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saintobio · 1 year ago

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after offering a painful ultimatum to finally be enough for him, things ultimately get worse as he decides between keeping you or losing you as the only resolution.

pairings. ryōmen sukuna, fem!reader

genre. florist x tattoo artist au, mild angst, opposites attract

tags/warnings. strong language, defloration (kinda), explicit smut, undertones of manipulation and gaslighting, toxic relationship, undertones of cheating

notes. 11.2k wc! thanks for the love on bc1, i didn't expect it to gain traction at all but tyty. last part will come soon, but that will be the final chapter to this mini-series.

part 1 | part 3

The ride back home was uncomfortable.

It wasn’t because you had promised to give yourself to him that night, but rather because his uncharacteristic silence was not what you had expected after delivering your ultimatum. You already proposed a wonderful solution to his needs, so why was he acting like you were the one being ridiculous? This was why you hated it whenever Sukuna chose silence over open communication, as it left you a hard time guessing about what was running through his mind. His expression didn’t offer any clues either, because he did pretty well at concealing his emotions behind a facade of indifference.

When you said you would do it with him, you meant it. But what did he think of it?

The sharp wind cut through your skin, the roar of his motorbike deafening your ears as your boyfriend accelerated his vehicle upon entering the tunnel. The vibrant yellow lights offered a cinematic view, tempting you to imagine yourself embracing the wind with open arms, though you knew better than to do so. Instead, you held onto him tightly, wrapping your arms around his waist and leaning forward as he sped through the empty lane.

It was nearing midnight, and the sparse traffic allowed Sukuna to indulge in one of his habits: riding his bike in the late hours of the night through this particular tunnel and onto the highway. You knew this ritual helped him clear his mind since it offered a rush of danger that sharpened his focus on the road. His choice to take this route tonight also only confirmed to you that he was grappling with internal thoughts. The last time he rode this fast was when your parents made you choose between them and him, slapping it in his face that he was and would never be welcomed in your family.

To be honest, it frightened you. The speed at which he was riding was dangerous for both of you. Moreover, his bike was a YZF-R1, although street-legal, it was still a high-performance sport bike more suited for the track. It required agile and precise handling with its 1000cc engine. Yet, no other vehicle seemed more fitting for Sukuna than this.

Whatever was on his mind, he didn’t care to let you know. You two didn’t really speak throughout the ride while you clung to him like a backpack, praying in your head that you two wouldn’t get into an accident. Thankfully enough, he did safely take you home as you arrived at your shared apartment at exactly midnight.

“Please don’t ride like that again,” you muttered as he helped you out of his motorbike. “You could’ve gotten us killed.”

His fingers then reached to unclasp your helmet, pulling it up to reveal your face. “Well, we’re still alive.”

You looked at his face despite his best effort to avoid yours, standing centimeters apart while he switched off the engine. He didn’t return your gaze as though he was drowned by guilt. Should you speak at this? Or should you let him do it first?

“Baby.” After a minute or so, it was your boyfriend who sighed and finally gave in, pulling you close and resting his forehead against yours. He kept his eyes closed even when he was cupping your cheeks. “You don’t have to do this.”

Yes, you certainly shouldn’t. You didn’t have to do things unwillingly, but that wouldn’t change the fact that this on-going issue was putting a strain on your relationship and this would be your last shot at trying to salvage it. And you couldn’t have him looking for sensual gratification from anyone else other than you, so what other option did you have, really?

“I want to do it.”

“Not if you’re forcing yourself like this.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who said I’m forcing myself?”

“Your face tells me you are,” replied he, staring at your face in defeat. “So, let’s not—”

“What, and let this issue haunt us over and over?” You smiled bitterly, shaking your head adamantly. “This has to be done. I need to experience it so I’ll finally understand.”

Understand what? His face almost spelled out those words, but he chose not to say anything of the sort and instead leaned in to kiss your forehead. “Alright. I’ll make it memorable.”

— —

Easier said than done, of course. You kept overthinking about whether your performance would be satisfactory to him given that you didn’t have enough experience to learn anything at all, aside from the make out sessions that you did once in a blue moon. Around thirty minutes of your time was spent hyperanalyzing your situation in the shower, while the other half of it was spent doing a little more than your nightly routines. Since Sukuna liked powdery scents, you placed a good effort in applying lavender-scented oil and perfume on every inch of your body. You also shaved any unwanted hair, especially on all the intimate places you knew he would be seeing. And by the time you were done, you stepped out of the bathroom blooming like a fresh flower, wrapped in nothing but a thin towel that hugged your womanly figure.

It didn’t feel right at all. It didn’t feel good knowing that you were preparing yourself like that, when these things should only happen on the first night after your wedding. It didn’t feel great that you were going to lose your virginity to a man who had not even proposed to you. This wasn’t even your honeymoon, but you had to pretend like it was.

Did Sukuna feel the same?

He wasn’t lying in bed when you walked out of the bathroom. Instead, he had just returned from outside—shirtless, wearing his favorite gray sweatpants, and holding a box of condoms and a tube of lube in his hand. It was clear he had made a quick visit to the convenience store nearby and got the essentials for your first night.

Immediately, he eyed your towel-wrapped body with restrained lust, clearing his throat as he walked towards the nightstand. “You look nice.”

Really? Did he really have to make this more awkward than it already was?

“Thank you,” was all you could softly reply. It was funny how he pretended to be busy placing the box and tube above the bedside table instead of lunging at you like a desperate man. But because you wanted to get this over with, you were the one who approached him from behind, wrapping your arms around his waist, and touching the firmness of his abs. For someone who had zero experience, you were definitely trying hard enough and that should please him. “You have to help me out here, my love. Guide me.”

When Sukuna turned around, your heart started racing. Of excitement? Maybe. Of anxiety? Perhaps. He made it better though when he finally caved in and looked straight into your eyes, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear before lifting your chin with his hand. “You smell extra nice, too,” he added, leaning close enough that you could feel his warm breath fanning your face.

You were feeling it now. The equal lust. The carnal desire. The feeling of his sweet kisses, which he made true as soon as he crashed his lips onto yours. His kisses usually ranged from tender to rough, but this time, it was an altogether different type of kiss. It was passionate and demonstrative, as if showing you exactly what he had been wanting to do to you the first time you got together. This must be the result of being celibate in over a year. He was clearly a man deprived of sexual pleasure, and you were responsible for it. You actually turned him into a monk.

Now, he wasn’t holding anything back anymore. With his hand on your nape, he deepened the kiss to the point where you could feel his tongue exploring your mouth. You followed whatever he was doing like a good girl, like a very good girl, as he completely devoured your mouth with his. It didn’t take long for him to advance his kisses in other places too, being your jawline his next target, and then your neck as he feathered kisses around the soft flesh, leaving marks that would need a few days to be concealed.

Because his arms were tight around your waist, yours were locked around his neck. Where else should you be putting them? What does the girl usually do in this situation? You tried not to think much of it and listened to your own body while your boyfriend was sucking the skin around your collarbone. At first, your hand traced his toned chest, then it moved southwards to feel his abs, and further down to his…

“Y-You’re hard.” Your eyes widened as you felt his growing erection behind the fabric of his sweatpants. It wasn’t your first time seeing his boner, but it was the first time you touched it with your own hand. It was the first time you had your palm stroking his length, swallowing hard as you realized just how hard and thick he was.

“It wants to be inside you,” he whispered through your mouth, kissing you back again, “so bad, baby.”

Gosh. Your knees felt weak and you two hadn’t even really started yet. How much more when he starts putting that thing of his inside you? You were breathing hard, trying to catch air as your boyfriend continued to lap his tongue with yours, guiding your hand to continue fondling his wood while it grew bigger the more stimulated it got. By letting you touch his hardened crotch together with his own, you realized that you had just unlocked a newfound fetish of yours. “D-Do you… do you think about doing it with me often?”

He bit your lower lip before pulling away, animalistic eyes sending you into an orbit of pleasure. “Do you mean if I touch myself to the thought of you a lot?” he teased, chuckling darkly at the obvious heat on your cheeks. You couldn’t help but feel excited at how vulgar he could be with his words. “I do jack off a lot, angel. And it’s always you in my mind.”

You didn’t even have the time to melt from his words, because before you knew it, he was already peeling the towel off your body to reveal your completely naked figure. Obviously, your first reaction was to get shy—with your heated cheeks, your inability to look him in the eyes, your little efforts in covering your breasts and crotch, but he made sure to pull your hands away while keeping his eyes on you. “…Don’t stare.”

Sukuna, however, didn’t listen. His dark eyes scanned every curve of your body, particularly around your chest area before he sighed and threw his head back. “Fuck,” he cussed under his breath. “You’re so fucking sexy. I can’t believe no other punk has seen you like this.”

Your confidence grew little by little because of his praises. “But isn’t that a good thing?”

“For sure.” He almost laughed at his own words, more so in disbelief, before he reached out to touch your bosom. “No one can touch you like this, either, baby.”

“That’s—”

“Hmm?” Your boyfriend smirked at your reaction. While his other hand went to squeeze your breast, the other traveled to your bum, squeezing the cheek with equal fervor. “Can I have a taste of you, baby?”

He fondled your breasts with both hands now, massaging the rounded mass like they were his property. You had to admit to yourself that the feeling of being touched actually transcended your expectations. Or maybe it was only because of how erotic it was, but you couldn’t deny how turned on you were as his veiny, manly hands cupped your bosom.

And as soon as you nodded and permitted him to ‘taste’ you, he took no time in gently pushing you down the mattress, allowing you to lay at a comfortable position under him and his wanton stare. Taste you? He was more like eating you, when he pinned you against the mattress and sucked the skin on your chest. At first, his tongue rolled along your cleavage, inching closer and closer to your right breast while he had his hand squeezing the left. Your body naturally gravitated towards him as you arched your back so he could have better access to your chest. Not only your chest, but also your crotch as he started grinding his clothed manhood in between your folds.

“Mm…”

Sukuna’s mouth was on your breast now, suckling on your flesh and playing his tongue around your nipple. You couldn’t tell if it was pleasurable or painful because his tongue felt ticklish on your skin, but the suction definitely was an entirely different feeling. Both weren’t bad, anyway. They were just new to you. But even if they were foreign, you were curious and all the more interested, studying every little thing he was doing with your body and trying to make mental notes out of it.

Maybe you should have watched porn. That way, you could have been more aware of the step-by-step process of having sex. Who knew there were steps to follow at all? You didn’t think that foreplay could draw this much delay in your session because all you thought was that he was going to insert his cock straight inside you as soon as he saw you naked.

With all the touching, fondling, and kissing… what were you supposed to do? He was doing all the work here.

“Baby,” you spoke softly, staring at the ceiling, “C-Can I… touch you?”

Instead of pulling away, his mouth latched onto your left boob, giving it the same attention before moving south. “Not yet.”

When he said that, you didn’t expect his hand to land on your crotch. Your heart was thumping at an irregular rhythm as you felt his fingers moving in circles around your bud, playing with your clit before spreading your folds apart. “Nghh—!” you let out an embarrassingly loud moan, eyes widening at the sound of your voice, but your boyfriend shushed you by placing a peck on your lips before spreading your legs into a V.

“You’re so wet,” he said, pointing out the obvious as he positioned himself in between your legs, spreading your labia to reveal your entrance. Something about the situation made you increasingly self-conscious, but his undeniably hungry gaze kept you from covering your most sensitive area. It seemed like he was enjoying the sight of your pussy, especially with how wet and ‘untouched’ it was. “Your pussy’s so pretty, baby,” he mumbled, lowering his face closer to the area, “Can’t wait to put my dick inside it.”

You whimpered at the feeling of his tongue in between your folds. No, you couldn’t even think straight after he started teasing your vagina, alternating between flicking his tongue around your bud to french kissing your entrance. His tongue was so deep in your cavern that you were raising your hips involuntarily, going insane from the pleasure it sent your body. Your hands even gripped the sheets and your back arched into a C as you held back from moaning like a wild animal. At some point, the slurping sounds and the feeling of his mouth kissing your vagina had your legs shaking.

Though, you could ask yourself: what turned you on the most? Was it him actually eating your pussy or just the idea of him doing it?

And just when you thought he was done, he replaced his mouth by inserting a finger inside your cunt, garnering a much louder whimper out of you. “B-Baby!”

“Does it hurt?” he asked, eyes locked with yours as he slowly moved his middle finger in and out. “It’s so tight.”

“It hurts…” You nodded, feeling his finger moving in circles inside your cunt as though he was trying to get a feel of your walls, measuring the tightness and such.

He kissed you for a good minute. “Relax, angel. Don’t clench too much.”

Clench? You didn’t even know you were doing such a thing. “How to…?”

“Just relax.” Sukuna placed a hand on your abdomen, pressing it down while he was inserting yet another finger inside of you. “This’ll help you prepare so it won’t hurt as much later.”

Now, you were goddamn nervous. What did he mean it wouldn’t hurt as much? Because you were overthinking the pain of having him his actual cock inside of you. If you couldn’t even bear having his two fingers inside you, how much more with his clearly thick shaft? It was ridiculous to feel both anxious and yet aroused at the same time. Anxious, because you knew he could rip you open. Aroused, because his fingers were currently doing a great job at hitting your most sensitive spot. Whatever it was that he was reaching, it was certainly sending waves of ecstasy throughout your body.

His fingers continued to move. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Around. When he pulled his digits out, he sucked the juices on them, tasting every drip of your essence from his fingers. “Sweet.”

Were you? You started to get curious at how he tasted, too. Sweet? Salty? Bitter? You seemed to be moving on autopilot when you pulled yourself up and sat in bed on your knees. “Your turn?”

You asked the question as if you knew what you were doing, which was why Sukuna found it adorable and humorous at the same time. He did help you pull down the sweatpants that had been covering his erection for what felt like eternity, only to reveal a monstrous size that sprung out of the garment.

Holy fuck was all you could say.

He stood at the edge of the bed, a devilish smirk displayed on his saintly face as he saw the length of his cock compared to your face. You obviously hadn’t seen many cocks in your lifetime to be able to compare his size, but in your eyes, he was definitely big. He was girthy. He was lengthy. He was veiny. Meaty.

“Wanna suck it for me, baby?” he encouraged, pumping his shaft while looking at you. Fuck. “Open your mouth.”

You did as told, wrapping a hand at the base of his length while placing his tip on your mouth. You pressed your tongue flat on the surface of his tip, rolling your tongue around the head as if it were a lollipop. Was that what you were supposed to do?

“Eyes on me.” His voice deepened an octave. And it was also raspier.

Why did he want you to look up at him? It was already embarrassing.

“I said, eyes on me, angel.” He grabbed your chin and forced you to lock eyes with his darkened ones. Damn. No wonder girls were desperate to see him in his shop every single day. This was probably what they had been daydreaming about. “Suck my cock.”

In your head, you became a slut. In reality, you were still a shy, inexperienced virgin who didn’t know what to do. You relied on his instructions and looked at his expressions to know if you were doing a good job and to see what he liked and didn’t like. He definitely liked it when you sucked the head, liked it even more when you started to let him go deeper in your mouth, and surely liked it a hell lot better when you gagged after his cock hit the back of your throat. But in spite of the string of saliva that left your mouth after gagging from his cock, his arousal only grew harder, this time holding your hair in his fist as he began thrusting his hip forward. You were bobbing your head at a rhythm that satisfied him, feeling the stretch on your scalp as he tightened his grip on your hair.

“Tighten your mouth around it,” he instructed, fucking your mouth senselessly like hitting your throat was driving him nuts. Your eyes were already filling up with tears because of your urge to gag again, but you didn’t think it would be a good idea to stop now while he was just starting to pleasure himself.

This was the first time in your life to give someone a blowjob, and you weren’t sure what to make of that experience. It personally didn’t give you pleasure, but you liked hearing his desperate moans. You liked hearing him curse and get vulgar with his words. You liked seeing him get rough. His taste, on the other hand, was somewhat a different experience. Since you were only sucking his flesh, it was a tad bit salty at first contact but didn’t taste anything much after tongue got used to the skin around his shaft. Perhaps his cum would have a stronger flavor, though it looked like he had no plans in releasing his load into your mouth as he pulled his member out.

“Fuck it,” he grunted, gently pushing you back and spreading your legs wide open again, “I wanna feel your pussy so bad. Can I fuck you raw, babe?”

All those condoms, and he wanted to have you raw?

“But… I don’t wanna get pregnant.”

His face was full of assurance, shaking his head and denying any chance of knocking you up. “You won’t be. I’ll pull out, I just… I have to feel you raw the first time. I have to.”

“Okay…”

You were nervous as hell. You had butterflies in your stomach, your heart pounding in your chest like a drumbeat you couldn’t silence. You had imagined this moment countless times, but now that it was here, the reality of it was too overwhelming. Your mind yet again raced with a whirlwind of doubts and insecurities, and every nerve on your body seemed to be on high alert while you watched him getting occupied with rubbing his entire length with lube, ensuring a smooth entrance inside you.

He was nervous too, right? You couldn’t be the only one. You couldn’t be.

You just wanted everything to be perfect. To show him how much you cared. To feel that you were enough. But the thought was paralyzing. Tonight was more than just physical intimacy; it was a step forward in your relationship, a moment of connection you wanted so badly to cherish. This first intimate encounter should be filled with love, respect, and mutual understanding.

But what if after this, he’d come to realize that you weren’t the one? What if he’d get disappointed and tell you that you weren’t worth it? What if he’d leave you for someone else who could pleasure him better? What if, after you had given yourself to him, no one else would ever appreciate you anymore?

You wanted this, didn’t you? You wanted to feel the heat of his touch, the intensity of his gaze, the intimacy of your connection. You wanted to explore this uncharted territory with him, to dive headfirst into the unknown and discover what lay on the other side. But were you really ready for this? Did you truly want this? Would it be everything you had imagined, or would you regret losing your virginity to him?

The fear of inadequacy gnawed at your confidence as Sukuna positioned himself back in between you, his tip rubbing at your slit a couple times before he finally sunk it into your entrance.

“Haaa—!”

“Shh. It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

“N-No, I—!”

It felt like your walls were being stretched so painfully, like your flesh was being torn open in the most agonizing way. This was not the kind of pain you pictured out when he put his member inside. Sukuna even tried to grab hold of your hips to keep you steady, but you were withdrawing your hips back, wanting nothing but for him to remove his cock.

“It hurts… It hurts… please, stop. Please!”

“Baby, I’m trying to be gentle—”

“I SAID STOP!”

Both of your eyes widened at the same time, and that was the only time you two were ever in sync. He was clearly shocked by your outburst, while you yourself were surprised at how you raised your voice at him. Neither of you expected that situation. As a result, he did pull away and completely withdrew himself from you.

Frustration was evident on his visage and he couldn’t even hide it anymore. “Fuck this,” he spat in exasperation, taking a deep breath as he reached to slip his sweatpants back on. “I knew it.”

“No, I…” You swallowed. “It just… You kinda forced it, I wasn’t ready.”

“I forced it, really? I forced you?” His laugh was out of complete disbelief. “I never forced you into anything, angel. I’ve asked you since the beginning if this is really what you want.” He took a pause, a very uncomfortable one, before he went on murmuring, “It was just my tip and you’re overreacting like this. I’m not even halfway in.”

His agitation had finally awakened you to your senses, realizing that you did end up doing what you were scared of doing. You ruined the moment. You were so caught up in your bubble of negative thoughts that you had once again failed to fulfill what you were supposed to do. No wonder he was aggravated, now sitting away from you and wearing his clothes as if telling you that he was done. Done being blue balled by his own girlfriend. Done expecting something he was never really bound to have.

You reached out to touch his arm. “Baby, I’m sorry… I just got scared, but we can still—”

“Still do it?” he continued your sentence by ironically cutting you off, “No, the fuck, I won’t. I’m not in the mood anymore.”

His reaction brought tears to your eyes, because the way he was acting stung your fragile heart. You didn’t mean to ruin anything. More importantly, you didn’t wish for everything to just turn out like this. “I-I’m sorry. Let me try again, please.”

The weakness of your voice seemed to have softened him, becoming calmer and more composed after a few minutes of contemplation, but he still held his ground when he massaged his temple and sighed. “Let’s just not push it, Y/N.” He looked at your eyes, with hurt and rejection reflecting on them. “Even if you say you wanna do it, you think I can’t see it in your face that you’re not really into it? You’re never ready for me and maybe it’s my fault, maybe there’s something about me that you’re so scared of. Maybe it’s because you don’t feel secure with me, maybe you wanna save yourself for someone better, someone who can give you a brighter future—”

“That’s not true!” You shook your head desperately, your eyes blurring from the pool of tears while you clung to his arm. Where was all this coming from? It sounded like he had been harboring those feelings for so long. “That’s not true. What are you even saying?”

“I don’t even know what I’m saying. I’m just…” Trying to give a reason why you won’t give it to me. That must be what he had wanted to say. “Look, I don’t wanna pressure you into this bullshit anymore. I don’t wanna make it look like I’m begging for your affection like this. Intimacy should happen normally for couples, and if we can’t have that, then we can’t. That’s it.”

Why did he sound like he was giving up?

You tried to keep your emotions at bay while listening to him battling with his internal thoughts. “I understand I disappointed you tonight, but…”

He was adamant at shaking his head, distancing himself from you by getting up from the bed. “No, you got nothin’ to apologize for. It’s your body and your choice. I’d never force you into anything.”

Then… then…

“I just think it’s not the perfect time,” he continued, shooting you a glance before looking away. Each step he took added another crack on your fragile heart. “From now on, I’m never gonna initiate anything intimate nor will I expect anything from you, aight? I’m over it.”

Alone in your vulnerability, you could feel the cold air hugging your naked body as you watched him walk towards the door, leaving you in the dark both literally and figuratively. “Where a-are you going? Come on… Please.”

He no longer cared to turn around. He no longer bothered to comfort you as he walked away, muttering, “Just gonna go for a ride. Don’t wait on me.”

— —

Nearly three weeks had passed since that night and you would be lying if you said everything was okay.

No, everything was not okay. You could feel the distance growing each day even when you two still did everything together. Your normal routines didn’t feel normal anymore because he was acting too detached ever since he told you that he wouldn’t initiate anything intimate ever again. And to be honest? It hurt. A whole fucking lot. Hearing your partner say that they would never wish to do anything intimate with you was probably the worst way to experience heartbreak. Because he was truthful with it, and he showed it very openly.

Now, he’d lock the door whenever he would take showers. He’d spent most of his time outside riding his bike until midnight. He stopped texting you sweet messages while on tattoo shop duty. He seldomly joined you to eat breakfast and dinner together. His back would face you whenever you two slept in bed. His eyes avoided you even when you walked around in underwear. His hand wouldn’t touch you even when you were centimeters close to him. There were no kisses exchanged either, unless obliged to do so when leaving the house. No hugs. No hair-stroking, hand-holding sweetness ever shared. You were simply cohabiting in your shared apartment like strangers who had barely even said I love you’s.

“Man, that’s rough,” remarked Suguru Getou, your cousin and the barista, as he tidied up the counter behind the elevated bar. Having just served his friend an Americano, he listened intently as you vented about your situation with Sukuna. “I’ll be honest with you, Y/N. It’s not looking good for you.”

You knew that. You just refused to acknowledge it. “I mean, all couples fight.”

Suguru shook his head, however. “You two aren’t even fighting. Dude just gave up and started detaching himself from you. If that’s not a sign already, then I don’t know what is.”

“What sign?” you asked, hiding the obvious worry in your voice. You need not be dense about his words, but you wanted to have some kind of hope to grasp on.

“Sign that he’s falling out of love?” he continued.

And somehow, his white-haired friend thought it would be okay to chime in. “More like a sign that the tool's not interested anymore and is about to dump her.”

Your face felt hot and in the most terrible way. “Sorry, what was your name again?” you asked, your tone dripping with sarcasm. You hadn’t expected the guy to suddenly chime in, considering he had been quietly typing on his laptop just moments before. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion, so don’t go listening to somebody else’s business when you’re not part of the conversation.”

“Jeez,” said the albino guy, grinning at your cousin as if amused by your barrage of a response. “She’s a yapper, too. I thought she was supposed to be this sweet and innocent type, Suguru?”

“Not always.” Suguru chuckled at his friend before turning to you, apologetic eyes now attempting to soothe your nerves. “Sorry ‘bout that, Y/N. Satoru just likes to tease people. Don’t mind him.”

You kept a straight face. “Well, then maybe tell your friend to keep his nose out of conversations he’s not invited to.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Satoru gave you a playful salute before extending his hand towards you. “Look, I didn’t mean to overhear, but I actually sympathize with you. If it were me, I’d never do that to you, baby.”

Oh, God. You were so bad at this. Was he flirting with you or was he simply playful like this?

Nevertheless, you rolled your eyes and ignored the hand he offered, essentially brushing off his advances. “I don’t need sympathy. All I’m here for is to talk to my cousin to try and have his advice on the matter,” you emphasized pointedly, making it clear to Satoru that he was the last person you wanted advice from. “I don’t need a stranger listening to my personal life.”

“Doesn’t hurt to receive advice from another guy,” countered Satoru, shrugging. “Right, Suguru? I mean, we’re both guys. We can give you some insight into how men think.”

You felt the urge to bury your face in your hands. It was clearly a mistake going there and putting yourself in that situation, and now having two guys aware of your sex life with your boyfriend. That alone was so wrong on many levels. But could it be helped? Suguru was your closest cousin, the only one who didn’t turn his back on you after you left your parents’ home. He was working at a cafe three blocks away from your flower shop and you happened to be delivering a batch of fresh floral decorations for their cafe. You obviously found it a good opportunity to open up to him about your struggling relationship and hoped he could offer some male perspective on Sukuna’s behavior. You just hadn’t anticipated his friend eavesdropping on the conversation the entire time.

Well, that should have been expected anyway, since only the three of you were in that cafe on a lazy Wednesday afternoon.

“I don’t kiss and tell, by the way.” Satoru was beaming as he gave you that assurance and you couldn’t help but admit that the man had some charm in him. He was attractive, no doubt about it. He was also tall, toned, and seemingly well off based on the way he dressed. He had a casual yet preppy style, something you would normally see from guys who went to private school.

“Do you work?” you asked out of sheer curiosity. “You don’t seem like the type.”

“Oh, now she’s interested.” Satoru seemed to have found your sudden interest in him humorous. “I’m finishing my MBA, miss. Thank you for asking.”

“He’s a privileged rich kid with generational wealth and a family business,” Suguru remarked, playfully gesturing a cutting motion across his neck. “Definitely not your type, huh, Y/N?”

“Why, what’s her type?” The white-haired man looked intrigued, pulling his stool closer. He had that stupid grin on his face as though the topic just sparked his curiosity. “What’s her boyfriend like?”

Suguru, who wanted to play along, jokingly hummed in deep thought. “He’s got tattoos, likes to tattoo other people, is a college dropout, rides a big bike, smokes and drinks, listens to heavy metal, was probably a delinquent and a juvie alumni—”

“Excuse you, he’s never been in a juvenile detention center,” you defended your man, feeling like your cousin’s categorization of Sukuna was becoming a little too derogatory and you had to correct him for that, “and he’s a good man. He’s sweet and caring, he’s passionate, and he loves me sincerely.”

“Sincerely, not?” Satoru quipped, earning your glare in return. He immediately raised his hands in surrender. “I'm just joking. If you believe he’s all that, that’s your choice. I don’t judge booktok girls who romanticize typical bad boys.”

You rolled your eyes at his audacity. Each word that left his mouth seemed to stoke the flames of your irritation. “You’re so offensive, I’ll have you know that.”

The white-haired guy smugly took a sip from his coffee. “At least I don’t make girls feel guilty for not having sex with me.”

“Oooh.” Suguru was clearly enjoying the show, unaware that you were one step closer from smacking his friend across the face. “Touché. He kinda has a point, Y/N.”

“Be serious,” you warned.

To which he agreed to. “Okay, I am being serious now,” he said, abandoning his playful stance to lean in on a more solemn posture against the counter, “If you think Sukuna makes you feel guilty for not doing it with him, then shouldn’t that speak for the kind of relationship you two have? He wants something you can’t give. His reaction tells you everything you need to know about him.”

You tried to absorb his words with a better understanding and without any bias. “Isn’t his reaction normal? He’s a man, too. I understand his needs and I made him feel somewhat rejected.”

“It’s all about respect, Y/N,” answered Suguru, “If he’s a decent man, he wouldn’t make you feel that way. No mixed signals, no guilt tripping, no nothing. If you can’t do it, then don’t.”

“So, you’re saying you wouldn’t feel the same if your girlfriend keeps rejecting sex with you?”

Suguru smirked. “I never said I’m a decent man, either. All I’m saying is if what you want isn’t exactly aligned to what he wants, then maybe it’s best you break it off with him because this shit won’t get you anywhere, Y/N. Trust me. He’s gonna dump you before you know it. I mean, it’s one thing to pretend he’s all fine with it, and it’s another to distance himself from you like he’s silently protesting.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Satoru joined in once again. “It’s impossible for a guy like that to be in a relationship for so long and not have any pussy. We think of sex 24/7, some of us are just better at restraining ourselves than others. He’s putting up with it now, but it’s only a matter of time he gets sick and tired of waiting. You do realize he can get any girl he wants, anytime he wants, right?”

Although you were still uncomfortable at Satoru casually chiming in on the conversation, it was true when they said they could give you the exact male perspective you needed to hear. This allowed you to go deeper into Sukuna’s psyche and understand why he was acting that way. You just didn’t know how to save the connection you have with your boyfriend when both your cousin and his friend were describing all the red flags on Sukuna’s behavior.

“I don’t know,” you spoke in a tone of defeat. “I kinda understand where he’s coming from, so I can’t just leave him for it. I love him.”

Satoru looked at your cousin like you couldn’t be saved. “She’s in too deep.”

“Yeah, gaslighted as fuck.” Suguru was shaking his head in disappointment.

The taller man chuckled and brought up a ridiculous offer to lighten the situation up. “Honestly, Y/N. I know we just met and all, but if you ever need someone to teach you how to do good in bed, just hit me up. He’ll never know.”

“Shut up,” you shot back at Satoru, eyes rolling at his remark.

“You’re out here feeling bad for that guy when he could be fucking his clients at the tattoo shop.”

You argued. “No, he’s not—”

“Are you sure he isn’t?”

It wasn’t Suguru nor Satoru who posed that question; it was Yuki Tsukumo, the café’s manager and Suguru's respected senior. She was in a relationship with one of your boyfriend’s stepbrothers, Choso, and was also a fellow biker, which allowed her to cross paths with Sukuna in their community. Despite this connection, she was never particularly close to him. In fact, Yuki didn’t personally get along with Sukuna and she was very vocal about it. She was, however, a regular client of yours and ordered floral arrangements from your shop on a weekly basis.

It had been awhile since you last saw her, and didn’t expect that the first greeting you would give her was a question. “Yuki, what do you mean?”

Great. Now, three people know about your relationship quagmires.

She was placing her helmet at the counter and sitting on a stool before answering you, “I really think you should talk to him about it, Y/N.”

No, no. Why did you suddenly feel a pang of anxiety out of nowhere? Something about the sympathy in Yuki’s eyes felt unsettling, and it sent a wave of fear through you. She definitely knew something. What was Sukuna doing behind your back?

“Can you please just tell me?”

Her gaze studied your face intently, as if deliberating on the right thing to do. “Well... I spotted him riding with a girl the other night. Initially, I thought it might be you, but last night, I saw them together again. I recognized her... because it was his ex. I think he’s been giving her rides home lately.”

Amidst the quiet of the room, your heart felt like it was breaking in two. The sudden revelation sent you into an abyss of pain.

“You might wanna visit his tattoo shop later.” Yuki encouraged me with a comforting smile. “It may be best to confront him about it.”

— —

Sukuna wasn’t sure how to act around you anymore. It wasn’t like he was purposely avoiding you, but he just didn’t feel comfortable acting like everything was fine and dandy. Because if he was damn honest, the sexual frustration was fucking with his head. So much so to the point where he started questioning himself if he should still put up with a relationship like this.

First of all, there were pros and cons involved. He had to consider that it was a special connection filled with special memories, too.

If he was talking about the pros, he knew he would have a loving lifetime partner with you. You were beautiful, kind, and pure. You inspired him and motivated him to be better. You were unmaterialistic and happy with the littlest things. You gave his dominant side the urge to be a better man, like he was made to protect and provide for you. You became his muse; a blank canvas that was all for him to paint on. A canvas that no one had ever touched. Or, in your world, a white lily that was associated with chastity and virtue.

But then, there were also cons, and the foremost of it being you were too conservative for your own good. You grew up in a strict environment with uptight parents who wanted to control your life. He could never voice it out, but he really hated that you were square like your parents sometimes. You were too traditional and afraid to explore new experiences, oftentimes policing him for living his life as free as he wanted it to be. The ‘opposites attract’ thing did seem to work in your relationship at first, with your differences being exciting for each other, but as time went by, it became clearer to him that you two were too different to actually be in sync together.

Hence why your relationship became rigid and suffocating, forcing him to take a breather by distancing himself from you for some time. He did this for your benefit, because he had to clear his head before risking losing you for good. He didn’t want to jeopardize a relationship that he knew meant the world to him. Perhaps this was just a phase, a challenging period following the honeymoon phase, where all your differences seemed to become more pronounced.

But to repeatedly make him look forward to sharing intimacy with you, only for you to back out at the very last minute? Man, was that so frustrating.

It didn’t help that it was destiny itself that seemed to be stirring the pot. Because while you two were going through a rough time in your relationship, the irony presented itself outside of Sukuna’s tattoo shop late at night just as he was about to close.

“Ryo?” A tall woman with athletic build, long dark hair, and beautiful doe eyes came into view with a wide smile on her face.

His ex-girlfriend of three years.

Sukuna held the door for her albeit the confusion in his eyes. “Yorozu?”

The only difference he noticed was that she had become a lot sexier, with the curves on her body more womanly than ever. It was obvious that she was active in the gym to achieve such a fit physique. But other than that, her facial features were the same. Her heart eyes still shone bright at the mere sight of him, as if they carried stars and galaxies.

“I think I came too late,” said Yorozu, smiling in disappointment, “I should probably just return tomorrow.”

“No, you’re good.” Sukuna insisted on letting her enter his shop, closing the door as soon as she was inside. “What brought you here?”

She stood confidently in front him, wearing nothing but a blank tank top and some loose white pants. “Funny story ‘cause I actually just moved to this city recently and I just found out you had a shop in this area.”

Oh? That was interesting, indeed. Sukuna wondered how she even found his shop in that case, while he was leading her to the tattoo chair. “Are you here to get a tattoo or?”

“Yeah, yeah I am.” She was sprinkling some charm in her grin. He knew her too well. “I think it’s amazing that I’m gonna get it from you again.”

While Yorozu was talking to him, he couldn’t help but ask: was it wrong for him to be in the same vicinity as his ex? Considering how jealous you could get, this was definitely wrong in your eyes. But as he wasn’t doing anything sketchy, he figured there was nothing wrong about what he was doing. Yorozu was technically a client and he couldn’t deny her his services since she was basically a friend of his, too. So, was he breaking any code here?

“Well, only if you have time now, of course,” she added out of consideration, “It’s kinda late so I can always come back.”

Sukuna shook his head and headed to get his book of tattoo art samples. “It’s fine. I got clients lined up all day tomorrow, so,” he said, placing the book on her lap, “You wanna check that or do you have a design in mind already?”

Yorozu’s eyes fell on the tattoos marking Sukuna’s body, her gaze landing on every familiar inch as though she had seen them all the time before. It was true. She had seen more of him, actually. She had done more with his body, too. “I kinda wanna get a sleeve, but I want you to choose the design for me.”

A tattoo sleeve? Damn. It was something he would never in a million years see from you, but for Yorozu, it was totally normal. She was as obsessed with ink as he was. And although she’s had a couple of tattoos in her body already, which were done by him, it would be her first time to get a full sleeve.

“I get to choose, really?” Sukuna chuckled lightly. If he were to think of Yorozu’s traits, she was definitely a classic red rose. A seductress, alluring woman was how he saw her and the said flower would be a true-to-life representation of her personality. She was passionate when it came to loving someone, and was completely devoted to him back when they were together. The only reason they broke up was because they were too similar, as if she was his counterpart, and he saw fit to leave a relationship where they both constantly battled for dominance. Yorozu could get too aggressive on loving someone and he didn’t particularly like that. He made her understand why they weren’t working as a couple, and it took her some time, but she eventually accepted his decision. Now, you could say, they were somehow on good terms. “Alright, I’ll do your sleeve, but I’ll keep the design as a surprise.”

Her eyes sparkled in excitement at the thought. “I’d love that!”

“Since you want a sleeve, we’re gonna do some stencil application today.” Sukuna didn’t waste any more time in getting ready with his equipment, biting on the glove while wearing the other on his hand. “It’ll take fifteen to twenty hours to complete a sleeve, and each session could last two to six hours depending on your pain tolerance. My schedule’s actually full all day until next week, but you can come around the same time every night so I can finish yours.”

“Yeah, I’m absolutely fine with that,” she enthused. For some reason, Yorozu was happy with the idea. The idea of coming to visit Sukuna every night in his shop. The idea that they get to be alone. The idea that they would be able to reconnect just like old times. Those were the things that Sukuna assumed was going through her head.

And as he did start with his ‘client’, it was probably best to admit that the sexual tension was high. The room felt stuffy as the both of them remained there until midnight, with her sitting on the tattoo chair, and him doing her tattoo to her left. His eyes were intently focused on the intricate patterns he was doing on her arm, but also couldn’t avoid seeing the contours of her breasts since she was wearing such a thin tank top. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen them before. He’d seen every part of her body from her neck down to her toes. He’d put her in every position from missionary to doggy. Goddamn, he could even remember how warm she felt around his cock. Didn’t she like it when he came inside her? Or when he made her swallow every drop of his seed?

Sukuna cleared his throat, shaking his vulgar thoughts away as he continued with Yorozu’s arm. He may not be cheating, but thinking back on those intimate experiences with someone else other than his girlfriend was definitely not morally right either. But what sexual experience could he reminisce about with you? That ridiculously embarrassing night you two had shouldn’t even be counted since he was trying so hard to forget about it.

He cleared his throat. Again. For the third time. “What, uh, what’ve you been up to?”

Yorozu, who had no clue about his thoughts, turned her face to look at him happily. “Not much, actually. The bar I worked at closed down, but I got myself a new job in this club as a full time hostess and part-time promoter. You should come by. Drinks on me.”

By not exactly accepting or refusing, Sukuna decided to just smile it off. “That’s why you moved to this city?”

“Yeah, I mean… obviously, the rent here is higher, but it’s closer to my job. I get paid decently, too.”

“That’s nice.” He was just trying to make small talk at this point. “Do you know your way ‘round here? How are you gonna get home?”

She considered her options. “Probably a bus or something?”

Sukuna paused, contemplating the situation. “There's no bus here at midnight,” he remarked, concerned for the girl who would have to navigate her way home alone at such a late hour. She was new to the area and clearly still adjusting to the commuter lifestyle. Unlike her, he had a vehicle that could safely transport her home. There would be no harm in offering, right? “Look, I have a bike and I usually take midnight rides, anyway. I can drop you off on my way home.”

“Really?” Her voice echoed excitement in them. “I’d appreciate it, Ryo. Thanks so much.”

Life was ironic, truly. He didn’t see this situation coming because he never expected that he would even come across Yorozu ever again. They didn’t have any contact prior, but he still saw her on social media whenever he (on very rare occasions) decided to check his accounts. He never had her blocked, either, which was why you knew about Yorozu after snooping through his phone and reading through some of his old messages with her. Sukuna used to tell you not to worry about her, and that she was just his ex, and that she had nothing on you—which were all true, of course, but it was funny to him now that the woman his girlfriend was most threatened by was back in his life.

And she was riding at the backseat of his motorbike, her arms latching at nothing else but around his torso. She was seated at the seat reserved for you, wearing the helmet that was bought for you, and holding onto a man that was rightfully yours. It all didn’t feel right.

But because Yorozu delighted in his habit of speeding on the highway, he had somehow forgotten about the guilt that was forming in his heart.

“You still have your ex’s Instagram?” Your questioning eyes met his defensive ones as he joined you in the living room, finding his space on the couch next to you. “I read your dms. Why haven’t you blocked her?”

Sukuna’s breath remained steady. “Only toxic people do that shit.”

“But I’m not comfortable with it!” you nagged, letting him snatch his phone from your grasp.

“Do you see me talking to her still?” he asked, trying to be as patient as he could be, “Baby, I don’t even talk to her. I don’t think she’s active there, either.”

You crossed your arms. “Then, block her?”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being fair. You shouldn’t be keeping tabs with an ex.”

“What are you—” Sukuna decided to cut his own sentence after realizing that the argument was plain stupid. “You know what, I’ll just delete my insta.”

“How many times do you two do it?” you asked out of nowhere, sitting at the waiting area while he was closing his shop. “Your ex. How often do you have sex with her?”

What kind of trap were you setting now? If he told you an honest answer, you would get mad. If he lied or even sugar coated it, you would also get mad.

“Does it matter? Why do you keep asking questions about her and then get upset with me?” Sukuna’s frustration resonated in his sigh as he tidied the space where he tattooed his client a few minutes ago. “She’s an ex for a reason, so get over it.”

He was starting to get annoyed by your never-ending questions about his past experiences, but he knew you were simply coming from a place of no experience. You probably wanted to know what he liked in bed, what pleased him the most, what kept him from wanting more. Was that too much? No. Were you overdoing this entire thing? A little bit.

“Why are you defensive?” you asked softly, still sitting on the couch as you watched him avoid your eyes. “You make me feel so insecure every time.”

He scoffed, shaking his head as he turned around. “I don’t know, baby. If you’re feeling insecure, then do something about it.”

“Thanks so much for the ride, Ryo.”

Yorozu stood by her door, returning the helmet back to him while she kept her eyes locked on his. Her gaze was inviting, tempting him to give in and submit to his carnal desires. Any man would read her intentions the same way; Yorozu stared at him like that because she wanted to invite him to her place. She wanted him to spend the night and do unforgivable things. To remember the passionate exchange they once shared.

But Sukuna wasn’t like that. No, he wasn’t a cheater. “I, uh, gotta get going.”

“Oh…” Disappointment clouded Yorozu’s face. “Okay, then.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“...Alright.”

“Okay.”

“Wait!” Yorozu pulled his arm just as he was heading back to his motorbike. The sudden closeness in their proximity made his heart race fast. He knew what was coming. “I missed you, Ryo.”

He knew what she was about to do next.

And holy fuck did he guess right, as he was taken aback when Yorozu suddenly leaned in to press her lips onto his. Her soft, cherry lips moved desperately to taste his sweet kisses.

But he didn’t return it. Instead, he immediately pushed her away. “Yorozu,” he spoke softly, “I have a girlfriend.”

“You do?” She didn’t need to hide it. He could see the heartbreak on her face.

“Yeah,” Sukuna confirmed, maintaining a more appropriate distance now. “We’ve been together for some time, and I live with her.”

Yorozu tried to maintain her facade of indifference, making it appear as though she was unfazed by his revelation. “That’s... That’s cool,” she said, “I’m sorry for, uh, the kiss.”

Sukuna nodded, “It’s fine. I should’ve told you sooner.”

“You’re alright,” she reassured him, “It's totally my fault. I hope she won’t be upset with you or something.”

Sukuna had no plans to tell you, knowing well the additional turmoil it would bring to your already strained relationship. However, he realized the importance of clarity in his intentions and the need to set boundaries. “We’re just friends. We’ll keep things civil. I’ll finish your tattoo in a couple more sessions, and then we’re done. Sounds fair?”

Yorozu nodded her head with a reluctant smile. “Fair enough.”

— —

5 more days. Her sleeve required five more sessions, and days went by too fast for him to count. He had busied himself with his clients, while you had busied yourself with yours. He couldn’t even spend time with you because his shop took a chunk of his time from him, and even at home, things had become too awkward ever since your unspoken night.

So, in some ways, Yorozu became his routine. She visited his shop for the past four nights and he had taken her home afterwards. She was in absolute love with her rose sleeve and they weren’t even complete yet. He still owed her one last session and told himself that it should also be the last time she should be around him. It wasn’t right and he didn’t want to create another source of argument with you.

And in truth, he certainly felt a little guilty for spending more time with his ex than his own girlfriend. But did he purposely do it? No, it was fate that brought her to his door about a week ago.

In spite of his stubbornness to admit his wrongdoing, he still ended up stopping by the flower market to get you a nice bouquet of white lilies. He knew you could make a prettier bouquet than that, but he thought it would be a perfect opportunity to surprise you with flowers that didn’t exactly come from you. Besides, he had some making up to do.

Later that night, when he returned to your shared home, he found you sitting at the couch seemingly waiting for him to come home. The lights were dimmed and the television was turned off. For some reason, you were wearing outside clothes and had a somber expression on your face, too. That alone caused the loud thumping of his heart.

“Hey,” he greeted, nonetheless, sitting next to you on the couch and kissing your cheek. “Everything okay, baby?”

Your eyes carried sadness in them as you looked at him and searched for answers you couldn’t find. “Where were you?”

Sukuna handed the bouquet over. “Got you flowers.”

You didn’t accept them. Instead, every second seemed to torture you. “Where were you before that?”

“In the shop…?” He didn’t know where to start, but he was definitely scared. “Why? Sorry I’ve been busy lately. I’ll make it up to you, angel.”

“You close your shop at nine,” you pointed out, voice breaking in the middle of your sentence. “Why do you always come home at two in the morning?”

Fuck. Fuck! What should he say? Should he make an excuse for it? Should he say he’d been checking on Yuuji after his shifts? Should he say he’d been riding to other cities to clear his mind? He didn’t fucking know what to say, especially not when you were clearly on the verge of bursting out.

“Answer me!” you cried, finally releasing the bottle out in the open. The tears that welled in your eyes now streamed ceaselessly down your face. “You’re an asshole. I-I hate you! I fucking… you think I don’t know? You think I’m too stupid to know?!”

Sukuna calmly received the fists you had swung on his chest as he tried to grab ahold of your arms. “Baby, I’ll explain everything.”

“No, damn y-you!” The tremor in your voice squeezed his heart in the most painful way because he hated seeing you breaking down in front of him and over him. This wasn’t the first time he had made you cry, but this was the first time he had seen you actually sob like this. “I-I gave myself to you! I left my p-parents for you! And this is what you do to me? You’re cheating on me with your ex?!”

He was desperate to hold you, hug you, cage you in his arms. He wanted to take your pain away. Wipe your tears away. However, you didn’t allow him to touch even a strand on your hair as you kept on pushing him off. Sukuna felt like he was going to lose his mind. “Baby, listen to me please. It’s really not what you think—”

“I don’t care!” you spat, moving away to wipe the tears off your face. “I don’t fucking care! You sleeping with her or not doesn’t change a thing. Don’t you get it? I’ll never be enough for you!” Despite your loud voice, the cracks in her facade only revealed your longing for validation and acceptance, etching into every tear-stained moment you two had shared over the course of your relationship. He watched you, paralyzed by the sight of you breaking down, as you grabbed a luggage you had been hiding behind the couch as if you were ready to leave. “I’ll never be the person you want me to be and staying with you will always remind me of it!”

“No, no, no… Let’s talk.” Sukuna had to suppress his own tears while he tried to reach out for you. “Baby, please. I don’t feel anything for her, or anyone. It’s just you. You are enough for me, baby. I’m sorry, please.”

You, on the other hand, were adamant at your decision. “I can’t stand what you’re doing to me anymore. I don’t like how you make me feel about myself. I hate how you make me question my own choices!” Tears continued to flow, and your voice wavered, transitioning from anger to a more subdued, pained tone. “I hate… I hate that I love you so much, that I lost all my backbone just to make you happy.”

“You don’t need to.” He was feeling more and more miserable now, his heart sore from all the emotions he had seen from you. “Y/N, you don’t need to. I’m sorry, I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

…

“It’s over, Sukuna,” were the last words he could recall hearing before passing out drunk in his bed that afternoon. “We’re done.”

— —

It was your first heartbreak. Your first actual relationship. Your first everything. Surely, people shouldn’t expect you to move on easily, especially not when the subject of your heartache worked across the street from you.

You were a mess. You had cried enough tears after you moved out of his apartment that night, screamed your heart out as you suffered from the pain of loneliness once more. You couldn’t even bear the thought of returning to your parents and hearing them say they told you so, because loving Sukuna was a choice you thought was good for you.

In the end, he was just a poison without any antidote. A toxin without remedy. The most effective solution was to sever all ties to prevent further contamination.

But strangely enough, you hadn’t seen him in his shop ever since that night, either. The tattoo parlor remained closed for more than two weeks without any notice. While a small part of you worried for him, a bigger part of you cared for yourself. He no longer held any importance to your life, and you should let it remain that way.

What you should focus on, instead, was living your life without any trace of him. A life of independence, away from the toxicity of a manipulative man who constantly made you doubt yourself and what you offered. As they say, you have to learn to love yourself first before you can fully learn to love others.

And in your journey of knowing the truth of that saying, a certain white-haired man entered your floral shop on a somber Friday afternoon just as you were arranging preordered bouquets for multiple customers to pick up.

“Hey,” you greeted the man, surprised at his sudden appearance at your shop.

Satoru grinned as he approached you closer. “I’m here to pick up two bouquets.”

“Oh, it was your order?” Your eyes widened. Silly you. Of course, Suguru would order on his friend’s behalf. He wouldn’t even get his girlfriend some flowers, let alone his mother. So this being Satoru’s order made much more sense. “Okay, you got a bouquet of blush peonies and another bouquet of pink tulips, am I correct?”

He smiled handsomely, displaying his set of perfect white teeth while listening to you talk. “Correct.”

“For your mom?” you asked before you made your way to pick up the bouquets, handing them to him carefully.

His response came with a soft, affirmative hum. “Mhm. One for her,” he said, taking only the bouquet of tulips, “The other is for you.”

Oh, no, no, definitely no. You had seen this before and it didn’t go well.

“That’s lovely, but…” You offered a smile. “I’m not taking those peonies.”

Satoru acted innocent, his vibrant blue eyes coruscating under the ambient lights. “But it’s mother’s day.”

You playfully shook your head. “I’m not even a mother.”

“Yes, you are,” he went on teasing, “the mother of my future kids. I like to think in advance, you know.”

Honestly? This man started off with a bad impression on you, but he wasn’t actually so bad. He was an easygoing, happy-go-lucky person who carried positive energy around him. That, and he was decent, too. He was the type of guy your parents would have surely approved of. He was a degree holder like you, even pursuing graduate studies to run a business that was already generating an income that you could only imagine of getting. He was set for life with no uncertainty with what he wanted for his future.

“Satoru?”

He met your gaze. “Yeah?”

“About your offer last time,” you recalled, recalling his earlier jest about teaching you some things in bed, “I think I'd like to take you up on that.”

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna angst #ryomen sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #jjk x reader #tattoo artist sukuna #biker sukuna #tattoo artist x florist au

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alygator77 · 9 months ago

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ᰔᩚ motherhood and matrimony I ch 1 ᰔᩚ

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, slow burn, smut, fluff, bit of angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, some triggers of domestic abuse (emotional abuse but it can be a bit suggestive/interpreted as physical, from naoya not satoru)

ꨄ words: 9.7k

ꨄ a/n. so very excited for this little series :') these topics hit home for me, would love to hear your thoughts, i hope you enjoy ♡

ꨄ taglist: closed (ao3)

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series masterlist ꨄ︎ next chapter →

ch 1 // circumstances and commitments

Red traffic lights always seem to catch you at the worst times.

As your car rolls to a stop, the city around you moves at a pace that feels impossible to match – the early morning rush, cars honking, people hurrying along the sidewalks, all while you’re stuck drumming your fingers anxiously against the steering wheel, the rhythmic beat mirroring your rising frustration.

You glance down at your phone, the glaring digital numbers reminding you of the precious minutes slipping away. Cursing to yourself, your breath hitches as a notification pops up.

Satoru Gojo: Where are you? The meeting is starting soon.

Late for work… again.

Your heart pounds in rhythm with the seconds ticking away, each tick of the clock feeling like a countdown to disaster. Dread coils in your stomach as you anticipate the inevitable reprimand you’ll face from your boss.

Lately, it feels like life is conspiring against you. It all began with your ex-fiancé, Naoya, shattering your trust with his betrayal, leaving you to navigate the tumultuous seas of parenthood alone – his disloyalty forcing you to drop out of school so you can provide for you daughter.

The relentless chaos of single motherhood has become your norm, each day a balancing act on a fraying tightrope.

And now, your unreliable nanny seems determined to sink your already precarious ship, bailing on you last minute yet again, making you late for work as you juggle the impossible of finding a backup babysitter.

The mounting challenges seem endless, yet you forge ahead, driven by the love for your daughter and the need to survive.

You left Naoya without hesitation, determined to carve out a life on your own terms, away from his manipulating deceit.

But single motherhood is an unrelenting storm, and although you filed for child support, the legal process drags on like a cruel joke – two months have passed since you served him papers, and still no court date is in sight.

What’s even more frustrating, Naoya is an attorney himself – he’s playing the system.

Why?

Because he wants to control you in the palm of his hands.

Every day feels like a battle, and this job is your lifeline – you really can’t afford to lose it over some stupid unreliable nanny. Unfortunately, stable full-time daycare is a luxury you can’t afford, leaving you at the mercy of said unreliable nanny.

While better than nothing, she is far from ideal – her chronic lateness and last-minute cancellations only add to your daily chaos. Yet, with no other affordable options, you are left with no choice but to grin and bear it, teetering on the edge of despair but refusing to fall.

You can already picture the scowl etched on your boss’s face the moment you walk through the door, late yet again – his expression stern and unforgiving.

And then there’s Satoru Gojo.

You can almost hear his sarcastic comments and see that infuriating smirk playing on his lips, his eyes dancing with amusement at your misfortune.

Satoru Gojo. The gorgeous and impeccably dressed heir to the Gojo Corporation, is the epitome of wealth and charm. With his striking blue eyes, flawlessly tousled white hair, and an air of effortless confidence, he commands attention the moment he steps into a room.

The Gojo Corporation, a behemoth in the business world, is practically a family of celebrities, their every move scrutinized by the public eye. Although you don’t work directly for Satoru, you often cross paths in the office since you serve as his father’s personal secretary.

Takemi Gojo, the stern and impatient CEO, demands perfection, making your role both challenging and stressful.

As you rush into the sleek, modern lobby of the Gojo Corporation, the sound of your high heels clicking against the polished marble floors echo through the hallway.

The receptionist, Shoko, looks up from her desk, her eyebrows knitting together in concern as you hurry towards her, hair disheveled, a folder clutched in one hand with papers threatening to spill out, and your handbag dangling precariously from the other.

The pristine, high-end surroundings make your disarray all the more glaring, and you can't help but feel a pang of embarrassment.

Though she’s currently on a phone call, Shoko’s concerned look expands, her eyes widening as she silently mouths to you, where have you been?

A defeated sigh escapes your lips as you shake your head, too flustered to explain. She subtly points to the door behind her, indicating where the meeting you’re now fifteen minutes late for, is being held.

With a subtle nod, you hurry past – she mouths, good luck, which does nothing to calm your frazzled nerves.

Opening the door, you are immediately met with a long table full of businessmen, their judging eyes snapping to you the moment the door creaks open. The air is thick with tension, and as you enter, the knots in your stomach tighten with each step taken, cheeks burning under the weight of their scrutiny.

Fuck. You are so embarrassed.

Satoru sits towards the back of the table in an office chair, lazily spinning around in circles while he fidgets with a pen between his fingers – clearly unamused, as usual.

He stops mid-spin and fixes his gaze directly on you, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his lips. His icy blue eyes seem to sparkle with amusement at your disheveled state.

In stark contrast, his father sits beside him, arms crossed, brow furrowed, and lips pursed in a tight line. The fury in his eyes is unmistakable.

Shit. He was pissed.

“G-Good morning,” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper as you briskly make your way to your seat. Your hands tremble slightly as you hastily tidy your hair and smooth down your shirt, desperate to appear somewhat presentable.

As you shuffle into your seat and place down your belongings, you can feel Satoru’s eyes on you, scanning you with a wry smile.

His amusement is palpable, and he clearly relishes the sight of you flustered and out of sorts. The way his gaze lingers on you, enjoying your disarray, only adds to your frustration

"Late again, I see,” he hums, his voice dripping with calm, sardonic amusement.

“Quiet,” you hiss at him silently, clearing your throat while you sit up straight – a forced smile across your lips.

Satoru faintly chuckles to himself as his father peers over at you disapprovingly, his stern eyes boring into you with a silent reprimand.

“Right – now that everyone is here, let’s begin,” Takemi Gojo announces, his authoritative voice slicing through the tense atmosphere like a knife.

The moment the conference starts, Satoru can’t help but roll his eyes, a gesture filled with disdain for the mundane proceedings. Leaning back in his seat, he props his elbow on the armrest and rests his chin in his hand, adopting a languid, almost bored posture.

He begins to tap the tip of the pen he was fiddling with against his lips idly, the repetitive motion a clear sign of his disinterest.

Satoru always hated these corporate meetings; they were incredibly tedious and time-consuming, and most of the topics discussed could have easily been handled in a goddamn email.

As his mind begins to wander, he tunes out the monotonous drone of the other men’s voices, his attention inevitably shifting to you, seated right beside him. He finds himself inexplicably drawn to the sight of your crimson cheeks and the slight tremble of your delicate hands.

There's something undeniably endearing about your flustered state that always manages to spark his mischievous side. He relishes the opportunity to give you shit, finding immense pleasure in your reactions.

"You know," he whispers in a slight mocking tone, leaning closer so that only you can hear, "this meeting would’ve gone by so much quicker if you had just been on time."

A shiver rakes down your spine as you feel his breath slightly against your ear.

God, he irked you so much.

Satoru Gojo, with his annoyingly charismatic arrogance, always managed to aggravate the hell out of you. It made your blood boil how he would purposely push your buttons, always knowing exactly how to get under your skin.

Turning your head towards him with a slightly exasperated expression, you shoot him a glare before shaking your head.

“I know,” your hushed voice laced with slight irritation. “You don’t have to remind me.”

Meeting your glare with a cocky grin, Satoru’s eyes glint with amusement, relishing in the way he could rile you up in a few words – it entertained him to no end, his only saving grace from this boring ass meeting.

Tormenting you was certainly a good way to pass the time.

“Oh, I know I don’t have to,” he chuckles lightly, speaking in a soft yet mocking tone, “but where would be the fun in that?”

“Jesus, you are insufferable,” you scoff under your breath, rolling your eyes, the frustration evident in your tone.

A cheeky smile forms on his lips as he leans back in his chair, humored by your irritation.

“Insufferable, huh?” he murmurs, still keeping his voice low with a hint of mischief. “My delicate heart can barely take the sting of your harsh words. Now, is that any way to treat your future boss?”

You raise an eyebrow at him and purse your lips, irritation simmering beneath your calm exterior. Dealing with Takemi Gojo, as strict and demanding as he is, feels like a lesser evil compared to the daily torment of Satoru's antics.

You silently pray that by the time Satoru takes over the business, you'll have moved on to better opportunities. You really don’t want to be stuck as a secretary your entire life – you have dreams of finishing your education and building a better future, but for now, this job is your lifeline.

It is unfortunate you had to halt your studies after leaving Naoya, but providing for your daughter takes precedence over everything, and with money being tight, every decision is a careful balancing act.

Satoru’s eyes glint with a mix of mockery and amusement, a smirk tugging at his lips as he can see the annoyance flickering across your face – it only eggs him on even more. Leaning in closer to you again, his voice drops even lower as he speaks.

"What, you don't think I'll be a good boss?" his tone feigned with mock hurt. "Here I was, imagining you calling me sir every day."

Before you have a moment to respond, your attention is grabbed by the sound of Satoru’s father clearing his throat – you are met with his stone-cold eyes sweeping over you both, the disapproving frown plastered on his lips is a clear indication for you to stop with the chit chatting.

Message received loud and clear.

You shift back in your seat, straightening up as you attempt to refocus on the meeting. Satoru, however, seems entirely unbothered, his lazy smile still fixed in place as he leans back in his chair with a nonchalance that is equal parts irritating and infuriating.

After another grueling hour of corporate ramblings, the meeting finally concludes. Relief washes over you as the businessmen begin to funnel out of the room, their murmured conversations blending into a low hum.

You hurriedly gather your scattered belongings, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere, but just as you reach for your papers, the stern voice of your boss cuts through the noise, freezing you in place.

“Y/n, before you go, a word please?” Takemi’s tone is sharp and commanding, slicing through the ambient chatter like a blade.

“Yes, sir,” you speak softly and timidly, placing your belongings back down as instructed. Your voice wavers slightly, betraying the nerves bubbling just below the surface.

As you glance over at Satoru, he begins to rise from his relaxed position, only for his father to halt his movements with a sharp, "Both of you," as he motions with his hand for Satoru to stay as well.

Satoru huffs in annoyance, his shoulders sagging as he sinks back into the chair, his irritation clear in the crinkle of his brows and the slight downturn of his lips.

“Y/n,” the old man’s tone is serious as he addresses you, his expression furrowed in what appears to be disappointment. The weight of his gaze feels like a heavy burden pressing down on your shoulders. With a nervous gulp, you brace yourself for the reprimand that’s to come.

“This is the third time this week you’ve been late now. Care to explain why that is?”

You can feel Satoru’s smug smirk beside you, his arms crossing casually over his chest as he leans back in his chair. The self-satisfied look on his face only serves to heighten your disdain for him.

God, he aggravates you.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I apologize, sir. I have been experiencing unforeseen issues with my childcare situation.”

The second you mention childcare, Satoru’s eyes soften in astonishment.

You were a mom?

He had no clue – you have always been tight-lipped about your personal life at work. In fact, he had always found you annoyingly professional.

That’s why he takes so much pleasure in pushing your buttons – you’re such a tightass. It’s so much fun to see a different side of you, to crack your uptight façade. This newfound information truly intrigued him, and he finds himself momentarily taken aback.

Takemi raises an eyebrow, his expression unchanged and stoic. "Unforeseen issues, hm? Can you elaborate on that further?" His voice is a blend of curiosity and skepticism, a hint of impatience lacing his words.

"Well, sir..." you exclaim, voice wavering as it’s filled with reluctance. With a subtle pause, you choose your next words carefully. You really didn't want to have to talk about this, but you’re backed into a corner and it appears you have no choice. With a shaky exhale, you proceed.

"My former engagement was recently broken off, so I'm currently a single mother. Unfortunately, my current nanny seems to have issues with punctuality."

Mr. Gojo listens to your explanation with an expressionless face, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processes your words.

The room feels even colder, the silence stretching uncomfortably. Meanwhile, Satoru's eyes dart between his father and you, watching the interaction with a peaked interest.

You, a mom?

This newly discovered knowledge had certainly added a new layer to his perception of you. Part of him feels a little guilty for giving you shit.

Maybe he should go easy on you a little bit?

He thinks to himself, before immediately dismissing that thought as impractical.

Yeah… not happening.

"I understand the situation, and I sympathize," Satoru's father finally responds, his tone devoid of warmth. "However, being late is unacceptable, especially repeatedly." He pauses for a moment, studying your expression intently. "Have you considered alternative childcare arrangements? One that is, perhaps, more reliable and punctual?"

You bite your lip, wrestling with your internal dilemma. Telling him about your financial situation seemed pointless, would these billionaires really understand? It wouldn't change anything, and it might even come across as a feeble excuse.

Daycare costs $500 a week where you live; it’s practically a mortgage on top of all your other expenses just to get by. Besides, you really don’t like people knowing your business. Replying carefully, you try not to give too much away.

“Right… I am looking into other options,” the words feel hallow as they leave your lips, because the truth is, you've already scoured the internet and exhausted all possible options, but to no avail. There are no viable alternatives at the moment – everything is out of your price range.

Satoru's father nods in acknowledgment, his expression still serious and unyielding. "Good," he says, his tone sharp and authoritative. "Please make this a priority, y/n. I need to see an improvement in your attendance. Your tardiness is affecting the productivity of the office, and I cannot tolerate late arrivals for much longer."

With a silent nod, you try to feebly hide the desperation that's clawing at your insides. You’re at your wit's end with childcare, but what can you do? Your boss seems to think you can just magically come up with a solution, but there is none.

“Yes, sir,” you say meekly, your voice barely above a whisper.

The old man shifts his attention to Satoru, who is lost in thought, still observing you intently with an inscrutable expression. His gaze is unwavering, as if he's trying to decipher a complex puzzle.

“As for you, boy,” Takemi's voice cuts through the silence, stern and authoritative.

The abruptness of his tone snaps Satoru out of his reverie. He blinks, his expression shifting to one of mild annoyance as his eyes flicker to his father.

“Let’s have a chat too,” Takemi continues, his eyes narrowing as he addresses his son.

You can feel the intensity of the moment, a palpable shift in the room's dynamics. Takemi's words hang in the air, heavy and demanding. Your heart races as you gather your belongings, sensing that the conversation to follow will be anything but pleasant for Satoru – his father is not known for holding back his opinions. Working beside them both, you’ve observed the passage of many quarrels – they are like fire and ice.

“Y/n, you’re free to go,” Takemi finally says, his voice softening slightly as he dismisses you.

With a quick nod, you turn to leave, your steps hastening towards the door. As you approach the doorframe, you cast one last glance over your shoulder.

Satoru is still watching you, his eyes filled with curiosity and something else he can’t quite place. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for the lecture he knows is coming, and turns to his father.

“Yes, sir?” sounding unbothered and slightly bored, Satoru’s voice has a hint of defiance in his tone.

“If you plan on taking over my business, you need to take this more seriously, Satoru – and you need to focus on finding an heir. When are you getting married? I can’t have – ”

Click.

Once the thick wood closes behind you, you can only hear the muffled sound of their voices, steadily escalating.

You stand awkwardly outside for a moment, not wanting to eavesdrop but unable to ignore the growing volume of their shouting. Clearly, the discussion had turned into another one of their disputes.

It’s nothing unusual, but as the voices behind the door grow louder and more intense, you’re left wondering if this may be their worst fight yet. Although you can’t make out all the words being exchanged, Satoru’s voice is sharp and roiled as he responds.

"Married? You're still obsessed …. settling down, old man? I'm not interested … those uptight women you keep throwing at me …. damn boring!"

Sure, their disagreements are quite frequent, but is it your imagination, or are they arguing about...marriage and heirs?

The realization that your job security is hanging by a thread weighs heavily on you, and you can’t help but feel a pang of envy for the seemingly trivial issues that Satoru and his father are arguing about.

Oh, the privileged problems of rich businessmen, you think.

ꨄ

As the day passes by, you find yourself buried in work – answering phone calls, scheduling meetings, filing paperwork – all while trying your best to push the events from earlier this morning to the back of your mind.

The steady hum of office activity buzzes around you, but your thoughts remain a chaotic whirlwind, replaying the tense confrontation with Satoru's father over and over again.

You feel stuck – should you try scouring the internet later tonight for childcare… again? The knot of anxiety in your stomach tightens each time you recall his stern expression and sharp words.

Amidst the flurry of tasks, a reminder pops up on your Outlook, the chime breaking through your concentration like a jarring alarm:

Supply day

You stare at the notification for a moment, a sense of dread settling in. Today, of all days, a sigh escaping your lips.

You grumble to yourself, the sound barely audible over the rhythmic clicking of keyboards and muted conversations around you. You know exactly how this always goes – the supply room is conveniently located right next to Satoru’s office, a perfect setup for his constant interruptions.

You’re going to have to deal with his incessant pestering while placing the order – it’s like he always manages to find any stupid excuse to bother you, and it’s become a rather annoying tradition at this point.

With the supply list clutched in your hands, you ascend the sleek, glass-paneled staircase to the second floor, each step feeling heavier than the last. The brushed steel railing is cool under your touch, and the soft hum of the elevator nearby reminds you of the countless times you've made this journey.

A flicker of hope dances in your mind.

Maybe – just maybe – today will be different, and Satoru won't be waiting for you in front of the supply room like usual. After all, he did have a fierce argument with his father, their worst fight yet in fact, so perhaps he doesn’t feel like pestering you today.

But as you round the corner, the familiar sight of the supply room comes into view, and your heart sinks as you spot him – arms folded, nonchalantly leaning against the doorframe, adorned in his tailored business suit and a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips.

His presence is as predictable as it is irritating, the very sight of him almost humorous in its inevitability.

Satoru's eyes glisten with mischief as your gaze meets his. His smirk deepens, clearly relishing the reaction he's drawn from you. With a slight huff and roll of your eyes, you make your way towards him.

"Don't you have work to do?"

He grins knowingly, clearly enjoying your exasperated expression as you approach. “Always so grumpy when you see me,” his voice dripping with faux hurt, “is that any way to greet your future boss?” unfolding his arms, he pushes himself off the wall, a sly smile on his face as he towers over you.

His taunting words only serve to exacerbate your frustration, and you roll your eyes yet again. This man really takes too much joy in getting a reaction from you.

“Gojo, you may not have work to do, but I do,” you respond curtly.

"Ah, the dreaded supply duty, huh?" he smirks, feigning concern as he looks down at your clipboard, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Gotta make sure we're fully stocked with the finest pens and staplers possible. You wouldn't want the company to perish, now would you?" he grins playfully as his voice drips with sarcasm.

“Ugh…” you grumble as you brush past him and enter the room – the scent of freshly printed paper and the faint, musty smell of old supplies greets you. A playful hum escapes Satoru’s lips as he follows suit right behind you, hot on your heels.

"You really take this job too seriously, you know that?" he remarks, his tone laced with playful mockery as he leans against the doorframe. “One of these days you're gonna have to learn how to loosen up a bit. Can't be all serious and grumpy all the time."

You feel the embitterment boiling within you – the audacity of this rich billionaire, who’s petty concerns are as simple as marriage and heirs. With a deep exhale, you bite your tongue, attempting to filter your intolerance for him.

“Yeah well, I can’t just do whatever I want like you Gojo. Unlike you, I actually need this job,” your voice is level, but edged with a mix of frustration and determination as you move toward the shelves, your fingers deftly picking out the necessary supplies.

Satoru remains leaned against the doorframe, noticing the tenacity etched on your face as he watches you work.

For a moment, his playful demeanor falters as he processes your words. They clearly make him realize something – the crucial difference between the two of you. You have way more riding on this job than him, he’s only working to please his overbearing father, but you – you have a sense of purpose and strength that goes beyond mere obligation. Unlike the superficial women his father shoves in his face, you seem to have depth, a resilience that intrigues him.

Finally, he breaks the silence with a nonchalant tone.

“So, you’re a mom. Didn’t expect that.”

You glance up from the supply list, slightly taken aback by his sudden shift in demeanor.

“Yeah, I am,” you reply cautiously, not quite sure where this conversation is heading. Your hands pause mid-action as you meet his gaze, scanning his features to gauge his intentions.

His expression is surprisingly sincere, a far cry from his usual teasing demeanor. His eyes, usually glinting with mischief, now hold a hint of curiosity and something else you can’t quite place. A beat of silence passes before he speaks again, his tone noticeably softer than before.

"How old is your kid?"

“She’s two,” your voice is measured as you lift your brow at him, feeling conflicted – you are still guarded, though something about his unexpected interest makes you feel a bit more at ease.

He nods slowly, the image of a little girl popping into his mind, and he can’t help but feel a twinge of curiosity, pity, or maybe even admiration. He’s not quite sure what exactly this feeling is, but it unsettles him.

He never knew his mother, and his father was never affectionate. The thought of you juggling work and motherhood, managing so much on your own, makes him see you in a new light. There's a strength in you that he finds both fascinating and humbling, something he hasn't encountered often in his sheltered world of wealth and privilege.

He leans his head back slightly, looking up at the ceiling, his gaze momentarily distant – he can tell that you’re uncomfortable sharing these details, and he makes a mental note to tread lightly. But there’s also something about your guardedness that piques his curiosity even more. It’s clear that he’s more invested in this conversation than he’d like to admit, a rare occurrence for him.

He lets out a low whistle, his gaze returning to you with a hint of genuine interest, his eyes lacking that usual mischievous glint.

"Wow, two years old," he muses. "That's pretty young. She must keep you busy."

For a moment, you see a flicker of something softer in his eyes, but there’s a part of you that still doesn’t trust it. You nod, focusing on your task, your fingers deftly organizing supplies as you try to maintain a sense of normalcy.

“Yeah, she does. It’s a lot of work.. but she’s worth it,” your voice naturally softens as you think of your daughter's wide, innocent eyes and the way her laughter lights up even your darkest days.

Satoru falls into a brief moment of contemplation, a fleeting moment of thoughtfulness crossing his face as he absorbs your words.

“I can imagine,” he says quietly, almost to himself.

But then, as if snapping back to his usual self, the corners of his mouth lift into a sly grin as he tilts his head to the side, his eyes regaining their playful spark.

“And here I always thought you were just your average workaholic, obsessed with pencils and paper,” he teases, a hint of mischief dancing on his lips, his words dripping with sarcasm as he continues, “Maybe you should bring her in sometime. I bet she’s already better at filing paperwork than you.”

A small smile escapes you despite your attempts to suppress it, betraying your earlier defensiveness. You roll your eyes, unable to resist his playful banter.

“Very funny, Gojo,” you mutter sarcastically, trying to conceal your amusement, but there's a warmth in your voice that wasn't there before.

He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself as he watches you, the amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Alright, alright. I’ll let you get back to your oh-so-important supply duty. But don’t think I’m going to stop pestering you anytime soon. Gotta make sure my future secretary is on her top game.”

You raise an eyebrow, but don’t respond, opting instead to continue your task, your hands moving methodically as you sort through the supplies. Despite yourself, you can’t help but feel a bit lighter.

The unexpected shift in his demeanor, the way he showed genuine curiosity about your daughter, caught you off guard. For a brief moment, you saw a different side of him – a side that isn't just the arrogant heir, but someone who might actually care. It’s a fleeting glimpse, but it’s enough to make you wonder if there’s more to Satoru Gojo than meets the eye.

He slowly lifts himself from the doorframe, his movements deliberate and unhurried. Stopping for a moment, he casts a last lingering glance in your direction, a smirk playing on his lips. His voice, exuding that typical mockery, breaks the silence.

“Seriously though, get those supplies ordered before the company crumbles without its precious pens and staplers – oh, can you order the blue ball tipped ones? Those are my favorite.”

Clearly enjoying the exasperated sigh that escapes your lips, Satoru flashes you a playful wink. Shaking your head, you feel a mix of amusement and frustration bubbling up inside you.

You take it back – he’s as obnoxious as ever.

But you are not sure why you are unable to suppress a small smile. And for the first time ever, his playful teasing, while infuriating, also held a strange charm that you can't quite deny.

ꨄ

Rushing through the front doors of Gojo Corporation, your heart pounds with a mix of anxiety and exhaustion.

The early morning sunlight barely filters through the towering glass windows, casting long shadows across the sleek marble floors.

Your unreliable nanny had flaked on you again, forcing you to scramble for a last-minute solution for your daughter. You called everyone possible, your neighbor, your mother, hell even Naoya.

Luckily, your best friend Utahime could step in, but the frantic search had cost you precious time, and now, you were late yet again. Dread gnaws at you, a nagging fear that today will be the day you finally get fired for your tardiness.

Clutching your bag tightly, you weave through the bustling crowd of employees, their polished shoes tapping rhythmically against the floor as they move with purpose. The air is thick with the scent of fresh coffee and the faint hum of conversations. You feel wandering eyes on you and hear the muted whispers following your hurried steps.

"Can you believe Mr. Gojo passed away suddenly?" one employee whispers, their voice barely audible over the din.

"Yeah, heart attack, I heard. It’s going to cause a huge shakeup in the company," another replies, their tone laced with uncertainty.

You freeze in place, the news hitting you like a ton of bricks.

Did you hear them correctly?

Takemi Gojo, the CEO and your boss, had passed away?

You struggle to process it, the shock of the news mingling with the fear of losing your job. You were Takemi’s personal secretary, so…what does this mean for you?

Was Satoru going to take over the company? You should be fine then, right? He wouldn’t fire you… he has always been pestering you, boasting about being your future boss after all.

The thought of his arrogant smirk sends a shiver down your spine, but it also gives you a sliver of hope.

Your steps falter as you reach the door leading to your desk, your fingers trembling as you fumble with your bag for your badge. As you glance around, you can’t help but note the worried expressions on your colleagues' faces, their whispered conversations adding to the sense of unease. The usually bustling office now feels oddly oppressive, the air thick with uncertainty and mourning.

The second you round your desk, one of Takemi’s assistants, Yaga, is waiting for you. His stern expression stands out starkly against the backdrop of worried faces, and his face is etched with lines of fatigue, making him look older than he is. His lips are set in a thin line, and the dark circles under his eyes suggest he hasn’t slept well.

"Y/N, we need to talk," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Oh, okay,” you say timidly.

As you follow him to a nearby office, your heart sinks with each step. The corridor feels longer than usual, every footfall echoing like a drumbeat of impending doom. The walls are adorned with framed certificates and company accolades, a testament to the empire Takemi Gojo built.

"What’s going on?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, the knot in your stomach tightening, a cold sweat forming at the back of your neck. You can barely hear yourself over the pounding of your heart.

Yaga closes the door behind you with a heavy sigh, the sound resonating ominously in the confined space. He looks uncomfortable, his eyes avoiding yours as he gestures for you to sit. The room feels stifling, the air thick with unspoken tension.

"Please, take a seat," he says, his voice softening slightly, though the underlying gravity of the situation remains.

You lower yourself into the chair, your fingers clutching the armrests as if they could anchor you in the storm of uncertainty.

Yaga sits across from you, his posture rigid, hands clasped tightly on the desk. He takes a deep breath before meeting your gaze, his eyes reflecting a mixture of regret and resignation.

"With Mr. Gojo gone, the company is undergoing some restructuring," he begins, choosing his words carefully. "It's been a challenging time for everyone, and difficult decisions have to be made."

His words hang in the air, each one a heavy weight pressing down on your chest. The knot in your stomach tightens further, and you swallow hard, bracing yourself for the inevitable blow.

"Since you were Mr. Gojo's personal secretary, your position is being terminated," he continues, his tone tinged with genuine regret. "We no longer need your services."

A silence envelops the room, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioner. The framed accolades on the wall seem to mock you, a stark contrast to the harsh reality you're now facing.

Your heart plummets into a deep abyss, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a boulder. A cold, hollow feeling spreads through your chest, and it’s as if the air has been sucked out of the room.

Your mind races, images of unpaid bills and your daughter's innocent face flashing before your eyes. Panic bubbles up inside you, threatening to spill over.

You can't let this happen.

You think about the sacrifices you've made, the sleepless nights, the constant juggling of responsibilities.

Who would you turn to?

Your family isn’t an option, you don’t really get along with your mother… she has her own set of issues, leaving you with no support system to lean on. There is no one you can reach out to… no one except...

Naoya.

The mere thought of Naoya sends a shiver down your spine.

You promised yourself you’d never go back to that lying cheater. He’s manipulative, always finding ways to twist situations to his advantage.

You remember how he tried to get you to crawl back to him, using your daughter as a bargaining chip.

How he used to make you feel like you were the one at fault for everything, gaslighting you into questioning your own sanity.

When you caught him cheating, he didn’t even apologize. Instead, he blamed you for being too busy with school and your daughter to take care of his needs. He claimed that if you had been a better partner, he wouldn’t have had to look elsewhere.

Even after you left him, he continued to try to control you. He would show up unannounced at your door, demanding to see your daughter, only to criticize your parenting and suggest that she would be better off with him.

Ironic, considering how he wants nothing to do with her. She barely even recognizes his face.

He missed both her birthdays, all her doctors’ appointments – he was never involved in anything. The man can’t even change a diaper.

Being an attorney himself, he has used his legal knowledge to delay the court date for child support, knowing full well that you were struggling to make ends meet. Every time you thought you might be free of his influence, he would find a way to pull you back in.

You can't let yourself fall into his trap again, but what other options do you have?

The thought of begging him for help makes your skin crawl. You can almost hear his smug voice, telling you how you were always too proud for your own good. The humiliation would be unbearable, and you know he would use it to his advantage, tightening his grip on your life even more.

But is there another way out?

Hopelessness claws at your insides, making it hard to breathe. Your daughter deserves better than this. She deserves a stable home and a mother who isn’t constantly worried about how to pay the next bill. You have to find a solution, and fast.

Taking a shaky breath, you struggle to keep your voice steady, the words barely escaping your lips.

"But... I need this job." Desperation laces your tone, each word a plea. "I have a daughter to support. I can't afford to lose this job. Please, there must be something I can do."

Yaga looks at you with a mixture of pity and helplessness.

"I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do. I want you to know that this decision wasn't made lightly," he says gently. "You’ll receive a severance package, but today will be your last day. Please ensure you pack up your things."

The finality of his words feels like a punch to your gut. You nod numbly, not trusting yourself to speak.

As you return to your desk, each step feels heavier than the last as the weight of the moment settles over you like a suffocating blanket.

You begin packing your things, the mundane task giving your hands something to do while your mind spirals.

As you place the last of your personal items into a cardboard box, a sudden realization hits you.

You remember leaving some of your things upstairs in the supply room.

With a heavy sigh, you lift the box and head towards the staircase, your footsteps echoing through the now-quiet hallways, the usual office buzz replaced by an uneasy silence.

The trip feels familiar, but solemn this time. A bittersweet feeling surges through you, knowing that the countless trips you’ve made to the supply room will no longer be interrupted by Satoru’s playful teasing.

Thinking about those interactions now, you feel a pang of confusion.

Why had Yaga been the one to deliver the news?

Was Satoru now the CEO?

If he was, why would he fire you?

The questions swirl in your mind, creating a storm of confusion and anxiety.

As you approach the supply room, the realization that Satoru’s office is right next door makes your heart pound faster.

Just then, you hear raised voices seeping through a crack of his office door. Recognizing Satoru’s distinct tone, laced with anger, you can't help but pause, curiosity getting the better of you.

“What do you mean I have to be married with a child to inherit?” Satoru's voice echoes down the hallway, sharp and incredulous.

The response is muffled, but you can make out the words.

“...stipulation in the will…necessary condition…”

You pause, your heart pounding as you listen. This was clearly a private conversation, but the gravity of Satoru’s words piques your interest. You inch closer, straining to hear more, your breath held in anticipation. Satoru's voice rises again, frustration clear in every syllable.

“This is ridiculous! My father can’t control my life from beyond the grave. How am I supposed to find someone to marry and have a child with on such short notice?”

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you strain to catch every word. The lawyer’s voice is calm, almost rehearsed.

“I understand this is a lot to take in, Mr. Gojo. But the terms are clear. To claim your inheritance, you must fulfill these conditions. Otherwise, the company will pass to the next eligible heir.”

There's a tense pause, followed by the sound of something heavy crashing onto the desk—likely Satoru’s fist. His voice, strained with frustration and anger, echoes through the room.

“Next eligible heir? There is no other heir! My father knew that. This is just his way of trying to control me, even in death.”

The lawyer remains unflappable, his tone steady and professional. “You have a year to fulfill the requirements. Perhaps you should start considering your options.”

You hear the rustling of papers, a clear sign that the lawyer is preparing to leave. You instinctively back away from the door slightly, your mind racing with the implications of what you’ve just overheard.

As the door creaks open, you quickly shuffle into the supply room, your heart pounding. Peeking through the crack, you see the lawyer exiting Satoru’s office, his face a mask of resigned professionalism.

As the lawyer walks away, your mind begins to whirl. The weight of your current situation crashes over you. The thought of losing your job, your only source of income, terrifies you.

Your mind latches onto Satoru’s predicament—needing a wife and child to secure his inheritance.

You fit that description perfectly.

You are a single mother, and marrying Satoru, even if just for show, could solve both of your problems.

But could you do it? Could you really propose such an audacious plan to Satoru Gojo? Your heart races as the idea solidifies in your mind.

It’s this or Naoya.

Desperation gives you the push you need, reminding you of your daughter’s innocent face and her future depending on your next move.

Once the lawyer is out of sight, you take a deep breath and steel yourself. This is your chance—perhaps the only chance—to keep your job and provide a better future for your daughter. The enormity of what you're about to do makes your stomach churn, but you push the fear aside, focusing on the opportunity.

Taking another steadying breath, you knock on the office door and enter.

Satoru's furious gaze snaps to you, a tempest of emotions swirling in his icy blue eyes. Anger is the most prominent, his jaw clenched so tightly that you can see the muscles twitching.

But beneath the fury, there's a raw, palpable hurt. The loss of his father, the sudden pressure of the inheritance stipulation, and the looming uncertainty of his future all collide in his expression.

His normally confident demeanor is fractured, the vulnerability barely masked by his rage. You can see the telltale signs of a sleepless night—dark circles under his eyes, his usually impeccable hair disheveled, and a stiffness in his posture as if he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

“Y/n, not now,” he snaps, his voice strained and sharp, eyes blazing with frustration.

Despite the torrent of emotions flashing across his face, you stand your ground, summoning every ounce of courage you possess.

“Let’s get married,” you blurt out, the words tumbling from your lips before you can second-guess yourself.

The room falls into a deafening silence, the gravity of your proposition hanging heavily in the air.

Satoru’s eyes widen, the anger dissolving into pure shock. His mouth falls open slightly, and he blinks rapidly as if trying to process what he just heard.

“I’m sorry… what did you just say?” he finally manages, his voice a mixture of disbelief and confusion, the tension in the room palpable.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of your bold declaration. You can see the gears turning in his mind, the initial shock giving way to contemplation. His eyebrows draw together, and he tilts his head slightly, studying your face as if searching for any hint of a joke. The intensity of his gaze makes your pulse quicken.

“Let’s get married,” you repeat, this time with more conviction. “You need a wife and a child to fulfill the stipulation in the will, I fit those criteria. We can help each other. It would be mutually beneficial. You get to keep your inheritance, and I get to keep my job.”

He continues to stare at you, his eyes flickering with a myriad of emotions—confusion, curiosity, and a hint of something softer, perhaps hope.

“You’re serious?” he finally asks, his voice quieter now.

“Yes,” you reply firmly. “Think about it. You wouldn’t have to worry about finding someone else, and it solves both of our problems. It’s a win-win.”

Satoru runs a hand through his hair, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. A faint, incredulous smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he lets out a huff of a chuckle.

“Well, I didn’t expect to be proposed to on the day of my father’s death,” he says, his voice heavy with irony but still managing to inject a touch of humor despite the emotional weight he's carrying. “And I have to say, this is probably the least romantic proposal ever.”

You take a deep breath, meeting his gaze steadily. “This isn’t about romance, Satoru. This is strictly business. No emotions attached.”

Satoru's expression shifts, the playful sarcasm replaced by genuine contemplation. He leans back in his chair, rubbing his temples as he processes the gravity of your proposal.

“And you’re okay with this?” he asks, his tone a blend of skepticism and intrigue. “A fake marriage? Living a lie?”

You nod, your resolve unwavering. “I need this job, Gojo. For my daughter, I’m willing to do whatever it takes. Besides, it’s not like we’d have to pretend forever. Just long enough to satisfy the will’s requirements.”

Satoru leans forward, his eyes narrowing as he studies you intently. “Okay, but what about the press? This is going to be highly publicized and scrutinized. They’re going to make things difficult. Do you think you can really handle it? The media, the constant scrutiny? It’s not going to be easy you know.”

You square your shoulders, determination hardening your resolve. “I can handle it. I’ve dealt with difficult situations before, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work. We both have a lot at stake here.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow, skepticism etched into his features. He leans back, scrubbing his chin with his hand as he ponders your words. The room is silent for a moment, filled only with the sound of his contemplative breathing. Finally, he speaks, his voice laced with doubt.

“You do realize what you’re signing up for, right? This isn’t just a casual arrangement. We’ll have to convince everyone that this is real. That means living together, attending events together, and putting on a convincing act at all times.”

“I understand,” you reply firmly. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to provide a secure future for my daughter. We can work through the terms together.”

Satoru runs a hand through his hair, eyes narrowing slightly as he considers the implications, weighing the potential fallout against the benefits. For a moment, his gaze softens as he studies you, a flicker of admiration passing through his eyes.

He sees the determination and resolve etched into your features, and it strikes a chord within him. Then, as if unable to resist, a mischievous glint appears in his eyes as he lets out a low hum.

“But are you sure you can leave emotions out of it? You might end up falling for me, you know,” he teases, a smirk playing on his lips.

Rolling your eyes, a shiver rakes down your spine. Shaking your head, you stand firmly.

“Yeah, not happening. I think I can manage, Gojo. This is purely a business arrangement. No emotional entanglements.”

He chuckles softly, the sound unexpectedly warm and genuine. In that brief moment, teasing you gives him a fleeting sense of relief from the immense pressure he’s been feeling.

“If you say so,” he murmurs, still grinning.

As you look at him, you notice the subtle signs of emotional fatigue etched into his features—his teasing doesn’t have its usual edge. The slight sag of his shoulders, the weariness in his eyes. It strikes you that although Satoru Gojo can sometimes be a privileged ass, he’s also a regular person with his own burdens and struggles.

Maybe there really is more to him than you originally thought?

The playful light in his eyes slowly dims, replaced by a steely resolve. He straightens in his chair, the humor fading from his expression as he leans forward, all business now.

“Alright,” he says, his voice steady and determined. “We’ll draw up a contract – I have a friend who’s a lawyer, I can arrange a meeting. And I’ll get started on the arrangements to have you and your daughter move into my place.”

You nod, feeling the tight knot of anxiety in your chest finally loosen. The realization hits you – this is actually happening.

Satoru Gojo, the heir to the Gojo Corporation, is agreeing to marry you?

It's almost surreal, like stepping into a dream – or perhaps a well-orchestrated scheme. But it’s real, and it’s happening.

Relief floods through you, washing over the stress and uncertainty that had been weighing you down – for the first time in what feels like forever, you see a glimmer of hope, a tangible solution to the myriad of problems you’ve been grappling with.

To secure a future for your daughter, to stabilize your life, all you have to do is deal with Satoru Gojo.

Easy, right?

“Agreed,” you say, your voice steadier now. “But first things first, we need to lay down some ground rules. We set clear boundaries.”

“No emotional entanglements,” he reiterates, his voice firm.

“Exactly,” you agree. “And no touching,” you add resolutely, crossing your arms defensively.

Satoru raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah… that’s not entirely realistic in public. We’ll need to look convincing. Hand-holding, maybe a kiss or two for the cameras.”

You feel a flush rise to your cheeks at his suggestion. “A kiss or two?” you repeat, trying to keep your voice steady despite the sudden flutter in your stomach. “This is a business arrangement, Gojo. Not a rom-com.”

He chuckles softly, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Relax, I’m not asking for a love story. Just enough to keep up appearances. It’s a business arrangement with a touch of theatrics. Think of it as...method acting.”

You narrow your eyes at him, not missing the amusement dancing in his gaze. “Fine.” You mutter reluctantly, “But only in public, and only as much as necessary. I’m not playing house for fun. No funny business.”

“You have my word,” he grins, placing a hand over his heart in mock sincerity. “Strictly business. No funny business. Well… maybe just a little,” he adds with a wink.

You narrow your eyes at him, your resolve unwavering. “I’m serious Gojo, you better keep it professional when we’re alone. I’m not here for your entertainment.”

Satoru chuckles softly, the sound rich and surprisingly genuine. “Don’t worry, I’ll behave. But you might want to practice that smile of yours. You know, the one that doesn’t look like you want to kill me.”

You groan and roll your eyes, “I’ll work on it… anyways, what’s next on the agenda?”

Satoru hums thoughtfully, reaching for a notepad and pen. “Since we’re on the topic of appearances in public… we should probably arrange a public announcement of our engagement.” He taps the pen against the pad thoughtfully. “Oh, and we’ll need to come up with a convincing story of our love and make sure both sides match… meaning we’ll need to know enough about each other to pull this off – our likes, dislikes, habits…”

“Gojo,” you interject, pulling his attention back from his thoughts. “There’s something else.”

He pauses briefly and raises an eyebrow, signaling you to continue.

“My daughter,” you say, your voice steady but laced with concern. “She’s my top priority. I’ll need her to have a stable environment. We need to discuss her care and routines. She’ll need her own room, and I need to ensure she has everything she needs, including a full-time nanny.”

Taking a deep breath, you clench your fists and steel yourself, pulling your gaze up to meet his. “That is one of my conditions. Will you cover the expenses of her childcare? Just during our agreement, of course.”

Satoru’s expression softens slightly, a flicker of empathy in his eyes. He sets down the notepad and pen, giving you his full attention.

“Of course,” he replies, his voice sincere. “We’ll make sure she has everything she needs. A stable environment is important for both of you, and I’ll take care of the costs for her childcare.”

Your thoughts drift to your daughter—her wide eyes, her infectious giggle that lights up even the darkest days, and the way she clings to you with unwavering trust. You picture her tiny hands gripping yours, her joyful laughter echoing through the halls of Satoru's grand home.

The weight of the past months’ struggles seems to lift slightly, replaced by a cautious hope. Relief washes over you, but you maintain your composed exterior.

“Thank you.”

He nods, leaning back in his chair.

“She’ll have only the best. I’ll have my assistant compile a list of top-notch nannies, and you can make the final decision.”

You blink, a bit surprised by his willingness to ensure your daughter’s stability. It’s a side of Satoru you hadn’t expected—a softness beneath the confident, often arrogant exterior.

“Thank you, Gojo,” you say again, more softly this time.

His lips curve into a faint smile, one that carries a hint of genuine warmth. "You're welcome. We'll get through this together. One step at a time."

You hold his gaze, finding an unexpected gentleness in his eyes. This keeps happening. Was this softness always there, hidden beneath his confident facade?

As you find yourself lost in the moment, Satoru clears his throat, pulling you both back to reality.

“Alright, sounds like we have a lot of the initial details covered. Let’s finalize everything with my lawyer. I'll see if he’s available tomorrow—the sooner we do this, the better.”

“Right,” you mutter. “It’s a deal then.”

Satoru rises from his chair, signaling the end of the discussion for now. There’s a brief, tense silence. Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, the world outside seems to fade away. His gaze rakes over you, intense and penetrating, almost as if he’s trying to read the depths of your resolve.

The intensity of his stare makes you feel flustered, heat rising to your cheeks. The sudden rush of emotions and the close scrutiny make you feel awkward, and you instinctively extend your hand toward him, needing to formalize the agreement to break the tension.

“I appreciate it, Gojo,” you say, your voice a bit unsteady. The gesture feels stiff and unnatural.

Satoru looks at your extended hand, a smirk forming on his lips and mischief dancing in his eyes. He finds your awkwardness oddly endearing.

“You’re welcome,” he grins, taking your hand in his warm, steady grip. The touch lingers a moment longer than necessary, the silence between you filled with unspoken thoughts. His amusement is evident in the twinkle of his eyes, but there’s also a hint of something deeper, a connection that neither of you fully understands yet.

He lets out a soft hum, his voice dripping with humor, “And you should start calling me Satoru now. After all, you’ll be a Gojo soon enough.”

Your eyes widen, and you feel your face flush even more, pulling your hand away from him, his fingers brush against yours, sending a small shiver down your spine. The teasing comment throws you off balance, adding to the whirlwind of emotions you’re already experiencing.

“Satoru,” you repeat, the name feeling unfamiliar on your tongue. “Right. Satoru.”

He chuckles softly, clearly enjoying your flustered state. His laugh is low and warm, reverberating through the room like a gentle, mocking caress.

“That’s better,” he says, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He leans back slightly, crossing his arms as he continues to watch you with an almost predatory interest, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a teasing smile.

The atmosphere in the room shifts subtly, charged with an undercurrent of something unspoken yet undeniable, making your heart race just a bit faster.

You try to ignore the fluttering sensation in your stomach, convincing yourself that it’s merely irritation. Satoru has always had this effect on you—his arrogance, his charm, the way he seems to enjoy pushing your buttons. It’s infuriating, and yet, there’s something about him that draws you in, even if you don’t want to admit it. The conflicting emotions swirl within you, leaving you feeling unsteady and vulnerable.

He shrugs, leaning back further with his grin expanding, curling up higher as if he was reading your mind.

“Just remember, sweetheart, this is strictly business. No falling in love with me, okay?”

You scoff, crossing your arms.

“Trust me, that’s the last thing on my mind, and don’t call me sweetheart.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, and you can’t help but feel a mix of irritation and amusement.

“Whatever you say, darling,” he replies, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

For a moment, the world seems to narrow down to just the two of you – his eyes hold yours, a challenge and a promise in their depths, and you can’t help but wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into.

a/n. thanks so much for reading :') → on to the next chapter ꨄ

taglist: @geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @rosso-seta @acowboykisser @mikyapixie @shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie @poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana @sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher @ichikanu @artist1936 @christianacj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7 @angelina7890 @justoblivious2u @aruraa @han11dh

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websolutionproviderblog · 2 years ago

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fishnapple · 8 months ago

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Observations about lucky colours

Wearing the colours associated with the Sign of each house in your chart will bring more luck to the matters of that house. The following are my personal observations about each house.

The colours of 1st house sign: people notice you more and comment on your appearance more, boost of confidence, high contrast look (the colours seem to make your features stand out)

The colours of 2nd & 7th house sign: look pleasing/harmonious on you, people are nicer towards you, good for going on dates or attract someone, good for meetings involving contracts, exchange, going to the bank

The colours of 3rd & 9th house sign: you feel more adventurous and more carefree, sometimes more impatient, good for exams/ tests, could have some delays or difficulties in traffic though

The colours of 4th house sign: look naturally good on your skin, match your features, comforting, peaceful, great to wear at home

The colours of 5th house sign: feel more exciting, fun, exuberant, boost of vitality, could be the colour you wore a lot when you were a kid

The colours of 6th house sign: increase or decrease of vitality and health, I usually avoid the colours of this house, they feel unlucky to me

The colours of 8th house sign: pretty similar to the effect of 1st house, but people seem to be more bold or in some case, rude when interact with you, I think these colours should be worn in a more private settings, could make you feel heavy and not in a great mood

The colours of 10th house sign: people take you more seriously, you look more professional, could bring some delays or heavy moods

The colours of 11th house sign: lucky colours, things go more smoothly, especially in public places or social medias, great when you need to do a presentation

The colours of 12th house sign: peaceful, great for travelling, also like the 4th house, these colours usually match the colours of your features, they blend and make a soft/ low contrast look

Colours of each sign (just a few examples)

About me | Masterpost

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parfaitblogs · 4 months ago

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as time goes by ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you funnel through photographic memories of what once was, now isn't, but might still be.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst & smut (18+ mdni) tags: what isn't there? meet cute. burnt toast theory if you squint. right person wrong time. soft dom!spencer. first time. p in v. fingering. praise. fade to black oral (f receiving). mommy issues. anxious attachment reader. past alcohol consumption. argument. + angst, smut, fluff, hurt/comfort. word count: 9.8k a/n: i know i said this was 8k but then i just kept writing and writing and writing and writing and writing... enjoy my angels!! this truly took a piece of my soul to write. a short playlist of what i listened to while writing this <3

"I'm always soft for you, that's the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say 'come here, it's been too long, it felt like home with you." (Azra T)

February

It was a dreary burst of continuous rain and the threat of a thunderstorm that landed you in this predicament.

Grey storm clouds that darkened the entire city even at the early hour of seven in the morning. There was a soft glow in one of the clusters of clouds where the sun was attempting to peek through, a striking metaphor for the way your life currently felt. Rays of sunshine barely piercing the sky enough to make an impression on the otherwise miserable day.

You were late for work. Your usually easy morning routine replaced by bus delays due to the traffic on the roads, and trains canceled due to faults in the signalling.

You were barely halfway up the stairs to your platform when it happened.

If you were any less focussed on keeping the ends of your jeans off the damp concrete, you wouldn't have spotted the drop of the blue and green SmarTrip card dropping to the step in front of you, from a leather messenger bag that was frantically swinging on someone's shoulder.

You pick it up without even thinking, concerned by the fact that its owner hadn't even noticed. Which meant you'd have to experience the God awful awkward interaction of handing it back to them, and the even more awful small talk conversation that followed.

The platform stretched out in front of you, and you were rushing to tap his shoulder before he could get too far away from you. A mop of messy curls turned, and never mind the fact that he was a stranger; he was hot.

He's confused, and you watch him begin to think the tapping was a mistake, and you were just too rude to apologise for it.

"Hi," you burst out, holding the card out in front of you. "Sorry. Is this yours?"

"Oh," his expression is replaced with relief. "Yes. It is. Thank you."

You force an awkward smile onto your face, and he matches it with his own. Your heart flutters at the sight of it, and you thank God he was one of those awkward attractive guys — not an asshole.

Then again, this was a two second interaction, and you didn't know him. Delusion would be your downfall.

The train was overly crowded that morning. The traffic of two trains packed into one, resulting in barely any seats, and even less standing room.

Thankfully, you had gotten one at the back of one of the carriages, which meant you could watch as multiple people walk past you, thinking there'd be more further down. Only to be sorely disappointed, but too stuck to come back and get the seat beside you they had spotted.

"Oh. Hello again."

You lift your head at the voice, metro card man standing awkwardly next to the seat next to you.

"Hey," you reply, heart rate skyrocketing. Just your luck.

"Is it okay if I sit here? All the other seats are taken," he asks, and even if there were six other free seats away from you, you'd let him.

He sits when you nod, and you adjust your bag on the floor in front of you as he does the same, the messenger bag hugged firmly atop his lap.

"Thank you for catching my card," he says, and you aren't sure if he's trying to make small talk because he's interested, or because he feels too bad to not.

Your heart decides to go with the former.

"It's no problem," you shake your head. "If I ever lost my metro card I'd probably have a panic attack in the middle of the station. So... y'know..." Why did you say that?

His chest shakes with quiet laughter anyways, and he's nodding in agreement, but you're sure he doesn't really understand what you mean. He doesn't seem like the type of person to have a panic attack in the middle of a train station.

"Are you headed to DC?" he then asks, and delusion be damned if this isn't him interested in you.

You nod your head. "That's where this train is going, yes."

He pauses in a reply. "Well, yes, but there's stops along the way. You could be getting off at any of those." You fall silent at his words. That was true. "But you're not. You're going to DC."

"I am," you confirm your destination of the day for the second time, and your brain wonders if telling this inherent stranger where you were planning on going was a wise choice. Probably not. He didn't seem like a serial killer, at least. Then again, your judgement wasn't always the best.

"I am too," he says, lips pulling into the same awkward smile he had earlier, when you'd given him his metro card back.

"We have so much in common," you joke, but you aren't sure if it lands. For he's blinking awkwardly, and then he must recognise you're trying to joke, because his chest puffs in a laugh. Pity laughter was still laughter.

"We do."

It takes an entire train ride of conversation for you to muster up any courage at all, and it's only when he's about to step out into the aisle to disappear into his own world, and you into yours, that you blurt out,

"Do you want to get coffee?"

He blinks a few times, but then he's nodding his head, lips twitching into a small smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

At his approval, you ask, "Could I get your number? Y'know, to... plan... this coffee date..."

Metro man, whose name you've since learned is Spencer, nods again, and he's rummaging in his bag for a piece of paper and a pen. The pen he finds, the paper he does not, and you simply tell him to write his number down on your hand.

Delusions were fuelled quite easily when you're a hopeless romantic, and the immediate flutter of your heart when his hand holds yours in place so he could write on your skin was enough to convince you this man was your soulmate.

You part ways from each other, feeling a little giddier, and a lot less like the storm clouds still swirling over your head.

March

Even the quietest of sounds were catastrophically loud when you were in that middle ground between being awake, and being asleep. And the muffled sound of a tap turning on was as loud as a raging thunderstorm, in the early hours of that Saturday morning, startling you awake from the comfortable sleep you had been in.

It took you a few more minutes to fully come to consciousness, but by that point, you had registered what tap was on and why, and your fears of an unfamiliar scent surrounding you as you awaken were diminished.

"Oh. Morning."

Your eyes flutter open to see a slightly shocked Spencer Reid standing at the foot of his bed, collecting the bundled socks he had set on the mattress.

"What're you doing?" you ask him, tiredly, rolling onto your back and blocking the bright sunlight with your arm.

"Going to work," he answers. "I have paperwork I need to catch up on," he then adds, at your puzzled expression.

"Oh," you pout immediately, your heart sinking at the knowledge that he was leaving you.

"I'll be home by three," he promises, moving around and crouching down by the edge of the bed, next to your head.

"You want me to stay here?" you ask him, rolling over to look at him.

His eyes bore into your own, and you search his face, his cologne mixing with the scent of his sheets beneath your head, making your head go a little fuzzy.

He brushes hair out of your face. "You can if you want. There's food in the fridge, and I bought copies of your toiletries for when you do... stay over..." he stammers to a stop, brain catching up to his mouth. "Sorry. Is that weird?"

"No," your lips pull into a smile. "No. It's really sweet, actually."

"And there's clean clothes in my dryer," he continues at your reassurance. "Since you said you like my shirts. I mean, you don't have to, obviously. But I'll only be gone six hours, and then I have the rest of the day and tomorrow off, and I know you do too, so I just figured—"

You cut him off with a kiss. Perhaps not the best time to kiss him, for you're pretty sure you have a bad case of morning breath. If you do, he doesn't protest. In fact, he melts even further into your lips.

"I'll stay," you tell him.

"Okay," his eyes light up a little, and your cheeks hurt from how wide you're smiling. You're sure you look ridiculous. "Okay. I'll see you later."

"Bye," you say, catching him for one more kiss, until he's closer to being late for work than anything, and he's tearing himself away from you. Forcefully, because he doesn't really want to.

He comes home six and a half hours later to his home smelling distinctly of a candle he forgot he even owned, and whatever it was in his fridge you had managed to create a dish out of.

He wonders if it's too soon to feel love for you.

April

A night out was, arguably, the last thing you had expected to do when you woke up that morning. In fact, you had spent the entire day with plans to stay in your sanctuary of a bedroom with a shitty television series playing to detach from the past few weeks. Your life was busy, and you felt as though you had no time to yourself. Technically, you did. But your days off never consisted of an entire day in your bed without any responsibilities.

It seemed that even on your planned day off, you couldn't get that. Granted you weren't mad, come six o'clock, because despite talking about how excited you were for your day off to him, the second Spencer Reid had mentioned restaurant and dinner in your morning phone call as he commuted to work, you were begging him to fulfil the plans he was about to cancel.

He had stayed afterwards. Of course he had. You'd be damned if the man who had just taken you to the nicest restaurant you've ever been to in your life didn't stay over afterwards. And he was quite happy to, it seemed, which made your heart flutter a little more than it probably should've.

"Have you read Emily Dickinson?" you ask him, looking up at his face. You were now in your bed, covers draped over your entwined legs, his back up against the headboard of your bed, your own on his chest.

"Yes," he nods his head, lips twitching at the way your face fell upon his response. "Did you think I hadn't?"

"No, I guess I assumed you had," you shook your head. "A small part of me didn't know for sure, though."

"Now you know," he says, eyes falling to the televison that had a silent cartoon playing on it (your choice, not his). "Did you have a good night?"

"Yeah," your lips curl into a smile. "Did you?"

"I always do with you," he leans down and pecks the smile off your face, watching your lips frown when he pulls back. "What?"

He laughs at the pout on your lips, and your eyes narrow in response. In a quick motion, your legs and arms wrap around him, bodies now facing each other, as you return your lips to his.

"Was my kiss not up to your standards?" he muses against your mouth, and you poke his shoulder with a finger as a response, incessantly begging him to kiss you back.

You had done this before. Multiple times, in fact. Making out with Spencer was slowly but surely becoming your favourite past time. You weren't entirely sure what it was about it. Perhaps the way he kissed like he'd never be able to kiss again, always with so much fervour, and always so desperate. Maybe it was the way his hands felt when they grappled the entirety of your ass whenever you were on his lap, something that seemed so not Spencer Reid. Whatever it was, it was maddening, and you found a quiet, controlled mewl leave your lips when his hands squeezed your ass, pulling you closer to him (if that was possible).

"Mm-mm," he murmurs against your lips at the sound, fingertips digging into the flesh of your ass, eliciting another, less controlled sound from you. "You can do better than that."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you mumble against his lips, semi-breathless, hands delving up into his curls, encasing your fingers in them.

He laughs again, the sound addicting, and melting any anxieties away as his fingers travel up your body, beneath your pyjama shirt, stopping short where your bra strap would be if you were wearing one.

"We don't have to," you rush out when you feel his hesitance. Though you were no stranger to this part of making out – the suggestive touching – you could feel the bulge in his pants, and you realised this was not like every other time.

"You don't want to?" he asks with a gentle voice, pulling back to look at you.

"No, I–of course I do," you reassure him.

His lips tug into a small smile, and his face leans in to kiss the corner of your lips. "Okay. Good. I want to, as well."

"Good," you answer with a firm nod, and he hums.

His hands slip beneath your shirt again. Warm – burning, even – though you weren't particularly cold. Yet, you felt like your skin was ice that was melting beneath his fingers as they dragged along your skin. All while his lips kissed down your jawline and neck, until they found your pulse point. He had found it accidentally a few weeks prior, and had used and abused it as much as he could after that. For no reason other than the fact that you let out the sweetest sounds whenever his teeth grazed over it, or his lips sucked on the skin there.

His hands reached further up, and his palms brush over both nipples at once, eliciting a gasp from you as your back arches into him.

"Sensitive," he notes when his thumbs drag down over them, pulling the same reaction from your lips. You shoot him a sharp glare, and he laughs. His response is then to lean back in and kiss the pout away, gently biting down on your jutted lower lip with his teeth. All while he rolls your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, earning a whimper from you into his mouth.

It was a few more moments of that, before you murmur quietly, "Tell me you're taking this further."

He laughs in response. Then, says, "What do you want?"

"Up to you," you reply, and he shakes his head, bringing one of your hands to his lips and kissing it.

"No. Up to us."

"Okay. Um..." you hesitate. "Surely there's a natural order of things."

"I don't know. I think it depends on the people," he replies. "Tell me what you want to do."

You hesitate. There's a thousand things you want from him, and you're sure the mere twenty-four hours in the day are not enough for them all. Though, you also know time is not running out for the two of you soon.

Recognising your hesitance, he instead taps your hips to get you off his lap, and you comply, and he lays you down on the bed. He hovers above you, and you almost laugh at his hair that falls down and creates a curtain over your two faces.

His fingers lift the hem of your shirt over your body, and you let him, your breath hitching at the still less-than-hot air that settles in your room amidst April. He follows suite and removes his own shirt upon seeing your close to demanding look, before he ducks his head down to kiss you again.

Fingers dance across the skin of your waist as he hesitates in pulling your pants down, but you don't even want to complain as he kisses you. In no rush to hurry him along, you savour his lips on yours, allowing him to take the time to work you up with brushes along your thigh through the fabric of your pants.

You were equally as present as you were lost in a daydream as he touches you, for you don't really remember when your legs had become bare and his touch had become more direct, but you remember exactly what it felt like for his breath to hitch against your ear as he ran a finger down the damp fabric of your underwear.

He seems to have picked up on your dreamlike state, for he brushes his lips against your temple and asks, "You with me?"

"Yes," you reply, breathlessly.

He doesn't really believe you, but you're eagerly inching your hips closer towards his retreating hand for him to need to.

Gently, he's pulling your underwear down your legs, and you're watching the pupils in his dark eyes expand. You relish in the knowledge of you emitting such a reaction from him.

A sharp whine comes from you when his finger brushes through your folds, stopping just short of your clit. He does it again.

"Spencer."

"Yeah, pretty girl?" he murmurs, though his focus is solely directed to his hand on you.

"Need you."

"I can see that," he muses, and he jolts at the way your heel kicks his side. You're pretty sure it doesn't hurt, at least. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

"You should be."

His other hand pinches your thigh.

You don't have time to argue against him, for he is sinking a finger into you, and every word dies on your tongue, replaced only by a quiet moan and the breathless sound of his name.

He lifts himself back up your body as he presses his finger further into you, capturing your second moan with his lips against yours. Again. He would probably swallow you whole if you asked him to. You think you might.

He adds a second finger almost too soon. His fingers were longer than yours ever could be, and he curls them in a way that has your head tilting back and pressing into the pillow beneath it, and your hips rising off the mattress. He chases your lips with his as you squirm away, and his free hand pushes your body back into the mattress as he draws his fingers out, then presses them back into you.

"Didn't know you were this sensitive," he murmurs against your mouth, and your teeth nip at his lower lip in protest. You feel him smile, and he returns the gesture, scoldingly.

His fingers brush against your g-spot and you're pretty sure you see stars. Or perhaps that's just the ends of Spencer's hair tickling your cheeks as he continues to kiss you.

He continues to finger you until it becomes its own language, complete with strings of high pitched moans from you, and his inability to keep you still on the bed. He pulls his fingers out all too soon, and you're verbally complaining about it as he takes his own pants off.

"Do you ever stop talking?" he asks you, but there's no heat behind his voice for you to seek insecurity from.

"I talk when I'm nervous," you reply.

"Are you always nervous?"

"Around you? Yes."

He doesn't reply, but he laughs, bashfully, and you know he finds it endearing. Instead, he says, "I need to go get a condom."

At which your eyebrows shoot up. "Did you bring some?"

He pauses, sheepishly replying, "Yes?"

You decide against teasing him for it, and merely nod your head. "Okay."

He doesn't waste time, but you're left laying there on the bed to watch him, stuck within the thoughts of how did you luck out so well?

He's quick to return your mind back to Earth, and in a quick turn of events, he's positioned back over you, condom wrapper discarded somewhere in your room — you'd need to find that later before it gets found by somebody mortifying — and his hips achingly close to your own.

Lowering your gaze instinctively, your lips part, and you mutter a, "What the fuck?"

"Tone, please," he asks you, kissing the corner of your mouth.

"Bad. But good," you confuse him further, before you settle on, "Shock."

"Are you still okay with this?"

"Yes," you quickly confirm. "Just... scared. I guess. I haven't had sex in a while and you're..." Not small.

"I'll go slow," he promises, and your heart flutters at the sincerity in his voice.

Slowly, he eases himself into you, swallowing your moans all over again with a kiss, hands rubbing gentle circles onto your hips as a welcome distraction. It was borderline filthy as he moans into your ear in harmony with your own.

You hear him murmuring from above you, your ears catching the whispering of numbers and statistical facts you've definitely heard him spewing to himself before. But never in bed. Usually, it would be as he situates at his desk to work.

"What're you doing?" you murmur, and he pauses upon realising he was thinking aloud.

"Trying not to come so soon," he answers, kissing your jawline, a shuddering breath leaving him to rest his head in that position.

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh," he mocks. "You just feel so good around me. Can't believe I went so long without you, angel girl. Fuck."

You wish you could tell the you many moons ago that this is how the man you met at the train station would talk to you.

He's slow as he withdraws his hips from you, before he's pushing himself back into you with yet another moan, from both him and you.

You're not sure when your causal moans break into whines and desperation overtakes you. Somewhere between him taking his time in getting to know what you liked, and discovering how easy it was to make you squirm if he just put a finger on your clit at the same time as thrusting into you.

He is so good it's almost sickening, and you begin to entertain the idea of this man being your soulmate once again. Or perhaps he's just really good at seeing right through you, which might be a little embarrassing in retrospect.

"Spencer," you moan, hands looping around his neck, delving into his hair and nails scratching gently at his scalp.

"Mm?" he asks you, pressing another kiss to your head, drawing circles on your clit in tandem with his thrusts.

"Please."

"Please what, honey?"

"Wanna—" you're cut off with a wanton whine, "—come. Please."

"You do? Really?"

"Spencer," you repeat his name, this time frustratedly.

"That's no way to ask for what you want," he wanes his movements ever so slightly, a silent warning.

"Please make me come."

"There you go, good girl," he mumbles, and he smiles at the way your hips jerk slightly at the praise.

He complies with your request immediately, though you're sure it has something to do with how quickly his own hips stutter into a stop with an orgasm of his own.

Never one to complain, though, and you let him work you through the star-seeing experience with broken moans and chants of his name that has his own heart fluttering.

He rolls off of you soon after, disappearing from the bed only to dispose of the condom, before he's climbing back into the bed. Regardless of every bone in his body telling him to get you up to shower.

"Why didn't we do that earlier?" you murmur.

"I don't know," he replies, lips moving against the skin of your forehead.

"Can we do it again?"

His breath is warm as he huffs out a laugh, rolling back over top of you, thankful for his lack of asking to shower. "Yes."

June

There's a comfortable quiet that blankets the air around you and Spencer. The pages of his book turning as he flips them every few seconds, and the quiet murmur of characters Ilsa and Sam talking on the television, Casablanca playing at an awfully quiet volume.

He was sitting on the floor in front of you, who was sitting on the couch, fingers entangled in his hair. Freshly washed, because you were adamant on fixing him a proper hair routine now that his hair was long enough to require something remotely akin to your own.

His head lifts as the piano began to play, and the familiar voice of Dooley Wilson filled the space, his reading of his book now on pause.

"Spencer!" you began to protest when he peeled away from the edge of the couch, the criss-cross pattern in his hair falling loose almost immediately. He turns to look at you, noting the page he was on for his book, before he closes it and places it on the coffee table in front of him.

"What are you doing to my hair?" he asks you, hands going up to feel the strands, eyebrows frowning towards each other at the loose plaits he was touching.

"I was braiding it," you grumble, watching as he brushes each strand out unconsciously. "You've ruined it."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he muses upon realising what he had done, lips twitching as his hands drop back by his side. "Do you want to redo it?"

"No," you huff, scooting further back into the couch, folding your arms across your chest.

"Honey," Spencer says amidst a laugh, turning his body around fully.

Instead of acknowledging him, you kept your eyes fully transfixed on the black and white television screen in front of you. You could see, out of the corner of your eye, the sight of him shifting on the floor.

Perhaps it was cruel to be giving him the silent treatment so quickly. Though, you have a small smile painted on your face that told Spencer he wasn't in any real trouble with you for pulling your otherwise perfectly curated braids out of his hair. Unknowingly, mind you.

With your lack of response, he found his hands wandering over to your legs, fingertips trailing delicately up the sides of them. Despite the pyjama pants you had on providing a layer between his skin and your own, you still squirmed. And, much to his own satisfaction, your gaze flickered down to his face. His stupid, grinning face, that told you he knew he had succeeded oh so easily.

"I'm mad at you," you bite, and his eyebrows rose.

"You're mad at me," he parrots. When you glare at him, he's forced to bite his cheek to stop himself from laughing out loud. "Okay. Can I make it up to you?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

No, you weren't. For his head was resting gently against the side of your thigh now, the slightest hint of a pout on his lips, eyes wide. To absolutely nobody's surprise, your resolve was dissolving, and you found yourself hesitating with a response to him.

He wasn't oblivious to your hesitance, and the amusement on his face was almost frustrating. Almost, if not for the teasing drag of his fingertips along the sides of your thighs distracting you from the irritation you had towards him.

But, you held your own. "Yes, I'm sure."

His eyebrows rising told you he didn't believe you, and it took everything in you not to respond with the twitch of a sheepish grin. And under his unbelieving gaze, you let out a huffed sigh, and shook your head.

"Yeah, I didn't think so," he answers, fingertips gently pressing into your lower back as he tugged you towards the edge of the couch. "So I can make it up to you?"

"Maybe," you murmur, biting the inside of your cheek. "What're my options, Dr. Reid?"

"I could take your clothes off," he says, punctuating his point with his fingers sliding around to your waist, hooking under your pants' waistband. "Or you can choose something else."

"I like option one," you answer, meekly.

"I figured you would."

He was frustratingly slow as he pulls your pyjama pants down, the fabric catching on the leather of his couch you were sitting on, until you had enough conscious mind to lift your hips up for him.

He trails his fingers back up the skin, eyes almost fascinated in watching you squirm as your inner thighs — and only your inner thighs — received the upmost of attention from his hands. At a whining protest from you, Spencer's hands wandered to do the one thing he knew you were after, and you let out a breathy moan when his index finger traced up the centre of your already damp underwear.

"Oh, you do like option one," he says with a hum, and if you were any less turned on, you'd probably be glaring at him for it. Instead, you were nodding your head in compliant agreement.

He, thankfully, wastes no time in latching his mouth onto you. He spends a good portion of your evening taking you to the stars and back, multiple times, before he's satisfied, and he's sure you are too.

You're showered (again), and curled up on the couch, your head now in Spencer's lap as his fingers brush through your hair, the beginning of Casablanca beginning to play all over again. You had protested neither of you appreciated it enough the first time, and you want to give the film its proper treatment.

"Why do you like this film so much?" he murmurs, staring at the black and white screen.

"Reminds me of better times, I guess," you reply.

"Your better times take place in Morocco in the forties?"

"No," your lips twitch into a small smile, your head shaking, hair brushing across his thighs. "When I first watched this film I was fifteen, with my mom. It was one of the few times we really got along, so... I guess that."

He decides against commenting on it, for your voice had dropped to something a little sadder. "Rick's not a good person," he chides.

"You don't get to form an opinion on Rick without finishing the movie first."

He laughs at that, but he falls silent soon after, an evident promise that he would wait.

"Why did you make me watch this?" he asks, as you're greeted with a screen of black, your two reflections staring back at you.

You turn your head, resting it flat against his thighs as you look up at him, raising an eyebrow in question.

"It isn't a happy ending," he explains at your quizzical look.

"Oh, so movies I show you need to have a happy ending?" you argue. "You like Star Wars, Spencer."

"No, obviously they don't. But when you explained the film to me, you said, 'a romance classic from the forties'. Forgive me for presuming it would be a happy ending."

"I think it is kind of happy," you reply, shrugging as you tear your gaze away, resting instead on the coffee table.

"How so?" he brushes the hair that falls out of your face.

"They weren't right for each other," you murmur. "Rick knew that. He loved her enough to let her go, I guess."

August

You are a fragment of every person you have loved, and who has loved you. Tiny pieces of their soul weaving within your own to form the person you are today. From acts as simple as the way you cook your eggs, to reactions as serious as your emotional response to an insult. Family members making up your emotional regulators, childhood friendships determining your insecurities.

Like a solidified piece of putty holding two pipes together, you are a person moulded to be what other people need.

Stay quiet, don't react, detach.

Not even a conscious choice you make anymore. Too many years spent punished for being loud, too many tears cried over your supposed overreaction, too many pieces of your heart shattered each time somebody leaves. Your responses are simply automatic now.

Spencer Reid had not heard from you in fifty six hours.

Two thirty in the morning was never a good time to try and communicate, for a plethora of reasons. Never mind the fact that it was late. His mind had been exhausted of its use during a particularly gruelling case, and you had been too anxious the four days he'd been gone to sleep properly.

For that reason, and possibly many others you didn't know, he was in a bad mood. Your being awake at that hour was irritating to him, your half drank coffee was an awful idea in his mind, and your touch was unwanted by him. You didn't know why.

You hated miscommunication. You hated the unsaid words that hung in the air whenever you'd look at him.

The first thing he had said upon coming home was not, hello, or even, I missed you. No, it was a sharp, "Why are you awake?" as he set his messenger bag down on the floor next to his door.

"I was waiting for you," you had said, picking up the mug of coffee. "Then it hit midnight, and you still weren't home, and usually you come home to me asleep, but I wanted to see you so I drank some coffee and..." you'd trailed off upon seeing his uncharacteristically cold expression.

"You shouldn't stay awake waiting for me," he'd muttered, taking the mug from you and heading into the kitchen to clean it, flicking the light on. "You have work tomorrow. You need to be asleep."

"I missed you," you'd protested, standing up and going towards him.

"I missed you too, but you should've been asleep."

Your attempt at hugging him and kissing him in greeting was denied, his hands prying you off his body. He could've ripped your heart out instead and you'd think it hurt less than that.

"Go to bed. I'll be there soon."

You felt like a child being scolded at his snark, which was evidently the reason behind you not listening to him at all in the end.

He'd offered no proper explanation for his irritation towards you. Even as you'd picked up your things and left his apartment, silently, not even a quiet I love you whispered to confirm that you weren't leaving him for good, he didn't explain a thing to you.

Out of sight, out of mind, was not a principle you could exercise when it came to him. Every notification to your phone that didn't brand his name hurt your heart, a constant reminder that maybe he was still mad at you, and he didn't want to see you.

It was a knock at your door that pried you from the clutches of your duvet that morning, a half-assed attempt at brushing through your hair and straightening of your clothes was the best whoever dared to come see you uninvited would get.

Opening the door and your brain computing who it was had you wanting to slam it again, as if this were some movie and he would have the will to shove a foot in the door to stop it from closing.

Maybe he would.

"So you are alive," he says.

"Last I checked, yes," you reply.

Simple words spoken between two far from simple individuals, until he was nodding his head to the open space of your apartment behind you, and you were wordlessly agreeing to let him come in.

"Are you here to break up with me?"

His closing of the door was interrupted by your question, his entire body going rigid for a beat, before he gently clicked the door and lock in place, turning on his shoulder with frowning eyebrows.

"No. I'm... not—why, why would you think that?"

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Habit."

That hurts his heart, and he's shaking his head almost incessantly. "I'm not. I promise, honey. I just want to know what's going on. Nobody's heard from you."

"I know," you murmur, feet carrying you over to your couch before your legs can give out on you.

He watches you, awaiting another spiel of words to explain where you had disappeared to for the past two and a bit days. And yet; nothing. So, he follows you, and sits down on the couch next to you. Hands reach out to pick up your legs, shoulders relaxing a little when you let him place them in his lap, and you go slightly still out of fluster.

"I'm sorry for making you mad, if I did," you whisper.

"You didn't. Did you think I was mad?"

"I guess. You were kind of mean," his heart shatters at that. "But maybe I was just taking it the wrong way. I was tired."

"No," his fingertips run up and down your legs, the only conscious act he could focus on to keep himself from bombarding you with every worried thought he's had the last two days. "I shouldn't have let you leave thinking I was mad at you. I wasn't. The case just stressed me out, and I was concerned about you still being awake that late."

"I was waiting for you," you mumble.

"I know, angel," he nods his head. "It's just I usually come home to you asleep on the couch."

"Or the bathroom."

His chest puffs out with laughter, and your heart swells a little in your chest at the sight. "Or the bathroom," he parrots, nodding.

It was when he was coming home from a case on the border in Washington state, and you had, like usual, tried to stay awake to wait for him. Unfortunately, the UnSub tiptoeing between the two country lines meant the case was dragged out, and he had come home much later than expected. And you had mistakenly passed out on the bathroom floor, wrapped in a towel, after a shower.

Amusement was over as his eyes found and locked with your own, and he earnestly asks, "Can you tell me why you disappeared?"

"No."

It wasn't that you didn't want to tell him. Just that you didn't know why either. Perhaps it was something you'd need to unpack with a professional, not your boyfriend at ten in the morning on your couch.

Ever so understanding, Spencer Reid was. Even with the pause of his delicate touch on your legs in what you're sure is another jolt of frustration towards you.

"That's okay," he says, instead. "Can you promise to try and not disappear next time, then?"

Your shoulders shrug. Can you promise that?

"You can't," he voices your thoughts for you, and you nod your head in confirmation. "Okay. Well, I really want to work this out with you. I need you to want that too."

"I do," you say quietly.

"Then you need to work with me," he answers. "Where did your brain go that night?"

"Um," you hesitate. You could think of a thousand places your mind wandered to that night. None of them very good. A child again, being scolded for not turning the light out because you were up reading, maybe. "I don't know. I don't like being scolded like I'm a child. I guess I felt like a child."

"That wasn't my—"

"—I know," you cut him off before he can defend himself to you. "I know it wasn't your intention. But it felt that way. I'm an adult who makes her own decisions, and losing sleep before work because I want to see my boyfriend is one of those. No matter how... how stupid a decision you may think that is."

"I didn't think it was stupid," he shakes his head. "I was just concerned."

"Funny way of showing it," you mumble, lowering your gaze, before his lack of response makes you realise what you had just said to him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. That was mean."

"No," hands lightly swat your legs. "No, I deserved that. I was really mean. It wasn't the right way to show my concern for you."

"Doesn't mean I should be rude back."

"I think it does," he says, his fingers going back to tracing patterns on your skin. "In fact, I encourage it."

In true Spencer fashion, his words tug a small smile onto your lips, and you feel the heaviness of what had happened between you two ease off your chest slightly. "That's a weird thing to encourage."

"Maybe," he agrees. "I don't like that you left without saying anything."

"I didn't feel very wanted," you explain. "By you. I tried to hug you, and you wouldn't let me touch you."

"I was overstimulated," he says. "It wasn't that I didn't want to hug you, honey. I did. Sometimes I don't like people touching me, yes, even you," he adds upon seeing your confused expression and tilted head. "I didn't handle that well. I should've told you that in the moment."

"I wish I had known that before," you murmur. "That's why I left. And you didn't try to stop me, so I just assumed..."

"I wasn't very present," he shakes his head to stop your self-deprecating thoughts in their tracks. "I barely registered you were leaving until I heard the door shut."

"Oh."

"I wanted to stop you when I realised. I decided to give you space."

"I just thought you didn't care."

"If nothing else, know that I'll always care," he tells you, and your heart stutters at the raw honesty in his voice. "Even if you run away and I don't reach out for a week because I think you need space. I'll still care."

"Please don't leave me alone for a week if I run away," you reply, and one of his hands squeezes your knee.

"Noted. I won't."

You nod your head with the faintest hint of a smile, before your gaze lowers to your legs. You inhale, then say, quietly, "I'm sorry for disappearing."

"I know," he answers. "It's okay."

November

It was a horrifically awful day that led you to this moment. Curling up on the couch with a blanket covering your entire body, staring aimlessly off into the warm glow of the reading lamp Spencer had bought you many moons ago.

Your heart was heavy, hands cold, body shivering, in the cool November air that flooded your apartment. Your thermostat was just too far. Not that you were comfortable. Not even a little bit. You could evidently feel each spring of your couch pushing into your flesh, puncturing you uncomfortably. You hadn't had a need for a new couch since getting together with Spencer, usually finding your residence at his apartment more often than not.

Not today, it seemed.

Keys rattled outside your apartment door, and you heard the shuffling of familiar feet, followed by the gentle calling of your name to alert you of his presence.

"Honey, it's freezing in here," he says, settling his bag down on the kitchen countertop, you're sure (you aren't looking). You hear the beep, following by the rush of wind coming out of your air conditioning unit as he turns the device on, and you're silently grateful.

He finds you on the couch, wrapping his arms around you from behind it, greeting you with a kiss to the side of your head, right on your temple, and a few of your worries melt away in an instant. Only a few, for there is still a bricklayer of hurt seated comfortably over your heart.

He says your name again when you don't say anything to greet him, and it's more shuffling of feet until he's dipping into the couch next to you, despite the fact that he still had his shoes and work clothes on. Irrelevant affairs he could deal with later.

"Hey, what's this?" he asks you, quietly, leaning forwards and nudging your arched knees, and your gaze finally tears from the lamp to his face, spots of light decorating your vision and covering some of him.

"Sorry," you mumble. "I'm thinking."

"Very hard, apparently," he says, lightly. You appreciate the attempt of lifting the mood. "About what?"

"Um," you pause. "I saw my family today."

"Yeah. You said you were. I assume it didn't go well?"

You wordlessly shake your head, and he sighs, wasting no time in bringing you into his chest. You crack, and his heart shatters at the quiet sob that wracks through your body.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, voice all too quiet for your fragile state, for it only makes you cry a little harder. "Angel."

"She—um," your voice cracks. "Everything I said she turned into a joke to everyone. I just felt stupid the entire time. Like everything I said wasn't worth being said. So I stopped talking, because I couldn't get made fun of if I didn't say anything, right?" You feel his head nod against your own, even though you couldn't see him.

"No. She brought up things I'd said to her previously, and mocked them. I mean, I was in the other room so she didn't know I could hear her, but—but—" you choke on your words, cutting your ranting short, your hands petulantly clutching at the fabric of his shirt to ground yourself. "I'm sick of waiting for her to love me. Isn't she supposed to? She's my fucking mother and yet I'm still begging her to even like me. Why?"

"I don't know, angel." His voice is achingly soft, and his hands thread into your hair, brushing through it a few times; a welcome comfort. "This happens every time you see her."

"Yeah."

You're feeling impossibly small in his arms as you nod, sniffling away hideous snot bubbles you're sure he cared about. If he did, he didn't say anything.

"Maybe it's time to stop seeing her."

"Yeah."

You're reluctant in agreeing with him, though you know deep down he's right. But it's an Earth shattering revelation that you aren't quite sure you wanted to ever come to. While certainly a thought you've had, and entertained previously, agreeing to it aloud is an entirely different beast.

"She's my mom, though," you mumble. "She raised me."

"What she did for you previously should never be enough for you to ignore what she does to you now. I've never seen you come home happy after seeing her. You're never anything short of miserable. That makes me miserable, honey," the pads of his fingertips brush against your cheek, and you hum as a quiet response. "I hate seeing you like this."

"I hate feeling like this."

"Yeah, I know," he murmurs. "Don't decide tonight. You're emotional—yes, you are. Don't look at me like that," he scolds as you jerk your head back to narrow your tear filled eyes at him. "But can you promise me you'll consider my option?"

"I promise."

"Okay. Good. I love you."

"I love you too."

January

He wasn't home.

Three o'clock in the morning, and Spencer Reid was nowhere to be found. Not in his own apartment, like you had originally thought. Not collecting the last of your boxes from your own. Not anywhere he commonly would be.

At three in the morning.

You had tried calling him. Multiple times, actually. A flurry of messages followed in their wake, and you were growing increasingly impatient as you stand awkwardly outside his apartment, that had just recently become your apartment too. You didn't have a key yet — needing one to be cut for Spencer only had one thus far.

He had promised he'd be home. When you'd asked him as you were leaving earlier that evening if you'd need to take the key, he said no, and that he'd be home all night.

God forbid you actually believed him, apparently.

You could've sat at that apartment door for three minutes or hours. You weren't too sure anymore. Staring off into space and making up a list of sentences to say to him when he finally showed up — if he showed up.

It was embarrassing. Heels tucked next to you, dress bunched at your waist, head beginning to ache from the alcohol wearing off, and eyes beginning to droop from how exhausted you were.

Shuffling of feet had you lifting your head, landing on an equally as exhausted looking Spencer Reid, who's lips were parting upon spotting you on the floor, and a sickening realisation settling on his facial features.

"I'm sorry," he stumbled out as he helped you stand up, ignoring your protests as he picked up your heels for you. "I forgot you weren't staying at your friends. I just assumed—"

"—You forgot?"

You didn't sound angry. You didn't even sound a little irritated. It shatters his heart more to hear a painstakingly small, broken tone coat your words, instead of them being dipped in venom.

He knew it was a pathetic excuse. He forgot. That's his whole thing. He doesn't forget. But he also isn't always called into his job at two in the morning for an in state amber alert. You didn't know that, though.

"Here, let's get you inside and out of your clothes," he places a hand on the small of your back and pushes you forwards into his apartment, your feet stumbling as you let him guide you around.

"What do you mean you forgot?" you ask him, quietly. His stomach twists.

"I got called into work. It was urgent. I had been so focussed on Hotch being freaked out I left without thinking. I'm so sorry, angel girl."

"Seriously?"

He freezes at your incredulous voice, his hands pausing at the top of your dress zipper. When he doesn't answer you immediately, you turn so you can look at him.

"You weren't home because you got called into work," you repeat the words over, and over, as if saying them more will make them any more sensical. He opens his mouth and begins to say your name, so you cut him off, "I was sitting there for—" you pause, checking the time on the wall clock across the room, "—two hours, Spencer. Drunk, and cold, and you weren't fucking picking up. Did you forget how to use your phone too? Did you forget how to contact your girlfriend?"

"You're tired, honey. Can you get some sleep and we talk about this tomorrow?"

"I'm fine, actually. We're having this discussion now."

"No, you're not. You're exhausted. Sleep deprivation affects your emotional regulators, and—"

"—For once, can you not fucking Reid-splain to me?" you spit. "I think I'm allowed to be a little upset with you, Spencer. You forgot about me!"

He agrees; he does deserve your anger. Though, it doesn't make this any easier to listen to, and it certainly doesn't make his biting of his tongue very easy. For he wants to argue with you. He didn't forget about you, and none of what happened tonight was due to anything other than his lack of focus on things that weren't at the forefront of his mind. Case in point; a missing child.

A few more beats of silence pass by, and you're brushing past him into the kitchen, jerking your arm away when his hand reaches out to grab it.

"Why is it always work?" you ask him. "All of our issues come back to your job."

"I don't know."

"Am I not worth more than your job?"

The question itself hangs in thick air, and his hesitance is enough of an answer within itself. It isn't fair. You know that. His job is important, and you'd never actively ask him to choose you over saving somebody's life. He knew that.

"I'm not asking you to choose seeing me over saving a life," you verbalise your thoughts, when he still doesn't reply. "I'm never asking that of you. But you couldn't have called me back? Or texted me to see if I could go to a friend's? Or even come to you at work to get a key?"

"I—"

"—Forgot. I know," you mutter, almost bitterly, turning around to pick out a glass from the cabinet.

It's another few moments of quiet. Save for the tap that runs as you get yourself water, and the shuffling of his feet as he hesitates, then takes tentative steps towards the kitchen bar.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," you whisper, before he can get too close.

"Do what anymore?"

"Us."

The silence that follows deafens, and you have to flutter your eyes up to the ceiling to wane tears that threatened to spill. This was most certainly not how you imagined your night to go.

"That's a big decision," he says, as if it weren't obvious.

"I know," and it's the finality in your voice that hurts him even more.

"Can we please revisit this conversation in the morning? After you've slept?"

"My decision won't change."

"It might."

"Humour me with how we're supposed to move past this."

He freezes. "Um—we can talk. And we can even go to couple's therapy, or something," he ignores the face you pull. "I just think we—you—should make this decision when you're completely sober and rested."

You place the now empty glass on the bench again. "I won't have the courage to break up with you tomorrow."

"Is that not a sign that you shouldn't break up with me, then—"

"—Let me do this, damnit, Spencer!" you slam your hands down in front of you, eyes wide and almost desperate.

He doesn't say anything more to argue with you. Instead, he bows his head, and you despise the crack in your heart at the way his eyes shut and shed a tear before his face is out of sight.

You're moved out by the end of the month.

June

The universe is a wonderfully strange place. Somewhere you go to when things get too difficult, begging for respite and the freedom from yourself. Or when things are going so well you thank whoever was pulling the strings of your lifeline.

You tried not to curse at the universe. What you give, you will receive. The love you expend will always be returned to you, whether that is in two minutes or two years. Hatred for the universe was always internalised and pushed down, for you'd rather that, than having the karmic Gods ruin your life any more.

And yet; fuck you universe.

You were recently asked who you love, in a group setting with people you barely knew. You'd have said your best friend's name, or your parents, but you felt awfully lonely amongst a group of people saying, "my partner", "my kids". You didn't think you were old enough yet for the most important person in your life not being the woman who raised you (though, she would never be that anyways).

You said his name before you could even comprehend it. Before your brain had a second to stop running on autopilot to think. The two syllables flying past your lips, embarrassingly so.

When someone asks you who you love, you think of him.

Perhaps this was all your own fault. If you had just bided your tongue, held onto your pride and mumbled a quiet, "My mom, I guess", you wouldn't have spoken his existence back into the universe.

It was a quiet, "Oh. Hello," that'd prompted your head to lift from your phone, attempting to tune out the busy train. And there he was, standing tall, messenger bag crossing over his body.

"Hi," you say, breathless, air knocked from your lungs.

"Can I... um, sit? All the other seats are taken."

And like you would if he was a stranger, you nod your head, shuffling a little closer to the side, allowing for him to sit down next to you.

"Your hair's gotten long," Spencer Reid says, quietly.

"Yeah, I need to go get it cut. You have more—um, facial hair. Like it's more prominent. Like thicker," you stammer.

"Yeah," you see his lips twitch into a small smile out of the corner of your eye. "I just got back from a case. I haven't had time to shave."

You manage to push down a comment about you liking it.

And as if you were not strangers, he asks you, "How are you?"

You know he doesn't mean currently. Subconsciously asking you to tell him you're doing awfully without him, that the past six months had been horrible and you miss him dearly.

It's true, but you can't say that.

Instead, you opt for a nonchalant, "I'm okay," and, "How are you?"

"Okay, too," he says, and you wonder how much truth his words hold.

"How's work been?"

You don't know if you actually care. Asking aimlessly about the thing you had to blame for him becoming a solidified memory in your brain, and not a current experience.

"Busy," he answers. "I've barely been home."

Not much has changed, it seems. "That sucks. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he replies. "It's kept me from wallowing."

"Can't say I've had the same fate."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

It was your own fault, really. And maybe he thought that. Maybe he's making fun of you in his mind for being sad and feeling horrible things after the breakup, because it was you who initiated it, at the end of the day.

No, he isn't. You know that. Spencer Reid doesn't do that.

"It's okay," you finally say, words spoken on a breath.

Silence covets the two of you, a thousand words on the tip of your tongue, but none ever spoken aloud. A silent conversation dancing in the air between your two bodies.

Do you miss me?

Yes. Do you miss me?

More than anything.

But then the train stops, and his station is called, and he's standing awkwardly, forcing a tight smile onto his face, as he bids you goodbye.

And for a few long half seconds, you watch him walk away, very slowly, for time has stopped for just a few beats of your heart. Then, you're calling his name, and he's stopping, as if he had expected you to reach out to him before he could get too far.

You stare up at him for another beat longer, and you wonder if he's quite content to miss his station, just to talk to you some more.

"Do you want to get coffee?"

"To wait an hour — is long — if love be just beyond. To wait eternity — is short — if love reward the end." (Emily Dickinson)

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