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lunexsparx · 3 months ago

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LADS: Sent them LEWDS in public

Summary: The LADS have left you feeling neglected, so you decide to teach them a lesson. What happens when you send them lewds while they're in public? MDNI! (Suggestive, not explicit.) This was a silly piece, and my first "all LADs" fic!

It had been three entire days since your usually-charming upstairs neighbor decided to treat you like you’d committed some unforgivable crime.

And for what?

A tiny, perfectly reasonable suggestion.

All you’d done was gently imply—alright, maybe not that gently—that it might be insanely hot if Xavier wore the Lumierre mask while you did things to him that were definitely, unequivocally illegal in at least six countries.

Instead of pouncing on you right then and there, like a sane person, he'd looked at you with such profound horror you'd genuinely thought for a moment you’d accidentally confessed to murder. Without saying a word, he’d turned on his heel, and left. He actually just left you standing there, mouth open, dignity bruised, libido unsatisfied.

And now it had been three full days of absolute silence.

Three days of radio static—no texts, no teasing smiles across patrol, nothing. He'd even swapped shifts just to dodge seeing you, the dramatic bastard. Last night, you'd even tried peace offerings in the form of his favorite takeout, and he’d ignored that too!

Enough was enough.

Jealous of his own alter ego? That was the most ridiculous thing you'd ever heard. But fine. If Xavier wanted to act like a sulky teenager, you'd make sure to treat him like one.

War was officially declared.

You found him at headquarters, slumped in a chair after your patrol with Tara, looking every bit as miserable as he deserved to be. He was nibbling half-heartedly on a powdered-sugar donut, his posture screaming “pathetic” in a way that almost made you soften—almost.

His eyes flicked upward, briefly met yours, and then darted away guiltily, the tips of his ears turning pink beneath his silver hair. Oh, he was absolutely not ready for the diabolical storm about to descend upon him.

"Hey there, stranger," you purred sweetly, flashing him your most innocent smile. "Thinking hot pot tonight? You in?"

Xavier stared at you like you’d grown a second head, his eyes wide and dark as he slowly drew the powdered sugar-coated tip of his thumb into his mouth, sucking it clean. For one charged, heart-stopping second, you thought he might break—then he yanked his gaze away, finger removed from his lips.

“There’s a... briefing,” he mumbled lamely, shuffling awkwardly toward the conference room door.

Your stomach dropped. Oh, he was really doubling down, wasn’t he?

Fine. If that’s how he wanted to play it, you’d come prepared. You had nuclear-level ammo today, and Xavier didn’t stand a chance.

Game on, Bunny Boy.

You followed him into the conference room, watching with disbelief as he strategically wedged himself between two occupied seats. Seriously?

With a dramatic sigh, you slid into the empty chair directly opposite him. If he thought refusing to look at you would save him, he was tragically mistaken.

The other hunters filed in, and Jenna began her usual monotone spiel about mission updates and statistics. You tuned her out instantly, your entire focus zeroed in on Xavier, whose azure eyes remained stubbornly glued to Jenna, as though looking anywhere else—especially at you—would ignite him on literal fire.

You knew him far too well for that. You knew exactly how difficult it was for him not to glance your way; you could practically feel him sweating from across the room.

Still, not even a single glance?

Well, he’d asked for it.

Carefully lowering your phone beneath the table, shielding the screen from wandering eyes, you scrolled through your collection of explicit selfies from last night. You’d planned these as playful rewards for when he finally apologized, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

And oh, the pièce de résistance.

There you were, wearing Lumiere's iconic costume, the shirt wide open to expose your bare breasts, nipples stiff and tempting. Your hand disappeared suggestively down the pants, fingertips teasingly hidden but clearly busy, eyes glassy with desire, lips parted as if mid-moan. It was raw. It was filthy. It was fucking perfect.

Smirking, you quickly typed your killing blow:

You: If you won’t be Lumiere, then I guess I’ll have to be.

Send.

Exactly five seconds passed between the delivery of your message and the moment Xavier's soul visibly departed from his body.

Across the conference room, Xavier shifted casually in his chair, pulled out his phone like it was nothing—and froze.

For a full second, you swore he stopped breathing altogether.

Then, as though hit by a delayed gunshot, he jolted violently enough that his knee smacked hard against the underside of the conference table.

THUD.

Coffee cups rattled dangerously. A rookie hunter squeaked embarrassingly. Jenna stopped mid-sentence, arching an eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed.

“Xavier? Everything alright?”

Xavier opened his mouth, managed no sound, then tried again. “Fine,” he croaked weakly, voice cracking like he was thirteen again. “Just—leg cramp. Muscle...spasm. Sudden. Carry on.”

Jenna stared at him, the kind of look that clearly said she wasn't paid enough for whatever this was, before continuing her report without further comment.

But Xavier was fucked, and he knew it. Under the table, his hand fumbled desperately—obviously attempting, and spectacularly failing, to discreetly adjust his hardening cock. His breathing turned shallow, ragged, as though he’d just sliced through a thousand wanderers.

For several minutes you almost broke skin from biting your knuckle so hard, trying not to laugh. You expected to get some sort of reaction, but when it came to Xavier--you didn't expect THAT.

At last, he risked a glance in your direction.

The look he shot you was homicidal—wild, desperate, furious lust etched into every tense line of his body.

You offered him your most innocent smile.

Slowly, deliberately, you tilted your head just slightly.

Bit your lower lip.

Then, clearly and slowly enough for him to read your lips across the room, you mouthed:

“Call me Lumiere.”

Xavier’s palm slammed down on the table with a loud crack, making the rookie beside him choke on her coffee and Jenna stop mid-sentence again.

He stood abruptly—violently—his chair sliding backwards and hitting the wall behind him. “I—uh—emergency!” he stammered, voice strained with panic. “Personal emergency!”

Without another word, he practically sprinted out of the conference room, leaving confused whispers in his wake.

Seconds later, your phone buzzed violently in your hand.

Xavier: Elevator. Now. If you can still walk when I’m done with you, consider it a miracle.

A wicked grin slowly spread across your lips.

He was going to lose his mind when you showed up in the elevator already wearing his mask.

And you absolutely couldn’t wait.

You: Hey handsome. Come home and ruin my life a little? ��️ Zayne: Saving actual lives, sweetheart. You’ll survive. Probably. You: Survival’s not guaranteed if you keep ignoring me. 😔 Zayne: Drink water. Do stretches. Think loving thoughts. You: My “loving thoughts” involve you naked and tied to a chair, FYI. Zayne: Medical emergency. Gotta go. Stop being trouble. You: No. 😇

You glared at your phone, dramatically collapsing face-first onto the couch with a frustrated groan. The cushions absorbed your grumbled curses, muffling your irritation. How many more nights had to be like this?

Fine. If Doctor Li was determined to pretend you didn't exist, you'd simply make yourself impossible to ignore.

You'd show him exactly what happened when he neglected his duties.

With determination and a mischievous gleam in your eye, you slipped into Akso Hospital, wearing your most convincing “definitely not about to do something reckless” expression. A few polite smiles later, you found yourself safely behind the door of Zayne’s private office.

Perfect.

The white coat hung invitingly from the hook on the wall, proudly embroidered with his name. With a small, affectionate smile, you ran your fingertips lovingly over the stitching. He’d earned every letter there—but he was going to have to earn you now.

You slipped out of your clothes, discarding them neatly on a nearby chair, and draped yourself in the crisp, cool white fabric. Buttoning exactly one button beneath your bust to tease rather than conceal, you placed his stethoscope around your neck, letting the cold metal rest suggestively between your bare breasts.

Then, perched casually against his desk, you carefully spread your thighs—just indecent enough—and snapped a photo.

You: I need a consultation, Doctor. I’m experiencing severe symptoms of neglect. 🖤

Send.

Meanwhile, Upstairs in the Boardroom

Zayne was enduring yet another agonizingly dull briefing on surgical budgeting, politely nodding at appropriate intervals and maintaining just enough eye contact to appear interested.

His phone buzzed softly. A quick glance to silence it, and—

He froze.

The image filled his screen with obscene clarity: You, half-naked beneath his white coat, lounging seductively on his desk. His heartbeat surged violently, blood roaring in his ears.

"—increase the budget allocation for anesthesiology—"

Zayne heard nothing.

His mind was busy unraveling.

"Dr. Li?" the hospital director asked, peering at him over her glasses. "You seem… distracted."

He stood abruptly, chair wobbling dangerously behind him. "Emergency page," he announced, voice crisp and convincing.

He didn’t even bother looking at his pager.

Without another word, he strode out, urgency radiating from him as he practically sprinted toward his office.

He burst through the door—and stopped short.

There you were, a living fantasy: draped across his workspace like an erotic muse, fingers leisurely twirling his stethoscope. You looked outrageously smug and impossibly beautiful.

"Doctor," you purred sweetly, batting your lashes with a smirk, "I've been incredibly patient, but I'm afraid my condition is deteriorating."

Zayne exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in mock-suffering. "You," he murmured with exaggerated weariness, eyes shining with reluctant amusement, "are an absolute nightmare."

He crossed the room in three confident strides, trapping you firmly between his arms as he braced himself on either side of your hips. The warmth of his body pressed intimately close, sending sparks rippling across your skin.

"But," he continued softly, voice dipping lower, "you're my nightmare."

Your grin widened, eyes sparkling triumphantly.

He brushed his nose gently against yours, mouth hovering dangerously close. "Now," he breathed, warm and teasing against your lips, "are you ready for a proper examination?"

His hands slid up your shoulders, skillful fingers hooking into the edges of the white coat. With a single swift movement, he stripped it from you, letting it pool loosely at your elbows. You gasped softly at the sudden exposure, your bare skin instantly heated under his heavy, possessive gaze.

He tugged the stethoscope gently but firmly, tightening it just enough to elicit another soft gasp from you. His lips curled wickedly.

"Because, sweetheart," he whispered hungrily, "I’m afraid I’ll need to be… extremely thorough."

Just as his mouth brushed against yours, the door swung open sharply.

"Dr. Li, I just wanted to—"

Yvonne froze mid-step. Her eyes widened comically, mouth falling open in pure shock.

You froze.

Zayne froze.

The three of you stood locked in a perfect tableau: you, nearly naked on his desk; Zayne gripping the stethoscope like a leash; and poor Yvonne wishing desperately she could melt into the carpet.

The awkward silence stretched unbearably—until you broke it with a cheerful, mortifyingly casual, "Hey, Yvonne."

Yvonne sputtered, her cheeks blazing scarlet. "I—uh—meeting—I’ll—clear your schedule, Doctor Li—sorry—!" She whirled around and fled, the door slamming so hard a framed diploma nearly toppled off the wall.

Quiet filled the room once more.

Slowly, you turned your gaze back to Zayne, prepared for irritation or embarrassment in his expression. Instead, what you saw in his eyes made your stomach clench and your knees weaken.

He looked feral.

His eyes were dark with barely controlled hunger, the curve of his mouth twisted into a dangerous smirk. A low, rich chuckle escaped him—broken and beautiful—and then he captured your lips in a fierce kiss that left you absolutely breathless.

When he pulled away, his breath was ragged.

"You," he rasped, voice low and trembling with the effort of restraint, "have absolutely no idea what you just unleashed."

His fingers tangled into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your face upward, exposing your throat. A startled, eager whimper escaped you as he guided you firmly down onto your knees, the cool metal of the stethoscope tightening once more around your neck, holding you in place, keeping you under his control.

"Now," Zayne murmured roughly, gently tracing your jawline with his thumb, eyes blazing with a promise that sent liquid heat pooling between your thighs, "about your consultation…"

He stroked your lower lip with the pad of his thumb, his eyes heavy and intensely focused on your form beneath him.

"Open wide, sweetheart," he whispered darkly. "Doctor’s orders."

He hadn't even noticed you were there.

Or if he had, he certainly wasn't showing it.

Rafayel moved through the exhibit like a reluctant storm—sharp smiles that didn't quite reach his eyes, quick jokes tossed over his shoulder, and half-hearted acknowledgments to anyone who cornered him. He was the living embodiment of forced politeness, an artist enduring the social equivalent of nails scraping down a chalkboard.

And god, he hated every second of it.

You knew it just by watching him: the tight set of his jaw, the slight twitch at the corner of his eye every time some fawning critic called him "brilliant" or "a visionary." The fake laughter he forced out sounded so pained that you cringed inwardly each time you heard it.

He wasn't here by choice. He was here because Thomas begged him to be. Sweet, desperate Thomas—his manager, friend, and occasional babysitter—had guilted him into playing nice. Apparently, being cursed with raw talent also came with mandatory public suffering.

But still, you had shown up tonight for him.

You'd dressed up, hopeful and ready to support him, a little nervous, and just a touch eager to catch his attention. He'd been busy with this exhibit for weeks, leaving you missing him terribly. A few texts back and forth proved he'd been working himself thin, so your attendance hopefully meant a lot to him. You imagined his face lighting up, maybe an overly dramatic embrace to embarrass you in public, something to make this exhausting night worth it.

But nothing like that happened.

Instead, you lingered awkwardly at the edges, becoming increasingly invisible with each passing minute. Every time you tried to approach him, some insufferable curator or overly-enthusiastic fan intercepted. A handshake here, a selfie there, a monologue about color theory that visibly drained Rafayel’s soul just listening to it.

Your heart sank lower with every failed attempt to reach him.

It felt ridiculous—standing alone, unnoticed, in a crowd full of people fawning over him. The ache settled deep in your chest, frustration twisting alongside a quiet, embarrassed loneliness. You knew he adored you in his own chaotic way, but in this moment, you felt utterly forgotten.

Before your pride could stop you, your hand slipped into your clutch, pulling out your phone. Your thumb hesitated, hovering over the screen.

You'd taken the photo a few days earlier. You’d laughed nervously, painting your body with cheap market paints, giggling as vibrant colors ran together, messy but charming in their chaos. Beautiful hues smeared across your naked skin. A self portrait with loving marks made only for him. You'd planned it as a playful reward for him, a private gift to congratulate him on surviving this night. Something so vulnerable and silly, you just knew he'd affectionately tease you about it...

But right now, it felt more like an act of desperation—maybe even your last chance to salvage your hurt feelings.

You attached the picture, pausing only a second to consider your message before typing something hopeful and just slightly teasing:

You: If only I’d had an artist’s touch when I made this… 🎨

Send.

There. It was done. Now, you could let him have his night. Your stomach twisted anxiously as you turned toward the exit. You wouldn't wait around feeling sorry for yourself any longer. And you absolutely were not going to cry.

Definitely not.

You were halfway to the door when you heard the distinct sound of glass shattering against marble flooring.

You whipped around just in time to see Rafayel frozen stiffly, staring down at his fallen champagne flute, the shattered glass glittering beneath his shoes like fragments of a broken sculpture. His phone still glowed in his hand, the faint light of your photo illuminating his wide-eyed, stunned expression.

For a moment, the gallery seemed suspended in time. Even Thomas stopped mid-sentence, mouth half-open, staring at Rafayel with alarm.

Then Rafayel slowly lifted his gaze, eyes dark with delicious chaotic delight.

He clapped his hands sharply, making several attendees jump. "Alright, show's over, everyone!" he declared with startling cheerfulness.

Music screeched to a stop. Confused murmurs rippled through the crowd. Thomas sputtered helplessly, pushing forward in a panic. "Raf, what are you doing? Are you out of your—?"

"Emergency inspiration, Thomas," Rafayel interrupted smoothly, flashing a grin that promised chaos. "Artist emergency. Clear out these art vultures before I start tossing them myself."

He began herding the stunned crowd toward the doors like an overly enthusiastic sheep dog, casually waving away protests, ignoring horrified gasps, and outright laughing at anyone who demanded explanations.

In a matter of minutes, the gallery emptied completely, leaving you alone and slightly bewildered in the silent aftermath.

Before you could fully process what had just happened, Rafayel stormed across the gallery--intense eyes locked on yours, grabbing your wrist with gentle but firm insistence and pulling you toward one of the large, blank canvases still hanging on the far wall.

"Raf—" you began, but he pressed you lightly against the canvas, caging you in with his body. His breath was ragged, eyes intense and impossibly full as they traced your features with more affection than he'd ever shown you before.

"You," he whispered fiercely, voice low and roughened with barely contained emotion, "are the only masterpiece I've ever given a damn about."

His fingers toyed with the hem of your dress, teasingly lifting the fabric inch by torturous inch. "And clearly," he continued, mouth twitching with a teasing laugh, "you're in desperate need of a professional’s touch.”

It had been a week.

Seven miserable days of cryptic texts, all maddeningly brief and patronizing:

Sylus: Stay in tonight. Sylus: Miss you, kitten. Sylus: Be good.

No calls. No visits. Not even one infuriatingly charming late-night voicemail. Instead, your only visitor was Mephisto—the world’s most judgmental mechanical crow—who showed up at ungodly hours, tapping insistently at your window like he had something important to say but was choosing not to out of spite.

You hated this.

You missed Sylus with an intensity that bordered on psychosis. You simultaneously wanted to punch him in the mouth for ignoring your messages and pull him close and kiss him senseless for texting back. He was stubborn, distant, and maddeningly secretive—qualities that normally drew you to him, but right now were driving you toward sweet, reckless revenge.

When Mephisto landed again, this time eyeing you from the balcony railing like a gothic hall monitor, you decided enough was enough.

Sylus had left you unsupervised for far too long—and it was time he faced the delicious consequences.

You picked up the sleek black helmet he’d given you weeks ago. Custom-designed, glossy, stylish, perfectly fitted—an extravagant gift he'd tried (and failed) to dismiss as "just something practical." You’d teased him mercilessly about it, delighting in how he blushed faintly at your enthusiastic reaction.

Tonight, the helmet would serve another purpose entirely.

Pulling it on, you stripped off everything else, relishing the cool air and the way goosebumps prickled your bare skin. You sprawled across the bed, posed shamelessly, legs parted just enough to tease, fingers strategically hiding the most explicit details—but only just. The helmet gleamed wickedly, a striking contrast to your exposed body.

You snapped the photo.

With a satisfied smirk, you sent it off to Sylus, accompanied by the provocative caption:

You: Your kitten needs to play. 🐾

Send.

Deep within the heart of N109’s black market, Sylus stood at the head of a long metal table, staring coolly down a collection of men who looked like they'd stepped straight out of a wanted poster. Between them sat a precarious amount of glowing modified Protocores and weaponry—dangerous, volatile, and profoundly expensive.

Negotiations were quiet. Civilized, even, in that uniquely criminal way where civility masked a very real promise of bloodshed.

Sylus’s phone buzzed softly against the metal table. He ignored it, expression unreadable, shoulders loose, hands relaxed as though he had all the time in the world.

It buzzed again. Insistent. Demanding attention.

With a subtle sigh, he flicked open the screen, casually glancing down to silence whoever dared interrupt—

And his world halted.

Your photo filled the display, bold and stunning enough to seize every thought in his head. You sprawled like an absolute vision, sleek helmet shining, bare skin lush and inviting, fingers barely covering the part of you he now desperately wished they weren’t hiding. His breath stopped in his chest as he licked his lips.

The room felt suddenly suffocating.

His energy surged, raw and unchecked, in a way it hadn't in years—and certainly never over something as trivial as a photograph.

The modified protocores, hyper-sensitive to his Evol fluctuations, immediately picked up on the spike.

Then—

BOOM.

An entire weapons crate erupted, shards of protocores and sparks exploding outward in a brilliant shower of chaos. The table overturned. Gangsters screamed and dove for cover. The lights flickered violently, plunging the room into smoke-filled confusion. Someone yelled about assassins, another fired a panicked shot into the ceiling, and Luke and Kieran hit the floor with twin yelps.

"Holy shit, did boss do that on purpose?!" Luke shrieked from behind a smoldering crate.

Kieran coughed and laughed simultaneously, cackling, "Nah, you didn't see that look? He only looks like that when she's involved!"

Amid the destruction, Sylus stood unmoving, ruby eyes still transfixed on the intimate image before him. Smoke curled gently from the scorched edge of his coat, a faint dusting of ash settling into his white hair. His expression remained as calm and impenetrable as a marble statue.

One gangster staggered up to him, pale and trembling, clutching a bloody hand. "What the fuck was that, Sylus? Are you double-crossing us? Was this a hit—?"

Sylus didn't bother replying. He simply tucked the phone smoothly into his pocket, brushed off his sleeve, and fixed the shaking man with a flat stare.

"Emergency recall," he said calmly.

While alarms screamed and half the warehouse burned around him, Sylus turned to Luke and Kieran and said:

"Handle it."

Without looking back at the smoking ruins behind him, Sylus walked away, leaving a roomful of criminals sputtering in disbelief.

At home, you’d fallen asleep waiting for a reply, curled up and still helmet-clad, when the apartment door slammed open so violently you bolted upright, startled and blinking.

Sylus stood in the doorway, looking like he’d just survived an apocalypse—jacket scorched, boots dusty, eyes blazing and utterly unhinged. He kicked the door shut without a backward glance, filling the room with his overpowering presence.

"You probably got someone killed tonight, Kitten," he drawled, voice deceptively mild.

You snorted softly, waving him off with a playful roll of your eyes. "Oh, sure. I'm deadly, alright."

His expression didn't change, though his eyes darkened with intensity that sent a sudden thrill down your spine. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, a predator approaching prey that hadn't yet realized it was caught.

"I’m serious," he said softly, voice low and edged with dangerous amusement. "Two crates of weapons and Protocores exploded, half the black market nearly burned down, and I'm fairly certain at least one idiot accidentally shot himself in the foot."

You blinked, momentarily uncertain—then burst into bright laughter, your amusement echoing brightly through the darkness of the room. "Oh please," you said, still giggling. "Sylus, that's ridiculous."

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he reached for your helmet, carefully slipping it off and tossing it aside like an unnecessary barrier between you. His hands braced firmly on either side of you, trapping you effortlessly beneath him.

His Evol energy crackled lightly against your skin, prickling warmth everywhere he hovered close, setting your nerves alight.

"You have absolutely no idea," Sylus murmured, nuzzling softly against your temple, his voice dark and gentle as velvet against your ear, "the sheer havoc you wreak inside me."

Your breath hitched, laughter melting into something softer, warmer, undeniably affectionate.

"You came," you finally whisper into his ear. "You could have just texted me back," you teased gently, eyes dancing in the low light.

Sylus’s mouth curved into a faint, devastating smile, his gaze full of quiet adoration—and a promise of retribution. "And miss the chance to watch you try and kill me in real-time? Never."

His lips brushed yours, soft at first, then hungry—like he'd waited years instead of days. He kissed you slowly, deeply, utterly reverent, as though he’d willingly burn the entire world down just to ensure nothing stood between him and you again.

Caleb Xia was known across the fleet as a legendary figure of unbreakable discipline. Colonel Xia could hold his composure through anything—through battles, interrogations, and even prolonged stints in the punishing DeepSpace Tunnel. But tonight, back from yet another exhausting mission and desperate to dismiss his troops and finally collapse in private, Caleb was learning a painful truth:

He had absolutely zero defense against you.

It began innocently enough. Caleb stood stiffly at the fleet’s bustling command center, issuing routine post-mission orders. Soldiers marched up to him in a seemingly endless procession, saluting crisply as they reported their debriefing details. Caleb dutifully nodded, signed off on various datapads, and maintained perfect, ironclad control.

And then his phone buzzed softly in his pocket.

He slipped it out discreetly, expecting another boring update—only to find your name illuminated brightly, demanding his attention.

You: Calebbbbb. Answer meeeee. 🥺

Caleb's lip twitched. He could imagine your tipsy, adorable whine through the text. But professionalism required restraint, so he quickly typed a brisk reply:

Caleb: Working, Pip. Almost done.

But you clearly weren't feeling patient tonight.

Another buzz. Caleb checked his screen discreetly, eyes narrowing as his breath hitched involuntarily at your messages:

You: Working means ignoring me? Rude. I thought you missed me. 😭 You: You're mean, Caleb You: Ever since you joined your big bad secret club, you're no fun. 😔🍷

Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose, half-smiling despite himself. He could practically picture you sprawled on the couch, wine glass dangerously close to tipping onto the floor, cheeks flushed, lips pouting.

God, he missed you.

His jaw tightened slightly, heart thudding a little harder than it should. Caleb opened his mouth to bark a quick dismissal to the approaching officer—but he had no time. The soldier saluted sharply and began a lengthy status report, forcing Caleb to slide his phone back into his pocket with a silent curse.

The buzzing persisted—insistently, cruelly—in his pocket.

Finally, mercifully, he dismissed the soldier, and checked his phone again.

You'd sent a picture.

He quirked a brow and glanced around carefully, subtly angling the screen away from view as he opened the attachment. He regretted it immediately, a strangled noise nearly escaping his throat.

There you were, sprawled out lazily on your bed, cheeks flushed from alcohol and mischief. Wearing that damned red sports bra and matching boyshorts he’d glimpsed on you just once before a few weeks ago, entirely by accident—an image that had haunted his nights since. He'd felt guilty for seeing you in such a vulnerable state, even if it was an accident.

But this? You'd posed deliberately, your bare thighs slightly parted, your body arched invitingly on soft sheets.

He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as heat surged in his veins. This was not happening. Not now, not here—when he had a dozen soldiers still waiting for dismissal orders.

Another officer marched toward him, interrupting Caleb’s internal panic. Caleb forced his expression into its usual neutral mask, hoping his flushed neck and pounding pulse weren't too obvious. The officer saluted, rattling off data—Caleb heard nothing, his mind racing, pulse hammering between his ears.

He nodded robotically, scribbled a barely legible signature on the datapad, and sent the soldier away with more force than necessary.

His phone vibrated again. A new text.

You: You’re ignoring me again. Baaad colonel. Do I need to try harder?

His heart skipped a dangerous beat, fingers shaking slightly as he tapped back urgently:

Caleb: Pipsqueak. You shouldn't have shown me that--you've been drinking. Caleb: I'm almost done here. Just...Not. Now.

Your reply was immediate:

You: Oopsies. Already took the pic. Too late. 💋

Caleb’s stomach flipped violently. Another soldier approached, and Caleb cleared his throat sharply, bracing himself against the inevitable.

“Colonel Xia, the mission logs—”

“Yes. Fine. Proceed,” Caleb managed, hoping he sounded commanding rather than breathless.

While the soldier droned on, Caleb made the catastrophic decision to open your new photo.

Fuuuuuck. It was…far worse. You’d removed the sportswear entirely, leaving nothing but smooth, bare skin in its place. You lay on your side, a soft, fluffy blanket strategically draped over your hips, teasing him with the faintest promise of what was hidden beneath. The graceful curve of your breasts was perfectly visible, your skin illuminated by warm, inviting lamplight. Your eyes were playful, your lips curved in an achingly inviting smile, as though daring him to come home immediately and do something about it.

Caleb's brain short-circuited entirely.

For several frantic heartbeats, he forgot how breathing worked.

You couldn't possibly have—

He closed his eyes, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but the image was already seared into his memory. Caleb felt utterly gutted—by longing, by frustration, by the fierce and consuming need he’d kept buried for far too long.

Caleb’s mind went completely blank. Every muscle in his body tensed, blood rushing downward at a dizzying speed. He realized, too late, that his breath had hitched audibly.

“Sir?” The soldier was staring at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Caleb coughed roughly into his fist, fighting desperately to regain control.

“Sorry—repeat your last point,” he growled hoarsely, blinking hard. The soldier cautiously continued, clearly worried about Caleb’s strange, flushed appearance.

Caleb’s phone buzzed yet again, ruthlessly relentless:

You: Bet you wish you were home now, huh, Caleb. 😘

The soldier finally departed, giving him one last curious glance. Caleb quickly turned away, leaning over a console to hide his increasingly obvious predicament. If he didn't have his long officer's coat, he'd be laughing stock of the fleet.

He texted frantically:

Caleb: Careful, Pip. When I get home you're going to pay for that.

But your reply destroyed any last shred of his composure:

You: Promise? You: Btw... My glass of wine wore off a while ago. 🙃

Caleb closed his eyes, gripping the console so tightly his knuckles whitened. His uniform felt unbearably tight, his breathing shallow and uneven. But it wasn't just the sheer boldness or sensuality of your pictures that had wrecked him—it was the raw vulnerability behind your playful bravado.

You'd actually meant it.

After all this time, after carefully dancing around each other, you'd finally risked everything and showed him exactly how much you wanted him. No more teasing. No more pretending. Just your honest, unguarded desire laid bare—beautifully, heart-stoppingly bare—and he couldn't stand another moment being apart from you.

Not now.

“Lieutenant,” Caleb suddenly barked, addressing a startled officer nearby. “Dismiss the remaining personnel immediately. I'll review their reports tomorrow.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

Ignoring the curious, whispered speculations behind him, Caleb strode swiftly toward the exit, doing his best not to stumble in his frantic rush. His heart battered wildly against his ribs, pulse thundering as he vividly imagined exactly how he'd greet you once he finally got you in his arms.

You'd completely unraveled him—and there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

Author's Note:

This was definitely a challenge—but such a fun one! I'm genuinely impressed by all the talented writers who effortlessly create amazing LAD stories. If you enjoyed these little scenarios, please let me know—I’d love to write more! Also, if you have any specific requests or prompts, feel free to drop them in the comments below. Thanks for reading!

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knight-of-the-graces · 4 months ago

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~~~~~UNDER THE CUT~~~~~

It had been the night they'd taken the throne; once they'd talked Scott down from his panic enough to sleep they'd left him in the palace and gone straight to the church. They'd thrown the door open and stormed across the threshold and up the aisle to the altar. Lurching side to side with exhaustion and unfamiliarity with the added gangliness they'd gained from their most recent growth spurt. Trailing mud and blood and the smell of the soot and smoke that was all that remained of their parents' corpses.

The few priests still there had scattered. Even those who had taken their side. Xornoth had ripped the crown from between their antlers and slammed it down on the fine woolen altar cloth, staining the white and gold with the rusty-brown of old blood. Their father's blood.

"If he ever hears your voice the way I hear Exor's," Xornoth had proclaimed through gritted teeth, the heat gathered at their fingertips singeing the fabric. "Then I will burn this place to the ground, grind the ashes into the midden, and turn that statue of yours out there into so much dust."

That's not how it works, you fool! The demon in their head roared in rage, You cannot escape me. And he cannot escape my brother. It is fate! Balance! A Battle forever locked!

Xornoth did not look away from the golden antler crest above the altar. "Do you understand me, Aeor?"

There was no response in words but the atmosphere in the sanctuary shifted, the few candles still lit flickering as if bent by a breeze. A vague sense of acknowledgement rolled over Xornoth's soul and they took the choked off anger from the place in the back of their mind where Exor dwelt to mean it was an affirmative.

Xornoth had never been an elf of many words. They left the heat-warped crown there on the altar, glistening golden in the low lights.

And Scott's mind had always been his own.

His mind but not, apparently, his life, Xornoth thought as, decades later, they once again stood on those same, flawless quartz stairs, a different crown for the same kingdom settled between their antlers, a weight rendered almost invisible from familiarity.

And whose fault is that? Exor sneered. Xornoth ignored him. Turning on their heel to jab a finger at the back of the stag statue's head.

"If I step foot in here and you smite me, Scott will be sad. And he'll have to be king and then he'll never have a full nights sleep ever again and you know it."

They pause a moment. There is no response but there is no roll of thunder either or sudden stormhead over the mountains, so that is probably as good as Xornoth is going to get.

Enough procrastinating. They have a brother to apologize to.

AU Masterpost

Fic Snippet: Complicated Relationships

Religious trauma comes in some interesting flavors when gods walk among you.

random little snippet from The AU In Which All the Marriages Are Arranged that i thought y'all might like

~500 words, canon-typical gods and possession talk, also some referenced murder.

Xornoth had been inside Aeor’s church exactly once since…since Everything.

Keep reading

#empires smp #empires smp season one #esmp s1 #To Be Tagged #minecraftbookshelf's marriage of state au #prev's tags #both the rivendell siblings have very complicated relationships #with gods and religion #theres a lot of nuances there im planning on poking at #Lizzie also has a lot of half-resolved religious trauma #of a wildly different flavor #:)#also to all my regular readers i apologize for the radio silence #it will be happening again over the next month or so #my job is directly impacted by the weather and its tornado season babieeeeee #i also feel like im being a bit misleading with all the angsty snippets #there will be so much comedy in this shit #even if its a little tonally dark on occasion

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em1i2a3 · 2 months ago

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Carry The Zero

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry (or The Void) x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bob are sharing a room while the Avengers Compound is under renovations, which brings on a slew of new things to learn about one another.

Warnings: Semi Spoilers for Thunderbolts I guess because Bob is in here. Other than that there is nothing too extreme happening in here, it’s a bit emotional, but there is fluff in here, I would kind of describe this as a Hurt/Comfort fic than anything. There are mentions of abuse and there is also some heavy petting maybe? I mean, I’ll put that in here to cover my booty lol.

Authors Note: My second viewing of Thunderbolts truly got my mind racing for what to write in regard to Bob. Thought I would put out this lil blurb and probably add more to it later in another segment or something! Anyways! Enjoy y’all and happy premiere weekend!!! :)

Word Count: 6,784

The room wasn’t built for two people, that’s what you knew for sure. It used to be a storage space, at least that is what you assumed judging by the various filing cabinets that lined the area, the dented lockers that were near the door, and the strewn papers that nobody decided to throw away in preparation for the move-in. The only thing that was the saving grace was the fact that the place had a window that let you look out onto the city. But it still didn’t truly make up for the cramped space, even though they were able to shove two twin sized beds inside it and call it a room–which showed how effective their planning was throughout all the chaos.

The Avengers Compound was still under renovations after a security breach took out part of the living space, meaning everyone needed to be shuffled like cards in a losing deck. Room assignments were given unwillingly to everyone, and you had been paired with Bob.

It was weird to be rooming with someone who had the power of a million exploding suns as people liked to say, because even though he carried that on his sleeve sheepishly, his personality certainly didn’t match that of a person who could take down the entire world. He was shy, quiet, and careful, tip-toeing around you like you were going to snap at him at any second–which was not the case at all.

Compared to the other options you had you actually preferred to be rooming with him.

The first few days had passed in near silence. You didn’t talk much, you’d only go into your room to sleep or change, and when you would do something outside of those two things Bob would rush out pretty quickly, apologizing nervously under his breath, like he thought you were obligated to time alone.

He’d go to bed early, and you’d catch him reading beneath the awful buzzing lamp that was left in the room from before the two of you moved in. You never really asked him what he was reading because the title was always changing, like he couldn’t finish anything, or he had so much time to himself he was finishing books like they were snacks.

Then there were little things you began to notice.

He’d pace a lot, wring his hands in his lap, or pick at the skin on his fingers. He was clean, he never left shoes in the middle of the room, and always lined them up neatly under his bed frame, even yours. He would flinch at loud noises, like if there was a childish argument happening in the communal kitchen and things got too high in volume he would get a little twitchy. He was observant, and paid attention to everything around him–sometimes you would hear him talking to himself, repeating fragments of conversations from earlier in the day, like it grounded him in some way.

He had his routine and you respected it as much as possible, but tonight was entirely different.

You were coming in late from training, and a med bay visit.

The scrape on your shoulder wasn’t serious, but it was bad enough to have Bucky send you down to get checked out. It was standard–some antiseptic, a lecture from one of the nurses about being more careful and aware of your surroundings, and then you were released with a warning, and a fresh bandage. You were exhausted, sore, and annoyed with yourself for not paying attention and letting your guard down during a simulation, especially because the past few nights had been like that.

By the time you reached your floor, the halls were quiet. There wasn’t any bickering or discussions happening in the kitchen, nobody was lingering in the living room with post-mission jitters, it was just peace, for once.

You stopped at the fridge to pick yourself up a bottle of electrolytes, then paused, eyeing the row of them. You bit your inner cheek, and after a second of hesitation you grabbed another one for Bob, tucking it against you.

You figured he would be awake like he always was when you were on your training nights. You weren’t sure if he was just waiting for you or if he was just incapable of resting when you weren’t accounted for, but you never asked.

Slowly, you moved down the hall, twisting the cap off your drink with a wince when you strained just a little too much, causing the bandage to sting beneath your shirt. You gritted your teeth and let out a frustrated grunt.

“Gotta take it easy on yourself.” You heard Bucky say from behind you. You turned on your heel, seeing he was still in his training gear, also holding a bottle of electrolytes as well, “You’re gonna burn out if you don’t take breaks.” You shifted under his gaze.

”I want to be better, that’s why I’m training. If you got your ass handed to you on the field you would be doing the same.” He shook his head.

”No. I would be resting and seeing what I could do better the next time. Don’t come to training for the rest of the week, just relax and recoup, we’ll revisit your regimen when you’re better.” Before you could say anything he typed his code in for his room, and was out of your sight. You could feel your body seething as you turned back around to continue making your way down the hall. You’d seen it coming from a mile away just by the way he was watching you during the simulation but you never thought he would say anything to you like that. It just added another layer of annoyance as you reached your room.

You pushed the door open gently, careful not to let the hinges creak too loudly. The room was dark, which was unexpected, Bob’s light wasn’t even on. The only thing that was illuminating the room was the shimmer of city lights, casting silver-blue shadows across the floor.

Bob was in bed, lying on his side facing you, with his blanket tugged up to his neck. His face was soft in the low light–features relaxed, eyes closed. Sleeping, or at least you thought he was. You lingered in the doorway for a moment, squinting in the dimness of the room to see him a bit better.

His light brown hair looked a little messy, like he’d been shifting around for a while before finally settling on the position he was in now. You wondered how long he was lying like that, or if he had been waiting for your return but fell asleep in the process, and now you felt even worse than before.

You let the door close softly behind you with a gentle click, removing your shoes slowly, one at a time. Every motion felt heavier than it should have–dull with fatigue, and edged in frustration. You padded across the narrow space, keeping your steps quiet, with the extra bottle of electrolytes tucked against you, the condensation seeping through your training jacket.

You crouched slowly beside Bob’s bed, biting back a wince as your muscles tensed in protest, while you placed the bottle down on the floor, angling it so he’d see it when he woke up. It was a small, quiet offering, just something kind, a consideration in a way. You took your next moves slowly as you stood up and turned to your own bed with a tired exhale, putting the cap back on your drink and throwing it onto your bed. One hand rose to the zipper of your training jacket, pulling it down in a swift movement, teeth grinding while you pushed the fabric off your shoulders, feeling pain erupt from your ribs and shoulder now, the muscles pulsing with burning heat.

The cool air of the room hit your skin instantly, and your tank top didn’t do much to hide any of your injuries from the environment. Your back arched with the grating sting that came through you, and one hand came up to press against the bandage, making sure it was still on properly and not tugging at your skin. The ache was sharp and pulsing, and when your fingers came away damp, you already knew there was blood seeping through the gauze. You grimaced but didn’t consider making another trip to the med bay. You were too tired to care at this point, and it wasn’t something that would cause you to bleed out, so it was a morning issue to deal with.

You turned toward your dresser, collecting a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized sweater that smelled faintly of sage, throwing both articles of clothing down onto your bed with a soft plop. You rolled your shoulder gently, testing the range of motion in it with a quiet wince before reaching for the hem of your tank top, peeling the rough fabric up your skin carefully, trying to avoid the worst of the sting, though even at your slowest pace you could feel the movement pulling at the wound.

The cotton clung briefly to the tape of the gauze and the dried sweat that coated your skin before finally giving way, and coming off completely. You let out a sigh of relief, as you let the fabric fall to the floor, reaching for your sweater next. The bandage on your shoulder throbbed with every shift you made, but it was the deeper bruises scattered across your body–ghosts of impacts from the past few days–that ached beneath your skin like an echoing thunder. You glanced down at yourself, taking in the way they bloomed across your ribs, stomach, and hips, at this point you could see more bruises than your actual flesh at this point, and they were tender, dark and swollen. Maybe Bucky was right, maybe you really did need a break…

Your fingers curled loosely into the hem of your sweater, but you didn’t think to pull it on yet, you just continued to look down at the wreck that was your body, and the longer you stared, the more numb you became. It was easy to take a break but it wasn’t deserved, you couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes during missions, and you knew you weren’t going to listen to Bucky, you would keep training until your body gave out.

You closed your eyes for a moment, before lifting the sweater towards you, ready to retreat into its softness, ready to disappear and call it a night, but then you heard it.

A breath. Sharp and quick. You froze in your spot.

Then came the sound of movement, the shuffling of the blanket, the mattress creaking under the shifting weight.

Your eyes darted toward Bob’s bed instantly, seeing that his back was now turned towards you. His blanket was pulled up around his shoulders, almost covering his whole head, but there was tension in his posture now, like he was more alert, and less relaxed.

Another breath was inhaled, only it was thinner this time, and wet, followed by a muffled sniffle. Your brows furrowed, and you worked quickly to throw your sweater on without hurting yourself so you were covered up completely, before making your way to his bed, crouching down on the floor, keeping your attention fixated on him. His shoulders were rising and falling now in uneven motions, and now you were piecing together that he was actually crying.

”…Bob?” You whispered, voice soft and low, like if you made it any louder than the volume you were at now it might shatter him. You could see the shuddering in his shoulders halt at the way you said his name, and he pulled the blanket higher over his head, like he was trying to shield himself from your eyes.

”I’m sorry…” Your brows pulled together in confusion as you leaned against the bed a little more, watching the outline of his frame beneath the covers, seeing the small tremors still running through his shoulders. You bit the inside of your cheek as you reached out, your hand hovering for a breath before resting gently against the curve of his back. He was radiating heat through the blanket, but he was stiff beneath your touch, like he didn’t know what to do with the comfort you were offering.

“Bob…Why are you apologizing?” You asked softly. He took in another shaky breath, but didn’t answer. You let out a sigh, rubbing your hand up and down his back like your mother used to when you cried, trying to soothe him, to calm him as much as you could.

”I…I saw the bruises.” He said, barely a whisper. Your hand on his back froze for a moment, “I-I didn’t mean to look, I swear, I just-“ His breath hitched, realizing that you were probably throwing daggers into his back with your eyes, “I just woke up…And saw them, and I couldn’t…Couldn’t stop remembering…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, it was just too much, as another set of sobs escaped his throat. You could feel your gaze soften at the noise, almost like a piece of your heart was breaking for him, continuing your movements along his back, pressing just a little harder into the muscle.

“Is there anything I can do? Do you want some electrolytes or something?” He shook his head.

”No…P-Please just stay…” His voice was hoarse, cracking under the thickness that coated his throat from the tears. You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, staring at his shoulders as he continued to cry, curling in on himself beneath his blanket.

You continued rubbing his back, keeping a steady and consistent rhythm. The heat of him radiated through the blanket like a furnace on the verge of burning itself out. Every time your hand passed over his spine, his shoulders seemed to loosen by a fraction.

“C-Can I ask something…Kind of w-weird?” His voice broke through the quiet again, in such a timid whisper that you barely heard it.

“Sure.” You replied, hearing him sniffle again. There was a long pause, and you could feel the hesitation, like he was trying to put his words together properly so whatever he was going to say didn’t come off creepy. You continued to run your hand over his back, waiting patiently for him, watching his figure rising and falling beneath the blanket, still seeing it shaking. In your mind, you were worried, you hadn’t seen him like this before, and there was a moment where you considered calling Bucky or Yelena to come help you, but then his voice broke through the thoughts.

”…Could you…” He took another breath, “Could you…Please hold me?” The question came out strangled, like it had clawed its way out of his throat before he could second-guess it again. You blinked slowly at the request, not because you were unsure of your answer, but because the way he said it was so gentle, and embarrassed it caught you off guard in a way.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to say, you thought maybe he was going to ask you for a tissue, but this was something far more vulnerable, something you never thought would come from Bob of all people, even though you knew he was sensitive. Inside you hesitated only because you didn’t want to hurt him by possibly doing the wrong thing, yet your heart ached watching him break down beneath his blanket which at this point was drowning him because of how much he had curled up beneath it.

“Of course…Just let me change out of these training pants first okay? It’ll just take a second.” There was no response to that, just movement. He shifted towards the wall so he was giving you enough space to get in, still hunched over like he felt guilty for the area that he occupied. You quickly stood up, and made quick work of shimmying out of your training pants and putting on your cotton sleep shorts, which was probably the best idea since you felt him burning through the blanket he was wrapped in. You brought your attention back to him soon after, returning to the side of the bed, your eyes roaming over the lump that resembled his body.

With a gentle hand, you tugged the edge of the blanket down just enough to uncover the top of his head, revealing his light brown hair again which looked dampened with sweat beneath the illuminating city lights that shined through the window. He didn’t say anything, or protest being exposed to you, so you took that as a good sign to continue.

You slid into the space he made for you, careful not to jostle the cocoon he made for himself too much, and eased your bad arm underneath his pillow so your scraped shoulder could rest in a neutral position where your bandage wouldn’t rip off your skin completely. You pulled up the blanket slightly, getting in behind him, scooting closer until your chest met his damp back.

His navy blue t-shirt was soaked through completely, and it wasn’t helping that he was wearing long pants to bed either. There was a fear he was gonna pass out from heat stroke or something, but he had mentioned it several times that he ran hot in general, you just didn’t see it to this extreme. He smelled like a salty rain storm, or like ozone, it was something indescribable to you in those moments, but it was what he typically radiated, it was familiar.

Slowly, you brought your arm over his torso, placing your hand onto the hard plane of his sternum, the muscles beneath his shirt twitching against the unfamiliar touch that you introduced to him.

Neither of you spoke, you just laid against each other in pure silence, listening to each other's breathing–his trembling, yours steady. He could feel your hot breaths against his neck and tried to pay attention to it, as you pushed down the blanket a bit with your elbow to shed the makeshift shield from his body. It took him a while to compose himself enough to speak again, but when he did, you were hanging off of every word.

”…When I saw the bruises…” He rasped, “All I could think about was me. When I was a kid…” The mentioning of his childhood immediately felt like a blow to your stomach. He had said something about how he was raised in passing, but it was an off handed remark that nobody really paid attention to. You figured it was something he didn’t want to talk about, but hearing him say this only made you dread what he was going to continue with.

”After he’d hit me…I’d go over to the mirror, just to see how bad it was. I’d tell myself it didn’t hurt, even if it did, I’d just lie to myself, because I knew if I cried, he’d just get angrier. He was always in the mood to beat me up so when he had a reason I think it made him feel justified in some…Messed up way.” Your chest tightened at his words, thinking about how scary it must’ve been for him, and how terrified he must’ve felt not knowing when his own father would strike. You didn’t speak right away, but you did shift, sliding your hand up higher on his chest, so you could press your palm flat over his heart. His shirt was soaked there too, yet beneath it all you could feel the frantic fluttering of his pulse, like a bird rattling against its cage.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your breath tickling his neck again. He didn’t respond, though he didn’t recoil either.

“None of that should’ve ever happened to you,” You continued softly, brushing your thumb along the fabric against his heart, “You were a child, and you didn’t deserve that.” He let out a breath like he was trying not to begin sobbing again.

”You don’t have to say that.” You raised your head a bit, almost in disbelief that he truly thought that what happened to him was somehow okay or justified.

”I do, Bob.” You murmured, inching just a little closer, feeling your body screaming in protest as your injured shoulder moved the wrong way, causing you to hiss through your teeth. Bob noticed instantly.

”You’re hurting,” He said quietly with guilt sinking into every syllable.

”I really couldn’t give a crap about that right now Bob, trust me I’ve been through worse. You’re hurting right now too and I’m not going anywhere. Do you understand?” You replied back, your voice low, but lacking bite, not that you intended to have it sound stern or anything.

Bob shifted beneath your touch, slowly rolling onto his back like the weight of your words cracked something loose inside him. You adjusted carefully to give him space, keeping your injured shoulder angled away from the impact of his back pressing against your arm, even though the ache felt like white noise beneath the tension that was beginning to rise in the room. When he settled on his back you adjusted yourself so your chin rested against his chest, keeping your hand splayed in the same position over his heart.

His eyes didn’t find yours at first, they stared blankly at the ceiling, the soft glow of the city lights catching the shimmer of the tears that were still pooling in his eyes. Now that you could see him fully, you realized how bad things really were. His skin was blotchy, and flushed from how hot he was. His cheeks were stained with fresh tears, mixing with sweat that created this overall sheen on his skin in general, which made his hair cling to his forehead. A long, old kind of hurt settled over his face, the kind that hid quietly within the corners of a person.

He inhaled shakily, and every exhale got caught somewhere between exhaustion and restraint. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your chin, and it made you ache in a way that put a hole deep in your chest.

”Bob…” You murmured, barely louder than the sound of the city humming outside the window, “Look at me.” At first he didn’t move, keeping his eyes fixated on the ceiling, distant and confused, still taking in those short bursts of air. Your hand left his chest, bringing them up to his jaw, coaxing his attention with the lightest touch you could give him.

“Look at me Bob,” You whispered again.

Then slowly, his eyes shifted downward until they found yours. The moment his gaze landed on you, something cracked open between you both–it was quiet, and delicate, but present and grounded in the center of it all. His expression was drawn, and his lashes were clumpy and wet with tears, framing his shimmering blue irises.

The skin surrounding his eyes were raw, almost a blood red, like someone had scratched it and left their marks streaking down his flesh. You didn’t flinch away from it though, you just looked at him with such focus, like your gaze could settle the storm that was in him. You could see his lip tremble slightly under your gaze as he tried to hold himself still, tears brimming in his eyes again, threatening to spill.

”I hate remembering…I can’t stand it. I don’t want to remember this stuff…I don’t want to think about it anymore, and I don’t want you to associate me with being weak.” You raised your eyebrows, now raising your head up to you were looking at him a little better, resting your hand against his chin now.

”I don’t, ” You stated, watching a set of tears flow out of the corners of his eyes, swallowing loudly, “I don’t associate you with weakness.” You whispered, brushing your thumb along the smooth skin of his cheek.

”I associate you with patience…With overwhelming kindness, and with strength so deep it doesn’t even have to be displayed. You could burn the sky down…You could use all the pain inside you to destroy the planet…Yet you help, you listen, and you keep going. That’s not a weak person Bob.” You wiped one of the tears away with your thumb, feeling him hesitate before leaning into your touch.

“Y/N…I’m not right in the head…You don’t understand…You’ll never understand.” You shook your head, and sighed.

”I don’t have to understand everything to care about you,” Bob’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment, like the words that you said hit him like a truck. You could feel the tension in his jaw, as he clenched it tightly, trying to contain himself a bit.

“I used to think that if I could just bury everything deep enough maybe it wouldn’t make me feel so contaminated…But then when I got the serum…And The Void came…And that awfulness manifested into something bigger…I realized that it just wouldn’t go away. I’m dangerous Y/N…I’m not someone that can be fixed. I know you care, but I can’t risk hurting you.” You shifted closer to him, moving up slowly, dragging your chest along his. His eyes followed your movements, turning his head when you settled near his shoulder, feeling your hand leave his cheek.

“You don’t scare me Bob. You’re just saying this stuff because you think it’ll make me give up on you, but I’m not that easy to sway.” You whispered, reaching down to touch one of his hands, which caused him to flinch. He was already bracing himself, preparing to be pulled into one of your memories, but it didn’t happen…It was like…Things were quiet. Just pure emptiness, and the only thing he could see was you. He stared at you as you wrapped your fingers around his hand, seeing his brows draw together.

“H-How are you…Doing this?” He asked quietly, like he was afraid he was going to disturb the peace and get thrown into your mind out of nowhere.

”I locked it out.” He shook his head at you quickly.

”That’s impossible…It always gets in…” A small smile came up on your lips, hearing the disbelief in his voice, the way he was almost entirely taken aback by what you had just said. You leaned in a little closer to him, like you were going to tell him a secret, feeling his breath fanning over your face.

“Before I was recruited, I was part of a different team. Black-ops, kind of like what the X-Men used to be, but very much under the radar. It was just…Constant missions, we were a clean up crew basically, picking up the scraps that nobody else wanted…” You smiled faintly, the corner of your mouth twitching with the memories of your team, how close you all were, how none of you took crap from anyone…Similar to what you had now, just a little better because of the tether you all had between each other.

“We ran into a lot of people with gifts. Telepaths. Empaths…Stuff like that. Some didn’t even know they were projecting until it was too late. Others weaponized it. Pulled secrets out like stitches and drove people insane without ever touching them.”

Bob was still staring at you, eyes wide and brimming with tears, his chest rising beneath you in short bursts.

“It was mandatory,” You continued. “To train in mental shielding. Neural control. The discipline to lock down your own mind so tight it’s like a vault. We trained until our thoughts didn’t even echo. You learn to breathe around psychic pressure, to mask trauma with static, to reroute memories into dead space. You learn to feel someone reaching for you…And then cut the line.”

Bob swallowed hard, hearing the way you explained everything to him step by step, while still holding his hand, running your thumb over the back of it.

“I wasn’t trained to stop the Void,” You said gently, “But I was trained to stop something similar to it. And apparently, it’s just close enough.” You watched his lashes flutter like he didn’t know whether he was going to cry again or if he was just going to sink into the mattress and disappear entirely.

“…That’s why the mental noise isn’t so loud when we're alone in a room together…” He whispered under his breath, almost like everything was clicking in his mind, as his hand began to tighten around yours now, matching the same hold you had, “…Mental shielding…Who knew that would be the thing that makes everything go quiet.” You smirked at his comment, already hearing the tension in his voice wavering, feeling his breath sticking to your cheeks, shifting in front of him so your noses bumped slightly.

“Technically it’s still quite an experimental thing, but…It works when needed I think.” You can see his lip twitch slightly, drawing into his mouth just a little bit, as if he wanted to get a taste of your breath that coated it.

“It’s…Amazing.” Was all he could muster up to say, continuing to hold onto your hand tightly, like it was anchoring him to this quiet space in his head that he had not been able to reach since taking the serum. “…All I hear, and all I feel…Is you and I had no clue until now…” The sound of his voice made your spine tingle, and goosebumps raise on your skin.

It was shocking that moments ago he was this wreck, then suddenly it was like he was on top of the world. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been touched like this in so long, or maybe it was because he finally had a break from all the noise that kept draining him, you had no clue…But what you did know is how soft his eyes had become, and how deep his breaths were now that he was a little calmer, and not being treated like a threat of some kind.

You shifted again, getting almost unbearably close to him now, the fabric of the blanket sliding down slowly, exposing your clothed bodies to the silvery-blue light just a little more. Bob didn’t move, but his eyes never left yours, he kept every ounce of attention on you, waiting for your next action, hanging on every moment. His breath hitched when your knees bumped gently against his thigh, as the warmth of your bodies radiated like twin heartbeats pressed just barely apart.

Your noses were brushing against one another, and if you tilted your chin up by just a little bit, you’d be kissing.

”I’m glad I’ve been able to make it go quiet for you…Even if it’s not permanent.” A faint smile slowly appeared on his face–crooked, and trembling, but so genuine.

“It’s more peace than I thought I’d ever get…So thank you.” He replied back, his hand squeezing yours, not in desperation, but with something closer to awe, like he still couldn’t wrap his head around the situation that was happening in front of him. His breath brushed across your face as he watched your eyes roaming over his. You couldn’t help but stare at him, to take him in now that he wasn’t crying, to admire the person who was in front of you. It was hard not to lose track of time studying his features, and how they were just…Him.

There was a long pause between the both of you, a snippet of time suspended into the universe where nothing else existed beyond the narrow bed and the hum of the city beyond the window. His chest rose slowly, puffing out warm shallow breaths against your lips, and for a second it felt like he was hesitating on something…But then, he leaned in.

It wasn’t fast, or sweeping like he was trying to catch you off guard. It was careful, like every little millimeter he closed between the both of you was an offer for you to pull back, but you didn’t take it.

When his lips met yours, it was a soft, trembling brush of mouths that lingered more in intent than execution. He kissed like he was afraid you were somehow going to disappear, but you could feel how much he truly wanted this. His lips were warm, and slightly parted, and you could taste the faintness of tears and salt, still hesitating to go the full mile.

There was a moment where he was about to pull back, and that’s when you took the opportunity to fully lean into the kiss and throw logic out the window, just for this one cut of time

Your lips moved against his, answering the softness of his approach with something more certain and grounded. The taste of him was still there, but now it was amplified tenfold from how much more pressure you were placing on the kiss now.

He was stiff at first, the tension in his jaw made it evident, like he was unsure of what he was allowed to do, what he was okay to give back, or like he was bracing himself for the possibility of you pulling back before he could even try to meet you where you were at. But then your hand let go of his, and slid up to cup the side of his face, and he let out the smallest gasp of disbelief against your mouth. Your thumb brushed gently beneath his eye as your lips molded to the shape of his mouth with a tenderness that shattered whatever restrain he’d been holding onto.

Your arm shifted beneath the pillow, bending just enough so you could lace your fingers into his damp hair, pulling him in more with such grace that it made him groan. His hand moved to your neck then–his shaky fingers pressing softly just below your ear, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw as he located your pulse instantly. His touch wasn’t possessive, it was filled with care, and curiosity. He wanted to feel the warmth of your skin, the steady–or not so steady–rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his fingers, he craved to be closer to you, and every moment that passed was giving him the signal that you wanted that too.

He shifted gently, slowly turning onto his side without breaking the kiss, being cautious not to put anymore unwanted pressure on your arm beneath him as he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you in until your bodies were flush against one another. You could feel the dampness on your sweater from his shirt, and your bare legs brushing against the cotton of his sleep pants, which only overwhelmed you more, knowing it was going to be a challenge to stop this from going too far.

His hand splayed out on your back, twitching against the fabric that covered it as you parted your lips for him, allowing his tongue to brush against yours with the softest flicker of hesitation, tasting you like he was drinking something sacred. The breath he let out against your mouth made your skin prickle beneath your sweater, and it only encouraged your response.

You angled your mouth to his, encouraging him to continue, feeling him follow suit in an instant, matching your energy bit by bit, syncing with the way you moved against him. When your hand slid further into his hair, and curled within the damp strands, gently tugging, he let out the smallest, softest moan–it was so quiet and desperate it sounded like it had been buried within him for years. It made your head spin hearing it, and it only made you shift yourself towards him even more, feeling his thigh nudging between your legs so the both of you can completely mesh together. It was such a subtle move, but it lit up every nerve ending in your body like it was nothing.

Bob’s hand slid beneath the hem of your sweater, craving the feeling of your skin beneath his touch. His fingers traced the small of your spine, barely putting enough pressure on it, yet he still managed to send shivers through your body. He was getting bolder, but kept his awareness at the forefront, like he was cataloging every reaction you gave him, terrified that he might cross an invisible line and ruin the moment.

You felt the muscles in his arm shift as he pulled you even closer, putting more pressure between your bodies until you felt every rise and fall of his chest, and his heartbeat pulsed through you. His knee shifted again, nudging further between your thighs, pressing it gently into the thin cotton fabric that covered your most sensitive area, eliciting a gasp from you now. You could feel yourself falter control for a moment, moving your hips just a little to test the friction that you wanted, and that’s when you both realized just how far this could go–and how close you already were to getting there.

His hand tensed against your back, and the kiss slowed down, until he found the correct moment to pull back, just a few inches. His lips were still parted, only now they were swollen and wet with saliva. He was out of breath, and you mirrored the same sentiment, as the both of you tried to even your racing hearts before they exploded. His pupils were dilated, and in the dimmed lighting you could only see a faint glisten of blue that rimmed the darkness that took over, the burn was there, the want was there, but there was the looming fear that you both were going from zero to one hundred really quickly, and that’s when regrets could be made, and neither of you wanted that.

”…We can’t do this…” He whispered, his voice cracking from being the first one to speak. You nodded faintly, your fingers still toying with his hair, reluctant to let go completely, but understanding him.

”I know,” You murmured, “Not like this…Not tonight.” You clarified. He closed his eyes, a soft exhale brushing your lips as his fingers twitched against your pulse point on your neck again.

”It’s not that I don’t want to,” He added quietly, “God I do…You have no idea.”

“I know,” You said again, running your thumb along his cheek, soothing the skin there, “Me too…I want to as well…But we’re not ready. Especially after being in the headspace that you were in a few minutes ago.” He nodded slowly.

”I don’t want it to be something that will be confused for a moment of distraction.” You stared at him, hearing how serious he was about it, “And I don’t want to ruin anything.” He added softly, opening his eyes again to look at you.

”You’re not ruining anything, we’re just pressing pause…And that’s completely fine, and it’s the best decision to make for right now.” He gave a small, nervous smile at that and leaned forward to rest his forehead against yours, “We’ll talk more about it later…But for now how about we just relax hmm?” He let out a shaky breath, the heat from it hitting your lips and invading your mouth for just a split second.

”Yeah…I’d like that.” You smiled faintly, as your bodies untangled just a bit from one another, removing the both of you from the intimate position you had found yourself in moments before. His knee shifted out from between your legs, and rested against them instead, letting the tension unravel and disappear slowly.

He wrapped both arms around you now, carefully noting your injury, and you folded yourself into his chest, letting your hand rest on his ribs as he pulled the blanket up to shield the both of you.

You both stayed there, nose to nose, breath to breath, hearts beating unevenly against one another until sleep came over you like a harsh wave.

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sttoru · 3 months ago

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𝝑𝑒 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. the ryomen sukuna has never in his thousand years of living apologised to any living being. so why does he feel the need to make it up to you after (unintentionally) hurting you?

tags. true form!sukuna x concubine!female reader. fluff, angst (hurt to comfort), suggestive. sukuna is an asshole but also not i guess. a little bit ooc. reader gets called ‘brat, woman’. not proofread. wc: 1.8k

sukuna has never felt the need to apologize. he’s never in the wrong if you ask him. apologising to someone he deems ‘lesser’ would be a sign of weakness.

yet the king of curses always has this secret need to make his favorite concubine feel better after (unintentionally) hurting her. you’ve got this hold on him that he will never acknowledge. although there are moments where he will indirectly show you that he regrets upsetting you.

it’s a quiet saturday evening and you’re relaxing in your bedchambers after eating your dinner. you didn’t go to the dining hall to eat with sukuna and the others. no, you made sure your head lady-in-waiting brought your food to your room.

sukuna and you got into a ‘little’ argument yesterday. you both spent the entire day and night alone instead of in each other’s presence, which is the norm. even the people around you have noticed the growing tension whenever sukuna and you would cross paths.

of course, the other concubines seized the opporunity to vie for sukuna’s attention now that his favored little concubine was no longer by his side. yet, their efforts proved in vain. sukuna had grown more irritable over the past twenty-four hours, his mind relentlessly preoccupied with thoughts of you—a fact that only frustrated him further. you weren't in the mood to speak with him again, so why did that bother him so much? It should have made him scoff, made him see you as weak and driven him to demand that you speak to him once more.

but all the king of curses can think about is how to get you to cling to him once more. as much as he says that it’s exhausting to have a needy 'brat' at his side all the time, your abscence makes him realise he secretly enjoys having you around.

snapping back into your own thoughts, you realise you’ve been staring at your cup of tea for the longest time. you sigh and get up from the table, your feet dragging over the tatami flooring. however a sudden knock on your doors causes you to stop in your tracks.

“come in,” you murmur, thinking it is one of your ladies-in-waiting with your dessert. but the silence that follows afterwards is nearly ominous.

you frown and sigh before going over to the shoji. you slide the screens aside, only to be met by a wall of muscles you know way too well. you tilt your head back and your eyes widen slightly at the sight of the one man you stubbornly refused to talk to.

sukuna looms over you, his massive frame dwarfing your smaller one. he invites himself inside, not waiting on a response from you. he steps into your room and turns around to face you. his dark red eyes narrow as he tries to decipher the emotions playing on your face.

you don’t say a thing. you don’t look at him. you don’t smile at him. you don’t move a muscle. no acknowledgment at all. sukuna hates it—it’s unusual for you to be so cold. your eyes dart to the floor and your bottom lip subtly forms a defiant pout.

sukuna scoffs. he’s made the decision to break the silence between you two first, coming all the way to your bedchambers to talk. he would never have done such a thing for anyone else—would have waited for them to grovel before him and beg for his forgiveness. and yet here he is, standing in front of his concubine, ready to confront the issues between them.

he feels pathetic and it angers him from within. he desires to command you to get on your knees and apologise to him, to obey him and forget what happened. however an annoying voice in the back of his head tells him to be patient with you.

“tch, what’s with the face?” sukuna's deep and commanding voice fills the spacious room. he doesn't go about it the gentle way—he’s still him after all. “y’re still sulking about that little thing? i thought i told ya to stop thinkin’ about it.”

hearing sukuna say the latter makes your heart ache and your eyes water from frustration. everything seems like it’s not a big deal to him—even when you’re clearly upset.

“that was not just a little thing, my lord!” you raise your voice just a little, surprising yourself as the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. you swallow thickly and bite your lip. you've done it now, the thought echoes inside your head.

sukuna’s eyebrows raise in surprise at your outburst, not used to you raising your voice to him like that. although in an instant, his eyes flash with something dangerous. you may be his favorite and he may let you get away with a lot of things, yet there are boundaries. rules that even you must obey.

the king of curses would probably find it amusing to see you snap back at him, thinking you will achieve something with that, but today is not one of those days. the shimmering tension between you two has lead to him being more agitated than ever.

sukuna closes the distance between you two and reaches out to grab you by our jaw. his fingers curl tightly beneath your chin and force your head to turn, making you face him.

“you dare raise your voice at me, woman?” sukuna growls, his face mere inches from yours. his grip borders on painful and you wince at the ache in your jaw. he doesn’t let go and instead tightens his hold, “i don't have time for this fuckin' nonsense.”

sukuna releases you with a light shove. he takes a deep breath to try and calm down, to remind himself that he came her to clear things up. but it’s difficult because he’s never had to do this before. never had to listen to someone else, always expecting them to simply endure and move on whenever he caused harm.

you stumble a bit, rubbing at the your chin. you don’t get it; is sukuna here to make it worse for you? to rub it in? to remind you again of what he said to upset you? to make fun of you for being upset about it?

it certainly does hurt. you replay that moment again in your head. the moment when sukuna told you he could replace you with someone else whenever he desires. it is a fact. sukuna can do that whenever he pleases. but it stung to hear him say it so explicitly. to hear him say it to your face, as if that doesn't already keep you awake at night.

little did you know, sukuna didn’t mean to hurt you too much with that comment. he didn’t expect you to ignore him, to avoid him, all because of what he said. he simply said it because he was struggling with his own emotions—denying that he feels anything for you. he said it to remind himself that he isn’t getting attached to a human.

but that failed terribly. seeing you like this—your teary eyes glaring up at him with fear, hurt and betrayal made him feel an uncomfortable pang in his chest. something that resembled guilt.

“have a good night then, my lord,” you dismiss sukuna and turn away, your voice strained with emotion. you don’t want to start another argument with him.

the king of curses grits his teeth. there it goes again. ‘my lord’ — yes, it’s what most others call him, but not you. you always called him by nicknames he deemed foolish. ‘kuna, ryo or even dear. he strangely longs to hear your voice call him as such again.

sukuna stands there, trying to reign in his anger and other overwhelming emotions. he grabs your wrist and tugs you back to him, making you stumble and catch yourself against his chiseled chest.

he doesn’t know what to say—doesn’t trust himself to speak. he knows he’ll make it worse by speaking, knows he’ll rile you up even more. thus he chooses not to utter a word for a moment.

your eyes meet and you’re surprised when sukuna leans down to catch your lips in a kiss. your hands fist into the collar of his kimono, your mind telling you to back off. this man is dangerous—playing with your emotions like this.

telling you one thing, but contradicting himself with his actions. it’s extremely confusing yet also exhilarating.

you close your eyes and respond to his kiss with equal fervor. the pink-haired man groans against your lips, swiping his tongue over your bottom lip before biting on it. a habit of his.

sukuna’s large hands roam over your body as he presses you as close to him as possible. it’s like he’s reassuring you with his touch—melting away all your worries. it’s a manipulative tactic that somehow always gets you. or perhaps it’s just his way of apologising.

which of the two it is, will always be vague and unknown.

eventually, he pulls away, leaving you both breathless. you stare up at him with a huff before glancing the other way. you’re still sulking, still pouting.

sukuna rolls his eyes and easily lifts your body up into his arms. two of his hands settle on the back of your thighs, the other two grazing the side of your breast and waist. he carries you over to your bed and sits on the edge with you on his lap.

“y’re a fool,” sukuna clicks his tongue. his fingers slither up the exposed skin of your arm and against your cheek to flick your forehead. he gains a whimper from you which urges him to do it again.

you frown and rub at the tingly skin on your head. your eyes are still watery, lashes clumped together due to your tears. it’s almost cute. almost. “and you look pathetic,” the man in front of you adds with a condescending smirk.

you weakly smack sukuna’s chest, making his grin widen. there you go—there is the woman he knows, slowly making a comeback. slowly warming up to him again. slowly being playful with him once more.

sukuna sighs. to you, it may seem like a tired sigh, but in reality it’s a sigh of relief. he may not have solved this issue between you two in a normal, healthy way, but it worked out anyway.

“you’re mean,” your comment breaks the moment of silence. your bottom lip trembles and you look like you might just cry it all out. the frustration, the fear, the hurt, the relief—it’s overwhelming.

sukuna inhales briefly. he doesn’t respond to your little remark, instead, he holds the back of your head and presses your face into his chest. he holds your body against him, nestled warmly between his muscular arms.

you don’t protest at all. you close your eyes and breathe in his familiar scent, nuzzling your nose into his pecs. you know this is his way of making you feel betted so you will not complain.

an apology will never leave the prideful man's lips and you’ve come to accept it. this way of reassuring you counts as something at the very least.

it doesn’t matter who or what gets between you two, at the end of the day, you’ll find each other again. one way or another.

and that's all you need.

#sttoru writes.#jjk x reader #sukuna x reader #jjk fluff #sukuna fluff #jjk x you #sukuna x you #jjk x y/n #sukuna x y/n #jjk x female reader

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kitkatscabinet · 3 months ago

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TAKE ME TO YOUR BEST FRIEND'S HOUSE

Pairings: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne x fem! reader.

Summary: So, he might be going against "bro code". He can't help it, though; his best friend's sibling is just too cute.

A/N: Reader can be imagined as biological/adopted/found family.

DICK GRAYSON & WALLY WEST

How Dick hadn't learnt to not leave his phone unattended was beyond Wally, especially when, for a vigilante, the man had such lax security for his personal phone. Nor should he have ever trusted Wally with the password.

Already drafting his absolute PR nightmare tweet on Dick's account, he's mentally rubbing his evil little hands together when his thumb hits the banner notification that pops up on the top of the screen.

My Heart: Thinking about you, come home soon xo

Alongside the text is a photo, a very suggestive photo of a woman dressed in nothing but one of Dick's hoodies. Wally knows because he bought Dick that hoodie, he's also very familiar with the woman in the photo on account of it being his baby sister.

He shrieks, the phone slipping from his slack with shock grip and landing on his big toe.

He doesn't hear the ringtone over his sudden stream of pained expletives, hopping on one foot, until he hears your voice from the speaker.

"Hey babe! You left your hoodie at - "

"YOU!" Wally screams, blubbering incoherently, pointing an accusing finger at the phone like you can see him.

"Jesus Christ," he can practically see you recoiling away from your phone, "Wally?" You've heard enough of your brother's meltdowns over the years that you can recognise him from just a single word.

"YOU, YOU - YOU HARLOT!" You snort at his words, staying silent until his stream of consciousness is finished.

"You done?" You hum, completely unphased at the tantrum Wally's just thrown for the past seven minutes.

"Am I, am I done? No, I'm not done." He squawks, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!" There's a beat of incredulous silence on your end.

"Excuse me? What have I done to you?"

"DEFILED THE SACRED BOND OF BROTHERHOOD IS WHAT YOU'VE DONE, HE'S MY BEST FRIEND"

"The sacred bond of brotherhood? I'm your fucking sibling, you're supposed to attack him, not me!" Wally can't help but notice how you don't deny his words.

"Oh, believe me, Dickhead is gonna get what's coming to him."

"Yeah, whatever, I'm hanging up now, tell Dick I'm getting pizza for dinner."

"Don't you dare - " He doesn't even get to finish his sentence before you've followed through.

"Hey Wally, have you seen my ... phone?" Dick trails off as he spots the item he's looking for in his agitated friend's hand.

"You don’t fuck your best friends younger sibling. That’s like the number one rule of bro code!” Wally shrieked, not greeting him like a normal person, and not giving Dick even a second to realise what was happening before he was being grabbed and shaken by his shoulders.

"I love her." No explanation, no apologies, just pure earnestness and the softest look Wally had ever seen on his friend's face.

The declaration takes all the wind out of his sails, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He drags a hand down his face slowly,

Finally, he groaned and dragged both hands down his face. "Ugh. I hate that you’re so genuine. It ruins my ability to stay mad. Barry's not going to be happy you kept this from him though."

The mental image of the Flash going protective uncle giving him the slightest bit of sick satisfaction, until Dick shatters his dreams by casually saying, "he already knows."

"He what?! Am I the last to know?" Dick makes a show of thinking about it before shrugging with an unapologetic grin.

"Kinda, yeah."

"I'M SURROUNDED BY TRAITORS!" Wally yells, sinking to his knees in defeat.

JASON TODD & ROY HARPER

Nobody had ever accused Roy of being a detective. He might not be as smart as the bats (an impossible hurdle in Roy's opinion), but he wasn't completely fucking stupid.

An unfortunate reality for his sister, who he'd caught sneaking into the Titans Tower at the ripe time of 4:47 am, wearing a familiar leather jacket with a bullet hole in the sleeve. A jacket that could only mean one of two things.

You had joined a biker gang.

You were dating Jason Todd, AKA, his best friend, AKA dead fucking meat.

Because while option one terrified him, he'd still prefer it to the option he had a sinking suspicion about was actually correct.

The next afternoon, he finds Jason working out in the Tower's gym, and he grins wickedly. Bastard didn't even have to make Roy track him down.

"Hey, Roy." Jason greets, never once faltering in his reps, entirely unbothered, like he hadn’t committed emotional treason.

Roy thinks he could be forgiven for his following action, he could have done a lot worse than picking up the nearest kettlebell and throwing it at his unsuspecting friend.

"WHAT THE FUCK ROY?" Jason screeched as he dove for cover.

"YOU’RE DATING MY SISTER?!"

"Um, what?" He squeaks, before clearing his throat, "I mean... I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't try to gaslight me!" Roy jabbed a finger at him, seething. "You're supposed to be my best friend, and you went and... and started... canoodling my sister."

Jason’s brows shot up in amusement despite himself. "Canoodling?"

"Don't try and deflect either." Roy flushed as red as his hair.

"I’m not—well. Okay. I am. But in my defense, it wasn’t like I planned to fall for your sister."

"Have you kissed?"

Jason contemplates lying but bites the bullet and nods.

Roy gasped like an old lady hearing someone say cunt. "ON PURPOSE?!"

Jason gave him a flat look. "No, Roy, I tripped and fell. Of course, it was on purpose. More than once, too." He smirks, unable to stop himself from prodding the bear.

Roy spasms.

"Ok, let's not make this weird." Jason huffs.

"Make this weird? It's already weird, we're neck deep in it, NAY!, We're drowning in it!"

"Oh dear god," Jason sighs, squeezing his eyes shut and speaking before he can think better of it, "I love her."

Roy chokes, Jason startles, clearly surprising, even himself, "Oh my god, I love her."

There's a heavy, pained silence before Roy croaks "... Bro"

"I know." Jason tugged at the roots of his hair.

"…BRO." Roy was trying to prevent a panic attack, his panic fuelling Jason's.

"I know."

"You love me?" A slightly giddy voice breathes from the doorway.

Both men groan for different reasons as they spot you bouncing toward them.

"Babe, I -"

"I love you too," you beam, throwing your arms around Jason's neck and kissing him like your life depends on it.

Roy gags, forcing you to pull away. "God, this is gonna ruin every group hang for the rest of my life." He whined.

"Nah. You’ll get used to me kissing your sister in front of you."

"I SWEAR TO GOD —"

TIM DRAKE & CONNER KENT

Conner's knee is jiggling furiously. From across the room, Cassie raises a questioning brow, but Conner makes no effort to stop as he checks the time for the fourth time in less than three minutes.

You're late. So is Tim, but it's not him Conner's worried about. You're never late; you've always been a perpetually early person, and you always get so anxious if you aren't. Conner knows, having been on the receiving end of your time-anxious meltdowns more than once.

"Dude, calm down, they're not even five minutes late yet," Bart says, looking at him as if he's the weird one here, when clearly, something terrible has happened to you.

You've been in a car accident (you don't drive), you've been shot, (you're bulletproof), you've been taken hostage by Lex Luthor (plausible), you've -

"Hi guys, sorry I’m late, I slept through my alarm." You laugh bashfully, avoiding Conner's gaze, which narrows in suspicion.

"That never happens." He scowls, his enhanced hearing picking up the slight stutter in your heartbeat.

"Well, it did today." You rolled your eyes, crossing the room to sit next to Cassie.

Barely two minutes later, a harried-looking Tim scurries through the door, brushing his sweaty hair from his face, and in doing so, accidentally reveals a hickey just beneath the neckline of his shirt.

It's only for a second, but that one second is all he needs to connect the dots.

"No." He says, glaring at Tim as everyone else, including you, watches in confusion.

"No?" Tim repeats.

"NO!" Conner snarls, jumping up from his seat and pulling down the neckline of Tim's shirt to display not one, but three love bites.

"YOU’RE SLEEPING WITH MY SISTER?!"

"Technically, there wasn't much sleeping involved - " Tim mutters, with absolutely zero regard for his well-being.

"I trusted you with my life, and you go behind my back to DEFLOWER MY INNOCENT BABY SISTER?!"

"You're the same age?" Tim mumbles at the same time you scoff.

"Deflower? Innocent? Are we living in the Middle Ages? Are you my owner?"

"Stay out of this!" Conner whirls on you, his gaze dangerously red.

"Stay out of my own sex life?" You guffaw, ignoring the way Conner puffs up like an angry cat. "Besides, Tim's hardly my first."

Your words are enough to shock your brother enough that he drops Tim, reeling back with a hand on his chest like he's suffering a heart attack.

You take the opportunity to scoop your partner into your arms, flying away before Kon can recover, until you reach the safety of the bed you've both only just left.

"I think he's actually going to kill me." Tim mumbles, burying his face in your chest.

"Hmm, guess you''ll just have to keep me around forever, for protection."

"Sounds perfect." Tim dreamily says, clutching you even tighter in contentment.

BRUCE WAYNE & CLARK KENT

Once, there would have been a time when interviewing Gotham’s Bruce Wayne would have left him an anxious wreck, but now, Clark relished in the opportunity. Giddy that his best friend, no matter how much the man denied it, would turn to him (him! A Metropolis interloper), instead of someone like that tart Vicki Vale.

(That thought has him mentally apologising to his ma for his crudeness, but what she wouldn't know, couldn't hurt her.)

Needless to say, Clark was excited to have been given the chance, and he refused to squander it.

They were in Bruce's "office," a room they both knew he hardly ever even stepped foot inside, but had occupied to keep up the facade.

A brilliant facade it was, Clark thought in amusement, as he watched Brucie Wayne ramble on earnestly. Nobody would ever suspect the man, reaching for his wallet to pull out a picture of his kids in an interview on Wayne Enterprises' newest ventures, to be the fearsome Batman.

Clark, ever affable, just smiles, nodding along until a second picture flutters onto the desk. Bruce freezes, his perfected mask slipping just a fraction, but enough for Clark to notice as the unshakeable man's eyes widen in sheer panic.

Bruce was composed. He was always in control, a master of self-control. Bruce was unflappable, he had a plan for everything.

Bruce, evidently, did not have a plan, beyond freezing in horror, for when an intimate Polaroid of his girlfriend, Clark's sister, landed face up on the table between them.

You're wearing one of his button-up shirts, seated sideways across Bruce's lap, the man's large hand clasped over your thigh, as you stare up at him like he's your whole world.

Clark paused, staring at the photo on the desk like it was a live grenade.

Bruce, very carefully, snuck a hand out to retrieve it. Only to be thwarted by Clark's superspeed. He holds it between his thumb and his index finger like it might bite him, the blinding grin never once fading from his face.

Bruce thinks it's the most terrifying Clark has ever looked.

There's a long pause, with Bruce mentally calculating how long it will take before he has some Kryptonite on his hands and whetehr or not Clark will flatten him before then.

"Oh my god," Clark said.

Bruce grimaced. "It's not what it looks like."

"It looks like you're dating my sister."

"Ok, it's exactly what it looks like, but—" He cuts off once more as Clark speaks with surprising giddiness.

"You carry her around in your wallet. Like a real boyfriend, it's sickeningly sweet."

Bruce opened his mouth, closing it and opening it again repeatedly like a stunned fish as he blushed a brilliant red.

Clark wasn’t finished; if anything, he looked like Christmas had come early.

"Is there more?" Bruce stiffens, "There is! Do you have a shrine? I bet you have a shrine!"

"Clark."

"Is it in the batcave?"

"Clark."

"What about a scrapbook? Is she on the manor walls yet?"

"Clark."

"Do your kids know? Wait, am I the last to know?!" He seemed genuinely hurt by that thought.

Bruce looked up at the ceiling like it could save him from the confrontation; he thinks he'd rather fight than... whatever the hell, it is Clark's doing.

#x reader #dc x reader #jason todd x reader #dick grayson x reader #tim drake x reader #bruce wayne x reader #clark kent #wally west #roy harper #conner kent #wally west x sister reader #roy harper x sister reader #conner kent x sister reader #clark kent x sister reader #female reader #dick grayson x female!reader #jason todd x fem reader #tim drake x fem!reader #bruce wayne x fem!reader

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vrystalius · 6 months ago

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Not saying “I love you“ back to the Squid game men.

How will they react if you don‘t say it back? In what scenario would they not say it back to you?

Pairing: The Recruiter, Thanos, Nam-gyu, Dae-ho, Gi-hun, In-ho x gn!reader

Summary: Them not saying “I love you“, their reaction to you not saying “I love you“

Genre: fluff, a lil bit of angst sprinkled on top

If you’re interested, here’s more fluff! Calling the Squid Game men some weird petnames and their reaction to it!

(Pre-Squid game)

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

Gong Yoo // The Recruiter // The Salesman

♡— Him not saying I love you…

It barely ever happens, really. He adores everything about you, from your face, voice, body and the ground you walk on; that man is ready to worship you like a devoted follower would to the most merciful goddess. Therefor he would always be aware of how to make your day a little better, even if it‘s just a small “I love you” or a gentle kiss here and there.

The first thing you hear from him in the morning is a groggy voice mumbling a small “Good morning love...” into your ear while warm kisses were trailed down your back.

While standing in the kitchen and searching the fridge for any signs of a tasty breakfast, a small “I love you, I‘ll be back later!“ would echo slightly through the apartment as the front door closed.

Once, he did forget to say his usual I love you on the way out. He thought about how he possibly could forget? You‘re probably overthinking everything now and think what you might‘ve done wrong or do to offend him. You didn‘t, though! He was just too caught up in perfecting his appearance because his damn hair refused to obey and submit to his meticulous styling.

The poor man was almost scared to come home. As some sort of peace offering, he bought some of your favorite take-out food alongside some dessert, flowers and a new bracelet he thought you might like. Anything to try and make you know that he does really love you.

“Apologies, it completely slipped my mind. It will never happen again my sunshine. I love you.”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you back…

His face may be neutral and his expressions calculated but his features soften up immensely when you show even an ounce of affection. His smirk shifts into a dreamy smile, the crinkles around his mouth shifting and becoming bigger, his eyes twinkling just a little. He just can’t suppress when you even look at him.

Your kisses and words energise him, gift him life, so whenever you don’t give him that little boost of dopamine, he gets visibly more tense in a way.

The silence that followed after his usual “I love you my darling, I’ll be back later!” was almost eerie to him. He stuck his head back into the kitchen to check if you even heard him. You glanced back at him for a moment and gave your husband a dismissive head nod. So you did hear him?

Silently, he left the apartment and went on with his usual day during that time of the year. For some reason, today he is especially looking forward to slap his elders for loosing a damn children’s game. His face remained neutral and had his usual smirk on his face, but deep inside, he’s offended, confused, worried, stressed; all the negative emotions someone can feel after their spouse doesn’t reincorporate ones affection.

Do you want a divorce? Because hell no, he’d never let you go no matter how hard you

But once he got a little text message on his phone that read a simple: “Need cuddles in bed later pls. Got some snacks too. Love you.”, all of his worries washed away in an instant. You probably were still too sleepy to answer this morning.

A smile spread over his face as he thought about slipping into your arms tonight. Isn’t it ridiculous how he melt like putty in your hands?

“You forgot something this morning and it did worry me a lot. But it doesn’t matter, it’s silly anyway.”

Thanos // Su-bong // Player 230

♡— Him not saying I love you…

It’s actually quite rare to hear Thanos say “I love you” word for word. He still feels awkward committing himself to the relationship you have and those three magic words feel so heavy on his tongue, so he’ll rephrase them to suit his level of comfort. “Love ya”, “Thanos loves you” and “Me too” are his ways to dodge the action to reincorporate those sweets words you shower him with.

Thanos only really says “I love you” if you two are alone, sober and you holding him in your arms. To be cradled by someone he admires, cares and loves so much makes him want to cry for some reason, but he suppresses those emotions and instead buries his face in your shoulder as your hand soothingly runs up and down his back.

Those are the times you hear a small “I love you…” being mumbled against your warm skin.

So quiet it’s almost unnoticeable, yet it was there. You know Su-bong needs time to get used to everything, so you’ll settle with a small audio message-rap in reply to your usual “I love you” text message.

“Back to the kitty ‘cause she kinda pretty, I can’t stop looking at her ti- ti- ti-face.. Anyways, thinking of you babygirl. Iloveyatoo.” (You barely caught him saying this the way how quietly he mumbled it into the mic)

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you back…

It’s fine. It’s cool. You don’t have to reassure him every day that you love him, it’s totally fine. You still love him like you did the day before.

It causes a deep panic inside of Thanos when you don’t give him his usual “I love you” text in the morning after he had woken up. He kept checking his phone like a madman, while he was brushing his teeth, peeking his arm and head out of the shower in the middle of shampooing, staring at his text messages while microwaving himself an convenience store meal. Nothing.

Not wanting to reach out first and appear clingy, he decided to write you like he is not having a full blown eternal panic attack. A small voice message here, a picture of his food there, a selfie from the bottom to show off his double chin, anything really.

You replied like normal but still, his eyes searched for the three key words. I. Love. You.

Thanos doesn’t want to admit to himself or to anyone for that matter that your calls, texts, hell, you coming over is like the most addictive drug to him. And he had his share of all kinds of colourful drugs.

His foot was nervously tapping the ground while his finger kept ringing your poor doorbell until you were forced to answer. He gave you a close look up and down, his lips formed into a pout of sorts.

“You okay? You didn’t text me you love me this morning. It’s totally cool and all but like… do you want to break up with me or something?”

Nam-gyu // Player 124

♡— Him not saying I love you…

Similar to Thanos, at first, Nam-gyu barely ever told you how much he loved you, liked you even. He just assumed you already knew and his actions were enough. A small side hug there and ruffling your hair here had to be enough for the rest of the week anyway.

He is guarded, afraid of commitment and to be frank in belief that you’re using him for the longest of time. Maybe you’re just “dating” him to get access to high-end drugs, all kinds of clubs or whatever else reason there is there to date him but for love.

You had to say those three magic words first for him to get comfortable with the thought that you are actually just want to date and love him. It came to him in the middle of a night shift at a random club he was supposed to promote. A moment of enlightenment.

Nam-gyu hid in a bathroom stall with his phone and ignored whatever the couple was doing next door, writing you a whole paragraph about what he was thinking, feeling, before deleting everything again because he thought he’d come off as some kind of pussy if he’d sent that.

His first time telling you how much he loved you was at your place. A casual evening watching some random movie you picked out while being arms deep in a bag of chips and dressed like a homeless person, Nam-gyu was staring up at you as if you were the most beautiful person in the universe even during this ungraceful moment of yours, admiring you in silence until finally…

“I love you.”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you…

Did he fuck up again? Do or say something wrong? Don’t you love him anymore? Was there someone else?? His thoughts go ballistic as he stared at the screen of his phone with a deadpan-expression, trying to shake the crippling fear and nervousness off while looking nonchalant.

Nam-gyu’s finger kept hovering over the call button to check on you in case something happened because there could be a whole other person talking to him by how there were no affirmations at all.

He doesn’t want to appear clingy or too attached to you as that may scare you off or even disgust you, so Nam-gyu’s casually mention that one time you didn’t say “I love you” while fidgeting with his ring, trying to appear indifferent about it while intensely watching your facial expression shift to try and detect if you’re lying about your reasoning or not.

Your boyfriend is afraid to not be good enough, too much, too little. Your little affirmations give him reassurance, every day a little more until he’s full convinced that you do really, really love him.

“Hey, uhhh. Did you forget anything today?… No? You sure? Mkay.”

Dae-ho // Player 388

♡— Him not saying I love you…

Never happens. Either he is dead and not able to reply to you or already said it multiple times throughout the day. Dae-ho has separation anxiety and gets nervous when he doesn’t have you in line of his sight or not around him in general, that’s why he always tells you how much he loves you whenever he can.

Off to the bathroom? I love you. Bringing the trash out? I love you. Getting dressed? You’re gorgeous and I love you. You could be simply existing and Dae-ho would bury his face in your neck and mumble a soft I love you into your warm skin, his lips planting a soft kiss here and there.

Dae-ho is just a little scared about saying his usual affirmation in front of his family, mostly his father. He’s a very affectionate and physical man but he still wants to look like the tough-marine-son his dad wants to see.

His sisters know better though, they see how their brother’s eyes twinkle in delight when you help his mom out in the kitchen with the dinner.

He does make it up to you after coming home though. Your boyfriend will stuff the leftovers his mom gave him into the microwave and usher to you made yourself comfortable on the couch while he makes some preparations to completely pamper you for the rest of the evening.

Sometimes Dae-ho’ll even try to flirt a little but he’s still a little awkward in that department.

“Hey, do you want some snacks with that? A drink? O-Or am I enough of a snack…?”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you…

Every time Dae-ho tells you that he loves you, you always reply with equal enthusiasm. How could you not? That golden retriever of a man gets that almost childish smile of his whenever you kiss his cheek or just tell him that he looks handsome today.

Once, you tested how he’d react when you don’t give him his hourly dose of dopamine by deflecting or ignoring his touches.

As his arms securely snaked around your waist and gently pulled you against his torso, you paid him no mind and continued to stir the ramen in the food container. He watched the noodles move in circles and gave your waist a gentle poke, trying to pull your attention to him. Dae-ho’s eyes slowly dimmed and the edges of his smile turned downwards.

The silence made him seriously nervous. You could feel his rapidly increasing heartbeat drum against your back.

“Hey… is everything okay? Did I do something wrong? I’m sorry. Can you talk to me?…”

Gi-hun // Player 456 (post s1)

♡— Him not saying I love you…

Gi-hun always reassures you of his love, even during arguments. He wants you to know that he cherishes and loves you for the rest of his life and that you are his everything. Whenever he doesn’t say I love you, something must’ve happened.

He has been missing for a whole week and you had no idea where your boyfriend went. Gi-hun didn’t leave a note, a voice mail, no nothing!

And after he returned and suddenly began giving you expensive gifts, the same boyfriend that used to ask you for money to get himself an convenience store dinner, now began buying you new headphones, bracelet and whatever else you even eyed.

It was nice, sure, but you were more worried about his mental state. He was paranoid and quiet, kept checking his whole body for some kind of tracker and barely ever spoke what was on his mind. Gi-hun began having panic attacks and you were barely able to leave his side because of how terrified he was to leave you alone.

He barely touched you, gave you kisses or affection. He changed after whatever happened during that week he went missing.

While running your fingers through his hair, trying to make him fall asleep after being awake for two days straight, he sleepily stared up at you through his dyed-red hair. His voice was quiet, broken almost.

“I’m sorry. Please… know that I love you. I love you so much.. Don’t leave me, please… please...”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you back…

Your boyfriend called out to you but you didn’t quite hear what he said, so you replied with an “yeah!” and just hoped that that’s an appropriate response to whatever he tried to tell or ask you. It wasn’t.

Gi-hun stood there for a couple of moments, waiting on your reply to yelling “I love you!” across the whole apartment. When nothing came, he didn’t call out to you again. You were probably busy with something or don’t want him with your right now, he gets that.

Later though, thoughts of self-doubt began to cook up inside his mind. As he bit all his nails to shreds he overthought about how you had enough of him now. Maybe you are falling out of love now after how the death games fucked up his mind and body. You’re surely fed up with his paranoia and secretive behaviour, how much he has been obsession over finding a weird salesman. Surely.

The metallic taste that spread inside his mouth after biting the skin surrounding his nails began to open and bleed finally pulled Gi-hun out of his self-destructive thoughts that continued to circle like a toy train. Picking up his throwaway phone and choosing the one contact he saved on every single burner phone he had as “Reason to smile ❤️” and pressing the call button.

“Gi-hun? What’s wrong?” Your voice forced a small smile to form on his face. He hesitated

“Hey. Just wanted to ask if I should bring some take out home tonight. That’s all.”

In-ho // The Frontman // Player 001

♡— Him not saying I love you…

It’s purely just to tease you. When bored, In-ho will make you his greatest entertainment.

He likes making you annoyed and flustered, so he’ll intentionally ignore you just to make you react and pout at him adorably while he was trying so hard to keep his stone cold face and not break into a shit-eating grin and maybe even pull on your cheek to make you whine even more.

In-ho adores your whole being and cherishes all of your affections, so he’ll let himself get showered in them any tome he can.

Expect you to he cuddled up on his lap while he was leaning back in the leather chair, mumbling a complaint about how you covered his whole face in kisses but managed to miss the bridge of his nose. He will not allow you to move off his lap until you covered his whole face in kisses again as compensation for that mistake of yours.

So, In-ho’ll intentionally not give you affection so you pay even more attention to him. He is like a cat in that way weirdly enough.

Once you finally break his facade, the flood gates will open and you will be showered, bathed, drowned in his affection, physical and verbal.

“Fine. I’ll say it just because you’ve been so good to me today. I love you, my dearest, lovely darling.”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you back…

In-ho has a dedicated frequency on his walkie-talkie for you, so he can call in and ask you to come to his office for a kiss that cannot wait, to inform you that he is in the bedroom and retiring for the day or just to tell you that he loves you randomly throughout the day.

Of course, you’d always reply back with your own gadget, but to pay back his infinite teasing he has done to you, you decided to ignore him the way he sometimes does to you. Payback.

Your husband called into your frequency. “Dove, are you free right now? Come to my office, I miss you.” and so your game begins. You simply ignored his request and continued getting comfortable in your bed and all the sheets surrounding you, grinning to yourself as you awaited the next time In-ho calls in again, for which you don’t have to wait long for.

“Darling, I am waiting. Do you want me to send someone to pick you up?” Your grin widened as you heard how impatient he was slowly getting with the lack of your response. “I can see you in the bedroom.” That one caught you off guard. Did he install cameras in your shared bedroom??

Almost on cue, your bedroom door opened, revealing the masked Frontman. His shoulders were tense and you could feel his intense state through the mask. You stared back, not expecting how quickly your husband would cave in and visit you himself. Innocently, you batted your lashes at him.

In-ho slipped his mask off and carelessly tossed it on the nightstand. “Why are you ignoring me? Are you upset or just moody?” Unimpressed, you silently glared at him. He gave you an equally uninterested look and leaned down to your face to give you a small peck on your cheek. “Not enough. More.”

A chuckle escaped his lips as his lips cracked into a smile.

“Demanding, aren’t we? Fine. As you wish.”

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading <3

Watch me announce that I’m going to post In-ho’s yandere profile and proceed to get hit with the most ungodly group-assignment in Chemistry. Anyways, take this as an apology! Had to write a little fluff for them since the only thing I’m finding is smut 🙏😭 I’m not complaining but this fluff prompt came to me like a truck during a class of mine. It was originally inspired by this post and I made a similar one before for the Demon Slayer hashira. Check it out if you’re interested!!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <33

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velvetcrimsonkisses · 10 months ago

Text

Nanami who drops to his knees the moment he arrives home, the feeling in his chest; indescribable because he knew his wife was upset… so very upset…

He loathed the guilt that clung to him as he had to work late and miss the date they planned just a few days prior. The front door creaked open as you heard him tiredly shuffle in, tossing his keys onto the counter with a bit more force than he intended. He rolled his neck side to side, in a futile attempt to release some of the stiffness in his muscles. He kicks off his shoes, not bothering to bend down and untie the laces, before commencing his walk of shame to your shared bedroom.

Each step felt heavier, causing his heart to only beat faster every second. A thin sheet of sweat began to form on his brow as he approached closer and closer to the room. His fingers, diligently thread into his tie to pull it undone, tossing it mindlessly on the floor. A few buttons of his shirt came undone but it did nothing to relieve the growing tightness in his chest. He hesitantly reached for the door knob, and with a deep breath he opened the door as slowly as possible.

And there you were. The soft light of the room revealed your silhouette as you sat up on the bed, your arms crossed over your chest tightly, as your eyes bored into him like daggers. No, you weren’t actually upset and he had obviously a good reason for his absence, but it was the first time he missed something like this– and the sting of it lingered in the room.

He tentatively stepped closer to you, his expression full of guilt and desperation, like a puppy who had been scolded. The weight of an unspoken apology creeping on him.

“Darling… I’m sorry," he whispered, barely audible. But he knew it wasn’t enough. No reaction from you, you wouldn't even turn to look at him, the silence between the both of you was suffocating. His fingers graze over your hand as his knees buckled, threatening to give away under the weight of guilt.

He falls to his knees before you, taking your hand in his. “Please, look at me, honey…” pleading eyes looking up at you, raw emotion in his voice as he presses a soft kiss on your delicate hand. His fingers intertwined with yours as you finally grace him with your gaze, the eyes he so dearly loved finally on him. His grip was soft yet pleading, almost as if he was afraid you’d let go.

“I feel terrible…” kiss “It will never…” kiss “happen again…” kiss

Each one of his kisses had you in trance and you truly believed him, Nanami wasn’t the man to tell you empty words. You look down at the mess of the man on his knees for you, your hand comes to his cheek, caressing it.

“I forgive you…” You utter, as you look at him, into his eyes of honey.

Those three words…

That was all he needed to hear. His breath was caught in his throat and for a moment he just stared at you before taking a deep breath. Relief washes over him and all the guilt slowly disappears. His head drops into your thighs and rests there a moment, still holding your hands.

“I will spend an eternity making it up to you…” he finally speaks up. His statement makes you smile. You thought he was joking but he wasn’t.

“Starting now,” he declares, a spark of confidence returning to his body.

Without breaking eye contact, he lowered his head down, his lips brushing softly against your knees. His kisses are tender and calculated. He knew exactly what he was doing. His lips trailed along your thighs, the warmth of his breath sending soft shivers up your skin.

You sighed softly, your fingers threading through his hair, delicately pushing it back from his face. You wanted to see him, to really look at him, at the man you loved now between your legs.

His kisses trailed higher and higher. Nanami was a smart man. He knew just what to do and how to ease the weight of the situation from your mind, to make you forget.

“You’re so gorgeous” He mumbles in between kisses. A red tint creeping up on your face at those simple words. “But you know that already, don’t you?” he presses a kiss just below your navel. “I tell you everyday…” He whispers, right into the heat between your legs. Your back arches up off the mattress and he knew he just had to have you already.

“May I?” he asks, his pointer finger hovering right over where you needed him most. You gave him a quick nod and that was all he needed. He slowly slides your panties down your legs before begging to devour you, entirely.

Nanami learned everything that made his pretty girl feel good, and he planned to do everything tonight. Every flick of his skilled tongue had you in a chokehold, the way he held your legs open with his strong arms all while still on his knees. He explored every inch of you, lapping up everything you gave him, his fingers joining in to only make you feel that much better.

Orgasm after orgasm had your mind hazy but Nanami had to make sure you knew he was sorry. And he did make good on his promise. He never ever forgot again.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami drabbles #kento nanami #nanamin #nanami smut #jjk nanami #nanami kento x reader #kento smut #kento x reader #jjk kento #nanami x reader smut #nanami x y/n #BRO I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS ALL DAYYYG

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iamactuallysocute · 15 days ago

Note

I absolutely LOVED your Saja boys x assistant for your writing is honestly amazing 🙏

Sooo I wanted to know if I can ask for another one 🙏

If you don't mind can you do a scenario or story (not actually sure what it's called) for kpop demon hunters, the Saja boys when your secretly dating one of their members like Abby or Romance or baby (you can pick, or do 2 or both of them) and your apart of Huntrix and they find out and their reaction isn't good.

THANK YOU 🤍💜

HUNTR/X FINDING OUT YOU’RE DATING A SAJA BOY

cw: mentions of sex and rewinds of sex so we can technically say nsfw, secret relationships, arguments, cursing—and tell me if I missed something

PLOT: Three hunters? History says four! At least in this universe it sure does, because you’re a member of HUNTR/X, a beautiful sweetheart, the dream girl actually. That’s the exact reason a Saja Boy had interest in you. And that Saja Boy is…

JINU

It started like a joke. Like the dumb kind of thing you whisper to yourself when you’re three drinks deep after a long night of demon slaying, bruised, blood-splattered, and sore in all the wrong places, “Wouldn’t it be so stupid if I let that cocky little shit Jinu kiss me?”

Except you did. And you let him do a lot more than that.

You know damn well this is wrong.

You’re supposed to hate the Saja Boys.

But then there’s Jinu.

Oh, Jinu.

You know better. You do. But you also know how he kissed you the first time, like he was starving for it, like he’d been thinking about it for weeks, that you’ve been driving him crazy.

Every time you sneak off, telling Mira you’ve got to “clear your head”, lying to Zoey about meeting friends, making up some bullshit mission Rumi would definitely sniff out if she wasn’t so busy being ten times the badass you pretend to be, you end up in Jinu’s room. Usually on his lap. Sometimes against a wall. Once in the backseat of a staff car, which, honestly, was way too cramped for the kind of shit he wanted to try. (But did you complain? No. You just bit his shoulder to muffle the sounds.)

You keep saying it’ll be the last time. Every single time, you tell yourself:

This is it. I’m cutting it off. I shouldn’t be doing this. He’s a demon. I’ll kill him when we’re done.

And every single time, you end up under him again, hips rolling, nails dragging down his back while he whispers filth.

You shouldn’t be doing this. Every second with him is a risk. If Zoey finds out? She’ll be furious. If Rumi finds out? You’re dead. If Mira finds out? You might wish you were.

But fuck… it feels good to be wanted like that.

So no. You’re not telling the girls. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Because that boy is a demon, still.

You can see it in the yellow flickers in his eyes when too much happens to his body. The way his voice changes when he’s angry, the shadow under his skin when his temper spikes, like there’s something inside him, snarling.

Because there is. Gwi-Ma.

You hate that freak. You really, truly do.

He’s not always loud, but when he is, you feel so bad for Jinu.

Sometimes, you’ll catch Jinu zoning out—just for a second—and when he blinks back into himself, there’s this… weight. A bitter taste in the air. You know it’s Gwi-Ma.

You’ll be tangled in Jinu’s sheets, your mouth on his throat, your nails digging into his ribs while he gasps, and then suddenly he’ll choke out a laugh. You’ll ask, “What?” thinking you did something good, and he’ll groan, cover his face and mutter, “Ignore him.”

Like??? Fuck off, Gwi-Ma. (He also once called you “delicious,” which Jinu immediately apologized for by dropping to his knees and staying there for a long time. It helped.)

There was also that one time you were straddling Jinu on the couch in his dressing room, and he went real still, eyes distant, and then just groaned, “Shut the fuck up.” into your neck.

But here’s the thing. Gwi-Ma’s always there—always. Jinu can’t shake him, can’t silence him, not completely. And yet… you don’t feel the urge to pull a blade on him. Not like you would with anything else that dark and dangerous.

You should. You know that. Every instinct in your hunter-trained, scar-hardened body should scream put it down before it turns on you.

But you don’t.

Because the truth is? The demon’s a parasite. But Jinu? Jinu’s not the demon. He’s the boy fighting it. Every single day. You see it when his eyes flash for just a second and he has to swallow it down. You see it in the way he looks at you, like he’s scared you’ll see it, too. The rot inside. The crack in the mirror.

But you already do.

And you love him anyway.

No, wait, you didn’t mean to say that. Not even in your own head. But it’s out here now.

You love him.

He hasn’t said it. Not out loud. But you know. You know by the way he touches you when he thinks you’re asleep. Soft fingertips, trailing your spine, memorizing the shape of you. You know by how he always lets you go first when you argue, even if he hates it. By the way he flinches when you joke about your death like it’s just another occupational hazard.

And sometimes? When you least expect it, he says shit that almost counts.

Like, “I’d burn the world down if anything happened to you.”

Or, “I like who I am when I’m around you. I don’t hear him as much when you’re close.”

And maybe that’s what really fucks you up.

You thought you were just in it for the heat. For the adrenaline. For the sex and the secrecy and the thrill of knowing you were doing something very bad with someone very pretty.

But now? You’re in deeper.

Worse, so is he.

You’re full on dating. Dating dating.

You should be enemies.

Instead, you’re in his bed.

Heart beating fast.

Shirt already half-off.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the last light he can still see in the dark.

You don’t trust this.

You don’t trust yourself.

But when he kisses you, slow and scared and wanting, the demon in him quiet for just a second?

You let him have you.

Again.

And again.

You also like the tiger. Or cat. Or tiger-cat. Whatever. You still don’t even know what to call it.

You remember the first time you saw it, you thought it was some kind of hellbeast and went for your blade, and Jinu was like, “Waitwaitwait, he’s chill.”

And now? You’ll be at Jinu’s place, half-naked, trying to sneak in a post-mission quickie, and suddenly there’s a 600-pound animal flopping on your legs like it’s a house cat.

Like, sir. Please.

Your vibe is adorable but your mass is inconvenient.

It loves to curl around the both of you like some kind of living, purring barrier. It’d be cozy if it didn’t also come with the crushing weight of “You move, you die.”

And then there’s the bird that hates everyone. Except Jinu. And sometimes, very begrudgingly, you. But only if you bring food. Or if you’re crying, which you hate that he knows. The bird is weirdly intelligent like that.

Sometimes he lands on your shoulder and just sits there while you and Jinu are talking. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t squawk. Just watches. It’s unsettling, but Jinu swears it’s a sign of affection. (You’re not totally convinced it’s not reconnaissance.)

Then, you got caught, babe.

Now, you’re wearing a little shirt that barely reaches your navel and a little black thong. You’re barefoot on your balcony, one hand resting on the railing, the other clutching a soda you don’t even really want. Your legs are sore, your back hurts, your lip’s still split from earlier, and the last thing you need is—

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You jolt. Turn.

“What the fuck, Jinu?” you hiss, slamming your soda down and rushing to him. “What are you—how did you even get up here?!”

He’s grinning. Soft, smug, absolutely useless in his very kissable way.

“Teleported.” he says. “Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

“Jinu. They’re home.”

“And?”

He says it so easy. So breezy. Like your heart isn’t trying to hammer through your ribs. You grab him by the arm and drag him fully onto the balcony, pressing him into the wall so he’s out of sight from the windows. Your face is close to his now, too close.

His eyes flick down your body, lazy but appreciative. “You’re not exactly dressed for company.”

You slap his chest. “Don’t make me push you off this building.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to die.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move away. Your hand’s still on his chest, and he’s warm under your palm. Steady. Calm. Like nothing can touch him, not even the hurricane that’s about to slam into your life when this secret finally gets out.

“You’re insane for coming here.” you murmur, quieter now. “What if they see you?”

“I missed you.”

That’s it. No drama. No poetic nonsense. Just those three words, spoken so plainly you feel the ground shift under you.

You swallow. Your throat’s dry. Your hand drifts up, fingers brushing the curve of his jaw. “You couldn’t just text? Send a letter with your cat?”

“I needed to see you.”

He leans in, just a little, and you follow because of course you do. His lips brush yours once, just a ghost of a kiss, and it’s enough to turn your knees to—

Gasp.

You freeze.

The sound comes from inside the room.

Both of you turn your heads just in time to see the door swing open, Zoey standing there, eyes wide, mouth fully agape.

“…oh my god.” she breathes.

Then the door slams shut again.

“Oh my god.” you echo, gripping the balcony railing like it’s going to save your soul. “Oh my god. Jinu. She saw you. She saw us.”

“She didn’t knock.” Jinu says, baffled.

“WHY WOULD SHE KNOCK? IT’S MY ROOM.”

You whirl on him, panic spiking like adrenaline in your veins. Your whole face is on fire. Your body’s moving already, ushering him toward the edge of the balcony, trying to think, to fix, to stop the bleeding of this moment from leaking into the rest of your life.

“She’s going to tell Rumi. Mira. Bobby. She’s going to tell everyone. Oh my god.”

“Okay.” Jinu says, still infuriatingly relaxed. “And?”

“And?!”

He’s smiling again, like this is funny, like you’re just being dramatic. He has no idea how bad this is. You shove him toward the railing with a hand to the back of his head, not hard, just enough to make him stumble.

“Go.” you hiss. “Go, now. I’ll fix it.”

“You’re gonna ‘fix’ getting caught half naked with me on your balcony?” he laughs, holding the ledge like he’s deciding whether to leap or wait for you to calm down.

You swat the back of his head again.

He laughs harder.

And somehow… somehow, that helps.

Because he’s not scared. He’s not shaking like you are, imagining Rumi’s furious stare or Mira’s disappointment or Zoey’s lethal level gossip abilities. He’s just… there. Present. Unbothered.

You exhale hard. Press your forehead to his chest for just a second. He lets you. His hands come up, hold your waist gently, swaying with you.

“Go.” you whisper again. “Please.”

He nods. Serious now. The playfulness fades, just a little. He cups your cheek, presses one last kiss to your lips, then steps back over the balcony’s edge.

And disappears.

You’re left standing there. Heart racing. Lips tingling. Whole body humming like you’ve been plugged into an outlet.

Inside, you hear footsteps.

Voices.

Loud ones.

Zoey’s already telling them.

“Shit.” you breathe, dragging a hand through your hair. “Shit shit shit.”

But even with the panic creeping up again, you can’t stop the small, ridiculous smile that curls onto your face.

Because that dumb, beautiful demon boy came here just to see you.

You don’t even bother throwing on shorts. Just storm out of your room in the tiny shirt and thong you were already wearing, not because you’re trying to prove a point, but because fuck it, the point already proved itself.

You race down the hallway, barefoot, still breathless from the sheer velocity of your panic. The walls feel like they’re closing in with every step. And as you reach the living room, it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Zoey’s perched on the arm of the couch. Her popcorn is real. You knew she’d have popcorn.

Mira’s sitting, arms crossed over her chest, legs crossed. Her expression isn’t angry. Not yet. Worse, it’s disappointed.

Rumi’s standing. Her arms are crossed too, and her face is blank in that terrifying way that says: I haven’t decided whether to scream or murder someone.

You stop cold in the doorway.

“…hi.”

No one answers.

You laugh. Short. Nervous. “Okay. So. Surprise?”

Zoey makes a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a cackle. “Surprise? GIRL.”

Rumi’s voice cuts through, quiet and sharp. “Sit down.”

You glance around. “I’m, uh, I’m not really dressed for a—”

“SIT.”

You sit.

“Zoey saw Jinu.” Mira says, voice like ice water down your back. “On your balcony. With you. And not in a friendly way.”

“Wasn’t a kiss on the cheek, hun.” Zoey adds, tossing popcorn in her mouth.

“Zoey.” Rumi scolds gently.

Zoey zips it. Barely. She’s vibrating with drama high. Her foot’s tapping. She’s dying to see how this plays out.

Mira leans forward. “How long.”

You blink. “What?”

Mira’s eyes are lasers. “How. Long. Has this been going on.”

You swallow. “…A while.”

“A while?” Rumi explodes, stepping forward. “Define ‘a while,’ because ‘a while’ sounds like weeks, and if this has been going on while we were out risking our asses, while we were fighting off demons and you were texting your little boyfriend under the table, I need to know that before I go to prison for launching a sword through the next Saja concert.”

You flinch. “Okay, whoa, let’s not—”

“WAS HE AT THE CEMETERY FIGHT?” Zoey blurts, her eyes wide. “Because you said you were on break that day and he was also conveniently there! Oh my god—were you hooking up behind the mausoleum while I was getting bit by that demon?”

“That was one time.” you snap.

“You just admitted it!” Zoey screams, victorious.

“Okay, enough.” Rumi says, holding up a hand. She turns back to you. “Is it serious?”

And you freeze.

Because there’s the real question.

They’re not just mad about the secret. They’re mad because they know what this means. You don’t sneak around for fun. You lie to protect. So if you were protecting him…

Then you weren’t protecting them.

“I care about him.” you say softly. “It wasn’t just sex. It isn’t. He’s not—”

“He’s a demon.” Mira says, flat. Cold. “End of sentence.”

“He’s not—” you start, then stop. Because okay. Yes. He is. But not the way they mean. “There’s something inside him, yes. Gwi-Ma. But Jinu’s fighting it. Every day. He’s—he’s not evil. He’s not one of the monsters we hunt.”

“And what if he loses that fight?” Rumi asks, quiet again. “What if the thing inside him gets stronger? What if you become the liability?”

Your throat closes. Because that’s the worst part, you’ve already thought about all of that. And it still wasn’t enough to stop you.

“I know what I’m doing.” you whisper. “I know.”

“Do you?” Rumi growls. “Because it looks like you’re playing house with a demon.”

“Rumi, stop—”

“No. You lied to us.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You chose him.”

Yeah. You did. Over and over again. Every night you crept out, every time you let him touch you, every second you looked at his face and thought, maybe this could last, you were choosing him.

Even if it meant eventually losing them.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” you say, finally.

“Too late.” Mira mutters.

“Wait.” Zoey says. “Did you say Gwi-Ma? Like the actual Gwi-Ma?”

“Yeah.” you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “Lives in his head. Won’t shut up. Kind of an asshole.”

Everyone’s silent again.

And then, Zoey: “…Does he also do the tongue thing when he kisses you? Like he looks like he does the tongue thing.”

You close your eyes. “Zoey.”

Rumi sighs. Mira pinches the bridge of her nose. And slowly, slowly, the tension in the room starts to loosen. Not dissolve. Not disappear. But… loosen. There’s still tension in the air. Still betrayal.

“You know we’re supposed to kill them. Right?” Rumi says, loud and clear so you hear it.

You have heard it. You’ve heard it a hundred times. In debriefs, in Zoey’s snide jokes, in the way Mira files her knives after watching Saja Boys interviews with a dead stare. You’ve said it yourself. Weeks ago.

You knew what they were. You knew they weren’t human. And your girls have been tracking, prepping, moving toward this for weeks.

And meanwhile?

You’ve been sleeping with the mark.

“I know.” you say, barely above a whisper.

“You knew.” Mira corrects, her voice a blade.

“I know.” you repeat, louder now. “And I didn’t—I didn’t plan for this. It wasn’t some operation gone rogue. It wasn’t a trick. It just—”

“You tripped and fell onto his dick, huh?” Zoey says, sharp and bitter.

You shut your eyes. “Zoey, not now.”

“No, I really wanna know.” she goes on. “Did you just accidentally fall in love with a guy who’s literally got a demon whispering murder in his ear while we’ve been training to put his head on a spike? Because that’s wild.”

“What was your plan?” Rumi asks, not looking at you. “What was the endgame here? That we’d kill his bandmates but leave him alone because you like his face?”

“No.” you snap, the sharpness surprising even you. “God, no. You think I don’t know how this looks? You think I haven’t been ripping myself apart every night over this? I know what we’re doing. I know what he is. But you don’t know him. Not like I do.”

“Enlighten us.” Mira says, icily. “Please.”

You blink fast, trying to push the burn out of your eyes. You weren’t gonna cry, you swore you wouldn’t, but the pressure’s building.

Silence.

Rumi closes her eyes like she’s trying not to hit something. Mira sits back. Her face has gone to that scary-silent-assassin look that means her brain is moving three steps ahead of everyone else. Finally, she says: “So when it’s time to take them out… what happens then?”

You stare at her. You hate how cold she sounds. You hate how reasonable it is.

Because that is the question, isn’t it?

What do you do when it’s your sword, and his neck, and no one else to make the call but you?

“I don’t know.” you admit, soft. “I don’t know yet.”

“That’s not good enough.” Rumi says, voice rising. “You’re not just putting yourself at risk. You’re putting us at risk. What if he turns on us mid-mission? What if he uses you to get ahead of us? What if this whole time—”

“He wouldn’t.” you say quickly. “He wouldn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t hurt any of you.”

“You can’t know that.” Mira says.

“I do.”

And you do. Deep down. Where all the fear and doubt and guilt live, even under all of that, you know.

He wouldn’t let them touch you.

And he wouldn’t touch them.

Not unless they tried to kill him.

Which they… will.

Soon.

Zoey stands again and walks across the room, pacing now. “So what, we’re just supposed to ignore this? Let you keep cuddling up with your demon boyfriend while we finish the job?”

“No.” you say. “I get it. I’m not asking you to trust him. I’m not even asking you to like me right now. I just… I just need you to understand. I’m not choosing sides. I’m choosing truth. Jinu’s not a monster. Not yet. And I don’t think he ever will be.”

There’s a pause. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

Then, softly, Mira asks: “But what if you’re wrong?”

You look at her. Look at all of them.

And you don’t have an answer.

ABBY

Look. You’re supposed to kill him. Let’s be very clear about that. The Saja Boys are your target. You’ve watched them on stage, off-stage.

The first time you saw him, shirtless and grinning, was some training clip Rumi pulled up on the mission table, purely for recon (allegedly), and even then, you felt your spine short-circuit.

He looked like a human weapon.

Except he wasn’t human.

And you weren’t supposed to want the weapon.

But, you know. Whoops.

He’s huge (like, throw-you-around-the-room, bench-press-you-during-foreplay huge). Arms like steel, voice like “what’s up, babe?” and a smile so cocky it should be registered as an actual threat.

You hated him at first.

You hated him… until you didn’t.

Until one night after a bad mission, your ribs aching, pride worse, your blood still up and nothing in the world feeling good. And then you saw him. Leaning against a wall, flexing like he didn’t know he was doing it and voice dropping into that stupid low register like, “Hey. You okay?”

Game over.

Brain fried.

Panties? Gone.

And then, somehow, you were... kissing. In a stairwell. Covered in blood. Your blood. His blood. Something's blood. Messy. Wrong. And absolutely addictive.

Now it’s… a thing. A secret thing.

Because Abby? He makes you laugh, first of all. He says dumb shit in bed. He says dumb shit all the time. And he’s so proud of it.

And yeah. He’s a demon. You see it. He doesn’t even hide it.

There’s something in him that pulses dark. Wild. Primal. The heat in his body burns wrong sometimes. The shadows cling to him longer than they should. And there are moments, fleeting but undeniable, where he looks at you like he wants to eat you.

Not in the fun way. (Though, to be clear, he definitely wants that too.)

But in the demonic, soul-thirsty kind of way.

And yet. Somehow. You’re not afraid of it. You should be. You’re trained to be. You’ve put down lesser demons without blinking. You know what he is. But something in you doesn’t flinch.

Because under all of that darkness… you know he likes you.

He really, actually likes you. In his dumbass, show-off way.

The first time he said it, he was inside you—of course he was—panting, all flushed and cocky, and he muttered, “shit, I like you too much.” Then he tried to play it off with a kiss to your neck, followed by something heinous you don’t even remember, too busy feeling all of him.

You laughed. And then whispered, “me too.”

He knows you’re a hunter. He knows who you are, what you do. But he keeps showing up anyway. Still winks. Still pulls you into dark corners and picks you up like you weigh nothing. Still teases you like none of this is real.

He trusts you. And that terrifies you more than anything.

Because when the time comes…

When the blades are drawn…

He’s not going to fight you.

And you don’t know what you’re going to do when that moment comes.

But for now? You let him pin you to the wall and mutter, “what, you gonna slay me, hunter?” against your jaw.

Because the worst part isn’t that you’re supposed to kill him.

It’s that a small, aching part of you knows you won’t.

He does shit like carrying your bag when it’s heavy, but doesn’t make it weird. He just grabs it and then slings it over those stupid big shoulders like it weighs nothing. Flexes a little, maybe, but you let him. You even look on purpose. He likes it.

He memorizes what you order from that little noodle shop you go to after late-night sweeps. The first time he brought it to you unasked, still hot, you didn’t even know what to say. He just handed it over with a lopsided grin and went, “See? I got a brain in here.” and then tapped his temple with the chopsticks he’d stolen from the shop.

He warms his hands before touching your face. Doesn’t even think about it. Just always runs them over his neck or into his sleeves first, and then cups your cheeks.

And then there's how he watches you. Not like prey. Not like the demon in him is looking for an opening. But like... you're the funniest, hottest, most precious thing in his world and he can't believe you're even talking to him, let alone letting him see you naked on the regular.

And oh my god, he tied your shoe once. One time. You’re mid-arguing, mid-huffing about something completely irrelevant, and this man bends down, wraps those huge hands around your ankle, ties your shoe with all the careful attention of someone untangling a bomb, then slaps your thigh and stands up.

You were silent for, like, ten minutes.

You hate how much you like it. Hate it. Hate it.

But not enough to stop.

Not when he’s currently got you pressed up against cold tile, his breath warm against your throat, your thigh hiked high around his hip in the almost empty bathhouse the three of you ducked into after a hunt.

You don’t even know how it happened.

One minute, you were soaking in the women’s bathhouse while Mira and Zoey argued over whose blade got the final hit, and the next, you were in the showers and Abby was there. Shirtless. He must’ve snuck in through the back.

You didn’t even try to stop him. You should’ve.

But he’d walked up to you, dripping from a quick rinse-off, and grinned. “Damn. You clean up nice.”

And that was it. That was the moment your common sense packed her bags and left.

Now? Now you’re sandwiched between Abby and the cold wall of the bathhouse’s back corridor. Your towel’s half off, your thigh’s fully up, and Abby’s mouthing your neck like this isn’t a public facility.

“Abby.” you whisper, half-laughing, half-moaning, trying to push him back even though you’re very much not trying that hard. “They’re still here. They could come back any second.”

He just kisses lower. “Then we better make it fast, huh?”

“You’re the one taking your damn time.” you snap, trying not to laugh, and he grins against your skin.

“What can I say?” he murmurs. “My girl’s distracting.”

You shove his chest. It’s like trying to move a wall of warm concrete. “I swear, if they catch us—”

Footsteps.

Voices.

You both freeze.

You don’t see them at first. But you hear them. Zoey’s laughing about something and Mira’s voice is lower, casual, annoyed maybe, like she’s mid-eye roll. They’re just coming back from the sauna. They’ll be rounding this corridor in seconds.

You shove at Abby, harder. “Go. Go now.”

But he’s LAUGHING. The fuckass is laughing, muffling it behind that dumb smug smirk like this is the funniest shit ever.

You smack the back of his head, panicked. “Are you trying to get me killed?!”

He grins harder. “If we die like this, honestly? Worth it.”

“Abby!”

Zoey’s voice: “Wait… why’s the floor wet back here? Was someone—”

She turns the corner.

She sees you.

Sees him.

Sees you, basically naked, thigh still up, Abby shirtless and pressed into you, steam rising off both of you.

Zoey screams.

Mira slams in behind her a half-second later, silent, deadly, her eyes going wide.

Abby, still shirtless, just waves. “Hey.”

You are going to die.

“YOU.” Zoey shrieks, pointing. “ARE YOU INSANE?!”

Mira? Mira’s face is stone. Pissed. Her arms are folded. Her jaw is clenched. And she’s staring directly at Abby’s glistening chest.

You, meanwhile, are red. Not pink. Not flushed. Red. Half-wrapped in a towel. Half-tangled in him. All of you exposed, literally and emotionally, in the worst way possible. You’ve barely had time to stumble back and yank your towel up around your chest when he decides to speak.

“Yo.” Abby says with the most unbothered, dumbass charm in the world. “Heeeeeeey girls.”

He actually lifts a hand. Like he didn’t just get caught shoving his demon tongue down your throat in a public women’s bathhouse.

Zoey looks like she’s about to scream a second time. Possibly kill you. Possibly him first.

And what does this stupid man say next?

“You know what,” he continues, glancing between them and then at you. “I feel like… you guys got some things to work out. Real important girl talk. Imma… just.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit, completely unapologetic. “Slide out. Give you all some space. Respectfully.”

You gape. “Abby—”

He turns, halfway out the door, then glances back at you, slow, like he’s throwing a whole-ass grenade at your friendship. And then, he calls:

“Catch you later, babe.”

Babe.

In front of them.

AND THEN THE BASTARD WINKS.

Winks, flexes without flexing, and vanishes.

You are.

So.

Fucked.

You’re clutching your towel to your chest, dripping water, heart hammering so loud it might as well be a war drum. Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words. Just a stupid, guilty sound like, “Uh—”

“How long.” Mira says, deadly quiet,

You blink. “I—”

“HOW LONG?!” Zoey practically screams, her arms thrown up like she might start flinging bath sandals at you. “You’ve been sneaking off to tongue wrestle with a Saja Boy?!”

“It’s not like that—”

“Oh, it’s not?” she snaps. “Because from where I was standing? It looked exactly like that. Unless ‘chest licking in a sacred women’s bathhouse’ means something different in demon-speak.”

“Zoey.” Mira says again, voice low. “Let her talk.”

“Why?! So she can lie again?”

You feel it. The shame. The guilt. The sting of it.

Because you didn’t tell them. Not when you should’ve. Not when it started. Not after the first time. Not after the sixth. Not even after you knew it was something real, something that wasn’t going to just go away if you pretended hard enough. You stayed quiet. Let them think you were just normal. Still loyal. Still on-mission.

But you weren’t. You’d fallen into bed with the enemy, and now it’s your best friends staring at you like you’re the monster.

“Okay.” you say, quietly. “Okay. Look.” You take a breath. It comes out shaky. “Yes. It’s been going on. And yes. I know how it looks.”

“You lied to us.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“Bullshit.” Zoey hisses. “You snuck around behind our backs with the very thing we’ve sworn to eliminate. You let one of them turn you into his little secret side piece—��

“Stop.” you snap, louder than you meant to. “Don’t talk about me like that.”

Silence again.

“I’m not a side piece.” you say, quieter. “And he’s not just… whatever you think he is.”

Zoey’s expression warps into something like heartbreak. “You’re in love with him.”

You look away.

“Oh my god.” She covers her face.

“I didn’t plan for this.” you try, pleading now. “It just—it happened. And I know it’s wrong. I know what he is. But I also know what he’s not. He’s not—” You gesture weakly toward the steam he vanished into. “He’s not hurting people. Not the way we thought.”

Mira steps forward, eyes sharp. “And what happens when he does? When we take him out? What then?”

You swallow. You don’t answer. Because you don’t know. And they see that.

After the bathhouse blowout, the tension clung to your skin worse than the towel.

Mira and Zoey walked ahead of you the whole way home, Mira silent, Zoey muttering to herself in rage, still trying to process the abomination of seeing you with Abby’s abs all up in your personal space. You trailed behind, wrapped in shame, hair dripping, stomach doing flips that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with impending doom.

“Let me tell her.” you said, the second the elevator doors opened to the penthouse. “Let me tell Rumi myself.”

Mira turned to you, her jaw clenched. “You sure?”

“No.” you said. “But I’m going to.”

They just exchanged a look, silent agreement, and then headed to the kitchen like they weren’t absolutely going to lurk by the hallway to hear every single word.

You find Rumi in her room. She’s standing by the window. You almost leave. Almost. But then she turns. “You need something?”

Your throat closes.

Yeah. Just your life exploding.

“Can I talk to you?” you ask, voice trembling. “It’s… personal.”

She gestures toward the chair. You don’t sit. You can’t. You’re vibrating with nerves, practically bouncing out of your skin. You pace instead, like if you move enough, the words will come easier. They don’t.

“Okay, so—so.” you start, hands waving like you’re trying to draw the sentence into existence. “So, you’re gonna be mad. Just—please, can you let me finish first before you say anything? Just let me get it out all at once, because if I stop, I won’t say it, and I have to say it because it’s already—happened, and Zoey and Mira know, and you’re going to find out anyway, and I need it to come from me.”

Rumi’s arms cross slowly. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m dating Abby.” you blurt.

Silence.

You say it again, just to fill the space. “I’m dating Abby. From Saja. The one with the abs and the arms and the—yeah. Him.”

Still no reaction.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. It wasn’t, like, some weird betrayal thing. I didn’t go into this planning to screw around with the enemy, I swear. It just—he was there, and he’s funny, and stupid, and sweet, and he’s not like what we thought. And yeah, I know it’s a conflict of interest. I know it’s dangerous, and I know we’re supposed to be hunting them, and it’s all wrong, but it doesn’t feel wrong when I’m with him. It just feels like… mine. Like something I chose. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

You finally stop.

You wait.

“…You’re joking.”

Your heart drops. “I’m not.”

You’ve never seen Rumi this mad without even raising her voice.

“You’re sleeping with a demon.” she says, cold. “A Saja Boy. One of the five. Our primary targets.”

You flinch. “It’s not like that—”

“Did he charm you? Manipulate you? Feed off you?”

“No! Rumi, he hasn’t even—he hasn’t taken anything from me.”

“Oh, but he took you, huh?” Her voice cuts like glass. “He gets the girl, the inside scoop, the trust, and we get what? A betrayal?”

You step forward. “I didn’t betray you.”

“You didn’t tell me. You kept it a secret. You let this go on while we’ve been risking our lives—my life—hunting down his kind. You don’t think that’s betrayal?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Because you did. You did lie. Maybe not in words, but in silence.

“You’ve compromised our entire mission.” she hisses, turning her back on you. “You think this is just about sex or feelings or whatever he gave you to keep you quiet? It’s bigger than that. He’s dangerous. And you let him in.”

“I didn’t let him in.” you snap, suddenly defensive. “He got in because he wanted me. Because he likes me. Because I like him.”

“And when the time comes,” she says, turning back around, eyes locked on yours. “and you have to choose between us and him, what’s your play?”

You’re shaking.

You can’t answer.

And Rumi sees it.

“…Get out.”

“Rumi—”

“Get. Out. Before I say something we both regret.”

You stagger back. One step. Then another.

And as you open the door—Zoey and Mira. Absolutely planted on the other side. Zoey straightens so fast she almost falls into a lamp. Mira just steps back, arms crossed, deadpan. Neither of them says a word.

You don’t say anything either.

You just walk away.

ROMANCE

Ohhh baby. You’ve just opened Pandora’s box with Romance.

The first time you and Romance crossed paths just the two of you, it was bloody. And violent. And frankly, stupid hot in hindsight.

You were rooftop hunting, your blade humming with enchanted energy, adrenaline in your teeth. The Saja Boys were slippery—always were—but he showed up like he’d been waiting for you.

You fought.

He was strong, too strong. Slippery. Every move came with a smirk, a breathy compliment, some infuriating “ooh, I like it when you’re rough.” You were sweating, pissed, cornered on the edge of a skylight.

But you didn’t back down.

You clocked him, hard, elbow to the jaw, leg sweep, blade to his throat, and he went down. Fell like a sack of demons with a ridiculous grunt and a flutter of his pretty shirt.

You stood there panting, blade raised.

Victory. Yours.

You even kicked him, toe of your boot to his ribs. “Dead?” you muttered.

He grabbed your ankle, fast as lightning, yanked, and dragged you straight to the ground with him. The breath left your lungs. Your body slammed to his. And suddenly? You were chest-to-chest with him, both breathing hard. His smile was bloody and filthy.

“Now this,” he purred. “is foreplay.”

You tied him up after that. You had to. Found rope in the storage unit of the building, tied his wrists behind his back, looped around the support beam. He didn’t fight it, no, of course not. He just watched you. Smirked. Made comments.

“That grip.” he said. “Ever thought of moonlighting in bondage? You’ve got talent.”

You should’ve killed him. Should’ve. He was just lying there, helpless, caked in blood.

But something in you faltered.

So you left him. Said it was a warning.

Before you left, he looked at you with those bedroom eyes and said, “Next time, bring better rope. You’ll be the one staying.”

And you did.

You came back. In the dead of night, alone.

And he wasn’t tied up anymore.

No, that time you were the one in knots.

Literal ones. Spread out, mouth covered in tape, eyes wide while he knelt between your legs, chin lifted and so fucking pleased with himself.

He whispered things you still feel heat up your spine when you’re alone in the shower.

That was the real beginning.

You’re not blameless. You like it. You like the chase, the secrets, the tension in every stolen second.

Romance doesn’t ask. He offers. He tempts. He brushes his fingers along your collarbone in passing, whispers filth into your ear just to see you shiver. He invites you to meet with him night after night. You go. Every time.

You’d call him a slut, except he only ever wants you.

He’s also attentive. Not the good boy kind, no. He’s too much of a tease for that. But he knows when you’re stressed, when you’re insecure, when you need to be fucked out of your head or just held while he brushes your hair. Super senses like he has do wonders in him getting your little feelings. Romance also has a memory like a thief. Remembers everything you say, down to the way you phrased it.

He’s obsessed with you. Openly.

But he also won’t stop flirting with other people in front of you just to rile you up.

(You’ve slapped him for it. He moaned. It didn’t help.)

He knows exactly what you are. A killer. A blade. Something sacred and trained and dangerous.

And he adores it.

“God, baby,” he’ll murmur while trailing his mouth down your thigh. “do you know how hot it is that you could murder me and choose not to?”

You don’t tell the girls. Obviously. They’d lose their minds.

Because you’re supposed to be on a mission to exorcise his ass from the planet—not get your back blown out on rooftops between hunts.

For an example, you let him tie you up again last night. He read you poetry while he did it. From memory. Filthy, ancient verses in a demon tongue you didn’t know—but understood perfectly from his eyes alone.

And when he made you scream his name, you think the whole street heard it.

Even when he’s being a tease—pulling your panties to the side in an alley or teasing you with promises he has no intention of letting you walk away from—his hands are always reverent. Worshipful.

He runs his fingers down your back when you’re not even paying attention. Laces your fingers together when you’re not touching him.

Then, it started with a bra strap.

Well, a glimpse of it, really, something delicate, lacy, red, peeking just above your sports tank when you bent down to pick up your dagger from the training mat. You didn’t even notice. But Zoey did. She always does.

Zoey squinted. “Since when do you wear matching sets for patrol?”

Mira glanced up from her weights, brow cocked.

You just shrugged. Played it off. “Self-care.”

They didn’t buy it.

And then it happened again.

The next night. And the next.

A different set this time, satin, black, barely-there. They weren’t judging you for it. Please. You’re hot, you’re allowed to feel yourself. But there was a pattern emerging, and it had nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with how you were always glowing when you came back from “walks.”

Your cheeks flushed. Your lips bitten. The scent of perfume that wasn’t yours clinging to your jacket.

And the final straw? Rumi walked into your room to grab something and saw an empty condom wrapper on your nightstand. You weren’t even home.

That night, the three of them made a decision.

They were going to follow you.

It’s late.

You thought you were slick—slipping out the back stairwell in your “casual clothes” (which just so happen to include a barely-buttoned blouse and lace-trimmed thigh harness under a trench coat). Hair glossy. Lip gloss glossier.

You head toward a park a few blocks away. A little bench nestled between two massive trees. Always quiet. Always shadowed.

And sitting there, legs crossed, coat open over a shirt unbuttoned just enough is Romance.

He looks up, sees you, and grins. That slow, wolfish, I’m-gonna-undress-you-without-touching-you kind of smile.

“You’re late.” he says.

“You’re early.”

“I’m always early. It gives me more time to think about you.” He says it like a whisper. You bite back a smile, step closer, the night air curling around your ankles like it knows this is wrong and wants in.

He reaches for your hand, brushes his thumb over your knuckles. Doesn’t even glance at your dagger strapped to your thigh.

You lean in, eyes half-lidded. “What if I was here to kill you this time?”

“Then tie me up first. You know how I like it.”

You laugh. It’s soft. Intimate. Familiar.

That’s the sound that does it.

Zoey’s voice, “Whaaaaaaaat.”

You whirl around.

Rumi. Zoey. Mira. Standing just behind the tree line, like they’d been parked there for ten whole minutes, watching your little forbidden lovers’ reunion.

Your blood goes cold.

Romance just sits back, arm along the bench like this is hilarious.

Zoey’s eyes are bulging. “Are you seriously making out with Romance?! As in Saja Boy, Romance?! Mister demon dick himself?!”

Mira’s arms are crossed, her voice dry. “So that’s what all the lace was about.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Romance, unbothered, lifts two fingers in a lazy salute. “Ladies.”

“Don’t you ladies me.” Zoey snaps, stomping forward. “What the fuck, Y/N?!”

You stumble over your words. “I—I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like—okay, not like this. I wasn’t using him or betraying anyone or—”

“Oh my god, are you in love with him?!” Zoey howls.

Romance leans closer to you, whispers, “Say yes.”

You elbow him in the ribs so hard he wheezes. But he’s laughing. This fucker is laughing. And that laugh? It seals your fate.

Rumi steps forward, voice cold as glass. “Go home. Now.”

You look at Romance. He gives you a wink. A wink. He’s enjoying this. He is.

You turn to leave.

And you know they’re right behind you. Their silence is heavier than their words. Zoey’s arms are flailing in disbelief. Mira’s jaw is tight. Rumi says nothing, but you can feel her disappointment.

Back at the penthouse, everything feels louder. The walls feel tighter. Every footstep echoes like judgment.

You try not to flinch as the elevator closes behind you, sealing you inside with three of the people you love the most, and who now all look at you like you’re a stranger.

No one speaks.

You want to say something, break the silence, offer an explanation, but your throat’s tight, heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape before Rumi cuts it out herself.

When the elevator dings open at your floor, it’s Zoey who moves first. Quiet. Shoulders tense. Mira walks out after her. Rumi walks last, slow and composed, her silence ten times more dangerous than if she’d yelled.

You don’t even make it to the living room before Mira turns on you. “What the actual fuck, Y/N?”

You swallow. “I was going to tell you—”

“When?!” Mira snaps. “After you fucked all of them? Or just after the Saja Boys rip our hearts out?! Which was it?!”

“I didn’t—” You exhale, hands up, trying to keep your voice steady. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan this. I didn’t mean to fall into something with him.” You’ve gone over it a thousand times in your head. Every rule you broke. Every kill order you ignored. Every night you slipped away when your best friends were asleep, trusting you to be one of them, not one of the fucking enemy’s bedwarmers. “I know what I did.” you say, quieter. “I know it’s wrong.”

Zoey finally speaks, voice soft. “Then why did you keep doing it?”

You look at her. And she looks like she’s not angry like Mira, not composed like Rumi. Just… hurt. Her arms are folded across her chest.

“I don’t know.” you admit. “He’s a demon. He’s everything we’re trained to kill. But—”

“But you let him charm his way between your legs and now suddenly that makes it okay?” Mira’s voice is sharp. “You endangered us. All of us.”

“No.” you snap, louder now. “I would never let anything happen to you. I’m not stupid. I’m not just lying there letting him feed off my soul—he hasn’t even touched that part of me. I wouldn’t let him. I’m not a liability, Mira.”

“You are.” Mira spits.

Silence again.

You feel it in your stomach, a cold pit of shame. But beneath it, there’s something else. Something like defiance. Because yes, maybe you’re making a mistake. Maybe you crossed every line. Maybe you’re betraying the oath, the cause, the sisterhood.

But it wasn’t just sex. Not with Romance.

He sees you. Wants you. Not your blade, not your strength, not your usefulness to the mission.

Just… you.

“He cares about me.” you say, quietly.

“That doesn’t matter.” Rumi says. Her voice is so soft. “You’re a hunter. You don’t get to fall for the monsters. You kill them. Or you compromise everything we’ve built.”

Oh Rumi, we know why you think that.

Zoey bites her lip, voice shaking. “Are you in love with him?”

You hesitate.

And that’s the answer.

Mira throws up her hands. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Rumi looks at you like she’s assessing whether or not to kick you off the team. “We’re here to stop them, Y/N. All of them. We don’t get to make exceptions because they kiss nice or talk pretty.”

You nod slowly. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Rumi steps closer. “Because the second he snaps his fingers, and decides he’s hungry, you’re the first soul he’s going to devour.”

Do you really think that Rumi, or you’re just making shit up to stop your beloved Y/N from making the same mistake your mother did?

You want to scream that it’s not like that. That Romance—for all his bullshit, his flirting, his filthy mouth—has never once made you feel prey. You’ve never seen him lose control. Never once doubted he would stop if you told him to.

But even you know that doesn’t make it safe.

You glance between them, the three people you’ve fought with, bled with, survived with, and it feels like you’re in the wrong. You are.

Zoey steps forward finally, hand brushing yours. “If you really love him… then please be careful. Don’t make us bury you because you thought he was different.”

Her voice breaks at the end.

And Mira won’t even look at you.

Rumi just turns and walks toward her room. Before she disappears down the hall, she says one last thing:

“You have one chance to fix this. Or next time, it’s me that puts a blade in his chest.”

The door slams.

Your pretty underwear under your clothes feels stupid now.

But even through all that, you know, deep down?

You’re not going to stop seeing him.

And that’s the problem.

BABY

Oh, Baby.

You hate(d) his name.

Baby.

You don’t even know when it started.

Just that one second you were fighting, and the next?

You were… not.

It was supposed to be a quick hunt. You’d gotten separated from the girls for like five minutes—five whole damn minutes—and then bam. He was there.

Backstage, right behind the curtains at some underground venue, blinking at you like you were the surprise, not him.

Did he say anything?

No.

Just smirked.

And you knew it was a smirk, even if his mouth barely moved. Something about the way his eyes narrowed, chin tilted. The unbothered little lean against the wall, arms crossed. Hair too shiny. Mouth too glossy. Pretty in a way that made you want to scratch it up.

So you drew your blade.

He didn’t move. Just blinked again. Like you were the one being ridiculous. Then you lunged. He blocked you, lazy, like your movements were predictable. A joke. Your blade barely missed his throat, and he laughed. Not even like a proper laugh. Just this airy “heh” with his head tilted like, Is that all?

And you? Furious. Mortified. Already picturing the way Mira would roast you for getting played by the baby demon.

So you kicked his leg out from under him. Hard.

The fight got into close combat from there, your blade dropped to the floor. And the two of you just… went at it. Not even fighting anymore, just grappling, rolling across concrete with all the force and heat of a catfight.

His fingers in your hair. Your hand around his throat. Neither of you speaking, just panting, growling, gritting teeth. And his face?

Still blank. Still bratty. Still beautiful.

Until your knee landed in a very strategic place and he grunted—actually made a sound—and somehow that flipped a switch.

Next thing you knew?

You were on your back, shirt pushed up, his mouth on your tits, sharp little teeth teasing your skin as you hissed at him to fucking go.

“The girls are almost on. I have to go.” You hissed.

His response? A slow blink. Like you’re so loud and he was busy. Then he kissed a bite-mark over your nipple like it was his fucking signature and pulled back, shirt half untucked, his lips all red, and not a care in the world.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t wink. Didn’t flirt. Just looked at you like he expected you to come back later. Like he knew you would.

You did.

Because Baby is… different.

He doesn’t do the “Oh, I want you so bad” stuff. That’s Romance’s thing. Doesn’t do the “I’ll protect you, angel” softness. That’s Jinu. Doesn’t even do the “Come here, babe, sit on my lap” gym rat boyfriend vibes. That’s Abby. Doesn’t let you control him like Mystery does.

Baby ignores your ass half the time.

You text him that you’re downstairs? He doesn’t even buzz you up. You have to break in. You say something flirty and he shrugs. You try to make plans and he answers with a yawn.

But when you’re alone? When you’re in the dark corners of club basements or dressing rooms or the stairwell no one uses between the 6th and 7th floors of the broadcast building?

He’s all teeth and tongue and whispers against your throat. Biting. Mouthing. Slouching against you like he doesn’t care but always pulling you closer.

He talks more with his mouth on your body than he ever does out loud.

His affection comes in weird little ways. Like slipping your favorite drink into your bag without saying anything, which he clearly stole from someone. Like swiping the exact eyeshadow palette you complimented on a make up staff member.

Like blowing off fan meetings just to sit in the dark and watch you stretch, head tilted.

And every time you call him out on it?

He gaslights you. Fully.

“What palette?”

“You bought it, didn’t you?”

“You said I could come in.”

“You didn’t say stop.”

Smug. Rude. Hot as fuck.

And for all his demon blood and dead-eyed stares, there are moments—tiny, barely-there glimpses—where you think he might actually care about you. Like really care.

He is the worst, but underneath that generally insufferable personality, he actually kinda likes you.

He still ignores the fuck out of you.

Deadass. You’ll walk into a room and Baby won’t even glance up. You’ll say hi and he won’t say anything back. Doesn’t even nod. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told him to move. He never moves. Just slowly looks at you like you’re interrupting.

But the second you’re smiling on your phone, texting?

Laughing too hard?

Not paying attention to him?

He’s right there. Doesn’t say a word. Just drapes himself over you like a cat and sighs against your neck like this is what I had to resort to?—then nips at your collarbone.

You tell him to go away. He doesn’t.

You shove at him. He goes heavier.

You call him annoying.

His answer:

“Mhm.”

You’ll be pouring tea, being the sweet, functional human being you are, and he’ll just… slide his mug over. No eye contact. No “please.” Not even a “yo.” He just tugs on your sleeve once and you already know.

You always say the same thing: “I’m not your maid.”

To which he always responds by… waiting.

Not moving.

Just standing there like …so?

So you pour the tea.

Every. Damn. Time.

(And then he takes a tiny sip and says, “Too hot.” And you fantasize about kicking him in the shins.)

He has the nerve to walk around with that adorable, sweet little face. Wide eyes. Lashes for days. Little nose. Pink lips. He blinks at people and they melt.

“Oh my god, is he shy?”

“He’s so precious!”

“Aww, he’s like a little bunny!”

LIES.

Baby is a demon.

A predator.

A horrible little shit who absolutely uses his face as a weapon.

Don’t even get me STARTED on his voice. It does not match him. At all. It’s low and slow and filthy, like it’s meant for whispering horrible things directly into your ear. And he knows it. He uses it. He’ll say your name in that voice, right behind you, when he wants something. And every time it works, you hate yourself a little more.

You hate him.

You want to climb him like a tree.

You’re the problem.

He likes you though. He really does.

He doesn’t say it. Obviously. But you know.

He shows up at your window at 2 a.m. and does not leave you alone, that’s his love language. You wonder what Gwi-Ma thinks about that. Does he insult the poor boy in his head? Leaves the topic alone? A wonder, really.

He doesn’t care about people. Not really. Not like you do.

He’s selfish. Bratty. Condescending.

He never says “I love you.” Never writes sweet notes. Never says “I miss you” or calls you beautiful.

But he stays. He lingers. He lets you run your fingers through his hair when he’s tired. He lets you sleep on his chest when you both sneak off after dark. He lets you see the version of him no one else gets to.

You’re not sure if this is love, or madness, or both. But you keep crawling back. Keep letting him tug you close. Keep pretending it’s not dangerous, even though it’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done.

Yeah.

He’s terrible.

But you like him that way.

Anyways, your room is big. Like, stupidly big. The girls fought tooth and nail for this penthouse, and somehow, you ended up with the one room that had its own damn sitting area, fireplace, and balcony. Probably because you “never bring people over.”

Ha.

Right now, you’re sitting on your bed, one leg bent, your hair damp from a shower, some oversized shirt slipping off your shoulder. You’re glowing, content, the kind of comfort that only comes when your secret demon boyfriend is stretched out across your silk sheets.

Baby, flat on his back, hoodie pushed up just enough to expose his stomach. He’s got one arm under his head, and the other lazily dragging over your thigh.

And you’re telling him a story. Some stupid one from earlier. About Zoey trying to cook eggs and somehow setting off the fire suppression system, and Mira slipping in the foam and cussing in three different languages, and Rumi trying to keep everyone calm.

He doesn’t say much—he never does—but every once in a while, he makes this little “hn” sound that means he’s listening. His eyes flutter closed, long lashes brushing his cheeks, and you gently run your fingers across the curve of his bare stomach as you speak.

Just light touches. Lazy, mindless. Your thumb sweeping around his navel. Tracing the faint v-line that disappears under his waistband. And he just takes it. Like he deserves to be pet.

His hips shift just slightly, subtle little rolls into your hand. His lips twitch. He hums.

“You’re distracting.” you mutter, dragging your fingers down his side.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just tugs on the hem of your shirt like he wants it off but can’t be bothered to do it himself.

You laugh a little and lean over him, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. He lets you. He always does. Touchy and spoiled and acting like he’s the one doing you a favor by being here.

His fingers brush the back of your knee. Slide higher. God, he is so touchy. Not in a Romance kind of way, not in a flirty, dirty whisper way. Just clingy. Needy in a wordless, bratty little way. Always tugging at you. Always reaching. Not because he wanted attention, but because he expected it.

You’re just about to crawl into his lap when he suddenly opens his eyes—not startled, not alarmed, just blank. “Behind you.”

You blink. “What?”

“Door.”

You frown, confused. Turn to look, and your soul leaves your body.

Zoey. Mira. Rumi. Peeking through your bedroom door, all crammed into the tiny sliver they must’ve pushed open while you were distracted. All of them with their mouths slightly open. Eyes wide.

They must’ve been watching you for minutes.

Baby waves to them lazily.

The second your eyes meet theirs, they jerk back like they’d been slapped and slam the door shut.

SLAM.

Silence.

You stare at the door.

Baby stretches behind you, unfazed.

“You forgot to lock it.” he says, yawning like this is the most boring turn of events that’s ever happened to him.

“You watched them watch us!” you hiss, slapping his chest.

He shrugs. “You looked cute. Figured they’d agree.”

You launch a pillow at his face. He lets it hit him and doesn’t even blink.

You shoot to your feet like you’ve been lit on fire. You’re not even fully dressed, just the shirt, some thin little shorts, no bra, and your heart is thrashing in your chest because oh my god they saw. They saw everything. “You couldn’t have warned me earlier?!”

He gives a lazy shrug. “Didn’t think they’d stay.”

You smack him in the chest, hard.

“OW—what?!” he complains, still not even bothering to sit up. “You were telling a story.”

“Get out.” you whisper-yell, frantically waving your hands. “Go, go, GO!”

He groans dramatically, sitting up like it physically pains him. “You’re so loud.” he mutters.

But he stands anyway, tugging his hoodie down and making zero effort to look guilty. His hair’s a little messy, lips pink, eyes smug. He’s glowing like a man who’s very satisfied with his life choices. He is casually stretching his arms over his head. Right before he leaves, he pauses, looks at you, and then? Then he raises his voice just enough for the hallway to hear: “BYE GIIIIIRLS.”

He snorts to himself, satisfied with how he fucked up this for you even more, and leaves you there. Alone. Staring at the spot he just vanished from.

Okay, yeah, alright. You take a deep deep breath and walk over to your door to open it.

Rumi. Zoey. Mira. All standing in the hallway, backlit by the soft pendant lights. Their expressions? Zoey looks like she’s on the verge of tears but holding it together with sheer willpower. Mira’s pacing, fists clenched so hard her knuckles are white. Rumi is just staring at you, arms crossed, completely still. That’s the scariest part.

“Okay,” you say, voice cracking like the ice you’re walking on. “that was—”

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.” Mira explodes. Her hands fling up like she’s physically restraining herself from throwing them at you. “You had him in your room?! While we were home?!”

“It’s not like I—”

“Don’t.” Rumi says. Soft. Controlled. Dangerous. “Don’t say it’s not what it looked like.”

It was what it looked like.

Zoey finally speaks. Her voice is so small it hurts. “You… you’re with him?”

“I didn’t—” you start, stepping forward instinctively, “I wasn’t gonna— I mean, I was, I just—” You sigh and rake both hands through your hair. “Yeah. I’m with him.”

Silence.

Rumi’s brows lift slightly. “For how long?”

You look at the ceiling. “A while.”

“Did he brainwash you?” Mira snaps. “Are you cursed? Are you fucking STUPID—”

“Mira.” Rumi’s voice cuts like a blade.

“No, I wanna hear her say it.” Mira hisses, rounding on you. “Do you even care that he’s a demon? That he’s probably feeding off you? That he’s probably laughing with the rest of those Saja freaks about how easy it was to get a Hunter to spread her legs—”

“Shut the fuck up, Mira.” Your voice isn’t loud, but it lands.

Mira steps back.

“…I know what he is.”you say softly. “I know what we are. I’m not confused. I’m not cursed. I’m not being controlled. I know what I’m doing.”

Zoey’s lip trembles. “Then why?”

You glance away. Chew your lip. Feel your chest ache. “Because he’s not what I thought demons were. Not all the time. Not with me.”

Mira scoffs. “Oh, my God.”

Rumi stares at you, then she says, “Go to your room.”

“I—what?”

“Go. To your room. Now.”

You pause for half a second, wanting to argue. Wanting to stand your ground. But you’ve already shredded the ground beneath your feet. So you do as you’re told. You walk back in. Close the door. Sit down on the bed.

The sheets still smell like Baby.

MYSTERY

You like him. God help you, you really do.

It started during one of their meet-and-greets. A crowd full of obsessed fans screaming over them, while you stood in line like a regular human, hair tucked under a cap and sunglasses on your face, just scoping the scene.

That’s when you noticed him in the back. Standing off to the side like he wasn’t even part of the group. His mic wasn’t on. He wasn’t smiling. Just kind of… existing.

You don’t know what possessed you, maybe it was the odd way his hands were twitching around the prop mic, or the slight crease in his brows as he watched the crowd, but you stepped toward him. Just a little. Close enough that he looked up. Or at least, lifted his chin.

He was holding a lightstick upside down.

And god, something about that made your heart ache. Because he looked so confused. So detached. So alien in that moment. Like he didn’t get what any of this was for.

So you’d whispered, “Turn it around. Other way.”

He blinked. Glanced at it. Turned it slowly, obediently.

You reached out and twisted his fingers to hold it right. “There. Like that.”

He didn’t speak. Not yet. But he watched you. All of you. Your hands, your mouth, your face.

And when you turned to go?

“…Thanks.” he said. So small. So low. Barely audible.

After that, he kept noticing you. You’d catch him watching from across rooftops during a hunt, or from the shadows of backstage areas. Silent. Unmoving. A presence. He never approached you directly—you had to do that—but he let you. Which, coming from him, was kind of massive.

You started sneaking around. Sitting next to him when you knew the other Saja boys wouldn’t be around. Leaving stupid little notes for him where you knew he’d find them. One time you brought him a chocolate bar and he ate it. Quietly. Slowly. Then murmured, “Too sweet.” and handed the wrapper back.

You’ve learned to read his silences. Every little shrug or pause or twitch is a language now. One you understand. But he also talks, like:

“You smell good.”

“Don’t go yet.”

“You looked sad today.”

He didn’t have to be sweet with you. Or quiet. Or gentle.

He just chose to be.

Once you were in the alley behind a club where both your crews had performed. The others were still inside fighting. But he had slipped out. And so had you. Not nice, you know, but it felt right.

He had his back against the wall, shoulders relaxed.

You had asked him, “Why are you always so quiet?”

He shrugged. “Nothing to say.”

You rolled your eyes. “There’s always something to say.” And then you turned toward him, shoulder brushing his, and whispered, “Like… if you wanted to kiss me.”

His breath stilled.

You watched his lashes lower behind his heavy hair. You could barely see his eyes, but you could feel them.

And then, softly:

“…Can I?”

You nodded.

He kissed you. No tongue, no hands, no hunger—not at first. Just lips.

Then you leaned in harder. Slid your hand up his chest.

Then he moved.

And after that? It was on.

It was a relationship—even if the word felt too loud, too bright, too human. You didn’t label it. You didn’t talk about it. But you felt it every time he waited for you. Every time he slipped into your space. Every time he murmured your name.

Don’t even get me started on the patterns on his dick. It’s weirdly attractive.

WHO SAID THAT?!

And then you got caught.

It had been weeks. The girls were suspicious, but they hadn’t figured him out yet. The others? Sure. But Mystery? Who could tell what he was even thinking, let alone who he was touching?

So that night, you got bold.

It was late. Everyone else was asleep. You were in the upstairs sunroom, one of your favorite places because it overlooked the whole city. Mystery was curled up with you on the wide window ledge.

Your hand was in his hair. His breath was on your neck. You had just whispered something—you don’t even remember what. Something dumb and soft and sweet.

He turns his face to you and said, “I like it when you talk.”

You blink. Smile. “That so?”

He nods once. “Your voice is warm.”

And you arw about to say something else when Zoey’s voice rang out behind you:

“…You’re kidding me.”

Your whole body jerks.

You turn so fast you almost knock Mystery out the window.

Zoey stands in the doorway, hoodie sleeves pushed up, jaw slack. Mira right behind her, looking like she was about to throw up. And Rumi is staring at Mystery.

And he—fucking audacious—is just sitting there. Calm. Not moving. One arm still around you.

He’s kinda evil so he’s definitely doing that on purpose.

“Okay—okay, listen—”

But Mira is already marching forward, murder in her eyes. “You’re sleeping with him?!”

“He’s not what you think—!”

“He’s a DEMON!”

Zoey looks betrayed. Like it physically hurts her to see you like this.

Rumi just says: “Leave. Both of you.”

Mystery doesn’t move until you move first. He stands slowly, brushing off his shirt. Then he reaches out, tucks your hair behind your ear, and whispers: “I’ll wait.”

Then he vanishes.

You walk back into your room, listening to Rumi. Like your best friends didn’t just see you wrapped up in one of the five you’ve all sworn—sworn—to destroy.

You don’t cry. You don’t know if you can. It’s just this huge, pulsing silence in your chest, like someone rang a bell inside you and then walked away.

To Rumi, this was personal.

We know why.

And she just saw you—her best friend—wrapped up in the arms of something she sees as rot.

Of him.

It’s not even about him being a Saja Boy. Not completely. It’s the idea that you’re letting something like that close to your heart. That you’re flirting with what her bloodline forced on her.

And she’s scared.

You sit there for what feels like forever.

Mystery’s scent still clings to your collar. You wonder if he’s out there waiting like he said. You wonder if the girls will ever look at you the same again.

You wonder if you even deserve it.

#kpop demon hunters #kpdh #kpdh x reader #the saja boys #saja boys x reader #saja boys #abby kpop demon hunters #abby kpdh #baby kpdh #baby kpop demon hunters #jinu kpdh #jinu kpop demon hunters #mystery kpdh #mystery kpop demon hunters #romance kpop demon hunters #romance kpdh #huntr/x

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0scarp1astr1 · 17 days ago

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˖ 𐔌 𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐒𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐚𝐲࿐.۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || When the flu hits the Norris household, you're suddenly the full-time nurse, chef, and cuddle provider. With Lando down and sick. It's up to you to nurse him and the kids back to health. ||

ᯓ★ (Husband!) Lando Norris x Fem! (Wife) Reader

ᯓ★ 1x Genre: Fluff

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: More of the Norris Family on your feed. Some stories might not be as long as the others. I do apologize, I am swamped with some things, but making it work. As of now, here is some fluff about the Norris family. DOUBLE POST TODAY!

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

It started with Sebastian.

You were home on the couch, one leg curled beneath you, a warm mug of tea in your hands as the low hum of afternoon silence filled the house. Lyla was upstairs napping, snuggled into her favorite pink blanket with her bunny tucked beneath her chin. Lando had gone out for the afternoon to grab groceries and maybe meet up with Oscar for lunch. It was peaceful. Until your phone rang.

You glanced down, squinting at the screen. St. Mary’s Primary School.

That peaceful feeling? Gone.

You picked up immediately. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Sebastian’s mum?” a gentle voice asked. “This is Nurse Rachel, I’m calling to let you know Sebastian isn’t feeling too well. He’s got a slight fever, looks a bit pale, and he’s complaining about a headache and chills. He’s resting in the office now, but we’d recommend picking him up as soon as possible.”

Your heart dropped. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.”

Ten minutes later, you were parking in front of the school, your chest tight with worry. As soon as you stepped into the nurse’s office, your heart broke.

There was Sebastian, curled up on a cot with a blanket pulled up to his chin. His curls were a mess, flattened to one side, and his eyes looked heavy and dull. His cheeks were flushed, lips dry, and the moment he saw you, he blinked slowly and reached out with a weak little, “Mama…”

“Oh, baby,” you whispered, rushing to his side. You ran your fingers gently through his curls and kissed his forehead. He was burning up.

“Let’s get you home.”

At home, things started okay. You and Lando worked like a well-oiled team—fluffing pillows, taking temperatures, setting timers for medicine, keeping cartoons going on a loop to distract him. You’d been through colds and stomach bugs before. This was just another one. Or so you thought.

But two days in, Sebastian was getting worse.

“He hasn’t eaten anything,” Lando muttered, pacing at the foot of Sebastian’s bed. His hands were shoved into his hoodie pocket, eyes fixed on his son who was lying limp, glassy-eyed, not even responding to his favorite movie playing.

“I know,” you sighed, rubbing Sebastian’s back gently. “He won’t even drink juice.”

“He’s not… him. He doesn’t even want me to read to him.”

You both looked at each other then, the unspoken agreement passing between you like a bolt of electricity.

Doctor. Now.

The diagnosis: flu. A pretty bad one.

“Just rest, fluids, and keep monitoring his fever,” the pediatrician said kindly. “These days, the strains going around have been knocking kids out hard, but with proper care, he should be alright in a few days.”

Lando let out a long sigh once you were back in the car, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Okay. Okay. So we can do this.”

You smiled weakly. “Yeah. We’ve got this.”

You didn’t have this.

Because two days later, Lyla got it.

She woke up wailing in the middle of the night, her entire little body on fire with fever, cheeks damp from tears, and that heartbreaking toddler cry that said she didn’t know what was happening.

“Oh no,” you whispered as you scooped her into your arms.

From the doorway, Lando stood in pajama pants, his shirt long forgotten, with sleepy eyes, hair sticking out in every direction, and dark circles under his eyes. “Not her too.”

“She’s burning up, Lan.”

The house descended into chaos.

You barely knew what day it was. There were humidifiers going in every room. Thermometers beeping every few hours. Medicine charts taped to the fridge. Lyla wanted nothing but cuddles. Sebastian was in a zombie state, and you were running on cold coffee and adrenaline.

One afternoon, while you were wiping down the kitchen counter, a soft knock came at the front door.

You opened it to find Oscar standing there, hoodie pulled over his head and holding a large brown paper bag.

“Hey,” he said with a small, apologetic smile. “Lando said you guys were in full-on crisis mode. I figured you could use a hand.”

“Oscar,” you blinked, almost tearing up. “You’re a lifesaver.”

He stepped inside, pulling off his shoes. “I brought electrolyte drinks, cold meds, some soup, and—” he pulled a stuffed dinosaur from the bag with a small grin, “a get-well friend for Seb.”

You laughed softly, taking the items. “Thank you. Seriously.”

He looked toward the living room where Lando was sprawled on the floor with Lyla clinging to his chest, half-asleep. “How’s he holding up?”

You snorted. “Heroically. Stubbornly. Recklessly. Pick one.”

Lando looked up just then. “Oi! I’m doing my best over here!”

“You’re gonna catch it too, mate,” Oscar warned.

“Nah,” Lando said, stroking Lyla’s back gently. “I’ve got dad immunity.”

“You mean denial,” you muttered, setting down the soup.

But Oscar was right.

Two days later, you walked in from the store to find the living room in complete stillness.

Lando was lying facedown on the couch, motionless. Sebastian was snuggled on top of his back like a human blanket, fast asleep. Lyla was curled at the base of the couch with her head on Lando’s leg, mouth open, drool visibly soaking into the fabric of his joggers.

He lifted his hand lazily and gave you a pathetic wave.

“You’re home,” he rasped, voice so congested it didn’t even sound like him.

You set the bag of groceries down and crossed your arms. “Lando.”

He turned his head just slightly, revealing red-rimmed eyes and a nose that was clearly on strike.

“What?”

“You’re sick.”

“No, I’m just tired,” he mumbled.

You arched a brow. “Tired? Your face looks like it’s been hit with hay fever, the flu, and a cold front.”

He huffed. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. You have a seven-year-old with the flu asleep on your back and a two-year-old sneezing on your leg. You’re now patient three in this house of doom.”

“Don’t diss my babies,” he muttered, sniffling.

You walked over and gently lifted Sebastian off him, carefully not to wake him. “Come on, superhero. Time to go to bed.”

He groaned dramatically, trying to sit up before collapsing again. “This is how I go.”

“Lando.”

He opened one eye. “If I don’t make it, tell Oscar I forgive him for bringing me that soup with ginger.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the fond smile tugging at your lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Tell the children I fought bravely.”

“You got the flu from cuddling a toddler.”

“...still brave.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The early morning had become your only moment of true peace.

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but soft golden light was beginning to filter in through the tall windows of your Monaco flat, casting long, warm shadows across the quiet living room. The city beyond the glass was still sleeping, wrapped in the quiet hum of a new day not yet begun. No traffic. No coughing. No cartoons buzzing in the background. Just silence. Precious, rare silence.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen, the tiles cool beneath your feet, wrapped loosely in your robe. One hand cradled a warm mug of tea while the other rested against the edge of the counter as you took a breath. Deep. Grounding. You could almost pretend the past week hadn’t happened—almost pretend the house wasn’t still full of flu-stricken chaos, discarded tissues, and sleepless nights.

But you knew better.

Your eyes wandered toward the hallway.

In your bedroom, Lando lay sprawled across the bed, curled protectively around a small, warm bundle. Lyla was tucked up against him, her tiny frame almost disappearing beneath the heavy duvet. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, her thumb still resting against her lips, breathing soft and even. One of Lando’s arms was draped over her securely, his hand resting gently on her back as if shielding her from even the remnants of the flu. His curls were a tousled mess on the pillow, his mouth parted slightly as he slept—exhausted, stuffy, and completely defeated by the same virus he’d insisted he wouldn’t catch.

You’d warned him. Time and time again, you told him to stop letting her cough in his face, to quit letting her nuzzle into his hoodie while she sniffled and sneezed.

“She’s a daddy’s girl,” you had said. “You’ll be the next one down.”

And now, here you were.

Across the hall, Sebastian was finally asleep too, curled up in his bright red race car bed. His tiny body lay limp under a Cars-themed comforter, his arms tucked beneath his pillow, one leg dangling out from under the blanket like it always did—flu or no flu. His cheeks were still a little pink, but the fever had come down overnight. You’d stood in his doorway earlier just to watch him breathe, just to make sure.

He looked peaceful. For now.

And for a few stolen moments, so did everyone else.

You sipped your tea, turning slowly back toward the stove.

“Breakfast,” you mumbled to yourself, eyeing the sparse options you’d managed to keep stocked through the week. There wasn’t much point in cooking something elaborate. Nothing seemed to stay down anyway. Every meal came with the risk of being met with a gag, a grumble, or worse—clean-up duty.

You sighed and set the mug down. “Oatmeal and yogurt,” you decided aloud. “Simple. Gentle. Not likely to end up on the floor.”

You grabbed the oats and a small pot, setting it on the stove to warm the milk. Your hands moved with practiced rhythm—quiet, calm. You sliced some banana, then carefully cut a few strawberries, arranging them in a little dish in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, the colors might tempt Lyla or Sebastian to eat something.

The silence was comforting, for once. No crying. No sneezing. No soft calls of “Mama…” from down the hall.

Just you. Your kitchen. The soft hum of the refrigerator. The aroma of tea.

And then—ring ring ring.

You jumped a little at the sudden break in stillness and reached across the counter for your phone, sighing lightly. You glanced at the screen and smiled.

Cisca.

You picked up immediately. “Well,” you said with a chuckle, phone pressed to your ear, “it’s nice someone is calling me and not crying or throwing up.”

“Calling to check in on the family!” Cisca’s warm, familiar voice greeted you.

Your smile deepened. Lando’s mom had always been so caring—gentle but no-nonsense, the kind of woman you could rely on. She knew how hard motherhood could get, even with help.

You leaned against the counter, balancing the phone between your shoulder and cheek. “You have impeccable timing. The house is actually… quiet. For once.”

“I was hoping I’d catch you before the chaos starts again. How’s everyone holding up?”

“Well,” you exhaled, stirring the oatmeal slowly, “Sebastian’s fever finally broke last night. He’s asleep in his bed, looking like a little zombie racer.”

“That’s good news.”

You nodded to yourself. “Lyla’s still all sniffles and sleepy cuddles. And she’s in bed with Lando right now.”

Cisca laughed knowingly. “Let me guess—tucked under his arm like a little koala?”

You chuckled. “Exactly. It’s actually adorable. She’s latched onto him like he’s her personal comfort pillow. She refuses to be anywhere else.”

“She always was a daddy’s girl.”

“Yeah,” you said with a smirk, “which brings me to the bad news—he’s got the flu now too.”

“Oh no…”

You shook your head, scooping the finished oatmeal into a bowl. “I told him. Over and over. Stop letting her breathe on you. Stop kissing her forehead every five minutes. But he couldn’t help himself. He cuddled her through the worst of it and now…” You glanced toward the bedroom door. “He’s just another one of my patients.”

Cisca groaned. “He never did listen to advice when it came to sick days.”

You grinned. “Now he’s snoring like a bear, wrapped around his sick toddler like he’s the one keeping her alive.”

“Well, you’re a stronger woman than me,” she said with a laugh. “I’d have booked a hotel.”

“Trust me, I’ve thought about it.”

You both laughed, and for a moment, the tension eased.

“You’re doing great,” Cisca said warmly. “I know this part is exhausting, but it’ll pass. Just make sure you don’t go down next.”

“Knock on wood,” you muttered, glancing at the counter. “I’m the last one standing.”

“For now,” she teased.

You chuckled again and looked over your shoulder, taking in the morning light filtering across the floor, casting a soft glow down the hallway. Behind those doors were your whole world—sick, tired, and helpless—but still your heart in three fragile, beautiful pieces.

And right now, you were holding everyone together.

“I’ve got it,” you whispered more to yourself than anyone else. “I’ve got all of them.”

The sound of a raspy cough pierced the quiet, interrupting your rare sliver of calm. You gently pulled the phone away from your ear mid-sentence.

“I think that’s my cue,” you murmured with a soft sigh. “One of the tiny patients is awake.”

“Hang in there,” Cisca replied sympathetically. “Call me later if you need anything.”

“I will. Thank you, Cisca.”

You ended the call and set the phone down on the counter, already hearing the familiar rhythm of small footsteps padding against the wooden floors. And then—

“Mama!”

You turned toward the hallway, just as Sebastian appeared—his race car pajamas rumpled, curls flattened on one side of his head, and his cheeks still flushed from fever. He rubbed one eye with the back of his hand, dragging his favorite stuffed animal behind him.

Before you could respond, Lando stepped into the kitchen behind him, holding Lyla close to his chest. She was bundled in a blanket, thumb in her mouth, her heavy head resting on his shoulder. Her curls were tangled from sleep, her little body completely melted against him.

“Lando,” you sighed gently, though your tone carried the weight of exhaustion, “put her down. You all should be in bed. I’m making breakfast.”

He gave a tired shake of his head, voice barely above a whisper. “We’re fine, love.”

But you saw the truth in his eyes—the fatigue, the faint daze behind his movements, and most telling of all, the harsh cough that followed his words, forcing him to turn away from the stove area.

“Please,” you said more firmly, “not around the food.”

He nodded weakly, patting Lyla’s back as she made a soft noise in her sleep.

You set the spoon down with a soft clink and crossed your arms. “Okay. You three—back to bed. Now. All of you.”

“Mama…” Sebastian whined pitifully. He shuffled forward and leaned into your side, wrapping his arms around your leg. “I want to stay with you…”

Your heart tugged painfully.

You ran your fingers through his curls and crouched down to meet his tired gaze. “Oh, sweetheart… you three make me feel awful. I hate seeing you all like this.”

Lando watched you, still holding Lyla like a sick little koala bear. His lips were pale, eyes heavy-lidded. You stepped closer, gently brushing a hand over Lyla’s back and then across his arm.

“Lando, honey,” you said softly, your voice dipping into something tender, something pleading, “can you please lay back down? Take them with you? Just rest a little longer.”

He hesitated, shoulders slumping as he exhaled shakily. “I would,” he murmured, “but my head is pounding and I feel like my whole body’s made of wet paper.”

You sighed, leaning into him briefly, pressing your forehead to his arm. “I told you this would happen.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But she wouldn’t sleep without me…”

You looked down at Lyla, who hadn’t stirred once since they entered the kitchen, her little fingers fisted in the fabric of Lando’s shirt.

“Alright,” you said softly. “Come on. All of you—back to bed. I’ll bring breakfast to the bedroom. Just let me finish getting it ready. I’ll even add a bit of honey to Sebastian’s oatmeal and cut Lyla’s strawberries just the way she likes them.”

Sebastian sniffled and looked up at you. “With the little star shapes?”

You smiled tiredly. “With the star shapes, baby.”

Lando gave you the faintest, grateful grin. “You’re kind of a superhero, you know that?”

You reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “Don’t you forget it.”

As they slowly turned back toward the hallway—Lando shuffling like a sick penguin, Sebastian clutching his stuffed animal and trailing behind, Lyla still completely draped across her dad—you watched them disappear one by one into the bedroom.

The kitchen was warm with the gentle scent of honey and oats, the steam from the tea curling softly into the air. You moved with quiet care, filling the bowls with the oatmeal you’d just made—each one sweetened with a drizzle of honey and topped with star-shaped strawberries and banana slices. A small cup of yogurt sat beside each bowl, along with spoons, napkins, and the kind of quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, the kids would eat today without rejecting it.

You poured a mug of warm tea for Lando—his favorite herbal blend with a slice of lemon, just the way he liked it when he was sick—and then filled a tiny glass with vegetable juice for Sebastian, placing it gently on the tray. You knew he didn’t love it, but he’d promised to try if you made it “look fancy.” Lyla’s sippy cup was filled halfway with the same juice, mostly in the name of fairness.

Balancing the two trays with practiced care, you made your way down the hall and into the bedroom.

What you found made your heart ache in that bittersweet way only motherhood ever could.

Lando had propped himself up against the headboard, hair a complete mess, cheeks slightly flushed. Lyla was curled up on his lap, wrapped in her blanket, her thumb tucked into her mouth as she blinked sleepily at you. Sebastian was leaning into Lando’s side, his little head resting on his dad’s shoulder, still holding tightly to his stuffed bunny.

“Goodness,” you breathed, stepping into the room, “you three amaze me…”

Lando looked up, managing a tired grin as you carried the trays in.

You set them carefully on the bedside table and climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress as you sat at the edge. “Alright, breakfast is served—oatmeal, yogurt, fancy fruit, and drinks you’ll all probably ignore.”

“Ocker!” Lyla suddenly perked up, her voice muffled and sleepy as she looked at you hopefully.

You gave her a gentle smile, brushing a hand over her forehead. “Uncle Oscar’s probably busy right now, baby girl. And you’re too sick—he can’t come over until you’re feeling better, remember?”

Lyla frowned, clearly disappointed, but snuggled back into Lando’s chest.

Lando groaned softly, placing a hand over his face in mock defeat. “Great. Sick, miserable, and now my own daughter is choosing Oscar over me.”

You let out a soft laugh, nudging his foot under the covers. “Relax. She’s not picking favorites.”

He peered at you over his hand. “Sure sounds like it.”

You glanced at Lyla, who was now absently poking the edge of her blanket and sucking on her thumb again. “You know when she’s anxious, she gravitates to people who make her feel calm,” you said gently. “And Oscar’s like her giant golden retriever. He’s quiet. Still. And he always lets her talk first, even when she’s babbling nonsense.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying I don’t let her talk?”

You gave him a look. “You narrate her every move like she’s a Formula 1 highlight reel.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it again, sheepish. “Okay… fair.”

Sebastian let out a soft laugh beside him. “You do that, Daddy.”

Lando gave him a playful nudge. “Traitor.”

You smiled at the sight of all three of them bundled up in bed together—your entire world, messy hair and flushed cheeks and all. You passed out the bowls carefully, helping Sebastian sit up straighter and placing Lyla’s tray on the bed where she could reach it, even if you’d probably end up spoon-feeding her half of it.

Lando took his tea with a grateful hum, blowing on it gently. “You didn’t have to do all this, you know.”

“Yes, I did,” you said simply, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Because if I don’t take care of you three, who will?”

He caught your hand in his and kissed your knuckles softly. “When this is over, I owe you a week of sleep and massages.”

“Throw in some chocolate and a hot bath, and you’ve got a deal.”

Lyla leaned her head against Lando’s chest again, sleepy and warm, and Sebastian spooned some oatmeal into his mouth with a quiet, “Mmm, the stars are tasty.”

You laughed softly.

Even in sickness, even in chaos—you wouldn’t trade this for the world.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Medicine hour. A warzone.

“Lando, for the love of everything, just drink it.” You stood over him, arms crossed, holding the measuring cup filled with thick, cherry-red syrup. “You’re setting the worst example.”

He groaned. “I hate the taste. I’d rather die than drink that stuff again.”

“Dramatic,” you muttered, before grabbing a tissue and wiping a smear of sweat off his brow. “But fine. If you die, I’m throwing you out on the balcony so you don’t get the rest of us sicker.”

Sebastian, peeking from behind the kitchen island, gasped. “You’d throw Daddy off the balcony?”

You grinned. “Only a little.”

“Nooooo,” Lyla whined dramatically, half-laughing, half-crying from where she had crawled into Lando’s lap — seeking refuge. “No medicine! No meeeeedicine!”

“She’s hiding behind me,” Lando groaned. “I’m literally dying, and she’s hiding behind me.”

You gave them both the look. “I swear to God—”

10:00 AM They were scattered across the living room like sick little soldiers after battle. Lyla was curled on Lando’s chest, snot crusting around her nose as she finally gave in to sleep. Sebastian lay on his side with a cold rag on his forehead, muttering something about how he was “still in control of the situation.”

You were running on caffeine and desperation, perched at the edge of the armchair, flipping through temperature logs on your phone and timing medicine gaps.

“You okay?” Lando mumbled hoarsely, watching you through tired eyes. You hesitated. “I’ve been better.”

He gave you a weak smile. “I’d kiss you, but I’d infect you.”

You snorted. “You already did.”

12:45 PM Lunchtime was a joke.

Lando tried to stand and help but ended up throwing up water in the bathroom and groaning dramatically like a Shakespearean ghost. You had to threaten Sebastian with no Mario Kart for a week just to get three spoonfuls of chicken broth into him.

Lyla wailed when you brought the soup near her mouth. She refused to even open it unless Lando was holding the spoon, which he physically couldn’t. It ended with you holding Lyla, and Lando guiding your hand to her mouth with both of yours like some sort of messed-up relay.

“Say aaaaah,” you tried.

“No!” “Please?” “Noooooo!” “Fine, then no cartoon time for the day”

Her mouth opened like magic. You almost cried.

2:30 PM Nap time.

Not for you, of course. Never for you.

Lando was finally out cold in bed, one leg dangling dramatically off the side. Sebastian had passed out with a box of tissues under one arm and a Switch on the other. Lyla was asleep on the living room floor, a stuffed bunny clutched to her chest and tear streaks still drying on her face.

You just sat. In the silence. For ten whole minutes.

Ten peaceful, quiet, blessed minutes.

Until Sebastian shouted from his dream, “Don’t touch my kart!” and startled Lyla back awake.

4:00 PM Round two.

You had to strip Lando’s shirt when he started sweating through it again. He barely fought you this time, just muttered something about “this being true love” as you threw it into the hamper.

Sebastian vomited in the hallway. “I didn’t mean to!” “I know, sweetheart. It’s okay.” “Do I still get Mario Kart?” “…We’ll talk about it.”

Lyla bit your arm during her medicine dose. Not unusual considering who her father is.

6:00 PM You finally had them clean, medicated, in fresh pajamas, and watching a movie — a miracle. Lando took your hand from where he lay on the couch.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered. “You haven’t sat all day.”

“Who has time to sit when you have three Norrises pretending they're fine but slowly dying in front of you?”

He laughed softly, rubbing your knuckles. “Seriously… thank you.” You kissed his temple. “Next time you say you’re fine… I’m duct-taping you to the bed.”

From across the room, Sebastian weakly raised his hand. “Me too?” “Yes, you too.” “And Lyla?” Lyla sneezed so hard she fell over. “Nooooooo!”

You exhaled, leaning back at last.

One long, flu-stricken day down. God help you — it probably wasn’t over yet.

But for now… they were okay.

And that was enough.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The sun had barely crept over the buildings of Monaco, casting soft golden streaks through the glass windows of the flat. You stood barefoot in the kitchen, hoodie sleeves rolled up and hair tied messily atop your head. The faint hum of the dishwasher was a low reward for your efforts, and the strong scent of lemon-scented disinfectant lingered in the air. You'd deep cleaned every surface before anyone had even stirred. You sanitized toys, aired out bedding, wiped down door handles — anything that had been sneezed, coughed, or whined on.

You were exhausted, but the apartment felt new again — lighter somehow, fresher, like the weight of the past 48 hours had lifted a little. Even Monaco, framed through the glass windows, looked like it had taken a deep breath alongside you.

Just as you were about to sink into the couch for the first time all morning, the doorbell buzzed. You already knew the voice before the intercom clicked:

“Delivery!” came Oscar’s cheerful tone.

You grinned.

Dragging yourself to the door, you cracked it open slightly. “You,” you said with a tired smile, “are the absolute best.”

He laughed as you opened the door the rest of the way. “I figured you needed it,” he said, handing over a large brown paper bag with your favorites — fresh croissants, some fruit, and what you knew was a much-needed double-shot latte.

You clutched the bag like it was sacred. “You're a hero. Truly. Come in?”

He shook his head. “Can’t. On the way to the simulator, but I wanted to check in.”

“How’s Lando? And the others?” he asked as you leaned against the doorway, exhaustion written under your eyes but a soft smile on your lips.

You let out a sigh that carried a world of chaos. “Well… let’s see,” you began, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “I’ve been running around handling cleaning and cooking and, you know, making sure no one dies from stubbornness.”

Oscar smirked. “Sounds about right.”

“Lando keeps trying to act like he’s fine, defending Lyla during medicine hour like some sort of sick knight in a hoodie. He practically begged me not to make her drink the syrup last night — while sweating through his own shirt.”

Oscar snorted.

“And Sebastian…” You softened a little, glancing toward the hallway. “He wants to do karting. He was almost crying this morning. Said he knows he can drive even if he’s sick — ‘just not with a helmet on because it squishes his head,’” you mimicked gently in Sebastian’s voice. “So, he’s very much stuck in the flat and not happy about it.”

You paused, then added with a chuckle, “And me? Well. I’m surviving. Officially crowned Mrs. Norris and her flu-stricken family. Put it on the mailbox.”

Oscar gave you a soft look, one of genuine admiration. “You always say you’re surviving, but honestly… you’re the one keeping the wheels turning.”

You gave him a tired smile in return, warmed by the words. “Maybe. But next time they all get the flu? I’m moving out. Temporarily. Maybe to your flat.”

“Ha! Yeah, okay. You, voluntarily away from them?” he grinned. “You’d last three hours before you’re texting Lando to send you pictures of the kids in their pajamas.”

You shrugged, accepting the truth. “Alright, fine. But I will complain the whole time.”

He stepped back, giving you a two-finger salute. “Hang in there. And seriously — nap when you can. You’ve earned it.”

You raised the coffee cup like a toast. “Oscar Piastri, Patron Saint of the Overworked Mother.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said over his shoulder as he walked down the corridor.

You lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, sipping your drink, letting the warmth spread through your fingers and into your chest.

The house was quiet again. Peaceful, if only for a few minutes.

You closed the door and whispered to yourself, “Alright. Round three… let’s go.”

The rest of the day unfolded in a blur of soft whines, crumpled tissues, and half-eaten meals abandoned mid-bite. Every corner of the flat held evidence of a war against the flu — juice cups only half drunk, bowls of soup pushed aside, little socks strewn across the floor like fallen soldiers.

Sebastian and Lyla had entered the “bickering phase,” where every toy, blanket, or parental glance became a battle.

“Mummy, Lyla stole my truck!”

“Nooo, mine!”

“It’s literally mine!”

You exhaled loudly from the kitchen, gently massaging your temple. “Please… one moment of peace. One.”

Lando, lying horizontal on the couch with a blanket thrown over his head like a man defeated, peeked one eye open. “Want me to mediate?”

“You fell asleep twice during Cars 2,” you shot back. “You’re barely qualified to stand.”

“I’m fine,” he said for the fourth time today — voice raspy, hair tousled, and one sock mysteriously missing. “Totally fine.”

You glanced at the coffee table, where a half-full mug of cold tea sat untouched next to a bottle of cold meds. “You sure about that?”

“Mmhm,” he said, eyes already closing again.

You didn’t push it. You just picked up another tissue from the floor and added it to the already overflowing bin.

Midday blurred into afternoon.

You dragged a basket of clothes out of the bathroom, a trail of damp towels and pajamas trailing behind you. Every time you passed a doorknob, you hit it with a disinfectant wipe. The light switches, the remotes, the handles to the fridge — all wiped in steady repetition like you were running your own personal hospital ward.

Lyla cried when she couldn’t find Bunny. Sebastian cried when Lyla touched his Mario Kart controller. Lando made a valiant attempt to make toast, only to collapse back into bed five minutes later, claiming the “world got a little spinny.”

And you… you kept going.

You’d lost count of how many times you’d reheated your coffee. You hadn’t brushed your hair since early morning, and your hoodie had a suspicious smear on the sleeve — you didn’t ask what it was. But still, you moved through the house like a quiet force, taking care of your people, checking temperatures, brushing sweaty hair from little foreheads, rubbing Lando’s back when he coughed hard enough to wince.

You were tired.

Utterly drained.

But you looked at them — at the mess, the madness, the family-shaped hurricane swirling around you — and your chest still swelled with that quiet kind of love.

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Not the mess. Not the noise. Not even the flu.

Because they were yours.

And all you wanted… was for them to feel better.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Three more days.

Three more days of the same rhythm: tissues, thermometers, scattered toys, the faint beep of the washing machine in the background. You moved through the apartment with quiet determination, never stopping for long — cleaning surfaces with one hand, balancing a bottle of electrolyte solution in the other. You knew exactly how many crackers were left, how low the medicine was getting, and which blanket belonged to which feverish body.

You restocked what was needed, organized medications by time, wiped down doorknobs like it was second nature. You were the engine keeping the flat running — quiet, steady, reliable. But it was draining, and though you didn’t say a word of it out loud, your body ached with exhaustion, your eyes stung when you blinked too long, and your thoughts grew foggy from lack of sleep.

Lando noticed.

Even in his haze — buried in the couch, skin pale, lips cracked from dehydration — he watched you.

And it hurt him.

Every time he opened his eyes and saw you wiping down the remote or cleaning Lyla’s pacifier again, he felt it deep in his chest. Not the ache of the flu — but the ache of helplessness. The guilt.

He wanted to get up and take the load from your shoulders. He wanted to hold Lyla while you slept, chase Sebastian around the flat again, make you tea and tell you to lie down. But his body betrayed him. Every time he tried, the wave of nausea, of exhaustion, of weakness pulled him right back down.

Still… he silently promised himself: As soon as I can stand, I’m making it right.

And then — slowly, things began to shift.

Day Four of Illness.

It was subtle at first. But you noticed.

Lando made it to the bathroom on his own. No dizzy hands braced on the wall. No stumbling. Just… quiet steps down the hallway, and a simple, calm return to bed. He even flushed this time, a small miracle. When he laid down, he muttered, “Didn’t even gag this time.” It was ridiculous — and still made your heart squeeze.

His appetite came creeping back. He managed to finish toast without wincing, and even reached for a banana. “Don’t get too excited,” he said weakly when he caught your proud smile. “I’m still a shell of a man.”

Sebastian’s voice was still hoarse with a lingering cough, but he was no longer buried under four blankets in bed. Instead, he was camped on the couch, one leg hanging off as he watched cartoons, munching slowly on dry cereal. His eyes were brighter, not glassy anymore, and he even complained about how boring it was to be sick now.

“Can I go karting today?” he asked. You raised a brow. “Buddy… you’re still coughing.” “But I feel fast.” You laughed softly. “You’ll be fast again soon, promise.”

And Lyla — your little whirlwind — was finally playing again. Her fever had broken. She was dragging her plush animals around the living room like royalty, babbling half-words, climbing into your lap only to squirm out two seconds later. Her energy was returning in soft waves — not chaotic, but present.

And you?

You finally noticed you weren’t holding your breath anymore.

You weren’t setting alarms every few hours in the night. You didn’t have to make midnight runs to the bathroom cabinet. You no longer counted coughs or worried about temperatures spiking.

The house still held signs of the storm — the tissues, the blankets, the smell of menthol lingering in the air — but it was passing. Slowly, but surely, your family was healing.

That night, for the first time in what felt like forever, you laid down in bed and didn’t immediately feel the pressure of duty pulling you back up.

And when Lando turned over to face you, his voice was low, scratchy, but more him than it had been in days.

“You can sleep now,” he whispered, his hand gently brushing yours under the blanket. “We’re okay.”

And you believed him.

So you closed your eyes.

And slept.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You almost thanked the heavens out loud when color returned to your family’s faces.

Sebastian was up earlier, bounding down the hallway with his usual chaotic energy, no longer curled up on the couch like a sad, blanket-wrapped burrito. He was asking about karting again, insisting he was at “90% top speed, maybe 95 if I have juice first.”

Lyla had less whines and more giggles, finally dragging her plush bunny around like a queen commanding her court. She followed Sebastian with a trail of toys and an occasional squeal of laughter, her little feet pattering like soft rain across the living room.

And Lando — God, Lando was himself again. Teasing the kids, poking Sebastian in the ribs until he laughed too hard and snorted, lifting Lyla over his shoulder with ease as she squealed “Daddy noooo!” through laughter. His eyes had lost that fever-dull glaze. His cheeks held their warmth again, his playful smile was back.

It was perfect. Finally.

You could breathe. You could wipe your forehead, toss the washcloth into the laundry, and declare — with exhausted triumph — mission accomplished. You’d nursed your flu-stricken army back to health. You'd survived the storm.

Dinner plates were no longer left half-full. No one was clutching their stomach or whining about sore limbs or sweating through pajamas at 2am. They were whole again.

And then, like cruel irony, a week later… it hit you.

It started slow. A dull ache behind your eyes. The scratch in your throat. A heaviness in your body that you desperately tried to shake off.

No, you told yourself. Not me. I’m the caregiver, the strong one, the immune one. I don’t get sick. I fix sick.

But the ache deepened. The energy drained. And by the time you found yourself in the kitchen, hunched slightly over the steaming bowl of chicken soup, elbows on the counter, face slack with fatigue — you knew.

It got you. The flu finally got you.

Your head lolled to the side as the world tilted just slightly under your feet, and you groaned, nose wrinkling. You didn’t even hear him come in, not until that familiar voice softened behind you.

“You okay, baby?”

Lando’s tone was light, but laced with immediate concern. You turned your head sluggishly and gave a small, pitiful hum.

“Think the flu is trying to attack me,” you mumbled, punctuating the sentence with a weak cough into your sleeve.

He was at your side instantly, hand brushing your lower back. You saw his face fall just slightly. Not the dramatic Lando face he gave the kids — the real one. The worried one.

“Alright,” he said firmly, “go lay down. No arguments.”

You groaned. “No. I still need to finish—”

“Nope. Don’t care. You took care of us. Now we take care of you,” he said, gently taking the spoon from your hand and setting it down. “C’mon, don’t be stubborn. You were a badass nurse. It’s my turn to suck at it.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “You’re going to be the best and worst nurse. Somehow, both at once.”

He grinned, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “Right. Now off you go. Shoo. Mama’s off duty.”

You were about to turn, maybe even argue a little more — but then, with a cheeky grin, he slapped your ass. Hard enough to make you yelp.

“NORRIS!” you barked, rubbing the spot with a soft wince.

“What?” he laughed, completely unbothered, “I’m just encouraging the patient to move along. Nurse’s orders.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, incredibly handsome.”

He winked, ushering you toward the hallway.

You dragged your feet, muttering, “A nurse does not hurt the person he’s caring for.”

“Oh come on,” he murmured, catching up to you, kissing the edge of your jaw. “It’s my favorite part of you. Don’t act like you didn’t know.”

You turned back to give him the dirtiest look you could muster — half-hearted at best — and he smirked again.

“I’ll carry you if I have to,” he said, following close behind.

From the living room, Lyla squealed in laughter and Sebastian shouted something about racing plush animals. You smiled faintly, even through the growing ache in your head. They were okay. They were whole again. That was everything.

Lando guided you toward the bedroom, one hand still gently on your hip.

“Oh, and babe?” he added, grinning, “If I nurse you back to health, I get baby number three.”

You spun slowly on your heel. “You really wanna try that while I have the flu?”

He raised both hands. “Just planting the idea. Let it simmer. Like your soup. Which I’m now in charge of, by the way.”

You laughed softly — hoarse and worn, but genuine.

He brushed your hair away from your forehead, pressed a kiss there. “Go sleep. I’ll check on the kids, do dinner. You’ve earned it.”

You nodded, curling under the blanket a few minutes later, body finally letting go.

Your husband — your teammate, your chaos, your comfort — was the biggest pain in your ass. But he was also the one always ready to carry you when you couldn’t walk.

And really, that made him the best damn nurse of all. Even if he had wandering hands.

1K notes · View notes

gojoest · 2 months ago

Text

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃

━━━ synopsis: fate has a strange way of birthing love. you married gojo satoru to stay close to his father — an arranged union built to conceal a scandalous affair. but somewhere between the lies and the silence, another secret began to stir quietly in your chest. one that did not belong to his father at all.

━━━ content warning: MDNI, fem! reader (she/her), arranged marriage, affair, infidelity, love triangle, age gap (late 50s vs late 20s/early 30s), reader’s age isn’t necessarily specified but she’s written with late 20s/early30s in mind, unreliable narrator, original characters (satoru’s parents: gojo akihito & gojo saori), falling in love, sexual themes but no explicit content, alcohol consumption in a few scenes, reader is drunk in one scene, flashbacks, character death, murder, twists, there’s a specific fire scene that is heavily inspired by the manhwa “betrayal of dignity”, pregnancy, angst with a happy ending, ask to tag if something triggering is missing

━━━ pairing: gojo satoru x fem! reader ; gojo akihito (oc) x fem! reader

━━━ word count: 20k+ (…idk what happened there tbh)

━━━ author’s note: hello guys! this is the idea i first mentioned back in october and it’s finally coming to life! it’s the longest thing i’ve ever written so please be gentle and kind — to me, to the story, and to reader. i did my best to proofread while editing but apologies in advance for any typos, inconsistencies or mistakes that might’ve slipped through! i hope you enjoy the read ♡

Love can make you do crazy things.

Sometimes it’s a silly behavior that you exhibit, one that isn’t akin to your usual self, one that makes you a bit of a fool.

You find yourself taking detours to “accidentally” bump into someone. Your heart races at the sight of them, and you disguise your longing behind an awkward ‘What a coincidence!’, but what you really mean is ‘I really wanted to see you! I couldn’t stay away.’ It’s harmless — charming, even.

But what happens when love blooms where it shouldn’t? When it takes root in poisoned soil, nurtured by secrecy and betrayal — can it still be called innocent? When the heart wants what it shouldn’t, when desire threatens to unravel lives and twist fates — is it still harmless? Still endearing?

No. The fool knows better — but doesn’t care.

Blinded by love, reason is cast aside. Judgment dulls. Morality slips through desperate fingers. The choices no longer belong to conscience; they belong to longing.

Science says that falling in love mimics a drug high — dopamine rushes, rational thought hijacked, impulse overrides consequence. You become addicted. You crave. And in that craving, you’d do anything to have it. No matter the cost.

The air in the room is thick. With the windows shut, the scent of sex lingers — trapped between the four walls of the hotel room, clinging to your skin and his. Your bodies lie tangled, worn out and still close.

“Nobody saw you come in, right?” the whitehaired man beside you breaks the silence, voice low but tender. His breathing has steadied, back to its usual calm rhythm.

You tilt your head, cheek still pressed against his damp chest. His hand, which had been trailing lazily along your bare back, moves up to cradle your neck — gentle, almost instinctive. Like he’s trying to spare you any discomfort, even now. It makes you smile, the way he always trembles for you.

“No, no one saw me”, you murmur. “It’s not like this is the first time.”

“It’s the first time since you got married”, he replies, his tone quieter, more guarded.

“Is this why you’re so tense?” you let out a feeble laugh. “Nothing’s changed, really — except now we’re both married...” the smile on your lips slowly fades. Your lips part, more words caught behind them.

...not to each other though — you want to say, but you don’t. You don’t want to break the moment. It’s been too long since you last had this.

“Actually”, he trails off, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand.

At times like this, you’re reminded, again, how large he is. He barely shifts beneath you, just stretches one arm to grab the pack, the other still wrapped around your waist. He lights a cigarette with practiced ease, tucks it between his lips, and inhales deeply.

“There’s one thing that has changed”, he says, smoke curling from his mouth.

“Oh?”

“I see you every day now.”

A faint smile touches his lips, softening his blue eyes. He kisses the top of your head, gaze lingering on you.

That’s right. You do see each other every day now. It’s the consequence of living under the same roof.

“But even so, moments like this... they’ve become rare. That bothers me.”

The warmth leaves his voice. His eyes grow distant, pale and cold. “Seems like he is keeping you too busy. Maybe he’s starting to like you.” he speaks in a dull voice.

“You think so?”

“He’s around the house more, with you. He used to be gone all the time. That wasn’t supposed to happen.” His tone hardens. “He wasn’t supposed to act like this.”

You let out a dry, uneasy chuckle. “Maybe he’s taking after you. Maybe I bewitched him... just like I bewitched you.”

You don’t mean it. It’s just a tease, but the words land wrong.

“Don’t joke about it”, he mutters, exhaling sharply. His brows furrow, tension creeping back into his features. “That’d be... problematic.”

The man beside you is Gojo Akihito — your lover. The former head of the Gojo Clan. He is also the father of your husband. The current head of the clan — Gojo Satoru.

...you only meant to lighten the mood. But just like his plan —

It’s not working.

Rumor has it: The clan head, Gojo Satoru, is completely enamored with his wife.

It has become the talk of the mansion.

“Did you see”, one maid whispers, nudging her colleague as they set the long dining table. “He brought her flowers, again.”

“That’s nothing”, another chimes in, lowering her voice. “The other day he asked me how to make omurice. Said he wanted to learn it properly.”

The first two maids lean in, wide-eyed. “And? What happened?”

“I went into the kitchen early next morning”, she continues with a conspiratorial grin, “And there he was. Apron and everything. Cooking omurice from scratch. Said it was for his wife. Even served it on a fancy plate — with flowers from the garden. I think he picked them himself.”

The maids collectively gasp, hands covering mouths, eyes sparkling.

“He’s completely smitten”, one sighs, nearly swooning. “I heard he turned down every arranged match before her — didn’t even consider them. Then out of nowhere, he agrees to this one without a second thought.”

“At first, I figured he just caved from the pressure”, another adds. “You know how the elders kept pushing. I thought he married her to shut them up.”

“But now? Look at him. That’s not obligation. That’s a man in love.”

A round of dreamy sighs circles the table.

“Remember how he used to show up maybe once every couple of months? Only if something serious needed his attention?”

“Now we see him every day”, one nods. “And if he’s not home, it feels... weird.”

“He always comes back”, says another. “No matter how late. And the first thing he does is go see her.”

“That’s not all”, the first maid says, lowering her voice even more. “The other day, he came home with a wound.”

“No way. Him?” one of the others gasps. “He’s untouchable — who even got close enough to land a hit?”

“Exactly. And do you know what he did? He let her clean him up. She asked for the first aid kit, and he just... smiled. The whole time. Like it didn’t hurt at all.”

A chorus of quiet squeals follows, full of awe and disbelief.

“He let himself be struck just so she’d fuss over him?” one whispers, covering her mouth. “God, he’s hopeless.”

But before the fantasy could grow any richer, a sharp voice cuts through the air.

“If you’re done gossiping”, Akihito says coolly from the doorway, “Perhaps you could focus on the work you’re actually being paid to do. Call everyone when dinner is ready.”

The maids freeze, spines straightening, heads bowing in rapid succession. “Y-yes, sir. Our apologies.”

Akihito didn’t linger. He didn’t need to.

It wasn’t their chatter that irritated him. It was what they were whispering about. What they were seeing — what he couldn’t ignore. That’s what got under his skin.

“Good evening, wife.”

You blink at the mirror just as a bouquet of forget-me-nots is gently laid in front of you on the vanity. Satoru leans in behind you, his reflection appearing over your shoulder, smiling. “You look beautiful, as always.” he murmurs against your ear.

You shift slightly in your chair, but his hands land softly on your shoulders, holding you in place — not forcefully, but firmly enough to suggest he’s not letting you leave just yet.

“Want me to brush your hair?”

You sigh and meet his eyes in the mirror. “I can do it myself.”

“I know”, he says smoothly. “But I want to.”

Persistent. That’s one thing you’ve learned about him in the month you’ve been married — Satoru always gets what he wants. If you said no now, you wouldn’t put it past him to slip gum into your hair just so you’d have to ask for help.

Just like he did with your slippers.

He wanted to put them on for you one morning — for no reason other than his own mischief, you’re sure — but you refused. Later, fresh out of the shower, they were gone. All of them. Every pair. Oh no, we’re out of slippers! Guess I’ll just carry you — he said with that shameless grin of his. And he did. Said the floor was too cold. Couldn’t let his wife get sick, after all. He carried you around the house all morning. Then, right before leaving to run some errands together, he knelt, slipped your shoes on like some smug prince, and you let him — half amused, half annoyed.

The bastard always wins.

“Fine”, you relent now, sitting back.

“Don’t worry”, he says, picking up the brush. “I’ll be gentle.”

So far, nothing about this marriage has matched what Akihito told you. It was supposed to be nothing more than a formality. He reassured you countless times that his son would not even glance at you — let alone lay a hand on you; that you would probably just see him just once, on your wedding day, and that would be the end of it. But so far, Akihito was wrong about everything.

He’s never home, huh? — You see him every day.

He won’t touch you, huh? — Then why does he look for every excuse to be close? Going as far as to get himself injured on purpose and come back without healing himself so you’ll tend to him... Why does he always find a reason to touch your arm, your hand, your back? Why... Maybe, he wants to get in your pants? That must be it... right? Why else would he try so hard to make things work? It’s not like you two married out of love. You could’ve just quietly existed as his wife on paper; he certainly doesn’t have to bother making you an actual part of his life.

Sure, he is a huge tease. But it’s not the annoying kind. It’s... disarming. You hate to admit it, but there’s something about him. A pull. A quiet magnetism that makes you want to lean in instead of pull away. And sometimes, you forget — forget why you came to be his wife in the first place, that this was never meant to be more than convenience serving the purposes of a scandalous affair.

Until you remember. Until you look at him and see shadows of Akihito — the resemblance too striking to ignore. A younger version of the man who changed everything for you.

You sigh, unable to keep your thoughts from wandering.

“Did I hurt you?”, Satoru asks, suddenly pausing mid-stroke.

You glance at his reflection. For just a second, there’s something soft in his expression. Worry. “No”, you say. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

He continues brushing, careful not to let the bristles graze your skin. Instead, his hand absorbs the pressure — the motion surprisingly tender. Then his hand drops. Light fingertips brush your neck. Two fingers lift your chin, tilting your head back until your eyes meet. “Thinking about someone else while I’m this close to you?” he asks, brows furrowed. His tone is calm, but the edge in it isn’t playful. It’s sharp. Serious.

“Jealous?” you smirk, trying to deflect.

He places the brush down and leans in. His head hovering over yours. There’s barely any distance left. When you both breathe out a veil of warm air falls and fills the tiny gap left between your faces. “Very”, he says quietly, his face deprived of the usual grin. “Makes me want to do terrible things to the man in your thoughts.” He’s not joking. Not even a little.

“I was thinking about you, actually”, you reply. It’s not technically a lie.

Not accustomed to such intimate closeness with him, heat starts to spread across your cheeks, your heartbeat acting peculiarly too. The nearness is too much. You share a bed, yes — but neither of you has ever dared cross the middle. Not yet. Why beat so fast suddenly, heart? Must be the fact he’s looming over you like this that is making you uncomfortable. Trying to break the tension, you joke. “If you’re planning on doing terrible things to yourself, make sure you don’t die. I’d hate to be widowed so young.”

His expression falters. For a second, you see it — genuine surprise. It’s satisfying. He blinks, once, twice, head pulling back slightly, fingers at your jaw trembling with something unspoken. But it doesn’t last. He recovers quickly.

A breathy laugh escapes him as he leans in again. “You were thinking about me? What, something dirty?”

You scoff. “You wish.”

“I do”, he replies instantly. “And don’t worry — you’ll get there soon enough.”

The audacity.

“What makes you so sure I’ll get there”, you shoot back. He grins, guiding your face back toward the mirror. “If you can’t see it up close...” He taps the glass. “Just look there. I’m kind of a masterpiece.”

“The only piece you are is a piece of work”, you mutter, turning your head with a huff, your hair brushing against his face. You expect a quip in return. But he goes still. Sniffs.

“Hmm... What’s that smell?” He leans closer, nose buried briefly in your hair. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

You freeze. Akihito’s cigarettes. You didn’t wash your hair after the hotel. Damn it.

“I don’t”, you reply, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you.

“You smell like cigarettes.”

“I was with a friend earlier. She smokes. Maybe that’s why.” you lie.

Satoru watches you carefully through the mirror. “Good. You shouldn’t smoke”, he says at last, straightening up. “My wife has to live a long life. With me.” A smile tugs at his lips. A playful smirk, back to normal.

You try to summon a sharp retort. Something clever. But all you manage is a tight, fake smile as your heart thunders in your chest. You were almost caught.

Then—

Knock-knock.

“Dinner is ready, sir. Madam.” one of the maids calls from outside.

“Hai-hai~”, Satoru casually yells out. “We’ll be down in a minute.”

The dining room is too quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t peace, but tension — stretched thin between the four people who sit on the table. It makes the softest sounds feel sharp. Or maybe it’s just in your head, considering the situation.

It’s tradition, apparently — whenever everyone is home, meals are eaten together. Your least favorite part of the day. Understandably so, given the circumstances: you willingly put yourself here, fully aware you’d be sitting across from the woman whose husband you’re secretly sleeping with, and beside the son you’re technically cheating on — with his father.

You sit beside your husband, Satoru. Across from you, Akihito — your lover, your secret. Next to him is Saori, your lover’s wife and husband’s mother — regal and silent, her expression unreadable as always, like she’s wearing a careful mask.

No one speaks when the food is served. Just the mechanical act of eating, a silence that presses against your ribs like guilt. Your appetite has all but vanished since becoming the bride of the Gojo Clan, your stomach perpetually knotted with remorse. Sometimes even water feels repulsive. You often catch yourself wondering why you’re even doing this. Is it really love? You begin to question the choice you made, weighing it with a heaviness that never seems to lift.

Then, as always, the silence shatters. Satoru reaches over, casual as anything, and plucks a bite of greens from your plate with his chopsticks. “Yours always taste better”, he grins, dropping them in his mouth. “Must be the way you chew”, he says with a mouthful.

A small, soft laugh escapes you before you can catch it. There he goes with his silly antics again, you think. He somehow always knows how to tug you out of your head, whether you want him to or not.

Akihito’s chopsticks pause mid-motion. His eyes narrow, barely, but you feel the weight of it. “Interesting”, he says, voice low and smooth, but with a faint edge. “I thought you never touched your greens.”

Satoru doesn’t look away from you as he chews, slow and deliberate. “Tastes change.”

The air thins. You take a sip of wine to steady your hands and avoid meeting Akihito’s eyes. You can feel them — heavy, disapproving, and not very kind.

“They do”, Akihito replies after a moment, setting his chopsticks down with a soft click. “Although not always for the better.”

You want to look at him, to read what he’s really thinking — but you don’t dare. Sometimes it feels like even a glance might betray you. Especially now, as Satoru shifts slightly in his seat, angling himself subtly closer to you, as if rising to meet some unspoken challenge.

“I suppose it depends”, Satoru says lightly, the smile still playing on his lips. “Sometimes, watching someone savor something — it can spark a craving in you too.” He smiles at you then — softly — and something flutters in your chest that has no business being there. Then, he adds, with just enough weight to sharpen the air again. “But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, old man? How tastes change over time.”

You freeze, just for a moment. Akihito doesn’t blink. His tone stays dry, his face unreadable. “Was there a point to that?”

Satoru leans back slightly. “Just that, at your age, I’d expect you to be less surprised when people... shift.”

Across from you, Saori finally lifts her wine glass. She doesn’t drink — not yet — but she swirls the red liquid slowly, her gaze shifting from father to son like she’s watching something she’s already seen before. They clash often, you’ve noticed. Not loudly, not outright — but it’s always there. A push and pull beneath the surface, a cold war of words and glances.

Sometimes, you wonder if Satoru knows about the affair. He says things — subtle, but cutting — that make you pause, that make you think he might be more aware than he lets on. Maybe that’s why he’s pursuing you so intently — just to prove a point to his father. But then, there are moments when his gaze softens when he looks at you, when his touch lingers just a second too long. He goes out of his way every day just to be near you. And in those moments, it feels too sincere to be a game. You start to think he might actually mean it. That he’s not just chasing you out of spite — but because he truly wants you.

You reach for your own glass again, taking another sip of wine, as if it might wash away the tension thickening by the second. But it doesn’t. Setting the glass back down, your hand lingers at its base. Your fingers brush against Satoru’s hand that rests on the table between you two. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, his pinky curls beneath yours — just enough to be felt, not seen. You don’t pull away. You know Akihito sees it. You feel it. The tick in his jaw is barely visible, but you notice it.

“I’ve been seeing you around way more frequently, Satoru. I hope marriage hasn’t dulled your focus”, he says, his voice smooth and pointed. “There are more important things than... comfort.”

The irony, you think. The words sound like a joke to you, coming from the same man who orchestrated your marriage just to keep you closer and see you more freely. You barely manage to swallow a scoff.

Satoru leans back in his chair, unfazed. “You’d be surprised”, he says lightly. “Sometimes comfort is the only thing keeping people from falling apart.”

“It’s rare”, Saori speaks at last, “to see affection in this house. Perhaps we shouldn’t discourage it.” Her words are gentle, kind — at least, on the surface. But they carry the weight of something unspoken, a quiet complaint from a woman who has never been loved by her husband — not in the way a lover is.

The silence that follows is anything but gentle. Her words hang in the air, delicate yet heavy, like the last note of a song no one knows how to follow. No one speaks. Not right away. You watch Akihito, wondering if he’ll respond — if he even knows how. But his expression remains unreadable, carved from habit more than emotion. Then, without looking at anyone in particular, he speaks, as if the comment never touched him at all. “I meant to tell you”, Akihito says, cutting through the quiet like a blade, “The elders requested a meeting with you tomorrow morning.”

Satoru’s glass of water stills halfway to his lips. “Can’t”, he says casually. “I’m taking my wife out.”

You blink. That’s the first you’ve heard of it.

Akihito’s expression doesn’t change, but the muscle in his jaw tightens — just once, sharply — as he exhales through his nose. “You can reschedule”, he says. “The clan elders don’t appreciate being made to wait.”

Satoru shrugs. “Neither does she.” He doesn’t even look at you when he says it, but the weight of it presses into your ribs like heat.

The silence that follows is tight, full of things no one says. Saori watches Akihito this time, her gaze sharp as cut glass. Her husband is acting odd. And she notices everything.

Gojo Akihito was a man carved from discipline. Now in his late fifties, he was a figure both respected and quietly feared. When he entered a room, silence followed. Backs straightened. Conversations halted. People instinctively adjusted their posture — as if simply being in his presence demanded their best. His presence was weighty, not in a menacing way, but with a gravity that commanded reverence. His name alone held power — spoken softly, carefully, like it belonged to someone who mattered more than most. And he did. Shaped by the will of the elders, Akihito had been molded into the ideal head of the Gojo Clan: composed, unwavering, and dutiful. Obedience had been stitched into his bones from childhood. He was taught not to dream, but to serve. To lead with strength and never stray from what was expected.

His path had been set before he could walk it — become strong, inherit the clan, marry a chosen wife, produce an heir. And he did. His talents bloomed early. Power came easily to him, and with it, authority. He married Saori, a woman selected by the elders, and fulfilled his role without resistance. Love was never part of the arrangement — but respect was. Even in the absence of affection, he treated her with dignity. They never became lovers — much to Saori’s quiet sorrow, for she had loved him from the very beginning. After they conceived Satoru, he never touched her again. As if it had been part of a duty — fulfilled, then forgotten.

When he stepped down and passed the title of clan head to his son, Akihito did not fade quietly into the background. His voice still carried weight, often more so than of the current leader. To many, he remained the pillar of the clan. The rock. Unmoving. Unshakeable. Dependable. But even stone erodes, given time. Even the strongest man can change. Even a rock, under enough heat — can melt.

Akihito wasn’t supposed to be here. The streets were too narrow, too loud, brimming with color and life in a way that felt foreign to him. He was meant to be elsewhere, at a meeting across town — another empty ritual of clan maintenance. But his driver took a wrong turn, and instead of rerouting, Akihito had stepped out, needing a walk. Needing air. Needing space from the weight that always clung to his shoulders. That’s when he saw you.

At first, it was nothing. You were just a figure in the crowd — young, distracted, smiling faintly at your phone, coffee in hand. But something about you… stopped him. You passed by without noticing him, and the moment stretched too long. Something about you felt familiar, though he couldn’t place why. A detail misplaced in time. A memory from a life he never lived. He turned — just slightly. Just enough to watch you go. You entered a nearby café tucked between cramped buildings. Small. A little worn. Too cozy, too youthful for someone like him. He should have kept walking. But he followed you inside. He told himself it was curiosity. That he needed a moment to sit, make a call, kill time. But deep down, even then, he knew. He picked a seat in the corner. Three tables away from you.

He returned the next day. And the next. It was irrational. Dangerous. He wasn’t the kind of man who indulged temptations. His life had been a masterclass in restraint — each step measured, each emotion disciplined out of existence. But you… You sat in the same spot each day, sipping a drink, sometimes reading, sometimes just staring out the window with that faraway look that seemed to see something no one else could. He wondered what you saw. He wondered what you wanted. He wondered what it would feel like to be the thing you looked at that way. And he hated himself for it.

You didn’t know who he was. You didn’t know that the man sitting a few tables away had once been the most powerful figure in one of Japan’s oldest sorcerer clans. That he had blood on his hands and responsibilities that still echoed through every inch of his life. You didn’t know that his marriage was nothing more than a political alignment. That he had followed every rule. Sacrificed every selfish urge. That he had never, in over fifty years, been in love. Not until now.

On the third day, he stopped resisting and made a decision. He stood up, walked to your table, and asked — “May I sit?”

Three tables. He was sitting three tables away from you — again. Just like yesterday. And the day before that. Today made the third.

You’d noticed him immediately. How could you not? Tall, impeccably dressed, white hair, broad shoulders, and unmistakably refined. You guessed he was in his fifties, but he wore it well — almost too well. Dressed in a designer suit, he looked out of place in this cozy, slightly run-down café filled with students and twenty-somethings. Yet, there he was.

Each time you stole a glance, he was gazing out the window, never once meeting your eyes. But something about him — his presence, the stillness in the way he sat, the ghost of a smile on his lips — kept drawing your attention. Maybe you were imagining things. But, perhaps, was he there… for you? Just as you started telling yourself it was all in your head, he moved. Ah, he’s leaving—

No — he wasn’t. He was walking toward you.

Your breath caught. Your eyes widened as he came to a stop at your table.

“May I sit?” he asked, voice smooth but low, as if careful not to disturb the air between you. You blinked, pulse rising. “Why here?” you asked, managing a dry smile. “There are plenty of other tables, including the one you’ve been using for the past few days.” You motioned toward his old table. “I like the view better from here,” he replied calmly, and took the seat without waiting for permission.

The view, of course, was you. He had resisted the pull for two days. But today, Gojo Akihito gave in. In his fifties, for the first time in his life — he fell in love. And for the first time… he broke a rule.

He didn’t touch you. Not for weeks. Not inappropriately, not even in passing. His interest was always wrapped in respect, laced with a restraint that was somehow more intoxicating than overt desire. He spoke little, but with purpose. He listened like it was sacred. Asked questions no one else had ever bothered to. You told yourself it was harmless. That you liked the attention he was giving you. That you weren’t doing anything wrong… with a married man. It’s just a connection — nothing more. But the way he looked at you… like you were something precious, something rare, he had no right to touch but desperately wanted to — it stirred something in you.

When he kissed you for the first time, it wasn’t impulse. It was quiet. Measured. Like a man saying a prayer before stepping into hell. And you let him. After that, the pretense faded. You started meeting behind closed doors…

You were in love, yes. Or maybe, looking back now, you only thought you were. Not the way he was. You were free, while Akihito was chained to a life he could never escape. The deeper Akihito sank into you, the more you floated above him. Untethered. Capable of leaving. And that was what terrified him the most. He needed something stronger — something permanent — to bind you to him.

One year into your affair, Akihito proposed something unthinkable.

“An arranged marriage?” you gasped, your voice cracking in disbelief. “To your son?” You tried to push away from him, stepping out of the bathtub, but he caught your wrist and pulled you back in.

“I miss you too much when you’re away”, he murmured against your shoulder. His breath was hot. His arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you close, anchoring you to him in the steaming water. “Not knowing when I’ll see you again — it’s unbearable. And knowing it won’t be tomorrow? I hate that.”

You sat between his legs, your bare back pressed to his chest, steam rising around you like a veil. His head dipped to the curve of your neck. You said nothing. Your lips trembled with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, with a sob that didn’t quite leave your throat.

You spoke every day. But meetings were rare. Always discreet. Always in motion. Hotels changed with every rendezvous. Different rooms, different names, different times of arrival. You booked separate rooms but only ever used one. Because what you shared was a scandal. And the walls, anywhere, could talk. He was the former head of the Gojo Clan. A public man. A married man. And in the Gojo Clan, divorce was taboo. Unspoken but absolute. Marriage ended only with death.

“It’s madness”, you whispered. “You’d just… hand me over to another man like that?”

“I’m not handing you over”, he said, voice low and tired. “It’ll be just on paper. You know what Satoru’s like — he’s obsessed with his work. Sorcery is the only thing he’s ever cared about. He won’t touch you.” He paused. He knew how it sounded. But to him, it made sense. He was convinced this was the best way to keep you close. Satoru, as far as Akihito knew, had no interest in romance, no time for love. If you married his son, your place in the clan would be secured — and so would your bond to him. Even if you tried to leave him one day, you’d still be part of his world. Divorce, after all, was never an option. “Think about it”, he continued. “We’d be able to see each other more freely. People wouldn’t question it if we were spotted together — we’d be family. It would raise fewer suspicions than what we’re doing now.”

You stared into the steam, into nothing. “...fine.” You caved.

Neither of you knew then just how flawed the plan truly was. The flaw had a name: Gojo Satoru.

Back in your shared bedroom, you close the door behind you and turn to face Satoru. He’s already tugging off his jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a chair. You squint at him, arms crossed. “What was that earlier?” He pauses, one sock halfway off. “Hm?” He looks up at you, eyebrow arched in that maddeningly innocent way.

“‘I’m taking my wife out’”, you echo flatly. “We made no such plans.”

He chuckles — a low, amused sound. “Ah. That.” Straightening up, he begins rolling his sleeves to the elbows, wandering toward the bed. “I was too distracted by your beauty when I got home, I must’ve forgotten to tell you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Tell me what exactly?”

“That everyone wants to meet you”, he says, as if it’s obvious.

“Everyone?” you eye him.

“My students. My colleagues. Most of them think I made up this whole marriage thing just for attention.” He grins like it’s the most absurd idea in the world. “So tomorrow, you’re coming with me. I need to show them that my wife is, in fact, a very real, very stunning person~”

You blink. “So you didn’t just blurt it out to get out of meeting the elders?”

He scoffs and flops onto the bed, arms behind his head. “Please. I don’t need an excuse to avoid them. I’ll meet them when I feel like it — not when they demand it.” Of course he would say that. “Besides”, he adds lazily, “I figured we could hang out a little after. Grab a bite or go somewhere. A proper date.”

You stare at him. “A date?” — “Yeah”, he shoots. “You know, two people spending time together on purpose because they want to?”

“Satoru”, you sigh, “you don’t have to bother with this kind of thing. This is an arranged marriage, let me remind you. We’re not... required to play house.” He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mock curiosity. “Who said couples in arranged marriages can’t go on dates? That’s a rule now? If it is, I must’ve missed the fine print.”

He’s relentless — in a strangely charming way. Always pushing, always poking. And the worst part is... he knows you don’t exactly hate it. You glance away, shaking your head. “Alright”, you say finally, “fine” — and he immediately beams like he’s just won something. And maybe he has — in his own strange way. Satoru doesn’t need much to feel victorious. But there’s something you have noticed — how a yes from you is usually worth a trophy in his world, even if you offer it begrudgingly.

You watch him for a moment, unsure what to make of the warmth blooming quietly in your chest. It’s not love. It can’t be. Right? But it’s something. A softening, maybe. A flicker of possibility. Your fingers absently toy with the edge of your sleeve. That strange flutter you’ve been ignoring — the one he keeps coaxing out of you — is getting harder to deny. What exactly are you doing? — you ask yourself.

And then your phone buzzes in your pocket. You fish it out quickly and glance down at the screen.

Akihito: Come to the guest house.

Just like that, reality presses its weight back onto your shoulders. It doesn’t look like Satoru noticed anything, but your hands are already closing the message, hiding the screen like a child caught with stolen sweets. “I’m going to the kitchen”, you say, too quickly. “I want something sweet.”

Satoru sits up a little. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll get—”

“No.” You cut him off, maybe too fast. “I’m not sure what I want yet, so I’ll just look around.” His gaze lingers on you for a moment. Something unreadable flickers there — brief, sharp, gone too fast. Then he leans back on his hands, still smiling. “Alright, my picky little bride. Don’t be long.”

You force a light laugh and slip out the door.

Akihito hears your knock — light, familiar — before the door opens. You’re still in your dinner clothes, but your hair is looser now, lipstick faded. You look comfortable, relaxed — and he does not exactly like that. You step quietly, and he lets you come to him without saying a word. For a moment, neither of you speak.

He looks somewhat tense, but the air between you is still warm with memory — earlier today, your skin beneath his hands, your lips murmuring his name into a hotel pillow. And yet. “I’m sorry for calling you over like this”, he says finally, his voice low. “I just needed to see you.”

You smile faintly. “You saw me at dinner.”

“Not like this.” His eyes search yours. “Not alone. Not without... him.”

You stiffen slightly — not defensively. Just aware. Akihito gestures to the seat beside him. You sit.

“He’s not the same”, he murmurs after a pause. “Satoru. He’s changing.”

You don’t respond at first. You fold your hands in your lap.

“You know what he used to be like? Detached. Cold. Always disappearing on missions. He never gave a damn about what anyone thought of him — never entertained sentiment. And now?” He scoffs softly. “Flowers. Cooking. Holding your hand under the table like some infatuated schoolboy...”

Your mouth opens — then closes. You can’t find the right words.

“You saw it too, didn’t you?” he asks quietly. “At dinner. The way he looks at you.”

Your gaze falters. Not guilty — not quite — but cautious. “He’s just playing the part, Aki”, you say eventually. “He’s always been theatrical.”

Akihito shakes his head. “No. That wasn’t an act.” There’s no bitterness in his voice. No anger. Just... disbelief. Like he’s watching something slip through his fingers that he didn’t expect to lose. “Before you came into his life, he never stayed home. Never cared about meals or traditions or people. He never had time for anything... personal.”

You look down.

Akihito studies your profile, as if memorizing it. The curve of your brow, the slope of your cheek. “I know I’m the one who suggested this arrangement”, he says, and his voice is more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “I told myself it was the best way to keep you close. Safe. But now...” He trails off.

You reach out, take his hand in yours. “I’m still yours, Aki”, you say gently. “You know that.”

“I want to believe that”, he murmurs. You squeeze his hand. “You can.”

But your voice falters, just slightly. Just enough for him to notice. His eyes flick up to your face. There’s no accusation in them. Only fear. The quiet, creeping kind that lives under the surface of a man who’s spent a lifetime being in control.

“I know he’s not you”, you add softly. “I know why I said yes to this. You don’t have to worry.”

Akihito nods slowly. But his silence stretches too long. You lean your head against his shoulder, and he kisses the top of your hair. Grateful. Reassured — or trying to be. But the weight in his chest doesn’t lift. Because for the first time, he isn’t sure if the threat is outside of what you have... or is growing inside it.

“Don’t worry, they don’t bite”, Satoru chuckles, watching you fidget with your sleeves like you’re about to walk into a job interview. You shoot him a dry look. “You say that like you’re not the worst of them.”

“Me? I’m the warm-up act. They are the terrifying ones”, he teases, nodding toward the lounge room door. You roll your eyes but don’t stop playing with your cuffs.

“You’ll be fine”, he adds, nudging your elbow gently. “Just flash that charming smile and pretend I’m not hovering behind you like a lovesick fool.”

“You are hovering.”

“I’m setting the scene”, he grins. “For dramatic effect.”

You scoff. “I’m not scared, you know.”

“Of course not”, he nods solemnly. “You’re just fidgeting because you’re excited to meet my fan club.” You shoot him a sideways glare. He leans over, voice lowering just a touch. “They’re going to love you”, he says, softer now. “They’ve never seen me with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Someone who makes me behave.”

You don’t get the chance to press him on that. He throws the door open before you can respond — and the room instantly freezes. Chairs creak to a halt. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. All heads turn. A spoon hovers midair. A can of soda stops halfway to someone’s lips. Even the air feels like it’s holding its breath. And all of it — every flicker of curiosity, disbelief, and blatant awe — is aimed squarely at you.

“Guys”, Satoru announces, all flair and no shame, “This is my wife. Try not to scare her off.” You manage a composed smile, offering a polite nod. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The reactions come in like dominos.

Yuuji blinks so fast he looks like a malfunctioning cartoon. “She’s real. She’s actually real.”

Nobara lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh my god, she’s gorgeous. How is he married to her?”

“There’s definitely something wrong with her”, Megumi mutters, arms crossed.

“Blink twice if you’re being held hostage”, Maki deadpans without missing a beat.

Even stoic Shoko lifts her eyebrows, taking a slow drag of her cigarette. “I genuinely thought he made you up.”

Ijichi bows at the waist, glasses fogged slightly from the tea steam. “Gojo-san speaks of you often. I assumed it was... metaphorical.” Nanami says absolutely nothing. Just closes his eyes and exhales, a slow, pained breath that says this is beneath me, but also of course this is happening.

Meanwhile, Geto is the picture of calm. Reclined on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, he simply smirks and raises his hand in greeting. “About time you dragged her here, Satoru.”

“Don’t encourage him”, Nanami mutters without opening his eyes.

You can’t help it — you laugh. A light, genuine thing that breaks the awkward spell in the room like shattering glass. The tension in your chest uncoils slightly, and Satoru beams beside you.

“Oh god”, Nobara groans. “Even her laugh is gorgeous. This is unbelievable.”

“Do you need help?” Megumi asks again, completely serious.

“She’s under some kind of spell, huh?” Yuuji whispers. “Do we do something? Help her?”

“No need to rescue her”, Satoru says smugly. “She married me willingly”

“That’s even worse”, Nanami mutters.

“You guys are insufferable”, you finally say, smiling despite yourself.

“You’re perfect for him then”, Shoko hums.

“Alright, alright, don’t scare her off on her first visit”, Geto says, rising from the couch. He strolls over, offering his hand. “I’m Suguru. Satoru’s better half.”

“Hey!” Satoru protests.

You shake Geto’s hand. “Pleasure.”

“It really is”, he replies smoothly. “Though we may have to talk about your taste in men.”

“I’ve made peace with it”, you reply with a smirk. The room erupts into scattered chuckles. Even Megumi snorts. Satoru clutches his chest. “I feel so betrayed.”

“Get in line”, Nanami mutters again.

“Come on”, Geto waves you over. “Sit. Eat something. Let us dissect your personality in peace.” As you move to join them, Satoru’s hand brushes your lower back — a barely-there touch. Protective. Familiar. You glance at him. He’s still smiling like the sun — blinding and hard to read beneath the surface.

You ease yourself into a spot between Suguru and Satoru on the long couch. Plates and cups shift around. The lounge settles into casual chaos again, but it’s warmer now — less like scrutiny, more like curious acceptance. As conversations spark up around you, you feel it — a brush at your side. Subtle, deliberate. Satoru’s hand slides across the space between you on the couch. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even look your way. But under the table, his fingers quietly reach for yours. At first, you don’t respond. The chatter of the room covers the rapid thrum of your heartbeat. It feels like everyone might notice, even though no one’s looking. And still — slowly — your fingers curl around his.

You glance sideways at him. He’s still grinning and bickering with Geto about who’s ageing better — but there’s a flicker in his eyes when they meet yours. Something warm. Something that longs. And Satoru doesn’t look like he’s letting go of your hand anytime soon.

Even after leaving the school and walking toward the car, Satoru hasn’t let go of your hand. Not once. And, truthfully, you haven’t tried to pull away either. His hand is warm and steady, fingers loosely laced with yours like it’s always been this natural. “They’re very chaotic”, you say as you walk side by side, the late afternoon sun painting golden highlights into his white hair. “But adorably so.”

Satoru gasps. “How come you never say that about me?”

“I do say you’re chaotic.”

“Not that part”, he pouts, dragging your hand slightly as he walks. “Say I’m adorable too.”

You glance up at him with a smirk. “Why make me lie now?”

He clutches his chest like you just wounded him. “Unbelievable. And here I was, thinking we were having a romantic moment.”

“You pouted like a toddler five seconds ago. That was the opposite of romantic.”

“That was endearing, thank you very much.” He sighs dramatically, unlocking the car with a flick of his keys. “One day you’ll realize just how lucky you are to have married me.”

You chuckle. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

As the engine hums to life and the radio kicks in with something mellow, he steals a glance at you. “You liked them, though?”

You nod. “They’re all... a lot. But in a good way. I liked them. They like you, too — though it’s hilarious how some of them thought I was a figment of your imagination at first.”

“That’s fair”, he shrugs. “Even I sometimes think you’re too good to be real.” You don’t reply to that — partly because it’s sweet, partly because it makes your stomach twist in ways you’re not ready to admit.

Instead of taking you to a fancy restaurant, Satoru pulls the car up near a quiet park tucked into a tree-lined stretch of the city. It’s not crowded, the evening air is crisp, and the swings creak gently in the breeze.

“A date doesn’t have to be complicated”, he says, hands behind his head, strolling beside you. “This used to be my favorite spot when I ditched meetings.”

You laugh. “What a responsible clan head.”

“Oh, terribly irresponsible”, he agrees proudly. “Now — race you to the swings!”

You both make a break for it, laughing as your shoes hit gravel. You get there first, narrowly beating him (because he let you), and triumphantly claim the left swing. Satoru sits on the other — except, the chains creak loudly as he settles in, clearly too tall and too big for the tiny seat.

“God, you look ridiculous”, you say between laughs.

“Hey”, he grins. “Let me have my moment.” He tries to swing but his feet keep dragging on the ground. You get off and try to push him but fail spectacularly. “You’re too heavy!” you exclaim. He snorts. “I’m muscle and grace, I’ll have you know.”

“Lift your legs then! That’s the only way this will work.”

“If I lift my legs, the swing will snap and we’ll both die.”

You dissolve into laughter, arms over your chest as you watch him try — and fail — to get any lift. “Hop off now”, you say. “It’s your turn to push me.”

He gets off, and you take over. He starts pushing you gently, and you find yourself relaxing, head tilted back toward the sky as you glide back and forth. You don’t notice how quiet he’s gone until the swing slows and you look back to find him watching you — softly, openly, with none of his usual teasing in sight.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask. He shrugs. “You look happy. I like seeing you like this.”

Your heart stumbles. And just like that, the real world catches up — Akihito, the marriage, the plan... Guilt prickles under your skin. You’re not supposed to feel this warm around Satoru. Not this content. He notices the shift in your eyes, tension in your smile. “Hey.” He walks in front of the swing, kneeling slightly to meet your gaze. “Where did you go just now?”

You open your mouth — but you don’t know what to say. There’s too much. You’re not even sure what you’re feeling anymore. Satoru doesn’t push. He simply lifts a hand to brush your cheek with his knuckles, gentler than anyone would expect from a man like him. “If you’re scared”, he says, “I’ll wait. But I’m not stopping.”

You should say something — anything — but you don’t. Instead, you lean forward without thinking. Just a little. Just enough. And he meets you halfway. You kiss. It’s soft. Uncomplicated. Barely a breath long — but enough to make your stomach flip and your thoughts scramble. You pull back just as fast, cheeks feeling hot, and suddenly shoot up to your feet.

“I—uh—I’m going to head to the car”, you stammer, already backing away. “Give me fifteen minutes. Just... wait, okay? Don’t come right now.” Satoru blinks after you as you run off, flustered. A slow smile spreads across his lips. He lifts a hand, touching his fingers to where your lips met his. “Why shy away like this now?” he murmurs to himself, chuckling. “It’s not like this is our first kiss...”

His smile lingers, a little softer now. Almost nostalgic. He watches the direction you went, lost in thought. Because only he remembers. You’ve kissed before. But back then, you didn’t know who he was. And you still don’t remember.

Satoru remembers it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. The memory came rushing back the moment he saw your picture — the proposed match for the arranged marriage. The others in the room kept talking, formalities piling up like a tide of obligations, but he barely heard a word.

It was you — the girl who stole his first kiss. The girl he never managed to find again.

It happened years ago, sometime past midnight. He had just wrapped up a mission — a dull one, barely worth remembering — and was wandering the streets of Tokyo, eating red bean mochi with one hand and scrolling his phone with the other. Still in uniform, still buzzing from leftover cursed energy, still too wired to sleep. As he strolled past a row of late-night bars and clubs, the music leaked into the street like fog. Somewhere between neon signs and cigarette smoke, he spotted you — a girl slumped on the curb outside a nightclub, arms wrapped around your knees, head lolling sleepily to one side. You looked like you were dozing off. Alone. Vulnerable.

He kept walking. At first. But something didn’t sit right. There were a few guys loitering nearby — drunk, leering, the kind of men that don’t need a reason to ruin someone’s night. One of them peeled away from the group and started approaching you, calling out something Satoru didn’t care to hear. He stopped at a vending machine, fingers patting his pockets as if he were looking for coins — but really, he was watching. Calculating. When the guy crouched beside you and reached out to brush your hair behind your ear, Satoru moved. Fast. “Sorry I took so long”, he said loudly, slinging his jacket over your shoulders in one smooth motion as he stepped between you and the stranger.

The man froze.

Satoru didn’t raise his voice, didn’t flare cursed energy — just looked at him. Cold. Unblinking. Dangerous. The guy got the message. “I was just making sure she was okay”, the creep stammered.

“Yeah”, Satoru said flatly. “She is. Now leave.” He didn’t have to say it twice. Once the guys scurried off, Satoru crouched beside you, tilting his head. “Hey. Not a great place for a nap, you know?” You stirred, muttering something incoherent. “I’m serious”, he said, nudging your shoulder lightly. “It’s not safe out here.”

“Can’t walk”, you mumbled. “Not sure if I’m spinning, or everything else is.”

He blinked. “That bad, huh?”

You squinted at him through half-lidded eyes. “Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“A kidnapper?”

“Definitely not.”

“Hmm”, you leaned your cheek against your knee. “Guess you’ll do.”

Satoru stared. “What does that mean?” You reached and tugged his sleeve, and with surprising strength, pulled him to sit beside you. Then, without warning, you laid your head in his lap. “What are you—?”

“You’re warm”, you sighed, nestling closer. “And you smell nice. But I kind of feel like throwing up.”

“Please don’t”, he said instantly, trying not to panic. “This is my favorite outfit.”

You giggled. “You’re funny.”

He looked down at you, at the way your hair fanned across his thighs, at the curve of your sleepy smile. “What are you even doing out here alone?” he asked.

“I lost my friends”, you mumbled. “Or maybe they lost me. Who’s to say...”

“You got a phone?”

You held it up proudly. It was dead. “Perfect”, he sighed.

Eventually, when it became clear you weren’t going to get up willingly, he gathered you into his arms and stood. “Alright, mystery girl. I’m getting you somewhere safe — where’s your place?”

“Wait, wait”, you slurred, squinting suspiciously at him. “I don’t know you. I can’t just tell you where I live!”

“You’re literally unconscious on the sidewalk and I’m carrying you like a bridal bouquet. I think we’re past that point.”

You didn’t answer. Your head lolled onto his shoulder. He sighed, glanced around. He didn’t know your name, didn’t know where you lived — but you looked about college-aged, and the university campus wasn’t far. It was the best guess he had. So he started walking.

Halfway there, a group of girls came jogging down the sidewalk, calling some name (yours). They looked frantic — until they saw you in his arms. “Oh god”, one of them exhaled. “We’ve been looking for her everywhere!”

They reached out to take you, but you lifted your head groggily, blinking at him like you’d just remembered he existed. You took off his sunglasses and placed them on his head, then cupped his face in both hands, surprisingly gentle.

“You’re pretty”, you said.

He blinked.

Then you leaned in and kissed him. It was soft and quick. “Thank you”, you whispered. “For keeping me warm.”

And just like that, your friends pulled you away — you still wearing his jacket, him still too stunned to speak. He stood there long after you were gone, fingers pressed to his lips, dazed. “What a weird girl”, he muttered.

But he’d already fallen for you.

He tried to find you after that, of course — visited the area again, lingered by the campus, even asked around in his own way. But your name, your face... all of it had vanished like a dream after waking. Until years later — when he saw your photo again. And this time? He said yes without hesitation.

The days begin to blend. Soft, warm mornings. Laughter over late breakfast. The rustle of flower petals against your cheek as you wake — a new habit Satoru’s picked up. You open your eyes to a fresh bouquet on your pillow, tied together with a silk ribbon and a folded note tucked inside.

Roses are red, violets are blue, don’t open the curtains, I’m watching you ;) S.

You roll your eyes but smile. By now, your phone is full of messages from him — some voice notes, some texts. Some completely random, like:

Voice message — 9:07 AM

Hey, I found this stray cat that reminds me of you. They ignored me when I tried to pet them and just walked off. Thought that was kinda romantic~

Text — 10:12 AM

Do you miss me or are you pretending I don’t exist again? Be honest. I can take it. (Don’t be honest)

Sometimes he’s halfway through a mission and still finds the time to send you a photo of some stupid little charm at a shrine that “looks cursed like you” — and by the time he returns home, you’ve forgotten how silence used to fill the rooms before he came.

You start leaving notes back. Hiding snacks in his coat. One time, you sent him flowers — as a joke. A massive, bright pink bouquet delivered right to the faculty lounge at Jujutsu Tech.

Yuuji nearly dropped his drink when he saw it. “Sensei, I thought you were the man in this relationship... but I guess you really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”

Satoru beamed as he held the bouquet. “Listen, Yuuji, I think she’s got me on a leash. And honestly? I don’t mind it.”

Geto didn’t even blink. “You’ve always liked being domesticated.”

Nanami groaned in the distance. “Please take your romance outside school grounds.”

Your life with him feels like a sitcom at times. Like you’ve somehow fallen into a slice-of-life version of your own story. And strangely, you don’t hate it.

But not all lives move at the same pace.

Akihito watches it unfold from the shadows of his own silence. This was not part of the plan. You’re playing your role way too well to his liking. Are you humoring Satoru’s peculiar behavior for the sake of keeping the peace... or is there something more to it?

He feels the distance stretching. You reply to his messages slower now. When he calls, you sound distracted — not cold, just... somewhere else. Sometimes when he walks by your and Satoru’s room, he hears his son’s voice talking to you and it cuts deeper than he expects. Laughing. Teasing. Talking to you in a tone Akihito used to think was only his to use.

He remembers your last few moments together, how they’ve been growing shorter. More careful. Your touches — once confident, rooted in secret familiarity — now come with hesitation. Like you’re aware of something new. Something blooming in the cracks you didn’t plan for. You were slipping. And for the first time in a very long time, Akihito doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t confront you. He won’t. Because even now, he trusts you. Even now, he tells himself you would never betray him like that... But still — he’s left staring at the space beside him that used to be filled by you, fingers curled into fists he won’t raise, breathing through a storm he never thought he’d have to weather.

Evening settles softly across the room like a warm blanket. The lights are dim, casting a gentle golden hue over the shared bedroom you’ve both slowly grown used to — not just as a space, but as a kind of quiet haven. You sit on the bed with your knees tucked close to your chest, absently flipping through some old magazine you already checked out twice. Satoru is nearby, sprawled across the foot of the bed, fiddling with his phone but mostly stealing glances at you. The silence between you is easy now. Not empty, not awkward — just comfortable.

Still, something hangs between you, unspoken but undeniably there. It’s been lingering ever since that kiss in the park. You haven’t kissed again since, but your touches linger longer now — a brush of fingers as you pass something to him, the slow curl of his hand around yours when you walk beside each other. Close, but careful.

Tonight feels different.

“Do you ever miss the chaos?” you ask, not looking up from the page. “Before we... whatever this is.”

“Before we became a domestic power couple?” Satoru teases, stretching out with a dramatic sigh. “Tragic. I used to be wild. Now I fold your laundry.” You laugh. “You don’t fold my laundry.”

“I would. For the record. If it meant you’d smile like that.”

You glance at him now, and his expression softens when your eyes meet. The air changes. It’s in the way he shifts, propping himself up slightly on one elbow. There’s something different in his gaze — not just affection, but hunger veiled by hesitance. You feel it too. That same flutter deep in your belly. The nervous kind. The kind that tastes like anticipation. He moves closer, slowly, watching you for any flicker of hesitation. When he reaches out, his fingers brush lightly along your jaw, his thumb barely skimming your cheek. You don’t move away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that for a while now”, you whisper.

He smiles, a little crooked, a little shy — rare, for him. “Yeah. I’ve been... trying to behave.”

Your lips part, but you don’t speak. Satoru leans in, and this time, when he kisses you, it’s slower than last time. Less impulsive. More reverent. His hand cups the back of your head gently as he pulls you closer, tasting your breath as if he’s been craving it every day since the last time. And then he pulls back. Breath shaky. Eyes shut. You blink, still dazed from the kiss. “Satoru? What are you doing?”

He exhales a slow, uneven breath. “Waiting for you to slap me.”

You stare at him. That rare vulnerability in his voice knocks the breath right out of your lungs. “Why would I slap you?”

“I didn’t ask. I didn’t warn you. I just... kissed you. Again. I told myself I’d wait until you wanted me.”

You hesitate only for a heartbeat. Then, you lean forward and take his face in your hands, gently pulling him back into you. Your lips find his, and this time there’s no pause. No retreat. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize you. Every angle. Every sound you make. Your hands find their way under the hem of is shirt, fingertips grazing bare skin, and he shivers beneath your touch. You break the kiss long enough to whisper, “Come closer.”

His forehead rests against yours. “Only if you want me to.”

“I do”, you breathe, voice trembling but sure. “I want this. I want you.” His arms tighten around you, and it’s slow, almost reverent, the way he lays you down — like you’re something sacred. Clothes are shed without urgency, and his hands trace the lines of your body like he’s reading scripture. The rest unfolds in quiet gasps and whispered names. It’s not just desire — it’s need. Familiar, frightening, warm...

...when it’s over, the silence that follows is different from all the ones that came before. You lie beside him, heart still racing, his fingers lazily tracing circles along your arm. He doesn’t speak. He just watches you, memorizing the curve of your lips, the way your chest raises and falls. And for a moment, you forget every plan. Every lie. Every secret. For a moment, it feels like love. The kind that sneaks up on you — quiet, uninvited, and impossible to ignore. You lie tangled together, your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tenderly caressing your bare skin. Hearts still thudding.

Satoru is the one to break the silence, his voice light, teasing (as usual). “So... You really don’t remember me, huh?”

You blink, lifting your head just enough to glance at him. “What?”

“Brutal...”, he laughs. “And here I was, thinking I made a lasting impression that night.”

You narrow your eyes, unsure if he’s joking. “What are you talking about?”

“Nahh, I get it — you were pretty drunk”, he says, dragging the words out like a cat playing with mouse.

“Oh god—” You sit up suddenly, sheet gathering around your chest. “Don’t tell me we’ve hooked up in the past and I don’t remember it?” Satoru bursts out laughing. “No, not like that.”

You squint at him. “Then stop being so cryptic and tell me!”

He stretches, hands behind his head, smug and insufferable. “Let’s just say… you were outside a bar. Alone. Slumped on the curb. And I saved your life.”

You blink again. He continues, barely hiding his amusement. “Some creep tried to hit on you. I intervened, obviously. You asked if I was a kidnapper, told me I smelled nice, then fell asleep in my lap.”

Your jaw drops. “No way.”

“Oh, there’s more,” he says with a mock-serious nod. “You called me pretty. And you kissed me.”

You gape. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he says, lips twitching. “And you stole my jacket, by the way.”

Your eyes widen. Something flickers at the edge of your memory. “Wait— that was your jacket?”

Satoru raises his brows, clearly enjoying himself. “Yep.”

“I always wondered where it came from”, you mumble, stunned. “I kept it for years. I thought maybe someone just… gave it to me out of pity.”

“Well, I did give it to you”, he says, softer now. “But it wasn’t pity.”

You’re quiet for a moment, absorbing it all. “I can’t believe it. That was you.”

He shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal — but his voice betrays him when he says, “Yeah. I looked for you, you know? Went back to that street, hung around your supposed campus. Thought about that stupid night more times than I’d ever admit.”

You gasp.

“When your photo showed up in the marriage proposal packet?” He looks over at you, something unreadable in his eyes. “I said yes before they even finished reading your name.”

You stare at him, stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

He smiles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Because you didn’t look at me like this before.” You lean in, heart heavy with something warm and aching. “How do I look at you now?”

“Like you might not disappear this time.”

You slip into your nightgown, your skin still tingling with traces of warmth and tenderness. The sound of water runs in the background — Satoru in the shower, humming something off-key. A lazy smile plays on your lips as you step out of the bedroom, quietly padding down the hallway. You tell yourself it’s just to grab snacks. Maybe a drink. Something to soothe the afterglow that’s left your heart both full and aching.

But as you reach the kitchen and flick on the soft underlight, your body seizes.

Akihito is there. Standing in the low light like a phantom, glass in one hand, his other curled into a loose fist at his side. The bottle of whiskey beside him is nearly half-empty. He doesn’t speak right away — just stares at you, and it’s a look you’ve never seen on him before. Not like this. There’s pain, yes. But buried under that is something sharper. Something raw.

“Akihito...” you breathe, barely more than a whisper. He doesn’t answer. Just brings the glass to his lips again, slowly, as if buying time — or trying to keep himself from saying what’s already clawing its way up his throat. Akihito, huh? You used to call him Aki...

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes narrowing slightly as he steps forward. You don’t move — not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t quite dare. He stops in front of you, closer than comfort allows. The scent of whiskey and something tired hangs on him — disappointment. His eyes flicker over your face, and you know he sees it. The softness in your cheeks. The haze still lingering in your gaze. The warmth that isn’t his. He knows. Of course he does. But he wants to confirm, one last time.

His hand reaches toward you, swiftly lifting your nightgown to brush his fingers against your cunt, bare, still wet and sore. You flinch, instinctively stepping back — but his free hand snaps around your wrist. He withdraws his fingers, bringing them close to your face, then slowly rubs them together. Smearing the slick, laced with remnants that don’t belong to him. “You slept with him”, he says, low, flat. No question. Just a quiet accusation.

Your breath catches.

He leans in, close enough for his words to brush against your skin. “Do you love him?”

Before your lips can part, before your heart even finds a beat, a new voice breaks the silence.

“Hey, I was looking for y—” Satoru enters the room, still damp from the shower, water clinging to his chest, a towel slung low around his waist, another in his hands as he rubs it through his hair. The moment he sees his father, he stops mid-step. His eyes lock at his hand around your wrist. His tone drops, his jaw clenches. He immediately yanks his hand away from you, then his eyes dart to the whiskey on the counter. “Old man, did you get drunk enough to mistake my wife for yours?”

Akihito doesn’t answer right away, but he tenses. For a moment, he seems to fold in on himself — trying, perhaps, to remember who he is, and who he’s supposed to be. “I lost my balance for a second”, he mutters. Then without another glance at either of you, he brushes past and disappears down the hall.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening. You’re frozen. Like glass on the verge of shattering. Guilt crawls under your skin like a fever. You want to scream. You want to run. You feel like you’ve betrayed them both.

Satoru looks at you. His expression softens the moment he sees your face. “Hey...” voice gentle now. “You okay? You look a bit... pale.” He tries to joke, but there’s a note of worry breeding into his words. “Did I... maybe go a little too hard on you back there?” A faint smirk, halfhearted. His eyes, though, are searching.

You force yourself to nod, to smile like you’re fine. “No. I’m okay. I just—” you glance toward the hallway, “I got startled. I didn’t expect to see anyone else awake.”

Satoru doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t push either. He just reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch almost reverent. “Next time, tell me”, he says softly. “I’ll walk you around the house like a proper husband.”

You laugh — weakly, but you manage it. Neither of you says what you’re thinking. Neither of you asks the questions hanging thick in the air. But both of you feel it. Something has shifted. And in the stillness that follows, all you can do is hold your breath and pretend it’s not already slipping out of your control.

The soft creak of Akihito’s footsteps disappears into the silence of the hallway as if he is retreating from more than just a room. By the time he reaches the bedroom he shares with Saori, the burn in his chest has settled into something heavier, duller. She is already asleep, curled into herself beneath the silk sheets. He doesn’t even look at her. Akihito pours himself another drink from the decanter near the dresser, the sound of the liquid filling the glass louder than it should. His hand shakes as he brings it to his lips. He has lost count of how many glasses he had tonight.

He believed he was in control, never imagining, even for a moment, that you might be the one to falter. He sits on the edge of the bed for a while, nursing the bitterness on his tongue, trying to down what feels like the unraveling of everything. His grip tightens around the glass until his knuckles turn white. And eventually, the weight of it — the whiskey, the pain, the loss — pulls him down. He settles in bed, fully clothed, eyes open to the dark. Only when the alcohol dulls the sharpest edges of his thoughts does sleep finally claim him.

Saori wakes sometime later — hours, maybe. She doesn’t know what stirred her at first. The clock ticks quietly. The room is still. But then she hears it. A soft sound. A broken voice. Akihito. At first, she thinks he is awake, whispering. But when she turns to face him, she sees the tight lines on his brow, his face twisted in restless dreaming.

...a name falls from his lips like a prayer. Your name.

“Don’t leave me...” He shifts, face turned toward her, eyes shut tight. His voice cracks in a way she has never heard before. “I love you... please... don’t go...”

Saori doesn’t move. She doesn’t breathe. For a long moment, all she can do is stare at the man she spent more than half her life beside. The man who kept so much from her. Until now.

Everything made sense to her now. All of it. The proposal of a random girl — a nobody, by traditional standards — as a bride for the clan head. His obsessive oversight of your marriage. His silence. His sudden, inexplicable shifts in mood. All the times he came home reeking of another woman. And now this.

She sits up slowly, placing her hand on her lap as the cold realization settles deep into her bones. Her husband has never said her name like that, even in dreams. A sharp, unfamiliar ache blooms in her chest. It isn’t jealousy — though that is part of it. It is grief. For a marriage that never really belonged to her. For a love that was never hers to begin with. She turns to look at Akihito once more. His lips move soundlessly now, breath uneven. Vulnerable in a way he has never let himself be when conscious. Saori whispers, her voice nearly a breath, “You poor, stupid man...”

And she doesn’t know whether to feel pity, rage, or heartbreak. So she sits there — in the dim quiet, beside the man who is dreaming of someone else — and tries to remember what it feels like to be chosen.

The morning sun spills through sheer drapes. Saori sits before her vanity, back perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap as the house attendant brushes through her hair. She stares at her reflection — still, expressionless. But her eyes, always sharp, betray thought in motion. There’s no puffiness in them, no redness, no sign of the long night she endured beside her sleeping husband and the dreams he whispered into the dark. Not a trace of it reached the surface. Because Gojo Saori does not falter.

She was raised for this life. Trained from the moment she could walk and speak — in manners, in posture, in etiquette. In silence. In sacrifice. She was chosen for the Gojo Clan as if born for it, bred for it. A perfect match to elevate status and maintain lineage. An ideal bride, by design. Not merely beautiful, but refined. Not merely obedient, but poised. Regal in her restraint. And still, he never loved her. Gojo Akihito, the man she married at twenty-one, gave her everything a wife could ask for — wealth, status, a name that carried power. But not his heart. Never his heart. She spent years trying to earn it anyway. With devotion. With loyalty so fierce it could have moved mountains if he had only looked her way and seen her properly.

But last night... Last night, in the hush of the sleeping room they shared for so many years, he spoke someone else’s name. Not once. Not carelessly. Lovingly.

Saori meets her own gaze in the mirror — unwavering, unflinching. She should’ve wept, perhaps. Cried the way lesser women might. Collapsed into trembling disbelief or broken rage. But she had no time for that. No space, in the skin she wears, for such indulgence. Her family name was teetered on scandal, and she bled too much grace into this place to see it torn down now — not by a girl’s foolishness, not by a man’s longing. Gojo Saori was, above else, a guardian of the image. But the image was beginning to crack. And she was ready to protect what needed protecting.

You sit at the table, eyes tracing the rim of your teacup, steam curling softly into the morning air. You haven’t taken a sip. You haven’t touched your plate. Your stomach is tight, twisted with guilt... especially after last night.

Satoru is full of light and ease, as he always is — grinning, teasing, tossing playful remarks into the stillness like stones skipping across a glassy lake. His hand brushes yours casually, fingertips lingering just long enough to warm your skin. It’s comforting in a way, how unchanged he is. But his energy doesn’t reach you this morning. You smile when you’re supposed to. You answer when he prompts you. But your mind is far away — caught between the memory of last night’s warmth and the echo of Akihito’s voice, flat and cracked with disappointment.

Akihito sits quietly, as he always does, but today his silence feels heavier. His fingers press against the bridge of his nose, slow and methodical, as if trying to will away a migraine. He hasn’t touched his food. His presence across the table burns into you like a brand. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you can feel his restraint like a tremor in the room — barely contained, always building.

Saori is a vision of composure. She lifts her teacup with perfect posture, takes delicate sips, and sets it down with the precision of someone who has performed this same ritual every morning of her life. Her face is unreadable — not blank, but too measured. There’s something behind her stillness, something coiled. But you can’t tell what. She gives nothing away.

Satoru leans in toward you with a lopsided grin, voice dipped in mischief. His hand brushes your arm again, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he senses how fragile you feel. “You’re awfully quiet today”, he points out. You blink, startled — his voice snapping you out of your spiral — and you force a breath, a small smile. He’s trying to bring you back. The way he always does. “I didn’t get much sleep last night”, you manage, voice low and tight.

“Tired, huh?” he echoes with a soft laugh, leaning in closer. His voice drops to a whisper, just for you. “Guess that’s what happens after a long, productive night... right?”

Your heart stumbles. The words land like a thunderclap, disguised as a joke, but sharp enough to cut through your skin. His wink is lighthearted — harmless in his mind — but you freeze. You don’t laugh. You can’t. The knot in your stomach coils tighter, shame rising in your chest. You drop your gaze and press your lips together, every nerve on fire.

Then comes the sound. A sharp, sudden crack.

Akihito’s hand clenches around his teacup — or what’s left of it. Porcelain shards glint, splintered across the table and floor. His palm is cut, a slow trickle of blood winding through the lines of his hand, but he doesn’t seem to feel it. He stares at the broken cup like it’s something far away. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched. A man unraveling slowly — but silently.

Satoru turns toward him, his gaze casual, almost detached. He says nothing.

Saori moves immediately, her composure untouched as she rises and then immediately kneels beside him without ceremony, inspecting the wound with clinical care. Her voice is even, steady. “Are you alright?” Akihito doesn’t respond. His eyes are still fixed on the broken shards. His breath is shallow. Hollow. You wonder if he even knows where he is. Saori retrieves the first aid kit from the cabinet, her movements smooth, practiced. She tends to the cut with quiet precision, wrapping the bandage around his hand in silence. She doesn’t look at you, not directly — but her awareness is piercing. You can feel her watching, even when her eyes aren’t on you.

You try not to flinch under the weight of it.

Satoru watches you now. Truly watches you, and only you. There’s concern in his eyes, but beneath it, something darker — a flicker of something unreadable, as if he’s seeing straight through you.

You walk Satoru to the front of the estate, the morning sun slowly warming the stone path. He lingers, reluctant to go. “Are you sure you want me to leave?” he asks, searching your face. “You’ve been... kind of out of it all morning.”

You manage a smile, reaching up to smooth a hand through his hair. “I told you, I’m just tired.”

He’s clearly unconvinced. “Then let me stay. I’ll take the day off, we’ll snuggle in bed, watch trashy movies, eat junk food — whatever you want.”

“No”, you cut him off gently. “They’ll chew you out for skipping another day because of me. I’m fine, I promise. I just... need a little time to myself.”

He watches you for a moment longer, visibly debating. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You better call me if you change your mind. Or even if you don’t. I just want to hear your voice.”

“I will”, you say, trying to mean it.

“You won’t”, he mutters. “But I’ll pretend to believe you.”

You watch him walk away until he’s out of sight. And then the weight returns, heavy and unforgiving. You turn and head back toward your room, your steps slow. You were planning to reach out to Akihito — to talk, to finally be honest. At least with him. You need to say the words out loud.

Halfway to your door, one of the maids appears at the end of the corridor, bowing her head respectfully as she approaches. “Lady Saori has asked if you would join her for tea in the garden”, she says.

You blink. “Tea?”

“She’s waiting for you now”, the maid adds.

Your stomach twists. This is a first. Saori has never invited you anywhere, never initiated anything outside of polite formality. And now — tea? You murmur your thanks and change direction, heading toward the garden with careful steps. When you arrive, Saori is already seated beneath the wide shade of the cherry blossom tree. Everything is picturesque — the porcelain tea set arranged perfectly, delicate sweets on a lacquer tray. Not a single detail out of place. She looks up as you approach, her posture composed, her expression mild.

“Hello again”, she says, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Please, sit.”

You lower yourself slowly. “Thank you.”

She pours the tea herself. No attendants. No distractions. Just you and her. “We’ve never had the chance to talk”, she says, tone pleasant. “Just the two of us.”

You nod faintly. “I guess not.”

She picks up her cup, takes a small sip, and sets it down again. “Satoru seems happy.”

You glance at her, cautious. “He is.”

“I can tell. He’s always been bright, but lately there’s something different. Something new. He’s softer. His laugh is more genuine.” She offers a smile. “He clearly cares for you — deeply.”

Your mouth goes dry. ��Thank you.”

She hums softly, and then — without a change in tone — asks, “And how are things between you and my husband?”

The question hits you like a stone dropped into still water. No warning. No shift in expression.

You stiffen, staring at her.

She doesn’t look away, “Not well, I imagine?” voice still calm.

“I—”

“I don’t want to hear it”, she cuts in, quiet but firm.

Silence settles like a weight. Her voice remains calm, but the steel beneath it is undeniable. “I am not blind.”

You lower your gaze.

“I see the way Akihito looks at you. I see what it’s done to him.” Her fingers rest gently on the rim of her teacup. “And I know the kind of woman it takes to twist a man like him into something unrecognizable.”

You flinch.

“I won’t let this continue. I won’t let you unravel this family from the inside out. If you stay on this path, you won’t just break Akihito — you’ll destroy Satoru too. He’s already too attached. Too invested. And when this blows apart — because it will, like all secrets do — do you really think he won’t be the one to bleed for it?”

You look up at her, heart pounding. Her words feel like nails driven into your spine. There’s no venom in her voce. No raised pitch. Just control. Cold and deliberate. “I’m giving you a choice”, she says. “You leave. On your own terms. Or I will make sure you have no terms at all.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. What can you even say? What are you supposed to do? Argue?

“Think it over”, she says, lifting her teacup again. “Before it becomes something you can’t come back from.” Then her eyes meet yours one last time — still poised, but with a new edge. “And don’t even think about telling Akihito we had this conversation.” she adds softly. “Unless you want Satoru to know about it too.”

You barely make it back to your room before your legs give out. The door shuts behind you and you crash onto the bed, your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to hold back the tears, but it’s useless now. The dam is breaking. Your shoulders shake, and the sob that leaves you is hoarse, pulled from a place so deep it feels like you’re splitting open.

Everything was falling apart — like a chain of dominoes tipping one after another. One thing went wrong, and the rest followed, collapsing in swift, inevitable sequence. The worst part? The love blooming quietly in your chest. There’s no use pretending anymore. You can try to lie to everyone else — maybe even try to lie to yourself. But the truth is carved into your every glance, every touch, every breath, every unspoken word between you and Satoru. You love him. But you’re not allowed to have him. Not after this. Not when the damage has already begun to spill over the edges.

You sit in the stillness for a while, until your tears run dry and resolve begins to settle in their place. There’s one thing left to do — the thing you intended before everything spiraled. You need to speak with Akihito. You pick up your phone and type out the message.

Meet me in an hour. I’ll send you the location of the hotel.

Then you get up, dress in silence, and leave.

The room is quiet when he arrives. Akihito steps inside and finds you standing by the window, framed in soft, diffused light. There’s something different in your posture — something heavier. He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at you, then takes a step forward.

He dropped everything and came to you. Still hoping. That small, foolish hope still flickers in him — that maybe, despite everything, you’ve called him here because you’ve come back. He reaches for you, arms out as if to hold you again. But you step back.

“No”, you say, voice tight. “We can’t do this anymore.”

His hands drop to his sides. “What?” his voice barely comes out. You swallow the lump rising in your throat. “Aki... we can’t.” He stares at you. Then — a bitter, hollow laugh escapes him. “So that’s it?” His voice cracks. “You fell in love with him, didn’t you? And all this was for nothing?”

You close your eyes. The silence answers for you. He paces away, running a hand through his hair, then back again. “God”, he mutters. “I thought this was the perfect plan. I thought — if I couldn’t have you publicly, I could at least have you close. Through him. Knowing he wouldn’t want you, wouldn’t touch you. Knowing that you loved me...” He looks at you now, eyes sharp with grief. “But I was wrong about both.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. “This was a terrible idea from the start, and you know it”, you whisper. “I should’ve never agreed. I should’ve never let it get this far. I wish I’d never—”

“Don’t”, he snaps, suddenly raw. “Don’t say you wish you never met me. Don’t.”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t take it back. His voice lowers, thick with disbelief. “You don’t really mean it... right?”

Your silence cuts deeper than any answer.

He lets out a sharp breath, like it hurts, and moves to step toward you again, in utter denial of what’s unfolding before his eyes.

“No”, you say, firmer this time. “Please. Just let this be the end.”

You reach for the door. He follows. For the first time, you leave the hotel room together — not like all the other times, not hidden, not careful. You’re walking away, and he’s chasing you, hand reaching desperately for yours.

“Wait—!”

Akihito’s hand closes around your wrist just as you step onto the sidewalk, his grip tight, desperate — like holding on could somehow undo everything unraveling between you.

And then you hear it — a familiar voice calls your name.

“...is that you?”

You freeze. Shoko stands a few feet away, dressed in her uniform. Her gaze flicks from your face to where Akihito’s hand still clings to yours, and her expression changes in an instant.

And just like that — in the space of a single day — everything you’ve tried to keep buried begins to rise. Crashing, all at once, to the surface.

The sun is long gone by the time Satoru returns, the estate cloaked in stillness. He steps inside, calling your name softly. When you appear at the end of the hall, barefoot in the dim light, something in him settles — and then, just as quickly, something else begins to stir. You look like yourself, and yet... not. Your smile is soft but distant, your eyes shimmering in a way he can’t place. “I’m home”, he says, shrugging off his jacket. “Missed me?”

You nod, walking up to him. You press a hand to his chest. “Little bit.” He smiles and leans down to kiss you, and when your lips meet, he feels it — the way you cling just a little tighter, hold just a little longer. It’s like you’re trying to memorize the way he tastes.

Later, in your shared room, the lights are low and the silence is velvet. You’re already in bed when he returns from the shower, his white hair damp and tousled, towel slung loosely around his neck. He slips in beside you, cold fingers brushing your arm. You shiver, not from the chill — from the weight of what’s to come.

“You said you needed some time for yourself this morning, but you’re still like this”, he murmurs, pulling you close. “I don’t like it.”

You nestle against his chest, pressing your cheek to his skin. “I’m okay now.”

There’s something in your voice that makes him pause. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he wraps his arms around you tighter, grounding himself in the curve of your spine, the warmth of your breath against him.

“You smell like cotton candy”, you whisper.

He chuckles, nose brushing the crown of your head. “It’s that new shampoo. Smells fancy, huh?”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand and intertwine your fingers with his like it’s the last time... “Will you stay with me?” you ask softly.

“I’m not going anywhere.” he breathes.

“Good”, you murmur, voice barely above a breath. “Then, come closer.”

Satoru tilts his head down to look at you, a flicker of unease moving behind his gaze. “Of course”, he says. “Where else would I go?”

You pull him down to kiss you again. Deep. Slow. There’s no teasing. No games. Just something desperate threaded through every movement. Like a goodbye wrapped in silk. When you make love, there’s no rush. No fire. Just the quiet rhythm of two people trying to suspend time — to stretch a moment into forever. You whisper his name like a prayer. He kisses your temple like he’s stealing a promise he doesn’t know he’s about to break.

Afterward, you lie tangled together, your head on his chest, his fingers absentmindedly drawing circles on your bare shoulder. Your breathing evens. Sleep comes to you quickly — a peace you haven’t known in a while.

But Satoru doesn’t sleep. He watches you in the darkness, his blue eyes searching your face, as if trying to decode something written there. Something unsaid. You’ve never look so peaceful. And, honestly, that’s what scares him. His chest tightens. Something in his gut whispers that he’s missing something. That he’s not seeing the full picture. That maybe... you’re slipping through his fingers.

“Why do I feel like I’m losing you?” he murmurs, barely audible, brushing a thumb along your cheek. You stir, but don’t wake. He leans down and kisses your forehead — gentle, reverent. “I love you”, he whispers into your hair. And for a moment, he lets himself believe it’s enough to keep you.

A week passes. The Gojo estate buzzes with preparations for the annual celebration — Saori and Akihito’s wedding anniversary. As always, Saori is at the heart of it all, composed and efficient, orchestrating every detail with practiced grace. Akihito, on the other hand, remains distant. Detached. You barely see him around the mansion. Not a word has passed between you since that day at the hotel. It feels like he’s quietly disappearing — withdrawing, piece by piece — and yet, an uneasy weight sits in your chest. Something feels off. Unfinished.

One afternoon, as you help Saori sort through invitations, she brings it up — casually. “Have you made up your mind?” she asks, her eyes never lifting from the stack of envelopes. You pause, fingers brushing the edge of an envelope, and answer softly — almost absently. “Who knows.”

Morning light filters through the sheer curtains. You’re already awake, lying still in Satoru’s arms. His breath is warm against the nape of your neck, one arm draped lazily around your waist, holding you in place like an anchor. Carefully, you ease out from under his arm. He shifts but doesn’t wake. Bare feet touch the cold floor as you rise and stand in the light, allowing yourself one last look. He’s lying on his back now, hair a tousled against the pillow. Peaceful. Vulnerable in a way only sleep allows. Your chest aches.

In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face and lift your gaze to the mirror. Your eyes are red. Hollow. The skin beneath them bruised with fatigue. But beneath the weariness, there’s something else — resolve. When you return to the room, Satoru is stirring. He squints at you with a sleepy grin. “Come back”, he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “I sleep better when you’re here.”

You smile softly. “Can’t. You know today’s the big day.”

He stretches like a cat, arms reaching above his head, the sheet slipping down to his hips. “Ugh. Right. Completely forgot about that”, he groans and then rolls onto his side. You manage a quiet laugh. As he nestles back into the pillow, you linger in the doorway. “I love you.” you whisper — quietly, so quietly he won’t hear. Then you close the door behind you. And with that, the countdown begins.

The Gojo estate is nothing short of magnificent tonight. The garden glows beneath a canopy of paper lanterns, warm amber light spilling across the sea of guests. Tables are dressed in fresh flowers. Soft music hums in the background, blending into murmured conversations and the gentle clinking of glasses. Tonight is a celebration of image — Akihito and Saori’s wedding anniversary. Saori is elegance incarnate, her smile as polished as the pearls at her neck. Akihito stands beside her, composed, offering polite nods and minimal words. Together, they are the picture of grace. But the image is just that — a facade. There’s nothing worth celebrating. Nothing real about the harmony they pretend to share.

Across the garden, Satoru floats through the evening like a disruption in the symmetry. Dressed in a loose gray suit, tie nowhere in sight, he laughs too loud, drowns juice from a champagne glass, and teases the elders with casual disrespect. No one bats an eye — it’s just Satoru being Satoru. But those who know him — really know him — can see it. He’s restless. His eyes keep scanning the crowd. At first subtly. Then, with growing urgency. You’re not out here. You slipped away earlier, saying something about fixing your dress. But that was over thirty minutes ago. Long enough for the knot in his stomach to tighten. Long enough for his laugh to start sounding forced.

He leans toward Shoko, who’s sipping wine with a bored expression. “Have you seen her?”

“Nope”, Shoko replies, unbothered. “Didn’t she say she was heading to the bathroom?”

“Yeah”, Satoru’s fingers drum against the table. “But how long does fixing a dress take?”

Across the garden, Akihito and Saori stand side by side as guests gather for the toast. She leans in, whispers something. He nods — but his gaze flickers, briefly, toward the house.

An elder raises a glass. “To love. To strength. To bonds that stand the test of time.”

Glasses rise.

Clink.

Applause follows. The illusion holds.

Until—

BOOM.

A thunderous crack splits the air. The ground shakes. Heat pulses across the garden like a wave. Screams erupt. From the left wing of the estate, fire bursts through the windows — a wall of flame swallowing the air. Smoke billows thick and choking. Music cuts out. Plates crash. Glass shatters.

Satoru’s glass falls from his hand and explodes against the ground. Something sharp drives into his chest. He knows — you’re still inside. But before the thought is fully formed, he’s already running.

“WHERE IS SHE?!” His voice cuts through the chaos as he barrels through the guests.

Akihito starts to follow, face pale, but Saori grabs his arm. Her gaze then snaps to her son. “Satoru, STOP!” she cries — but he doesn’t hear.

To Satoru, the world is silent now. There is only the roar of the fire and the pounding of his heart. He bursts through the estate doors, sprinting toward the source of the flames. He forgets his technique. Forgets his own safety. Forgets everything — except you.

“Please, baby— please, my love— I’m coming, please— Don’t do this to me, please—”, he keeps chanting.

The deeper he goes, the more warped the hall becomes — blackened, unrecognizable. He reaches the kitchen — but it’s empty. Panic claws up his throat. He turns, runs to the nearby bathroom. Kicks the door open. Heat smacks him like a wall. Smoke clogs his lungs. He pulls his sleeve over his mouth and steps inside.

Then he sees it — someone collapsed near the sink, limbs sprawled. Still. His heart stops. He nearly slips as he rushes forward, dropping to his knees beside the figure. Burnt and unrecognizable. But the dress — what’s left of it — is familiar. The color. The delicate trim. There’s a necklace around the neck, half-melted, but unmistakably yours. “No”, he whispers. “No, no, no—”

His hand hovers over your body. His throat tightens. Everything around him is heat, noise, pressure, but in his ears, there’s only silence. Like the world just folded in on itself. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears hit his lips — salt and ash. “I was just with you...” he whispers, almost childlike, broken. “You were laughing with me a moment ago...” He leans in, presses his forehead to your shoulder, and breathes raggedly. Body shaking.

Behind him, voices start to echo. Footsteps. Shouting. Geto is coming to pull him out. But Satoru doesn’t hear any of it. He doesn’t move. He can’t. For the first time in his life, it feels like he’s lost.

The fire was quickly contained. The Gojo mansion still stands, its structure untouched. Only the left wing of the first floor bears the marks of the fire. The investigation concluded that the fire was caused by an overheating motor in the bathroom’s ventilation system, a tragic accident. Only one life was lost: yours.

Your funeral was two days ago. A private ceremony. Satoru didn’t speak during it. He barely moved. Just stood there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes hidden behind the blindfold. Quiet. In a way he’s never been.

Now, days later, the world still spins — people still laugh, they breathe, they live. But he’s still here. In the room that was once your shared bedroom. Alone. He sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the chaos of your things scattered around the room. Your belongings — still as you left them — seem to scream your absence. He can’t bring himself to touch them. Not yet. Not ever. The book you were reading, the bottle of perfume on the nightstand, your lotion, your earrings, the brush on the vanity, and your nightgown — neatly folded on your side of the bed. It all kills him. The maids are prohibited from entering the room. He’s made sure of it. The silence of the space, with all its untouched remnants of you, is his alone to bear.

He buries his face in your pillow, hoping to catch even the faintest trace of your scent. But it’s long gone. A strangled breath leaves him. Then another. And then... he breaks. His hands shake as he scrolls through his phone, endlessly flipping through old texts. Rereading them. The messages that still feel so alive — your voice echoing in his mind. One voicemail stands out. The one you left days before the accident. He presses play.

“Satoru, stop leaving the toilet seat up! I’m too sleepy in the mornings to notice, but my butt definitely doesn’t appreciate an unexpected ice bath.”

He laughs. Just once. And then, he breaks again. Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world, curls into himself, his body crumpling into fetal position. He cries. Not quietly. No. He cries like he’s been holding it in his entire life, like the ground beneath him finally gave way and left him with nothing to stand on. No air. No reason.

They say he’s doing fine. Around others, he smiles. He jokes. He walks with that same easy confidence, says the right things, acts like nothing’s changed. But Geto and Shoko know better. They see it in the way he visits your grave every day. The way his shoulders stiffen when someone dares mention your name. The way his hands tremble when they’re not stuffed in his pockets. He’s unraveling. Slowly. Quietly. And still, no one knows the truth. Not yet. Not even him.

Only Shoko does.

You follow Shoko into the morgue at Jujutsu Tech, each step slow and soundless. She doesn’t speak. Just moves steadily toward a counter, where she sets a folder down. Her back remains to you. The silence stretches long and taut. Then—

“I wasn’t sure what to make of what I saw earlier”, she finally says. “But the fact that you followed me here... it confirms my suspicions.”

You try to speak, but no words come out. Only a shaky breath escapes, heavy with guilt, regret, and everything you’ve been holding in for far too long. Shoko turns to face you. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes are sharp.

“You look like you want to say something”, she says. “So say it.”

The words stumble out at first, fractured and raw. But then they come faster, pouring from you. You tell her everything — the affair, the reason behind the arranged marriage, the lies... everything. And the worst of it — that somehow, in the wreckage of it all, you fell in love with Satoru. You nearly choke saying it aloud, the weight of the truth crushing in your chest.

Shoko listens in silence. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t interrupt. When you finally stop, she speaks with her usual stillness. “Why are you telling me this?” Then, sharper, “Why not tell Gojo?”

“No”, you say quickly. “I can’t... I won’t do this to him.”

She tilts her head, gaze narrowing. “You already did”, she replies flatly. “Whether you tell him or not doesn’t change that.”

Your throat tightens. “I know... and I need you to help me.”

“Help you?” she repeats. “Why would I?”

“Because I don’t want him to hurt, not like this.”

There’s a long pause. Shoko just watches you — assessing, weighing. Then she steps closer, her voice low. “But he will hurt. In a way I’m not sure he’ll ever come back from.”

You meet her gaze, desperation burning in yours. “Please.”

She says nothing, but something seems to be shifting in her.

“There’s something that will hurt him less than the truth”, you say. “I need you to find a body. Someone who resembles me. Imbue it with my residuals — only you can do that. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Her arms cross slowly. “You want me to find a corpse?” she asks. “You want me to help you fake your death? Is that it?”

You nod, eyes dropping. “He’ll be better off thinking I’m dead than knowing what I’ve done.”

“You’re underestimating him”, Shoko says, shaking her head. “You don’t know what you mean to him. This isn’t mercy — it’ll destroy him.”

Her words cut like glass, but you close your eyes. “Please”, you whisper.

“When?”, Shoko asks, and you blink. “When do you need the body?” she repeats, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

(One month later)

You moved away. Far away. To a small village tucked in the mountains, hidden in a forgotten corner of the country. It’s quiet here — the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything from you. No one knows your name here. Not your real one, anyway. You rent a modest cottage, barely furnished, but clean. You wake with the sun, tend to your tiny garden, then walk to the local pub where you started working just enough to get by. It’s simple. Monotonous. A life carved from necessity, not desire. And yet, every night before bed, you check your phone. One conversation always sits at the top of your inbox: Shoko.

Your last message was three days ago.

You: How is he?

Her reply came the next morning.

Shoko: Still breathing. Don’t ask for more.

You didn’t. You never do.

(Back at Jujutsu Tech)

Satoru has just returned from a mission, and it’s clear he’s not himself. He’s sharp, but off. The usual cocky confidence has slipped into irritation, and he drifts through the halls with his mind elsewhere. Distracted. A clipboard hangs loosely in his hand, and he’s on the hunt for Shoko — she’s supposed to fill out a report.

These days, he only drops the act around her. Or Geto. Or, of course, when alone. When he’s not pretending, he’s quiet. Drained. Nothing like the Gojo Satoru everyone knows.

As he nears the morgue, he slows. A muffled voice cuts through the silence behind the door. It’s Shoko, on the phone. He’s about to knock when he hears it.

Your name.

Satoru freezes. Is he finally losing his mind? But then, there’s more—

“...you need to stop asking.”

A pause. Then, softer—

“He... He doesn’t talk about you still. He’s not okay. But you knew he wouldn’t be.”

The world stills. He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. It’s like his mind is short-circuiting. Did he hear that right? His grip tightens on the clipboard until it creaks beneath his fingers. But then, it comes again.

Your name.

He stands there, stunned for a moment, before his body moves of its own accord. The door opens with a slow creak.

Shoko looks up, and she sighs. “...I have work to do”, she says quietly, and ends the call.

Satoru steps inside and shuts the door behind him. He throws the clipboard aside. He is not smiling, and he’s no longer wearing his blindfold. And for the first time in a month, his eyes are fully visible — different, bottomless, rimmed in red — and they are fixed on her. “Care to explain?”, he says, voice low, flat.

Shoko doesn’t play dumb. She doesn’t lie. She leans back against the wall, her posture shifting to something almost resigned. She exhales, a soft sound, like she’s been waiting for this moment. She knew it would come. And for the first time in weeks, Satoru’s eyes — his grief-clouded eyes — are lit by something else. Hope.

“She’s alive.”, Shoko says. The words hang in the air between them, and Satoru’s world shifts. He doesn’t react at first. Just stands there, trying to process her words.

Finally, his voice cracks — barely audible, barely more than a whisper, like something fragile. “You let me bury her.”

Shoko’s gaze softens for a moment, but then she sighs, a sound that’s more exhausted than regretful. “She said it’d hurt you less.”

“Less?” He laughs once, a shar, disbelieving sound. “Less than what?”

“The truth.” The words come from Shoko with unflinching clarity. “She had an affair with your father.”

Shoko waits. For a reaction. For anger. For questions. For anything.

But Satoru doesn’t blink. He only asks one question. “Where is she?”

The Gojo estate still stands. The first floor — once scorched by fire — has long since been renovated. But beneath the surface, the scars of the past remain. For those who know, it’s impossible to forget what was lost. Akihito sits in the living room, staring down at the floor, his expression hollow. The once commanding patriarch is now a broken shell. His hands tremble as he takes a sip of his drink, his gaze unfocused, consumed by grief. He hasn’t spoken much in weeks. Every time he tries, his voice cracks. The loss of you has shattered him. Sometimes he tells himself it was better this way — better to lose you to death than to watch you belong to someone else. Even if that someone else was his son. For a moment, that thought would make it easier to breathe. But then again, what did it matter? You were gone. And something in him knew — the fire wasn’t an accident. He suspected Saori. Maybe she found out. Maybe she did this to you. Should he kill her? But that wouldn’t bring you back. And besides... the clan. He still had a duty to do.

Saori sits nearby, her gaze fixed out the window, her lips curling into a faint, satisfied smile. Her eyes flicker to Akihito for a brief moment, but there’s no sympathy in them — only contentment. After everything, she believes fate has finally righted itself. She watches him fall apart with quiet detachment, a sense of calm in her stillness. At least now, he is more hers than he is yours. “Perhaps it was fate”, she murmurs softly, her words for no one but the walls. Akihito’s eyes remain distant, his thoughts far removed from her voice. He’s too lost to hear anything she says — too far gone to care.

Then, the door opens. Satoru enters, no grand gesture, no announcement. His presence fills the room immediately, thick and heavy, like an impending storm. Akihito doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. He knows why his son is here — he can feel it in the air before he even steps further in. Saori glances at Satoru, her eyes narrowing slightly, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. She rises without a word, understanding that this conversation isn’t for her. She leaves quietly, walking past her son with only a brief, knowing look.

The door clicks shut behind her.

Akihito slumps lower in his seat, but he doesn’t look at his son. He doesn’t need to. The way Satoru stands there, rigid, fists clenched, eyes dark and filled with fury. Akihito feels the weight of it, heavy in the room, before he even lifts his head to look at him.

“You know”, Akihito says quietly, his voice hoarse, a statement rather than a question. Satoru stands still, his jaw clenched tight, eyes burning. He doesn’t answer. The air between them crackles with the unsaid. Akihito presses on, his voice low, laced with a tremor. “How did you find out?”

Still, Satoru remains silent. His fists tremble at his sides, his breathing shallow, ragged. The words catch in his throat, a clash of fury and hurt. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and strained, as though forcing each word past the tightness in his chest.

“You broke her.” he spits, finally. “You broke the one thing most precious to me.”

Akihito flinches, the weight of the accusation landing heavily on him. His gaze hardens, but he can’t meet Satoru’s eyes. There’s nothing to say. His son is right — he did break her. And by doing so, he broke his son as well.

Satoru steps forward suddenly, his movements swift and calculated. The space between them closes in an instant, and Satoru’s eyes, wide with intensity, burn through the silence as he towers over his own father. There’s something primal in the air now — a rawness, an energy that could consume the entire room, the entire estate, if left unchecked. Akihito doesn’t react, he just sits there, knowing what’s coming. He accepts it. The man he once was, gone. And this son — this powerful, broken son — is the reckoning he’s been waiting for.

“Do you have anything to say?” Satoru’s voice is barely containing the storm inside him. His hands shake, still clenched tightly into fists, but there’s a note of something darker in his gaze — an edge that suggests the breaking point is near. Akihito looks at him, pained, defeated, but remains silent. The words don’t come.

The sound that follows — sharp and violent — could be a fist crashing into flesh or a bone snapping under pressure. It’s unclear, too quick to pinpoint. The air itself seems to shatter with it.

Satoru turns without another word, leaving the mansion. His hands are covered in blood.

Behind him, a scream shatters the silence. Saori’s scream, high and frantic, echoes through the halls. Saori doesn’t know it yet, but her time is coming too. Soon enough.

Satoru knew. He had known for a while. It wasn’t a dramatic discovery. It was quiet and accidental, in fact. It happened early into your marriage, when you were still distant with him — polite but clipped. Somehow always guarded. He thought it was the nerves at first. Shyness. The weight of tradition. But then a month passed, and you still wouldn’t meet his eyes unless it was absolutely necessary. Still flinched when he reached for you. He could handle awkward beginnings, of course — especially for you. He wasn’t expecting a fairytale, you didn’t even remember him. But what he couldn’t handle was not knowing you, the way that you never let him in.

So he did what a curious man with too little patience like himself might do. He followed you. Not out of suspicion of course. He thought if he observed you from a distance, he might’ve learned things you weren’t ready to tell or show him. Your habits. Anything. And then, one afternoon, he watched you enter a hotel. Alone. Odd.

Ten minutes later, his father arrived. Very odd.

Satoru waited. Two hours later, you walked out. Head down, hair slightly mussed. You didn’t see him. Shortly after, Akihito exited the building, adjusting his coat, wearing an expression Satoru had rarely seen on him — satisfied, secretive. And that was it. He didn’t even use his Six Eyes at first. Part of him didn’t want confirmation. Part of him hoped it was just a coincidence. But shortly after, he let his technique drift over your form. And there it was. Residuals. His father’s cursed energy. All over you.

...and everything began to click. Your stiffness. The arranged marriage. His father’s sudden interest in choosing his bride. How Akihito had spoken of you before the engagement with just a touch too much fondness. It wasn’t an arranged marriage; it was a cover. You weren’t his. You were his father’s.

Satoru never confronted you, never let on that he knew. He just watched. Watched the way you disappeared for hours and returned with a soft look in your eyes that was never for him. Watched the way Akihito seemed lighter after seeing you. Watched the lie of a marriage unfold, thread by thread, every day. He never blamed you, though. He thought, maybe this was fate’s twisted way of bringing you back together. Yes, he could’ve easily destroyed it, could’ve exposed the affair and made the clan turn against Akihito. But that would’ve meant the clan turning against you as well. And Satoru never wanted to ruin you, he wanted to keep you.

So he waited. Watched. Loved you in silence. And when he caught glimpses — that maybe you were beginning to see him, not just the son of the man you loved, that you were starting to change — that was all it took. He clung to that.

Because the thing about Gojo Satoru is that, when he wants something — really, truly wants it — he doesn’t stop. Not rules. Not family. Nothing can stop him.

You had been stolen from him once — the night on the curb, when fate gave you to him and then ripped you away before he could even ask your name. Then it happened again. His father got to you first.

Now, he wasn’t going to let you be taken away from him for the third time. No matter what. Even if it meant choosing heart over blood.

If you had faked your death and disappeared because you believed you couldn’t exist in a world with both of them, then all he had to do was remove the one standing in the way. To keep you.

You’re wiping down the tables at the pub, preparing for the new day. Half-focused. Letting the repetitive motion ground you, steady your nerves. Trying not to think about the ghost of him that’s never really left you.

The door creaks open behind you.

“We’re not open yet”, you immediately call out. Politely, without turning around. “Please come back in an hour.”

Silence. Neither a response, nor footsteps indicating that the person is leaving. You glance over your shoulder, ready to repeat yourself, but the words catch in your throat.

Satoru is standing there, leaning against the doorframe. “Won’t you make an exception for me?” he says softly. It’s meant to sound like him — teasing, light — but his voice gives him away. It’s quiet, fragile. Like it might crack if he tries any harder to keep it steady.

The rag slips from your hands. You freeze. Then slowly, you turn. But you don’t meet his eyes. You don’t dare. “Why would you come here?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. It’s not a question of how he found you. The answer was simple. Shoko.

He steps forward, slowly. “For you.”

“For me”, you echo under your breath, more to yourself than to him, a bitter laugh escaping you. “For me, huh?” you repeat.

“For you.” — he says again, with no hesitation. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shrink, as if you could fold into nothing. As if it might protect you from the weight of what he’s carrying in his voice. “Did you ever consider that maybe I didn’t want to be found?”

“I did”, he says. “I considered a lot of things, actually.” He pauses before he takes another step, and then adds, “But the fact you did something so reckless... made me consider that you cared more than I imagined.”

You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You don’t understand—”

“I do.” He cuts in gently. “You thought if you stayed, you’d destroy us both.”

You finally look up, meeting his eyes for the first time, and something inside you threatens to cave, the devastation in him nearly buckling your knees. “I did something unforgivable.”

He exhales, like what he’s about to say is so obvious it needn’t be said out loud. But he does it anyway — “I was ready to do anything for you.”

“Even if what I did was truly terrible?”

“Even then.”

He takes another step, and then another, until the distance between is gone. Until he’s close enough to touch. You want to move. To put space between you, but your feet don’t listen. And his presence — it roots you in place like gravity.

“You could’ve told me everything”, he murmurs. “You should’ve told me.” A pause. “I already knew.”

“What?”, your breath stutters.

His eyes darken, and a faint, bitter smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I’ve known for a while.”

“But... Shoko... didn’t Shoko—”

“It wasn’t her.” He shakes his head. “I found out myself.” He falls silent for a moment, like the memory stings to recall.

“And you never said anything?”

“I had my reasons”, he says softly. “Just like you had yours.” He lifts his hand — the lightest touch — and tilts your chin up. The gentleness nearly undoes you. You try to speak, but the words tangle with the sob building in your chest. It slips out instead — small, broken. His fingers brush beneath your eye, catching the tear before it falls. Even as his own hand trembles. “One word from you would’ve changed everything”, he whispers. “I would’ve burned everything down to keep you safe. Happy.”

You slowly break under the weight of his words, forehead falling to his chest. You feel the tension in him — not anger, not judgment. Just ache. His arms wrap around you.

“You were always my girl”, he breathes into your hair. “Even when you didn’t know it. Even when you were his. From the moment you fell asleep on my lap outside that club, you were mine.”

You tilt your head up, lips trembling. “I’m... I’m really s—”

“Shh.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin. “I know.”

And then, his lips charge closer — you meet him halfway into a soft, slow kiss. One that is both an ache and a release all at once.

It hurts to want him this much. It hurts to know what you did. It hurts to know that he still looks at you with so much love, even when he knows it all. It hurts, that despite everything, it’s still you.

You never thought you’d find peace again. Not truly. But now, the mornings are calm. The nights are quiet. The days pass without dread — light, easy, almost gentle. You and Satoru settled into this small life together, tucked away from the rest of the world.

He left it all behind — the clan, the title, the crushing weight of being the strongest. Here, he isn’t Gojo Satoru, head of the Gojo Clan or the face of sorcerer society. Here, he’s just Satoru. Your Satoru. The one who wakes up beside you each morning, arm draped around your waist, murmuring sleepy nonsense into your ear. The one who insists on cooking breakfast and makes an unspeakable mess in the kitchen. The one who still leaves the toilet seat up just to hear you scold him — and grins when you do.

Your belly is growing now — small, round, and full of promise. Sometimes he speaks to it like he already knows who your child will be. Sometimes he rests his head there and falls asleep. Other times, he lies awake with his hand on your baby bump, eyes full of wonder and fear, whispering that he hopes he’ll be good enough — for both of you.

There are things left unspoken between you. You’ve never asked what happened after he left the clan — or more accurately, what happened before he left. You suspect the truth, of course. There’s no way not to. But you don’t press. And he doesn’t offer.

Still, you think of Akihito sometimes. It’s impossible not to — he was a turning point, a fire you walked through to become who you are now. And sometimes, in the right light, Satoru looks so much like him. The same build, the same jawline, the same eyes.

But you know better. He’s nothing like him. Akihito, for all his love, always chose the clan in the end. His desires may have been selfish, but they were always entwined with duty. He loved you, yes. But he never chose you. Not truly.

But Satoru did. He always chose you — even when it broke him. Even when it meant walking away from everything he was. Even when it meant taking a life — his own blood — to protect yours.

When he said, “I was ready to do anything for you”,

...he really meant it.

#ઈઉ — ai writes #[ ♡ ] — satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you

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headkiss · 11 months ago

Text

fall right into me

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: when something happens to your apartment and you need a place to stay, steve, your best friend, is quick to provide it for you. your prolonged proximity forces you both to realize some things.

word count: 13.6k

warnings: childhood bffs to lovers, absolute idiots in love, mentions of a negative relationship with parents, probably inaccurate descriptions of some things but it’s (say it with me) for the plot!!!

a/n: i know it’s been a LONG time since i’ve posted a long fic so thank u guys for ur patience <3 i had so much fun getting back to it and writing these two, and i hope it’s at least a little bit worth the wait!!! ily :,)

𝜗𝜚

Your shoes are still wet as you dial the first number that comes to mind: Steve’s.

He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Steve.”

“Hi,” you can imagine him on the other side of the phone, leaning casually against the wall, an easy smile on his face, “what’s going on?”

You’re not quite sure where to start.

Coming home from work earlier, you’d been excited to shower and change and lay around for the rest of the evening, your book hanging open in your lap and some mindless TV filling the silence.

The day seemed to have other plans for you, though, because as you walked down the stairs to your apartment—one in the basement of a sweet, older couple’s house who just never used the space and converted it—the carpet had made an ugly squelch as soon as you stepped on it.

You looked down at your shoe against the carpet, at the way its color was darker than usual from whatever water had gotten into it. Looking up, you found a complete mess. A piece of the ceiling hanging open right above your bed, water still dripping in steady drops from the gap, your bedding ruined among many other things.

You don’t know how long you stood there, hand over your mouth, eyes flickering over the damage like you were hoping it would vanish, like it was only something you imagined.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

The couple who owns the house came down when they heard you shout for them, unsure of what else to do. They’d both gasped when they came down, and began apologizing for something that really wasn’t their fault before one ran up to call whoever it was they needed to call to fix this and the other comforted you with a gentle “we’ll take care of it, sweetie.”

You nodded, eyes still roaming your space that was now uninhabitable.

It’s an old house, something was bound to happen at some point, you only wished it wasn’t so inconvenient for you. A small leak, you could have handled, but the ceiling practically caving in?

Yeah, it was a complete fucking mess.

Hours later, with the damage assessed and set to take a few weeks to fix up, you’re on the phone with the one person you’d known would pick up.

You fill Steve in on what happened, and his first response is a sigh of, “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit,” you agree. “And now I’m gonna have to live with my parents for a while and I don’t know how I’m gonna go back into that house, Steve.”

If you’re being honest, the couple you live with now was kinder to you than your parents were. You suppose that’s one of the many things that you and Steve have bonded over.

“Just come live with me, instead,” he offers without hesitation.

Steve says it like it’s obvious, a no-brainer, and you guess it should be, since you’ve slept over at the Harrington’s house countless times before. Only, this is different because you’d be staying for a while, because you’d be needing his help, which makes you feel all awkward and guilty.

He’s been your absolute best friend for as long as you can remember, and you’re one hundred percent sure you’d offer the same thing if the roles were reversed, but that doesn’t make it any easier for you to accept, not when you’re already frazzled from the events of the day.

“No, Steve, I’m sorry I’m just being dramatic,” you say, twisting the phone’s cord around your finger. “I’ll be fine, really. It’s just a month, or so, and I don’t wanna be in your way or-”

“When have you ever cared about being in my way, angel?” The pet name he’s called you ever since your ninth grade Halloween party slips out naturally, the way it always does. “Besides, this house is too fucking big for me as it is, and you know my parents won’t be around to care, either.”

“I can’t ask you to let me move in, Steve.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering. It’ll be like that one week when we were twelve and you stayed over for spring break, only longer. It’s perfect!”

There’s a small smile ghosting across your face as you recall the memory he’s talking about. A blanket fort in their spacious living room, sleeping bags and pillows piled inside it along with two flashlights.

You can picture the way he looks on the other end of the phone, his hair a bit messy from running his hands through it during the day, one strand rogue against his forehead, his shoulder leaned carelessly against the wall the way it usually is when he stands. Like he can’t be bothered to hold himself up, like there’s constantly a weight on him.

“Are you sure about this, Steve? It’s really okay if you’re not. I swear I’ll be fine.”

“As if I’m letting you spend multiple weeks back in your parent’s house. You’re staying with me, alright?” His voice is insistent, yet kind, letting you know that he’s being honest, that he means it. “We’ll order pizzas and watch shitty romcoms, ‘kay?”

“You can call romcoms shitty all you want, but we both know you get teary at every single one.”

“Don't change the subject, angel. Also, fuck off,” he says, though you can hear the smile in his voice. “So, you’re living with me, yeah?”

You don’t think you could say no to him even if you wanted to.

“Yeah, alright, Steve. Thank you so much.”

“None of that. I know you’d do the same.”

There’s something beautiful about the kind of trust and ease that comes with a friendship as long as yours. One where you’ve watched each other grow up, awkward phases and all, and stuck together the entire way. There’s no questioning whether or not you’d be there for each other if you were in need.

It’s known, felt. Like a fact.

“Now,” he continues, “I’ll pick you up, okay? Ten minutes, tops.”

“Okay.”

“You need me to bring boxes for your stuff?”

“I’m not sure how much is worth keeping. It’s pretty ugly in there.”

Your voice goes small at the end, because the gravity of it all is really sinking in. You’ll have to replace a lot of stuff. Stuff you don’t have money for right now.

But, you haven’t let yourself cry just yet, so you swallow it down.

“I’ll bring some anyway, then. We’ll figure it out, angel, don’t worry.”

“Thanks again, Steve. See you soon.”

“Ten minutes,” he assures you, then the line clicks.

True to his word, Steve arrives in under ten minutes, which isn’t surprising considering the size of Hawkins, but feels reassuring all the same.

You’re sitting on the curb in front of the house when Steve’s BMW pulls over on the other side of the road, and you stand just as he climbs out and shuts his door, rounding the car and jogging over to you.

His keys jingle as he tucks them into the pocket of his faded jeans, his opposite hand coming up to squeeze your shoulder, “You okay?”

The warmth of his palm seeps through your work shirt that you’ve yet to change out of, and you let your eyes fall shut just for a second before looking at his face, “Guess so,” you nod. “Maybe ask me again after all of this?”

Steve’s arm winds itself over your shoulders, tugging you into his side and dropping a kiss to the top of your head, simple as an instinct. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this, angel.”

We’ll, he says. A team.

You reach up and squeeze his hand and nod, guiding him to the side-entrance leading to your basement apartment.

“I hope you didn’t wear your good shoes for this,” you say.

Steve looks down at his feet and shrugs, “Shoes can be replaced.”

He lets you lead the way down the stairs, his footsteps close behind yours. You wince when you look at the damage again, even though you’d seen it minutes ago. You can't bring yourself to look at Steve, to see the reaction on his face, because you think it’ll just make it all more real.

He mouths the word ‘fuck’ while you aren’t looking, then claps his hands once. “Okay, let’s figure out what we can save, yeah? Where do you want me?”

You’re grateful for his gentle guidance at what to do. “Maybe the bathroom? Everything in there should be fine, so it just needs to be packed.”

“‘Kay. I’ll just go grab some boxes from my car,” Steve says. He squeezes your hand once before heading up the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

You decide to tackle the worst spot first. Though the place is more like a studio, the side that houses your bed and your closet is the most affected, so you head over there and try to tune out the squish of the carpet beneath your feet.

You’re opening the sliding doors to your closet when Steve comes back, dropping a stack of boxes by your feet and running his hand down your arm softly before heading over to the bathroom to pack for you.

Even his presence seems to be making things a little bit easier for you, and each time he finds a small way to touch you or speak to you, to remind you that he’s there, you’re glad for it.

Half of your closet is a gross, wet mess, but some things are salvageable, which you take as a win. Things might be damp, but at least it’s only water, you suppose. A cycle in the dryer and most things will be wearable again.

Your dresses that are hung get the worst of it, soaked and smelly, and you decide that it’d be easier to get a couple new ones than to try and save what’s there.

Steve checks in every now and then, poking his head out of the bathroom’s doorway to look at you and make sure you’re doing alright, giving you a thumbs up when you look over to him.

You’re not sure how you’d be managing this if you were alone, and you’re thankful that you don’t have to.

The next time he checks on you, you’re by your nightstand.

Sitting atop of it is a framed picture of you and Steve from summer camp when you were around ten years old, maybe younger. Only now, the picture’s stained with water and the frame you’d decorated all those years ago at camp is a splotchy mess.

Where yours and Steve’s handwriting used to be, is now a blur from the water seeping into the wooden frame, the marker’s colors muddy. You frown, picking it up and running your thumb over the edge.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re tearing up, frustrated and sad and tired. Memories like this one are the most special to you, the ones that have kept you going for so long, and just like that, the picture that’s sat on your nightstand since being taken is gone, and it fucking sucks.

“Hey, angel?” Steve calls.

When all you do is sniffle and mumble an “mhm?” in response, he sets the box he’d been packing on the bathroom counter and walks over to you.

He comes up behind you, resting his hands on your upper-arms and peering over your shoulder at the ruined picture.

“It was my favorite one,” you say, voice breaking a little. You wipe your tear away as it trails down your cheek, your own fingertips too harsh against your skin.

Although it’s soaked and splotchy now, Steve knows which picture it is. The one where you’ve both got your neon summer camp t-shirts on, the one where his cheeks and nose are completely sunburnt and you’re both grinning up at the camera from your seats on the ground.

Steve’s clutching a stick in his hand for some reason, and you’ve got your fist tangled in the sleeve of his shirt.

It feels like no time and forever has passed since then.

Steve grabs the picture and pries it gently from your hands, setting it back onto the table and turning you around in his grip to face him.

“We can fix it,” he tells you, his brown eyes all soft as his hands come up to cup your face, thumbs swiping your tears away.

“But the frame-”

“We’ll fix it, angel. I’ll find a way, okay? We can pack it in one of the boxes and figure it out.”

“Steve-”

“Look at me,” he urges you when your gaze flickers to the ground. You listen. “This fucking sucks, I know it does, but you’re strong and I’m here, and we can handle this.”

His voice is quiet, but sure. You search his face for any trace of a lie and find none. He really believes what he’s saying, and he really believes in you.

“Thank you for being here.” You take a deep breath and drop your forehead against the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry for crying. I know it’s kinda stupid. Most of this is replaceable, it’s just-”

“It’s not stupid,” he says, letting his chin rest atop your head. “You’re allowed to cry. Hell, I’d probably be kicking and screaming on the floor like I'm back in the terrible twos.”

You laugh wetly into his shirt.

“Now,” he says, pulling back and putting his hands on his hips, “the quicker we pack, the quicker we go home. I’ll even let you wear a pair of my good fuzzy socks.”

A smile tugs at your mouth. “Deal.”

Steve wouldn’t let you do much of the work after that.

Instead, he simply held up items for you to assess from where you’d been leaning against the wall and packed it into a box if it was a ‘yes,’ or tossing it aside dramatically just to try and get you to laugh if it was a ‘no.’

Once things were sorted through and packed, you loaded everything into Steve’s car—which wasn’t a whole bunch, considering how much you had to leave behind.

You’d refused to let Steve carry the boxes all on his own, though he tried, but he still managed to open the doors for you whenever you made it to his car, even when his own hands were full, too.

By the time you were finished, you were drained. It felt like you’d lived multiple days in the one. An eight hour shift opening at the store, then coming home to a wrecked apartment. All you wanted to do was shower and lay down and not get back up.

Steve knows you well enough to be able to tell when it’s time to fill the silence and when it isn’t, and on the drive back to his place, while your head was leaned against his window, he knew to stay quiet and give you a bit of space.

He turned the radio on, but not too loud, letting the songs hum through the speakers. At every stop sign, he reached over and gave your thigh a light squeeze. Reassuring, kind, somehow exactly what you needed at the moment. Nothing more, nothing less.

You were no stranger to the Harrington’s house, having been there countless times since you were little, but it feels more intimidating now, knowing you’ll be staying. You feel silly for being worried, but you are. Asking for help makes you feel like a burden.

Steve, however, doesn’t let you entertain that thought for long, parking in his driveway and jogging around to open the passenger door for you. “Honey, we’re home!”

“Dork,” you say, though you accept his hand and let him tug you up out of the car.

Grabbing the first couple of boxes, Steve leads you inside and upstairs, right to the guest room across the hall from his own bedroom. The closest one to him.

The house has at least two guest rooms, though you suppose with how little Steve's parents are around, you could consider there to be three. Three spare rooms and Steve puts you up in the nearest one possible. It makes your heart squish in your chest, how caring he is. He doesn’t even have to try, really, the goodness in him shows even when he tries to keep it hidden.

It only takes a few trips down to his car and back before all of your boxes are stacked against the wall. You decide you’ll deal with them later.

Steve runs over to his room and grabs a set of pajamas that you’d left there, and hands them to you. “I figured you’d wanna wash up.”

“You calling me smelly, Harrington?”

“Shut up, I think you smell nice. Usually.”

“Hey!”

“I’m teasing, angel.” He ruffles your hair. You swat his hand away. “You know where the bathroom is, and there should be soap and stuff in the shower already. Just yell if you need something, okay?”

You do know where the bathroom is. You have your own toothbrush in a cup by the sink, a set of travel-sized skin care products in the cupboard behind the mirror for whenever you end up staying over.

It’s funny, you’ve always felt more at home here than at your own parents house, and though he hasn’t said it to you, Steve much prefers this house when you’re in it. There’s a warmth that comes with your presence that makes him ache when it’s not around.

You nod, “Thank you again for letting me stay, Steve. I won’t be in the way, promise.”

“I want you in the way. You know you’re always welcome. This is no different.” He shrugs, “Plus, it’ll be nice having you around. Place always feels so empty when it’s just me.”

“Maybe I’ll just stay forever, then,” you say, tone light and joking.

Steve, completely serious, says, “I’d let you.”

There’s a zip that goes through you when he says it, quick as lightning, something you’ve never felt—or noticed, rather—around him. It throws you off just a little.

“Anyways,” Steve cuts your thoughts short, “I’ll let you get settled. Pizza will be waiting for you when you’re done.”

He leaves the room before you can thank him again, his footsteps retreating and heading downstairs.

You’ve been to his house a million times, so you don’t really feel the need to ‘get settled’ but you desperately need a shower so that’s where you go.

You stay in for longer than you need to, letting the too-hot water run down your neck and back.

When you finally do step out of the bathroom, now clad in your pajamas, and head downstairs, Steve’s sitting on the couch in the living room, the romcoms he owns sitting out in front of the TV for you to choose from, your favorite blanket resting on your side of the couch, and pizza boxes on the coffee table just as promised.

It’s the best thing in the world, you think, to have a friend like Steve.

You’ve been staying at Steve’s for a couple of days already, and time seems to fly by a little quicker when you’re there, especially when you’re around him.

He’s taken it upon himself to have coffee ready in the pot for you every morning, one of your favorite mugs already next to it on the counter. You’ve cooked breakfasts together (pancakes one day, where you’d done most of the work, or something simple as toast when you both have to get to work), ordered dinners, and Steve comes home from his shifts with a new movie to watch almost every day.

It’s been so nice. Almost perfect, actually.

This morning, the first day where your shifts happen to be at the exact same time, he’d even insisted on driving you to work. It was an easy yes, considering it wasn’t out of his way at all.

After a short stint of working together at the grocery store in ninth grade, and your subsequent firing from the job after a month of constantly distracting each other on the clock, Tim, the grocery manager, took it upon himself to warn Hawkins not to hire the both of you together.

Eventually, you’d taken the closest you could get which resulted in you working at the arcade and Steve next door at Family Video.

You share a parking lot. Steve already drives you to work most days. You like to put up a bit of a fight just to annoy him.

Though you haven’t worked together in years, and he isn’t far away by any means, you miss having Steve around on days like this. Where the arcade is quiet save for the sounds of the games in the background, where you’re simply babysitting the desk and cleaning things multiple times to try and make the hours pass by.

If Steve were with you, he’d make stupid jokes that you don’t wanna laugh at but do, or coerce you into playing the games while on the clock with the change you find whenever you’re cleaning.

He’d probably trash talk you, and bump your hip with his while playing pinball, and be a sore loser, and for some reason you want him around so bad.

You chalk it up to getting used to spending hours and hours with him, every single day, these past couple of days. Staying with him has made you miss him more, you think.

That’s it.

Meanwhile, over at Family Video, Steve isn’t feeling too different from you.

He’s spent the morning stocking shelves, memories popping into his head whenever he’d come across a movie you loved or watched together, while Robin’s been manning the desk.

Then, when his cart was empty and put back into the back room, he sat on the chair behind the front desk, spinning around until Robin stopped him with her foot and asked what he was thinking so hard about.

Steve caught her up on what had happened with your apartment (you’d told him he could tell her, because she’s your friend too and would find out sooner or later) and how you’d ended up staying with him in his house.

She raised her eyebrows and hummed in a way that was automatically suspicious, because Robin isn’t very good at hiding things.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Nothing.” When Steve only gives her a pointed look, Robin continues, “Well… are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Now, Robin is one of Steve’s closest friends, and him one of hers, and she supports him in pretty much everything that he does even when she teases him relentlessly along the way, but she cares about both of you and doesn’t want to see anyone hurt.

She can read Steve better than he can read himself, probably, because to Robin, it’s clear that he feels more than friendly towards you. And he doesn’t even know it.

When they became closer, it was clear to Robin, even before meeting you, just from the way Steve spoke of you, that there was a spot reserved for you in his life that couldn’t be filled by anyone else.

He would say it’s that of ‘best friend’ but Robin would call it something even bigger than that. Still, even though she thinks he’s an absolute dingus, she’s trying to let Steve figure it out for himself.

Clearly, it’s taking fucking forever.

He looks confused at her question, “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”

Robin sighs and resists the urge to drop her forehead against the desk and decides on, “You know what they say: become friends with your roommates, don’t become roommates with your friends.”

“Whoever they are, they’re dumb as shit,” Steve says. “She’s been over, slept over, hundreds of times. It’s not any different, just longer.”

“I guess so,” she settles on. “The rules of the world never really seem to apply to you two.”

“That’s because the rules of the world are also dumb as shit.”

“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever tried following them.”

“‘Cause I’m a rule breaker, Robs.”

Steve wiggles his eyebrows. Robin shoves the rolling chair he’s sitting on with her foot, sending it into the other side of the desk with a thud.

“Don’t think that smoking weed in your backyard is enough to call yourself a rule breaker, dingus.”

That night, your routine was pretty much the same.

Steve was already waiting for you in his car when you left the arcade, a smile spreading onto his face when he saw you making your way across the parking lot to him, your skirt swishing a little with the breeze.

Rather than go straight home, you made a stop at your apartment to talk things over with the couple who owned the home. They’d met with a builder and plumber about getting everything fixed and wanted to walk you through it all.

Steve came with you and held your hand, and both of them cooed at him and pinched his cheeks and called him a cutie before getting to the important stuff.

After going over what had to be done (rip out the carpet, replace it, fix the pipes and make sure no others were at risk, replace the ceiling, and more you couldn’t even remember already), they’d assured you that they would be taking care of it all. Covering the entire cost.

You probably would’ve argued if not for how little money was in your bank account, and how stubborn you knew these people to be. Instead, you’d squeezed them both and thanked them while your eyes grew misty with tears.

Steve’s hand stayed in yours and squeezed when you sniffled.

He knew, because he knew pretty much everything about you, that these people were kinder to you than even your own parents. That, if this had happened at their house, they would’ve found a way to blame you for it.

You feel lucky to have found that kind of parental love elsewhere, sad that you didn’t know exactly what it felt like beforehand.

After giving the couple Steve’s phone number to call in case they needed you and giving them both another hug, you and Steve headed back home.

Home, you call it. Like it’s yours.

Sometimes it feels like it is.

Later, after you and Steve have both showered and had dinner and gotten comfy in your sweats, you’re back in the living room, Steve shows you the movie he’s brought back this time.

“Gremlins?” You ask, smiling and shaking your head.

“Hell yeah, angel. It’s a classic.”

Steve sets everything up, joining you on the couch after pressing ‘play’ on the movie and adjusting the volume with your guidance.

“So, how was work?” Steve asks during the opening credits. The two of you have a hard time being next to each other and not talking. It’s why you get dirty looks whenever you go to the movies.

“Weekdays are so boring, Steve,” you say, letting your head fall against the back of the couch. “You’re so lucky you have Robin to entertain you during the day. I think I dusted like, ten times at least.”

“Robin is a pain in my ass.” He says. He doesn’t really mean it, because even when she is, he’s glad to have her around. A different kind of gladness than he feels with you. “She kept pushing me every time I sat in the rolling chair. There’s probably a dent in the desk.”

“That’s because you were probably hogging the chair, Steve.”

“What the fuck!” Steve’s smiling when he says it, lacking any sort of anger. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Your smile mirrors his, the way it always does. It’s contagious, you think, the way his eyes crinkle at the corner.

Shrugging, you say, “I don’t know, I’d wanna push you around on that chair too, I think.”

“You’d spin me too much. I’d get sick all over you and then nobody’s happy.”

“Don’t talk about barf while I’m eating, Harrington.”

You throw a piece of popcorn at him. It bounces off his cheek and lands on his lap, and he doesn’t even flinch. Steve just picks it up and pops it into his mouth.

When the bowl’s empty, you lean forward and set it on the coffee table before sinking back into the couch, Steve's shoulder brushing yours. You let the warmth seep through your clothes and shut your eyes.

It’s a little more than halfway through the movie when Steve realizes you’re asleep. You’d been quiet, sure, but Steve only thought that meant you were paying attention to the movie.

That was, until your head slipped and rested against his shoulder.

He looked down at you, at the hair falling across your forehead (he smoothed it away gently, so it wouldn’t be in your eyes or your mouth), your eyebrows relaxed and free of any worry, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

He thinks of how tired you must be, after everything. Your apartment and dealing with the aftermath both emotionally and physically, working long shifts most days to keep your bank account full.

Steve, though he doesn’t let himself look too deep into it, also thinks of how beautiful you are. Now and always.

Not wanting you to get a kink in your neck from the position, Steve decides to rouse you from sleep as gently as possible. He slips a hand under your head to keep it steady and maneuvers himself to kneel in front of you.

“Hey, angel,” he almost whispers, thumb dragging across your cheek. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

Your nose scrunches and you grumble, but after some coaxing, you blink your eyes open and squint at Steve. You blame your half-asleep mind on the way you nuzzle into his palm. “Hmm?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh, sorry,” you mumble.

Steve laughs softly. “Don’t be sorry, I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

The warmth of his hand leaves your cheek as he stands and holds his hands out for you to grab. He pulls you up off the couch and starts leading you towards the stairs.

You knuckle at your eyes on the way, a tiny smile gracing your face at how sweet Steve’s being. As if you haven’t fallen asleep on his couch plenty of times before.

Still sleepy, you stumble a little on the stairs, but Steve catches you easily with an arm around your waist and a small “Careful.”

He leaves his arm there the rest of the way to what’s become your bedroom, guiding you over to the bed and lifting the covers for you.

Tomorrow, you’ll regret not brushing your teeth or washing your face before climbing in bed. But today, you don’t feel like risking not being able to sleep again if you wake yourself up further.

You’re practically asleep again by the time you’re settled with your head on the pillow as Steve tugs the blankets over you.

You’re just awake enough to feel the light press of his lips on your forehead and a soft “Goodnight, angel” against your skin before he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.

On a random Thursday that you and Steve both have off, he convinces you to let him take you to the mall.

“We should go shopping,” he says when you walk into the kitchen. It’s a little later in the morning, having slept in since it’s a day off, the sun slipping through the window in warm beams.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Like, groceries?”

“No, like shopping shopping. You know, the mall?”

You lean against the kitchen island, the countertop cool on your back where it touches the sliver of skin between your tank top and sleep shorts. Steve has his shoulder against the fridge, his arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his t-shirt tight against his muscles. Not that you’re looking.

You squint at him, trying to find his motive on his face. “You literally buy whatever the mannequins are wearing to avoid shopping.”

“That’s what they’re there for!” The sass in his voice has you biting back a smile. “You need new clothes,” he continues, “and I need to get out of this house.”

“We can do something else, Steve,” you say. “I thought you hated shopping.”

“Well, I don’t hate you.” There’s a pause, Steve’s eyes lowering to that sliver of skin above your shorts. He flicks them back to your face quickly, hoping you didn’t notice, because even he’s not sure what compelled his eyes to wander. “Plus, Eddie called me a hermit the other day and I really can’t stand for that, can I?”

“Ohhh,” you ignore the way your skin suddenly feels warm beneath his gaze, “so you need to make a public appearance to prove Eddie wrong?”

“Exactly. We’ll replace some of the things you lost and restore my reputation. Two birds, one stone, right angel?”

So that’s how you’d ended up at the mall. After Starcourt burnt down, the closest place was a couple towns over, and Steve (as always) offered to drive.

He lets you pick the music the entire way, sings along when you hold your water bottle by his mouth like a microphone, even attempts to harmonize with you which just ends in laughter because neither of you sounded that great.

You’re a couple of stores in, and Steve’s been complaint-free so far—which makes sense, since this was his idea, but you’ve caught him side-eyeing some things, so you know he’s got some remarks in his head he just hasn’t said out loud—and follows you around as you browse. You try not to take too long, because you can’t imagine that this is any fun for him.

“How about that one?” Steve asks, pointing at one of the dresses hanging along the store’s wall.

He’d seen your apartment, though that was a bit ago, and he remembered what you’d lost the most of, along with the type of stuff you like. He pays attention like that, in small, quiet ways that you think mean the most.

He knows you. He cares enough to know you.

“Yeah, that’s really pretty, actually,” you admit.

At your approval, Steve grabs one in your size (which he also just happens to know) and adds it to the couple of things he’d already been holding for you. Every time you picked something up, he was quick to snatch it from you, telling you it was ‘too hard to browse with your hands full.’

After making your way through the rest of the store, you decided to head back to try things on, holding out a hand for the stuff Steve’s holding. “You can wait out here, I’ll be quick.”

“Hold on,” he says, holding the hangers out of your reach. “Why do you think I’m here, angel? I wanna help you pick.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Give me a fashion show, yeah?”

“Oh my God,” you mumble, letting him follow you to the fitting rooms.

They’re hidden behind the back wall of the store, a hallway painted bright blue with pink changeroom doors on one side, and white benches along the other.

“Hi there,” an employee with auburn hair greets you both, her smile wide and kind, though you know it’s a practiced one. Customer service smile. “How many you got there, darling?”

“Oh, um,” you turn back towards Steve, who’s counting the hangers in his hand. “Five.”

“Perfect!” The girl takes the key hanging around her neck and unlocks one of the rooms for you. She takes the clothes from Steve and hangs them up inside for you, then turns to the two of you and says, “Your man can have a seat right here. We call them the ‘boyfriend benches.’”

“He’s not my-”

“Thanks,” Steve says, cutting off your correction because for some reason he didn’t want you to correct her.

Did he… like the idea of being your boyfriend?

Fuck. No. He just didn’t want you to have to explain the whole situation in your rambly way. That’s all.

The redhead smiles again, “Holler if you need anything,” she says before walking off.

You stand there for a second, something like confusion on your face. Did it look like you were boyfriend and girlfriend?

“Come on,” Steve says, snapping the both of you out of whatever that was. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“I can't believe you’re making me do this,” you say, walking into the fitting room and shutting the door.

You try on a couple of sweaters first, and Steve feels the fabric both times, making sure that it’s not scratchy on your skin. Then, there’s just some basic t-shirts that aren’t all that exciting, but Steve says they look nice anyway.

Finally, you get to the dress he picked out.

It really was pretty. A midi-length with a ruffled hem and straps that tie into little bows on your shoulders. You don’t always feel good in your clothes. Sometimes you wish you could crawl out of your skin when you look into the mirror, but right now, you don’t hate what you see.

You actually like it.

“Well?” Steve calls softly from the bench.

In response, you open the door and step out so he can see you.

Steve’s seen you in plenty of dresses—hell, you went to prom together—but for some reason this one makes his heart beat just a little bit quicker. Maybe it’s simply the fact that it looks great on you, or the way you’re smiling shyly as he looks you over.

Or, maybe it’s because he’s the one who picked it.

He stands up, spinning his finger in the air in a gesture for you to twirl. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, and he can’t take his eyes off of you. The hallway of fitting rooms isn’t very big, so with both of you in it, you’re standing toe to toe, the gold flecks in the middle of Steve’s eyes and the faint freckles that dot his nose are visible from where you stand.

As if he can’t help it, Steve lifts a finger and dips it beneath the strap on your shoulder. Not moving it or undoing it, just gliding along your skin where it sits.

“You look beautiful,” he says. His voice goes all quiet and soft when he says it, and his eyes widen a tiny bit, like he hadn’t meant it to slip out that way. It sounded… more than friendly. He clears his throat and steps back as much as he can in the small space, his finger leaving your skin. “I have great taste. Clearly.”

You blink at him, then shake yourself out of it as much as you can. “Yeah. Don’t let it get to your head.” You lift the tag where it hangs by your armpit and look at the price. You gasp and swat Steve’s arm. “Steve! Why would you let me walk into a place so expensive?”

You probably should’ve looked at the tag beforehand, but here you are. Steve, shrugging exaggeratedly, says, “I didn’t know!”

“Okay, I’m gonna change before she comes back. We can make a run for it.”

“We’re not stealing.”

“I know, but they look at you all judgemental when you try stuff on and don’t buy something. Trust me.”

You turn and go back into the fitting room to put on your own clothes, taking a look at the dress in the mirror one last time before shaking your head at yourself.

Steve, however, takes the opportunity to leave you and head back out into the store. He finds the dress easily and grabs another one in your size from the rack and heads to the cashier.

He’s just finishing up, bag in hand, when you walk out and meet him at the front of the store.

“For you,” he says, holding out the bag for you to take.

“Steve…” You grab it and look inside. Your chest aches when you see the dress, your heart suddenly too full and your stomach fluttering stupidly. “You didn’t have to do that. I would’ve been fine with something from the Gap.”

“I know that,” he says, a hand lifting to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s a nervous tick of his, and the thought of him being nervous right now makes you melt even more. “I wanted to get it for you. You looked too pretty in it not to have it.”

Your eyes catch his, and again, something passes between you that you don’t think you’ve ever felt before. A fizzle, a spark.

You rock back on your feet, looking down at the ground before meeting his eyes again. They’re so fucking soft it makes you wonder how lucky you have to be to have him in your life. Being your best friend, driving you to work even when he doesn’t have a shift, offering you a place to stay, buying you a dress.

He’s the sweetest boy you’ve ever known.

“Well,” you twist the straps of the bag around your fingers just to keep them busy. “Thank you, Steve. This is really nice.”

His knuckle traces down your arm just once, featherlight. “You’re welcome, angel.”

You don’t buy anything else after that, instead stopping at the food court for fries, stealing from each other’s baskets, smiling and slapping hands away.

It’s the best day you’ve had in a while.

You don’t think anything you do will convey just how grateful you are that Steve has been so kind to you. Always, but especially now. Letting you stay with him and refusing to let you pay rent. (“I don’t even pay rent, and I live here all the time.”)

But, this morning, you’ve decided you’re gonna try.

Steve’s favorite meal of the day happens to be breakfast, which is funny, considering he usually eats something as simple as cereal. He’d told you once that it was because, as a kid, breakfast was the most peaceful of meals, his parents too busy getting ready for work or wherever they were going that he’d have the kitchen table to himself.

Lunch was usually spent at school, and Steve was never a fan of school to begin with. Then there was dinner, which his parents (when they were home) still wanted to have all together. They’d ask him questions and make backhanded comments about every single answer he gave. He never won at dinner.

So, breakfast was, and has remained, his favorite.

You made sure to get up early enough to give yourself time to get everything ready before he wakes up. Steve’s usually the one making the coffee in the morning, and you figured the least you could do was give him a break.

Yesterday, while Steve had been at work, you went over to the Wheeler’s and asked Nancy if you could borrow their waffle maker. She’d directed the question to her mother, who went and grabbed it for you and handed it over with a smile. You promised to take good care of it and have it back in a couple of days.

By the time Steve walks into the kitchen, you’ve already made the batter and set out the toppings—berries, maple syrup, whipped cream—like a buffet. However, he just so happens to come in as you’re swearing at the waffle maker.

“Stupid fucking thing,” you mutter, trying to open it.

Steve smiles to himself before saying, “Morning, angel.”

You jump at his voice, not having heard him walk in. When you turn around, your heart beats for a different reason.

Steve’s still only in his pajama pants, plaid and soft, hanging low on his hips. And he’s shirtless, his chest smattered with hair and his skin a little tanned from the sun. He’s got beauty marks all over, like a constellation you could chart, and his abs are just visible beneath the soft of his stomach. A trail of hair leading to the waistband of his pants and disappearing beneath them.

You’ve seen Steve shirtless plenty of times. Swimming and sleeping over in the summer, in high school when you used to go to his practices, but it hits you harder for some reason this time.

The way his hair is still a mess from sleep, his eyes a bit heavy. The way it feels to be greeting him in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Intimate. Domestic.

You clear your throat and turn back around to pry the waffle maker open, revealing a slightly burnt but otherwise good-looking waffle. “I’m making breakfast. Coffee’s already in the pot, too.”

He walks over, his chest close to your back as he grabs a mug from the cabinet above you before heading over to pour himself a cup. He looks at the spread you’ve prepared, “Waffles, huh? What did I do to deserve all this?”

“Just wanted to do something nice for you,” you say as Steve walks over to lean against the counter next to you, his hip barely touching yours. “To thank you, in a way. For letting me stay and the dress and-”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop thanking me?” He says, though his voice is soft and still a bit rough from sleep. “I like having you around.”

“So you don’t want the waffles then?”

“Oh, I want the waffles. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything for me. It’s not some debt you’ll owe me, angel.”

“Want you to know I appreciate you is all,” you say, pouring a new scoop of batter into the waffle maker.

Steve, unsure of what exactly possesses him to do so, dips in and presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek, his lips a whisper away from your skin when he says, “I appreciate you, too.”

Then he pulls away and moves to set the table. Like it was natural.

And it was, in a way. How you moved around each other in the kitchen. You leaning out of the way when he needed to reach something you were blocking, him putting a hand on your lower back when he walked behind you so you knew he was there.

Your cheek still tingles from where he’d kissed it when you bring the plate of waffles to the table, your skin somehow even warmer under his gaze, like he’s still remembering exactly how it felt, too.

You sit in the chair beside Steve, not noticing the way he tugs it a bit closer to him with his foot before you sit down. Soon enough, both of you are digging in. Steve’s got more whipped cream on his plate than waffle (you tell him as much) and you’ve got your berries on the side the way you always do.

Neither of you work until later in the day, and it’s nice knowing that you can take your time. Steve tells you about the advice he gave Dustin about how to be ‘cooler’ in school (he’d told him that being cool is completely overrated, he knew from experience, and that being himself is the most important). You’d told him he was going soft with age.

You talk about anything at all. How Keith somehow manages both of your places of work, how he also somehow does both terribly. The way he says ‘if you have time to lean, you have time to clean’ while literally having Cheeto dust on his fingers. Laughing at each other’s impressions of him.

What the new highscores were at the arcade, what people were renting from Family Video.

You wonder what it’ll be like when you have to leave. When you’re living alone again.

Logically, you know you’ll still see Steve frequently, because he’s your favorite person and you can’t remember the last time you went longer than a few days without hanging out. Still, it’ll be different than right now, waking up in the same space and sharing breakfast and brushing your teeth side by side in the mirror.

You’ll miss it, you think.

Trying not to dwell on something that’s still a few weeks away, you take another bite of your waffle. Steve catches your chin and wipes off a bit of whipped cream from the corner of your mouth, then pulling away and sucking it off his thumb.

He goes back to his own plate without a thought. Like touching you just now was an instinct.

Then, he teases you, “These are a little crispy, angel. Maybe you should stick to letting me make breakfast in this household.”

You kick his leg under the table. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘thank you,’ Harrington.”

He kicks you back, much gentler than you’d been. “Thank you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

When you look at him, there’s an easy, boyish smile on his face.

A similar one stretches across your own lips.

Steve has had the thought pop up into his head a couple of times, that maybe he should’ve just asked you to live with him before you ever bought that apartment. Because having you around feels the most right things have ever felt in his house.

And though the circumstances of your moving in with him (temporarily, he has to remind himself), were far from ideal, he can’t lie and say that he isn’t glad that you’ve ended up sharing his space.

The room across the hall will always be yours, even when you move back to your place.

He knows that you feel indebted to him for all of it, but if anyone owes the other something, he feels like it’s him. For everything you’ve ever done for him. Sticking around even when he was an asshole in highschool, defending him to his parents whenever you’d cross paths, simply being the kind of friend he needed.

Even when you’re not around, he can picture your face, the way your smile spreads slowly until you’re fucking beaming. Worse, the way you cried into his chest that day at your apartment.

He remembers the crack in your voice when you spoke about that picture frame from summer camp. Though he hasn’t seen you cry since, or even bring it up, he’s decided he wants to fix it. He’d told you he would.

Dustin wound up roped into his plan: find a similar frame, decorate it the exact same way, and scour the photo albums in Steve’s room for his copy of that same picture.

When he was younger, the photo albums pissed him off, because they were purely for show. Pictures of his family that were all fake smiles. Now, he’s glad for them, because at least he has some good memories to look back on. To know it wasn’t always all bad.

Steve probably should’ve thought that one through, because when they looked through his albums, he was on the receiving end of relentless teasing from Dustin. (“Dude, you have an insane boogie in this picture.” “I was four!”)

He hopes it’ll be worth it.

Dustin was the one who found the picture they’d been looking for, and he cheered and waved it in Steve’s face as if they’d been racing.

Now, after driving Dustin back home, decorating the frame the way the two of you did as kids, trying to make his handwriting look like it did back then (which wasn’t too difficult, ‘cause Steve’s writing still isn’t that neat), he’s waiting for you to come downstairs before giving it to you.

He’d picked you up after your shift at the arcade not too long ago, but he knows you like to shower and change as soon as you get home from work, so he’d taken the opportunity to wrap the frame and have it ready for you.

Steve can hear you singing in the shower, and he knows you’re done when it goes quiet. A few minutes later you’re walking down the stairs in a baggy t-shirt and silky sleep shorts.

His eyes, for some reason, linger on your legs for a second.

He stands up, frame in his hand, when you walk over. “I have something for you.”

“Steve! Stop buying me things. Seriously.”

“This thing was free, so you can’t even be mad,” he says, smiling almost sheepishly.

Your eyes search his face, flickering between his own and dipping down to his lips and his nose and back to his eyes. He looks… nervous.

Steve’s never nervous around you.

“Okay,” you say, shuffling on your feet. “What is it?”

“Here,” he hands you the poorly-wrapped frame. “Open it.”

You scrunch your brows at him once, because you have no idea what it could be. It isn’t your birthday, or any sort of holiday at all. With zero guesses, you look down at the light yellow wrapping paper in your hands and slowly tear it open.

What you find makes your eyes grow misty, tears pooling at your lash line but not quite falling.

It’s your favorite picture, the one of you and Steve in those stupid neon shirts with messy hair and dirt on your hands. Only now, it’s not water damaged, and the frame is new, but decorated just like the old one. You run your thumbs over the glass lightly, smiling down at little you and little Steve.

When you look back up at him, he’s already looking at you, his brown eyes all warm, his smile kind but also worried, waiting for your reaction.

Seeing his face springs you into motion, jumping forward and wrapping your arms around his neck tightly with the frame still in your hand. “Thank you,” you say into his skin.

Steve’s arms move to hold you around your waist without a thought. A reflex. They squeeze you close to him, his nose pressed into your damp hair, smelling your shampoo.

“It’s not perfect,” he says. “But I know how much you love that picture, and I wanted to fix it.”

“Steve. Shut up. It is perfect.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, his thumbs running back and forth against your back.

You hug for what could’ve been minutes, but neither of you moves to pull away first. You’re not sure if it’s still considered friendly to stand in each other's arms, breathing each other in, for so long, but you don’t care at the moment.

This is probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for you in a long, long time.

When you finally do pull away, you don’t go far. Your arms stay slung over his shoulders, Steve’s hands framing your hips. His thumbs still dragging those sweet patterns against you.

“I’m keeping it forever,” you tell him.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Certain. You��ll always be my best friend, Steve.”

“You’ll always be mine too, angel.”

Then, your eyes both move to each other’s lips, yours flick back up in a second, startled at their wandering.

Steve, however, is a bit transfixed. He looks at the slope of your cupid’s bow, the way your lips are shiny from your lip balm. He thinks it quickly, like a gust of wind that can’t be stopped: I really wanna kiss her right now.

Fuck. He wants to kiss his best friend.

He blinks a few times, clearing his throat and pulling back, letting his hands fall from your waist as yours slide off his shoulders. He misses the feel of your touch immediately, but he’s too freaked out and confused to do anything about it.

“What are you in the mood for tonight?” he asks, cutting off his own thoughts. “I brought back a horror and a comedy. Take your pick.”

“Mmm,” he picks up two tapes from the coffee table and holds them up for you to choose from. “Horror. Unless you’re too scared?”

“You’ll just have to hold my hand, then, won’t you?”

“I guess I will.”

You look back at the picture while Steve puts the movie into the player. You smile at it every time you see it, because you can still see parts of Steve in him now that were in him then.

His eyes, always kind, the way he smiles when he laughs, and about a half hour into the movie, the way he holds your hand and squeezes it when he’s scared.

You’re having one of those nights. The kind where sleep seems to be fighting you.

You worked a closing shift at the arcade, which usually lasts until late considering how long you’re open plus all of the cleaning you have to do afterwards. Today was no different, and despite how much later you finish than him at Family Video, Steve waited and drove you home. He hung out in the arcade with you until close, actually.

You’d think that after such a long day, the second your head hit the pillow you’d be out and breathing steadily. Today, that is not the case. You fell asleep for maybe an hour before a nightmare woke you up. You can’t quite remember what happened, only that you’d been yelling for Steve and he wasn’t there.

Groaning quietly, you rub your eyes and toss the blankets away. You stand up and head down to the kitchen in the dark, hand trailing along the walls to make sure you don’t bump into anything.

Just as you’re pouring yourself a glass of water, you hear the shuffle of sleepy footsteps coming into the kitchen.

“Holy shit,” he says, walking over to grab a glass, one hand on his bare chest. “I thought you were a ghost or something just now.”

You shift out of the way to let him get some water just like you did, taking the second that he’s distracted to look at him. His hair a mess, wearing nothing but his boxers. You take a big sip from your glass.

“I feel like I should be offended right now,” you say, “if you think I look like a ghost.”

“Shut up,” he says, dragging out the second word. His voice being rough from sleep makes his words sound much warmer than they are. “My eyes aren’t awake yet. Nothing to do with you, angel.”

You shake your head, though there’s a soft smile on your face the way there always seems to be when you try to be annoyed with Steve. You tilt your head at him, asking, “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shakes his head. “Been tossing and turning. Just can’t get comfortable, then I got pissed ‘cause I couldn’t get comfortable and only made it worse.”

“You would get pissed at that. Probably slapped your pillow like it was at fault.”

He folds his lips inwards and blinks at you. Because he did smack his pillow and call it a dipshit. “Why do you know everything? Spying on me?”

“Hate to say it, but you’re getting predictable, Harrington.” You shrug, then move to put your now empty glass in the dishwasher. “I know you too well.”

He looks at you, your hair falling across your shoulders, your pajama shorts riding up a little as you bend down. The moonlight slipping through the window seems to hit you perfectly. Like a halo.

Fitting, he thinks. You’re his angel, after all.

“Yeah, you do,” he agrees. Then, “What about you? Why’re you up?”

“Nightmare. Been forever since I had one.”

“You okay?” he asks, trailing a knuckle over your shoulder, pushing your hair behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, skin tingling where he’d touched you. “I can't even remember most of it, but now my brain won’t let me sleep.”

Steve wishes he could’ve protected you from whatever haunted you in your sleep. It’s silly, he knows, to think he might be able to ward away anything that hurts you, but he wants to, nonetheless.

He thinks about how comfortable he is whenever you cuddle during movie night. Your head on his shoulder or his chest, his hand on your back or waist.

So, he blurts, “Why don’t you sleep over?”

You furrow your brows at him, “Um, I’ve been sleeping over. A couple of weeks now, actually.”

“No, I mean, like in my room with me,” he says, suddenly shy at the idea. He’s grateful for the darkness, because he can feel his cheeks warming up. “A proper sleepover.”

You’ve done it before. Shared a bed a bunch of times, but for some reason your heart jumps when he says it. Your stomach swirls as you say, maybe a little too quickly, “Okay.”

Steve’s eyes widen like he’s surprised, just for a split second, before a soft smile takes over his face. He holds out a hand for you to take, “C’mon.”

Soon enough, Steve’s lifting his navy bedspread for you, letting you slip into bed next to him. He stays further away at first, letting you settle and lay on your side the way he knows you always do.

You blame sleepiness—or, maybe, the lack thereof—for the way you reach behind you for his arm and tug him closer, draping it over your own waist.

He obliges, of course, his arm securing itself across your stomach, palm spread out and warm against your sleep shirt. His chest is only a breath away from your back, though he keeps his lower half a little more distanced.

His thumb runs circles over your shirt, once, twice, three times before stilling, his forehead pressing to the back of your neck.

“Goodnight, angel,” he says into your hair.

Your hand splays itself on top of his. “Night, Steve.”

And suddenly your eyes grow heavier, and sleep doesn’t feel like much of a battle anymore.

You wake up the most rested you’ve felt in a while. There’s warmth surrounding you, but not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that feels safe.

Somehow, you and Steve are even closer than you’d been when you fell asleep. His arm is still around your waist, his other outstretched and tucked beneath your head like a pillow. His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel it expand with every breath he takes.

Most differently of all, however, is the way his hips are snug against the curve of your butt. And you can feel him hard against you.

Your skin feels even warmer than before when you notice.

Steve hasn’t woken up yet, you don’t think, because the faintest snores are getting puffed out against your shoulder where his face is tucked. His hand on your stomach has worked its way beneath your shirt, though, and his fingertips press against your skin, like he’s fighting to keep you close.

As if you’d go anywhere even in your sleep.

His knee is tucked between your legs, and you’re quickly realizing that it’d be pretty impossible to get out of bed without him noticing. You’re completely tangled together, a knot of limbs somehow fitting together just right. Like two puzzle pieces.

In his sleep, Steve’s mouth presses against the back of your shoulder, and only when you involuntarily shiver at the contact, does he stir.

It takes Steve a bit to really wake up, mumbling words that don’t make sense, scrunching his eyes shut even further before blinking them open. He’s met with the sight of you right in front of him. Body curved perfectly against his.

“Steve? You awake?” you ask, checking.

“Mhm,” he hums.

Then, something that has his cheeks flushing pink, he registers the feeling of his boner pressed against your ass. He shuffles them back enough so there’s space between you. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say. Because he can’t control the way his body reacts while he’s asleep.

“I didn’t think-” he cuts himself off, because he’s not quite sure how to say I didn’t think about the whole morning wood factor or that I’d fucking plaster myself to you when I suggested a sleepover without sounding stupid. Instead, he just repeats, “I’m sorry.”

You twist yourself around to face him, sheets crumpling and twisting as you move. When you settle back onto the pillow and look at his face, at the redness on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, you squeeze his hand that’s now laying between you.

“It’s okay, really,” you say. “It’s, like, anatomy. You’re human, Steve.”

“I don’t want you to think I invited you to sleep in here for some pervy reason,” he says, scrunching his nose when he says it.

“I don’t think that at all,” you tell him. You squeeze his hand again. “We’ve shared a bed like, a hundred times by now. If anything I’m surprised this hasn’t happened already.”

“Oh my God,” he groans, shutting his eyes and pushing his face into the pillow.

“Steve,” you drag out his name, fighting a giggle at the way he’s acting. He’s got a reputation, after all, and how shy and embarrassed he seems to be doesn’t reflect the things you heard about him in high school. He’s changed a lot since then. “It’s seriously fine. We can pretend it never happened. Promise.”

Steve pulls his face from the pillow, eyes catching yours as his fingers squeeze yours back in appreciation. He lets his eyes wander a bit, at the messy bits of your hair around your face from sleeping, the marks in your cheek from the pillowcase, the way your sleep shirt has fallen off your shoulder.

He feels lucky to get to see you this way, right after you’ve woken up. Vulnerable, unguarded, beautiful.

It’s during this small stretch of silence that you realize how close your faces are now. You’re sharing a pillow, his nose not even an inch from yours. Shift forward the slightest bit, and they’d be touching. Your eyes trail down to his mouth, to the visible patch of chest hair and the freckles that dot his skin. He’s already looking right at you when your eyes flick back upwards.

You know Steve, could tell what he’s feeling just from the look on his face, but this is one you’ve never seen before. At least, not directed at you.

Steve moves first, his eyes a little darker than usual, shifting forward slightly, then looking at you. Daring you to make the next move.

“What if we didn’t forget about it?” he says. Quiet and scratchy.

You don’t have time to think before you move forward a bit, too. Your noses brush. “What would that mean?”

Steve doesn’t answer with words. Rather, he moves forward the final bit and brushes his lips against yours in a question mark of a kiss, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, the hand of yours that isn’t still holding his comes up to the back of his neck, gently encouraging him to do it again. His free hand tightens at your waist as he dips in a second time.

It isn’t as tentative now that you’ve urged him on. His lips meet yours more sure, more firm, but still soft against you. Neither of you cares one bit about morning breath, or about what this might change. As if the morning’s haze slows time, minds still a little sleepy.

You’re simply acting on instinct. And this feels too right to stop.

Soon enough it grows more heated, Steve shifting to hover over you, his elbows pushing into the mattress to hold himself up, his tongue sneaking out to lick against the seam of your lips for permission.

Just as you open up for him, the blaring sound of Steve's alarm cuts you off, pulling back with a gasp. He simply leans up on one arm and slams the snooze button—and you laugh, you laugh, at how hard he hits it—before diving back into you.

You feel hot all over, where one of Steve’s hands has moved to cup your jaw, his thumb running delicately against your face as his mouth moves against yours, practically devouring you. Where the blankets are still over your lower halves, trapping in heat. When he pulls back, looks into your eyes, fucking smiles all dopey and pretty, and then kisses you again.

It’s so good, you’re almost angry at yourself for not kissing him sooner.

You kiss until his alarm goes off again and Steve's forced to pry himself away from you, groaning about being on his ‘last tardy warning’ from Keith.

Still, he takes the time to kiss your forehead on his way out, Family Video vest slung over his shoulder, calling a sweet, “bye, angel,” on his way out. His hair’s still a mess from your fingers, and he doesn’t even seem to mind.

You stay in his bed longer than you probably should, blinking up at the ceiling, fingers pressed against your lips like you’re searching for physical proof that everything was real.

What the fuck just happened?

It’s been a couple of weeks, and Steve can’t stop thinking about that kiss. He doesn’t know it, but you can’t stop thinking about it either.

Neither of you have brought it up, and things have faded back to normal as if it had never happened. But you and Steve are both thinking the same things without knowing it. How good and natural and easy it felt, how, every now and then, you think about doing it again.

You talk and joke and watch movies and eat meals together the same way you always have, and it’d be so easy to stay that way, to never kiss again. But then, what if you could stay that way and kiss? Wouldn’t that be something close to perfect?

You lay awake thinking about it every few nights. Because, when you really reflect on your life and how intertwined it is with Steve’s, you realize that you’ve sort of always acted like a couple, minus the kissing and sex aspect. You go on what could easily be classified as dates—the movies, lunch or dinner—you cuddle on the couch almost nightly, and you’ve never shied away from physical touch with one another. Held hands, a palm on your back.

You haven’t brought it up with Steve because you haven’t even come to terms with it yourself. Feelings are so fucking confusing and messy and you’d like to have a better idea of what’s going on in your own head before asking him about his.

Meanwhile, Steve has allowed himself to come to terms with it. He’s in love with you.

He’s pretty sure he has been for a while. Months, maybe even years.

It hadn’t come easily, though. It was nights spent similarly to yours, running through interactions you’ve had and the way he felt that one time in senior year when you went on a date with some guy from your math class. Even then, a part of him felt wrong about it, that pit in his gut.

Then there were his shifts with Robin at Family Video where he’d practically spilled everything just to get her opinion. She looked up and sighed “thank you” before saying that it was nice of him to finally catch on.

Had he really been that obvious? All this time? And had he really been that oblivious to his own feelings?

Steve can’t answer those questions. He can’t say when his love for you changed from platonic to romantic, he just knows that it has and he doesn’t think he’ll ever come back from it.

You’re his best friend in the entire world, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and he can’t picture himself loving anyone but you so wholly.

He’s fucking terrified of losing you, but he’s also terrified of never telling you how he feels and testing that what if.

So, like a desperate idiot, he knocks on the door to Eddie’s trailer.

Eddie opens it after a minute and what sounded like him stubbing his toe, “oh, hey Harrington. More weed?”

“No, shut up. I need your help.”

“You,” Eddie points at Steve, then at himself, “need my help for something? Are you ill?”

“Okay,” Steve, dramatic and bitchy as usual, sighs and mutters something about this being a stupid idea and turns to leave.

“Come on,” Eddie laughs, “I’m just joking. What’s up?”

Soon enough, Steve’s sitting on Eddie’s couch, Eddie pacing in front of the coffee table like this is a very serious matter, and telling him pretty much everything. Your kiss, the train of thought it sparked.

“Basically I’m in love with her and I have no clue what to do,” Steve finishes, sinking back into the couch cushions. It squeaks as he shifts.

Eddie pauses, tugging at his bottom lip between his fingers, then looks at Steve and says, “You know I’ve never dated anyone in my life, right?”

Steve groans into his hands, “Why do all of my friends have to be losers with no dating lives.”

Eddie ignores that, because he can tell how affected Steve actually is by all of this. How much he cares. He walks over and sits down on the opposite end of the couch. “Have you ever thought of, I don’t know, telling her how you feel?”

Steve rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and letting his head hang for a moment before picking it up. “Of course I have, but I’m fuckin’ scared.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Um, she could reject me and not feel the same way and everything would be awkward because I ruined it and I’d lose my best friend in the entire world.”

“What if she does feel the same?” Eddie asks.

He’s both yours and Steve’s friend, he’s been around the both of you together. He’s seen the way you look at each other. Eddie might not be an expert, but it’s always looked a lot like love to him. He’s pretty sure the chances of you feeling the same are quite high.

“What do you mean?”

“What if she does feel the same and you never figure it out because you’re too afraid?” Eddie says. “Man, don’t you think that risk is worth taking?”

Steve thinks about it, and as much as he hates to admit it, Eddie’s right. He’d hate to always wonder, to lose out on the chance to really be with you when he knows it could be so good.

You are worth the risk to him.

“When the fuck did you become so wise, Munson?”

“Dunno,” Eddie shrugs. “Wanna smoke?”

Steve laughs, “Yes I do.”

With Steve gone at work and you off for the day, there’s been too much room for your thoughts to creep in. Too much silence.

You’ve already been thinking about things so much. Thinking about him so much, that in his absence, your mind seemed to work overtime to fill in the gaps.

You thought about the day he picked you up from your apartment, how quick he was to drop whatever he’d been doing and come over and help you and take you home with him. The day he took you shopping and bought you a dress because he thought you looked pretty in it, the way his fingers fiddled with the strap on your shoulder when you tried it on for him.

The day he gifted you a remade version of your favorite picture from summer camp because he knew how much it meant to you, the way you held on to each other afterwards.

How you’d been waiting for him to get home that night he went to Eddie’s, just to make sure he was okay. How when he came in, he smiled at the sight of you curled on the couch, and he kissed your cheek when he walked by like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Your brain knew he was high, you could smell the weed mingling with his cologne on his clothes when he leaned in close, but your heart didn’t care about that. It thumped in your chest the second he leaned in closer, even worse when his lips touched your cheek.

The realization hits you now like a shock, a quick zip of electricity running through your system. You fucking love him.

Sure, you’ve loved Steve practically your whole life, but this was different. You love him, love him. Like, you want to kiss him when he comes home from work and in the morning. You want him to introduce you as his girlfriend and to be able to call him your boyfriend.

You feel stupid for not realizing it sooner, because looking back on things now, knowing how you feel, you can see it written throughout your entire friendship. Holding hands and kissing foreheads and hands pushing hair away from faces.

For a second, you’re purely happy, because you get to be in love with your best friend and it feels as warm and sweet as sunlight. Then, the fear creeps in, and you’re scared. Scared of losing him, of making things weird, of change and doing the wrong thing.

So scared that you start to panic and pack up some of your things in your bag like you’re running away.

Truthfully, you’re not sure what else to do. You’ve never been in love before, you’ve never known it this way—so kind and unconditional. And your parents sure as hell didn’t set a good example for you. They’d fight, and someone would leave with the slam of a door, and then they’d be back and the cycle would continue.

You’re scared and confused and your instincts are telling you to run away even though the only place you really wanna be is with Steve. In his arms.

You’re stuffing clothes into your bag just to keep your hands busy, breathing hard and fast, when you hear the front door open and close. Steve’s quick to find you, his eyes scanning your room and then looking at you. “What are you doing?”

You feel like you might cry just looking at him. His brown eyes worried but warm as always, his hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s nervous.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be home until later,” you say, hoping he can’t hear the shake in your voice.

“It was dead, so Keith let me off early. I-” Steve furrows his brows, “are you leaving?”

You nod. “I’ve been in your way long enough.”

“I told you, you’re never in my way.” Steve knows you, and he loves you, and he can tell that there’s something going on. That you’re panicked and trying to get away from whatever it is. He cares too much to let that happen. “I want you to stay.”

You want to stay, too. You just don’t know what comes next, and that unknown, the lack of control, of familiarity, it makes your hands shake.

Your mind doesn’t work the same when you’re afraid.

“Give me one good reason why I should stay, Steve. I’ve been taking up your space for weeks and-”

“Because I love you.” Steve cuts you off. He hadn’t planned on telling you this way, he wanted it to be romantic and perfect but he can’t wait any longer. Especially not when you’re trying to run away. “I’m in love with you. And I want you here.”

You immediately stop in your tracks, blinking up at him like you’re not sure you’d heard him correctly. “You- what?”

“I love you. Romantically. And I think I have for a really long time.”

“You’re not high again, are you?” You ask, your eyes a little misty.

Steve walks over to you and grabs both of your hands in his, making sure you’re looking at him, at the sincerity written all over his face, when he says, “Completely sober. I fucking love you and I want you to keep living with me, because this house doesn’t really feel like home unless you’re in it.”

“What about when my apartment is ready?”

He squeezes your hands. “Stay then, too. Stay forever.”

You look up at him, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes so honest, a tentative smile on his mouth. The only boy you’ve ever loved.

You feel silly for trying to escape this when this is how it’s turning out. Steve had been brave just now, telling you he loves you and he wants you to stay, so you decide to be brave, too.

It’s easier than you thought it would be to say: “I love you, too, Steve. I feel the same. I only just realized it and freaked out. I’m so scared of losing you, is all.”

“You won’t. Not ever.”

You tip your chin up to kiss him after he says it, because you can. You pour your feelings into it, and Steve returns your kiss as if it’s one he’s known for years. It’s slow, and deep, and sweet, and so full of love you’re practically overflowing with it.

The two of you only pull away when you need a breather. Steve doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours.

“So what happens now?” You ask.

“Well, we’ve been acting like a couple for a while, I think, so we stay the same. Mostly. Except now I get to call you my girlfriend-”

“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to ask me first.”

He lets go of one of your hands and pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckle running lovingly across your cheek. “My angel girl, will you be my girlfriend?”

Your grin is wide and lovesick and cheesy and you don’t care one bit. “Yeah, yes I will. Boyfriend.”

“And, being your boyfriend means I get to do this.”

He kisses you once more. And you don’t ever want to not be kissing him again.

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thank you guys so much for reading!!! it would mean a whole bunch if you would consider leaving a comment or a reblog and letting me know what you think!! it helps more than you know <3

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