions correct?”

“Astarion…” Tav says in a small voice, but she halts her retreat – a wave of rebellion overtaking her. She stands steady, watching his every movement.

He stops before her, heavy breaths rippling through his nostrils. “Will you fly from me again?” he asks, jaw tight. He leans forward, adding in a growl, “Do you fear me, now?”

He’s spiraling.

Backed into a corner, he's poised to strike. As she studies his face, Tav notes the tension set deep within his features. “...Not unless I have reason to,” she challenges. Tav narrows her eyes in question. “Do I?”

The tension eases somewhat, Astarion's face softening. He straightens his posture, placing a hand on the lip of the coffin for support. “Of course not,” he admits, looking off to the side. Astarion worries at his bottom lip. “I would see this entire city burn, if you willed.”

A cold shutter runs down the length of her spine. “I would never ask that of you, Astarion,” Tav states, cocking her head to one side.

“I know,” he smiles, lips pulling into a smirk, “but my offer still stands.”

Despite offering to raze an entire city in her stead, Tav realizes he still cannot call this what it truly is. 

Love.

How much he loves her. Loves the idea of them. His worst fear realized, Tav comes to understand, is her turning her back on him again. Walking out the door, never to return. Astarion still cannot admit to himself that he longs, desperately, for nothing more than them being together, for as long as the accursed Gods above allow.

But, she knows. She sees it – sees him.

Her eyes wander back to the elven man in the stone coffin. Tav turns to face the coffin and dips her hand once more, placing the flat of her hand against the man’s cheek. “How is it possible that they still live?” she asks, curious. “You bit them, didn't you? Drained them?”

“I did,” agrees Astarion with a slight nod of his head, “however, that's only the first part. They haven't yet reached the final act.” His chest rises as he draws in a breath, exhaling with audible force. He meets her eye as he says, “Currently, they lay between.”

Tav's jaw drops in silent question. “How do you mean between, Astarion?” she asks, mortified. “Are you implying they're in a sort of stasis?”

“Somewhat, yes,” confirms Astarion. “To create a vampire spawn, the victim must be buried under six feet of dirt. After which,” he continues, gesturing with a light twirl of his wrist, “they awaken the following night. Beckoned, by their new master.” A hollow look sets on his face, eyes dropping to the floor. “Bound to them. Forever.”

“This happened weeks ago,” Tav is quick to argue, the soft burn of panic igniting within her chest. “You've kept them here this entire time? In this state?”

Astarion shrugs his shoulders in nonchalance, adopting a sort of apathy as he says, “Not much else to do, unfortunately. Not until I decide otherwise.”

A heavy sense of dread looms overhead. Tav can hardly believe how seemingly detached he is from the severity of the situation – willfully keeping these men in limbo, until he, essentially, gets around to settling the matter. 

Completely at his mercy.

“This is hardly fair, Astarion,” says Tav, voice quivering.

“And what makes you think they're deserving of such a gesture?” he asks with a quirk of his brow.

“Everyone is,” she states in an urgent breath, “especially in death.”

“You’ve no idea who your heart bleeds for,” Astarion counters in a low growl, teeth clenched.

In a display of confidence, albeit foolishly, Tav approaches the vampire. “Did these men give themselves to you willingly?” she asks, pushing forward. Taken aback, Astarion steps away. “Did they pledge fealty to you? Or did you take it?”

Still stepping back, Astarion says quietly, “That hardly matters.”

“No, that's precisely what matters,” Tav insists, forcefully. She halts her frontal assault, choosing to meet his gaze. “Answer me, Astarion – did these men give you permission to turn them?”

They stand, eyes locked in a heated silent exchange, before Astarion finally admits, “No.” it's a one word response, yet it holds the weight of an entire mountain within its meaning.

The fire within her chest threatens to burst into an inferno, and Tav can tell Astarion is feeling the pressure, as well. There's a sheen to his eyes that only appears before the fall. Before a breakthrough.

“Is that the sort of master you want to be?” she pushes. The consequences of such an accusation can leave her in the same position as the men in the coffins, though this is another test of their bond. “One who takes without consideration?” Tav continues. 

Can he withstand moral objectivity? Criticism? ‘Comparison,’ she thinks to herself, ‘to Cazador?’

“I would not wish to create spawn of those unaware of this life,” Astarion states mournfully.

“But if you complete the process, they become your spawn, correct?” infers Tav, continuing to lay on the pressure. “You would have the ability to compel them.”

Astarion shoots her a side glance. “I would never do that to them,” he snarls defensively, his limit quickly approaching.

“No, but you would still have the option. Just as he did. And they would know that.” Astarion's nostrils begin to flare as Tav encircles him, his face screwing up into a tightly disapproving scowl. “Just as you did.”

“Tav,” Astarion growls out in warning, fists clenching with fevor. He follows her path around him, eyes glued to her form.

“That at any moment,” she continues, “you could bend them to your will. Just as he did.” Astarion's chest is heaving by this point. Strong, ragged breaths tear through his chest.

Yet, Tav goes on. “How long do you think you'll have before they rebel? Before they seek to reclaim the life you unjustly stole from them?” Tav stops just before him, craning her neck to one side as she says, “Does that sound like a familiar story to you?”

“I am not him!” Astarion shouts, hunching over. His fangs are bared, his palms splayed wide. His eyes flicker a bright gold for all but a second, but it's a second too long for Tav to not take notice. Astarion drops to his knees and Tav backs away, startled by the display before her.

Astarion's nails dig deeply at the stone floor below. He's snarling – saliva now drips from his mouth as his body gives over to a fit. Panic settles within Tav’s chest, though her feet refuse to carry her any further away. Astarion whips back his head – pupils blown wide – and their eyes meet; a thin ring of ruby red encircles them. 

“Astarion…” Tav sighs. She eases herself to the floor, but doesn't reach for him. Instead, she sits attentively – an unspoken display of trust that he will not take advantage of her vulnerability. Hoping that somewhere, deep within, he's still the man she came to love.

A low rumble rises from Astarion's chest as he studies her face. His eyes roll into his skull and he sits back, blinking rapidly. Raising a hand, he swipes it down the front of his face, then shakes his head.

“...Are you back?” Tav asks, timidly.

Astarion gives a knowing glance, nodding his head in silent agreement.

“What was that?” she asks.

Settling his gaze on the floor, hanging his head, Astarion confesses, “I…I don't know,” His chest rises and falls with labored breaths. “Forgive me; I meant you no harm.”

Somehow, she knows. Trusts in the one impenetrable fact that he will always protect her. That no harm will ever come to her, either by his own doing or by others. Tav doesn't fear him, nor what he is capable of.

“I know,” Tav says, confidently. She holds out her hands, palms turned upward, in offer to Astarion. They don't have to talk about what happened just yet. For right now, they must move forward.

He gives pause at her gesture, but then readily accepts, enclosing his hands over hers. They aid one another in rising off the floor and stand, keeping their hands interlocked just a moment too long.

Tav speaks first, saying, “You have to do something with them, Astarion. You can't just leave them here and pray they'll go away.”

His hand finds one of hers again, entwining their fingers once more. “...What would you suggest I do?” he asks, unsure. Astarion looks to her from under his lashes, brow knit tightly in a concerned scowl.

Tav squeezes his hand encouragingly. “Show them the mercy you wish was afforded to you.”

Astarion lifts his head, eyes widening as he looks to her. “...You would allow such a thing?” he asks with a hint of desperation in his voice.

Tav brings their interlocked hands to her lips, placing a gentle kiss to the top of his. “I support you doing what's right, Astarion.”

His eyes flutter momentarily, somewhat surprised by the intimate gesture, before he dips his head in a short nod. “Fine,” he says, “I'll do it.” 

Releasing his grip on her hand, Astarion moves to the coffin holding the young elven man. He reaches for his side, under his doublet, and Tav hears him unsheath his dagger from its hilt. Seconds later, Astarion pulls it free from his hip with a skilled jerk.

With a shaky breath, Astarion takes the opposite hand and begins tracing down along the breast bone of the unconscious man beneath. He feels, under the pads of his fingers, for each intercostal space, stopping once he reaches the fourth. Now moving his hand slightly to the left of the sternum, he dips his fingers again to confirm proper placement. The man's heart beats slowly under his touch; Astarion releases his breath, and looks again to Tav.

Tav sees the trepidation in his eyes. He's asking silently, again, for her permission to continue. If what he’s about to do is tolerable. Will she turn and run if he goes through with this? Would it be too much for her to witness him at his worst? 

She nods almost instinctively, taking notice of her own heightened state. There once was a time when the call of blood and sinew thrilled her; though now, the adrenaline coursing through her veins exists for a different reason entirely. Her heart beats strong against its cage, flooding her ears. 

Astarion means to kill these men. Mercifully, yes, but kill them, all the same. And she's allowing it. Encouraging it. Guiding his hand toward a path of resolution. A chance at redemption for his soured soul, all but forgotten by every God.

It's no matter to her, really – she longs to be his sanctuary. The savior of his damned existence. She wasn't strong enough then, during the ritual, but by the Gods she will never make that mistake again. Stop at nothing now to save him. To give him a new chance at life.

One where they all can exist together. Him, her, and the blossoming love that grows within.

Receiving the answer he sought, Astarion turns his attention again to the man’s chest. He raises the dagger, replacing his fingers with the tip of the blade. He pauses for a second, then begins pushing the knife forward.

A deep, agonal groan rings loudly against the crypt walls the moment Astarion's blade pierces heart. A shiver passes over Tav as she traces the movements of Astarion's arm. He twists the dagger within the elf’s chest, another garbled sound slipping past the young man's pale lips as Astarion carves through myocardium.

Astarion stands, near perfectly still, in the same position until the sound dies down. Only then does he pull the dagger free. He wipes the flat of the blade against his thigh, moving toward the dragonborn in a seamless transition.

A final groan spills from the older man. It reverberates within the crypt, drifting off into a dull dum. Astarion carefully removes the blade from the man’s chest, dropping it unceremoniously onto the floor with a loud ‘clang’. Astarion drags a hand down the length of his face and begins stalking backwards. “It's done,” he comments, turning on his heels and heading toward the exit. His head hangs low as he passes Tav.

She hardly acknowledges his passing – she’s too transfixed on the scene before her. 

Finally, the two men lay dead. Her nose picks up the faint scent of their blood as it slowly trickles from their wounds, though the smell is not as fragrant as that of a fresh kill. The scent envelops her once more and her stomach lurches in disgust.

‘It's rancid!’ she cries to herself. Tav places a hand over her abdomen, rubbing soothing circles over her belly, hoping to calm this sudden wave of nausea.

The crushing reality of the situation begins to set in. Tav had encouraged Astarion to show these men mercy. Mercy that wasn’t shown to him. She knew he'd likely choose this option, but the why escaped her. 

Until now.

“Astarion,” she calls out in a shaky breath, beginning to understand, “does this mean you…?”

Astarion halts just before stepping beyond the room's threshold. He turns slowly, looking at Tav as he says, “I'm holding a charity ball tomorrow evening. In Wyll's honor.” His voice is flat – devoid of its usual flair. “You should come. Speak with him. He can explain this better than I could ever hope to try.”

He's already rebuilding his walls.

Tav shifts to meet his gaze. A single tear tracks down Astarion's face and he quickly wipes it away, but she sees. Sees the bob of his neck as he swallows. Finds the hollow look in his eyes as he meets hers. “You did the right thing, Astarion,” she states, trying to provide reassurance. Give him an encouraging hand.

Yet, he's quick to refuse it.

“Then why doesn't it feel that way?” Astarion confesses, sternly. He promptly turns again and heads once more to the doorway, disappearing beyond the threshold.

Tav stands alone within the crypt. Her knees suddenly grow weak as the evening's events finally catch up to her. She guides herself softly to the floor, supporting her weight on a single arm as she leans to one side. Tav brings her other hand to rest over her chest and feels the crazed beating of her heart. The crushing weight of the evening settles deep in her bones.

Part of Astarion…wishes that were him.

[chimielie]

pacrim au where the miya twins are an unstoppable force, some of the best pilots you've ever seen, right up until osamu decides he's had enough.

it's weird. you've seen them in the mess hall, their movements so in sync it's almost scary, their identical features in the same sneer whenever someone's stupid enough to go up and thank them for their service. it's the only thing we can do, atsumu always says, it's everything. osamu says nothing.

and then one day he leaves. whispers follow his retirement, positing injury, cowardice, whatever. you don't pay attention to it; you're not the type to idolize or demonize pilots.

and eventually atsumu starts coming back to the mess hall, and it's weirder. he's missing half of himself, his movements awkward now, his expression a little bit lost no matter how much bluster he tries to muster up.

so you sit next to him one day, and notice that he's stiffened up next to you, waiting for you to beg him for salacious gossip or a chance to ride in his jaeger. you don't, though, you just sit there and eat your fucking slop.

he's not the kind of guy who can handle silence, so eventually he starts making small talk, and when you don't flinch away from his abrasive words it softens into friendship. when it's been long enough and he knows you keep to yourself, at least the important things, you finally ask:

"why did he leave?"

he shrugs. "said he was tired of seeing me die every time he closed his eyes. i get it, but..." his laugh is cold, metallic. "it was the only thing we could do, and i can't do it without him."

you take his hands, a fierce expression on your face, and tell him that with passion like that, there has to be someone else he's drift compatible with. he doubts that, but piloting's everything to him, so he may as well try.

people clamor to test their compatibility with the last half of the infamous miya twins. it's hard enough to sort through the rabid fans for people who actually share his drive to fight, and then nobody really clicks with him anyway. you start to be able to see it before they even get on the mat, an unevenness to their breaths compared to the precision of his every movement, a wild look in their eyes that breaks with his unwavering focus. off the mat, he slings an arm round your shoulders and asks what color slop you think they'll be serving today.

eventually, though, someone breaks through the ranks. you think they'll almost be able to get through, that they can just sit in the mech that's been empty for months and maybe that tenuous, precious connection will form, but instead... just before they raise their fists, they glance over at you, and with what feels like a lifetime of experience evaluating each person in relation to your golden pilot (when did you start thinking of him like that?), you know instantly what's going to happen. for the first time, you see atsumu lose control, rolling around with the potential pilot shouting obscenities. you think he uses his teeth at one point.

when they're finally separated, atsumu stands, hair wild, and points at you.

"i'm done with this bullshit," he says. "the next time i get in a jaeger, you're gonna be the one at my side."